Survivors

When man embarks upon the final atomic war his civilization may be destroyed; yet, there will be survivors. Would you want to be one of them?...
Oluf!
Bowron!
They recognized each other simultaneously, there in the thin fringe of tangled brush skirting a hidden lake.
Oluf, it's good to see you again—I thought there was nothing but mountains, wolves and Wild Ones between me and civilization! They picked their way slowly toward the shore together.
Oluf dropped gratefully to the warm sand. The sunset highlighted his reddish hair. You're not far wrong—there was wolf spoor back on that north ridge. But what in the name of the Moon are you doing so far from New York?
Heading south, to stay, Bowron said. He scanned the brush and trees behind them cautiously, then stretched out beside his companion, sighing. I'm getting too old for the winters, and the canned foods in the ruins are getting scarcer every year.
Oluf looked at him in disbelief. You're traveling alone?
Aren't you? The retort was sharp, with the keen edge of elderly pride.
Something like a weary chuckle sounded deep in Oluf's throat. He spoke with easy candor. Yes, but—look, Bowron, I'm a hunter by choice. And I'm big and in my prime. I can run half a day at top speed, and I'm not too bad in a free-for-all. You're a teacher—wise, but not in the ways of the wilds; your senses are dull and your reactions slow, like all city folk.
Bowron's eyes looked suddenly tired, older. He gazed out over the placid water. I could persuade no one to accompany me, he said simply. You made a good choice, Oluf, to terminate your education and seek the freedom of the wilds—the natural life that I think all must someday embrace. He sighed deeply. Of course, there is the dream of achievement that the city dwellers entertain. We've grown soft in our dependence upon the buried food in the rubble—spending our time in study of the books and other god-things, always hoping that we can understand and duplicate the old civilization. But our best thinkers, since they are the most eager searchers, stumble most often into the hidden pockets of radioactivity that endure even yet; and they die, and their knowledge dies with them, and our dreams and aspirations become dimmer with each generation.