“You can't eat them,” he repeated, “and if you want to stay alive you had damned well better begin collecting food. Why didn't you bring something to eat?”
“I've never had so many nice things before… they are so pretty.” She looked up at him, and then at his body, to laugh gaily. “Hadn't you better put some clothes on, Russell?”
He picked up his clothing from the floor and stalked into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
They ate breakfast in the same manner in which he had eaten the night before: from cans, sitting on the curb before a grocery store. It was less than satisfying. Afterwards he asked about cars. He wanted a new car from some dealer's showroom or garage, and he wanted a light one that did not consume too much gas. She led him on a tour of automobile agencies and he picked a Studebaker sedan, a demonstrator with slightly under a thousand miles on its meter.
“Why are you so fussy?” she asked impatiently. “Why not take one of those cars out in the street? There's no one here to stop us. Where are we going?”
“God only knows! We're getting out of this town fast but I don't know where we're going. Chicago? What if it has been bombed out? Supposing we have to go all the way to New York, or out to California? How much of the country has been bombed, do you know? Where will we find living people?”
“I don't know.” She was frightened now.
“I don't either, but we've got to look somewhere. The army or the Red Cross is somewhere and we want to find them. The whole damned country can't be dead!” He climbed in the car and started the motor, listening to it. “I want a car that will give me mileage, I want provisions for a long haul, and then we're moving. Get in. Find a gun shop.”
“A gun shop?”