“On the contrary,” Gary corrected her, “we did. We learned that the countryside is already overrun with looters. That means people from the cities, the survivors running into the open country to get away from… well, from the city. That farmer has had so much food stolen from him he won't talk to anybody. Shoot first and answer questions afterward.” He reached into the back seat for the revolver.
She watched him. “You aren't going to—”
“I'm not going to what? Go back and fight it out with him? Don't be silly.” Methodically he opened a box of cartridges and loaded the revolver, to lay it on the floor between his feet. “We also learned that people in the open country have survived; that was his family behind him. The bombs — and whatever death they carried — didn't fall here, didn't spread their gas or radiation or germs out here. Only the cities. Maybe only the big cities. We'll find out soon, when we come to some whistle stop.”
“What are we going to do? I mean — about this?”
He studied her childish face, dwelling on the almost mature mind that existed behind it, the almost mature body that existed below it. She had dumbfounded him last night.
“I'm going back to the army,” he told her, “as soon as I can find it. I'm supposed to be there right now. I'm going to locate a command post somewhere and report in. And when that happens, they'll outfit me with clothing and equipment and ship me off to someplace. That's the end of it.”
“But it isn't the end of it! What about me?”
“You? I can't take you along, Irma.”
She laughed at him again, an echo of last night's wild laughter which had burned his ears, made him ashamed of himself. “I'm nineteen… and I could be a nice mascot.”
“Hell's fire, you'd have the army on its ear and I'd be in the guardhouse for life. If you want to do something, the Red Cross people could put you to work.”