Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank & David Brin

Author:Pat Frank & David Brin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Survival, Florida, Nuclear Warfare, Fiction, Science Fiction, General, Classics, Survival Skills
ISBN: 9780060741877
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2005-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

EASTER SERVICES

An interdenominational Easter Sunrise Service will be held in Marines Park on Sunday, April 17th. All citizens of Fort Repose, of whatever faith, are invited to attend. Signed,

Rev. John Carlin, First Methodist Church

Rev. M. F. Kenny, Church of St. Paul's

Rev. Fred Born, Timucuan Baptist Church

Rev. Noble Watts, Afro-Repose Baptist Church

The name of the Rector of St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where there had always been a Bragg pew, was missing. Dr. Lucius Somerville, a gentle, white-haired man, a boyhood companion of Judge Bragg, had been in Jacksonville on the morning of The Day and there-fore would not return to his parish. Randy wasn't much of a churchgoer. He had contrib-uted to the church regularly, but not of his time or him-self. Now, reading this notice, he felt an unexpected thrill. Since The Day, he had lived in the imperative present, not daring to plan beyond the next meal or the next day. This bit of paper tacked on peeling white paint abruptly enlarged his perspective, as if, stumbling through a black tunnel, he saw, or thought he saw, a chink of light. If Man retained faith in God, he might also retain faith in Man. He remembered words which for four months he had not heard, read, or uttered, the most beautiful words in the language - faith and hope. He had missed these words as he had missed other things. If possible, he would go to the service. Sunday, seventeenth. Today was the fourteenth, and therefore Thursday. He stepped up on the platform. The men lounging there, some of them acquaintances, some strangers, were estimating the shape of bulk of the sack he held, like a football, under his arm. Dour, bearded, hair un-shorn or ludicrously cropped, they looked like ghosttown characters in a Western movie, except they were not so well fed as Hollywood extras, and their clothing, flowered sports shirts, shorts, or slacks, plaid or straw-peaked caps, was incongruous. John Garcia, the Minorcan fishing guide, asked the orthodox opening question, "What're you trading, Randy?"

"A fifth of Scotch - twelve years old - the best."

Garcia whistled. "You must be hard up. What're you askin'?"

"Two pounds of coffee."

Several of the men on the platform shifted their posi-tion. One snickered. None spoke. Randy realized that these men had no coffee, either for trading or drinking. No matter how well stocked their kitchens might once have been, or what they had purchased or pillaged on The Day and in the chaotic period immediately after, four months had exhausted everything. Randy's com-munity was far more fortunate with the bearing groves, fish loyally taking bait, the industrious Henrys and their barnyard, and some small game - squirrels, rabbits, and an occasional possum.

John Garcia was trading two strings of fish, a four-pound catfish and small bass on one, warmouth perch and bream on the other. Garcia's brown and weathered skin had shriveled on his slight frame until he seemed only bones loosely wrapped in dried leather. The sun was getting warm. With his toe Garcia nudged his fish into the shadow.

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