Famine

by Graham Masterton

‘Think you’re going to get out of this easy, huh?’ he whispered loudly in Season’s ear. His breath smelled of Scope. ‘Think you can just close your eyes and pretend that nothing’s happening, that it’s just another pecker in life’s never-ending parade of peckers? That’s what you think, huh? Well – let’s make it more difficult for you, shall we? Let’s make it a little more memorable.’

  He turned around, and strode across the kitchen, absurd in his shirt and his sneakers, but somehow even more menacing because of his absurdity. Carl tried to push his way forward, but the tall Angel’s muscular grip pulled him back.

  ‘You’re crazy!’ shouted Carl. ‘You know that? You’re out of your polluted little brain!’

  The tall Angel knocked him hard in the side of his head with his pointed knuckles, and Carl staggered. Vee, naked and defenceless, said, ‘For God’s sake, leave him alone!’ But the Angel simply bared his teeth at her in a mock-animal snarl.

  Oxnard pulled open one kitchen cupboard after another, and dragged all the spices and cans and cups and bottles on to the floor, in a clattering cascade. Red pepper was sprayed across the tiles, along with sugar and coffee and broken china and scattered spoons.

  ‘Oil! That’s what I want! Oil!’ raged Oxnard. ‘Good, slippery, lubricating oil!’

  In the end cupboard, by the ovens, he discovered a plastic bottle of Mazola. ‘There!’ he said, staring wildly from one Angel to the other. ‘A good clean US product for a good filthy unAmerican purpose!’

  He turned around to Vee, and said: ‘Come here! Come on, you can have the privilege of joining in this little erotic stunt!’

  ‘Bastard!’ howled Carl. ‘Maniac!’ But the Angel punched him again, in the mouth this time, and knocked out one of his teeth. Carl spat strings of blood, and went down on to his knees. One of the other Angels was giggling so much by now that he sounded as if he was going to choke.

  Seizing Vee’s wrist, Oxnard forced her to crouch down on the floor in front of the sink, right between Season’s wide-apart thighs.

  ‘Now, you’re sisters, aren’t you?’ breathed Oxnard. ‘You should get on well together, in every possible way. You can start giving her a tongue job, sweetie, while I start doing what I want to do.’

  Vee blinked up at him in fright.

  ‘You understand what I’m saying!’ shrieked Oxnard. ‘Do it, or I’ll have that niece of yours blown to pieces!’ Shaking uncontrollably, Vee raised her face.

  Above her, Season whispered, ‘Do it, Vee. It’s not going to harm us. I love you, and I always will.’

  ‘That’s right,’ smiled Oxnard. ‘Sisterly love, incarnate. Or should I say carnal?

  ‘Come on. Let’s see some enthusiasm down there. Let’s see you get your mouth round it!’

  Vee began to weep, silently, but as she wept she did what she was told, and thrust her tongue deeper between her sister’s thighs. Oxnard watched her appreciatively for a while, then he asked Season under his breath, ‘You know what I’m going to do? That’s right, you guessed it. I’m going to do it, and I’m going to need your help, so when I start to push you’d better start pushing back.’

  Season nodded dumbly, her eyes still closed. All she was thinking was: do it, do it, for the love of everything in the whole world do it, and then let me alone.

  ‘Push!’ commanded Oxnard. One of the Angels whooped, and said, ‘That’s doing it, Oxnard! That’s really doing it!’

  ‘Push!’ Oxnard shouted, even louder.

  Season pushed, but her muscles were too clenched, and she couldn’t admit him even a half-inch. He furiously grabbed a handful of her hair, and wrenched it so hard that she could hear the roots tearing.

  ‘Push,’ he told her. ‘And this time don’t fight me. Because if you fight me, I’m going to kill your little girl, and you, too, and everybody in die whole festering house! You think the cops are going to care? The whole of LA is littered with dead people! You think they’re going to care about one or two more?’

  Season fought back the panic which was rising in her chest. ‘Okay,’ she said, in a barely audible whisper. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Gradually, gritting her teeth, she opened herself up to him. He grunted with effort as he worked his way up inside her. She could feel nothing but intense, wincing pain, as her mind said yes, you have to, but her body resisted.

  For a few seconds, the three of them were twisted and locked together in a painful tableau of mutual hatred and physical stress.

  ‘Isn’t this it!’ panted Oxnard. ‘Isn’t this it! Don’t you dumb screwed-up canyon-dwelling broads do anything for kicks? Don’t you know that a woman with any class would rather die than do this? You cheap cunts!’

  From outside the house, without warning, there was a dull, echoless thump. Oxnard raised his head. ‘What was that?’ he said. ‘Gene – what the hell was that?’ Immediately, without any conscious effort. Season expelled him.

  There was another thump, louder than the first. The Angel called Gene opened the kitchen door and went out on to the white-painted wooden landing outside. Season, clenched-up and shaking, backed away from the sink, and Vee climbed slowly to her feet.

  ‘Oxnard – it’s the bikes, dammit!’ yelped Gene. ‘Somebody’s blown up the bikes!’

  Oxnard shouted, ‘What? What the hell do you mean?’ and stormed across to the door. Outside the house, on the driveway, the Angels had parked their five motorcycles; and now two of them were blazing fiercely.

  That’s my bike!’ yelled Oxnard. ‘That’s my BMW, for God’s sake!’

  He started to scamper down the wooden stairs, his shirt-tails flapping in the breeze. The Angel called Gene followed closely behind him. Together, they ran across the driveway until they reached the fiery motorcycles, shielding their faces against the flames. But it was far too late: the motorcycles’ polished chrome was already brown from heat, and the fuel tanks were spouting blazing fuel all over the cylinders. The air rippled, and there was a strong smell of burning rubber.

  Oxnard turned around. ‘If those people did this—’ he raged. ‘If any one of those people did this—’

  He didn’t get the chance to say any more. There was a sharp, distinctive crack, which any expert would have recognised as the report of a powerful hunting rifle. Oxnard’s shirt was blasted with a pattern of bright red blood, and he toppled backwards as if someone had given him a shove in the chest.

  The Angel who had been holding Carl said, ‘What goes on out there?’ and took two or three steps towards the door. Carl lunged for the cutlery drawer, tugged it right out on to the floor with a crash, and scrabbled for a knife. The other Angel tried to stop him, but Carl shoved him away with his elbow. The Angel missed his footing, reached for the edge of the sink, and steadied himself. But then Carl was on top of him with maddened ferocity, both arms upraised, and a twelve-inch carving knife in each hand. The Angel raised one hand to protect himself, but Carl’s first carving knife chopped right through the palm of his hand and out through the back. The second knife caught the Angel in the side of the neck, and crunched almost six inches through solid muscle. The boy reeled, bleeding, and trying uselessly to shake the first knife out of his hand.

  The tall Angel at the door had gone by now, running down the outside stairs and trying to reach his bike. There was another brisk rifle shot, and he staggered, tripped, and toppled sideways into a flower-bed, dying noisily amongst the azaleas.

  Season, almost blind with fear, ran through to the living-room. She said, ‘Sally! Sally!’ in a voice that didn’t even sound like her own. But as soon as she saw what had happened, she slowed, and lowered her arms, and walked the rest of the way across the floor as if she were being filmed in slow-motion. She was suddenly aware of the sunlight, and the breeze, and billowy drapes that rose and fell.

  Granger Hughes was standing in the centre of the room, smiling and holding Sally’s hand. The only sign that the Angel called Carlo had been there was his black Magnum revolver on the glass-topped coffee table, an
d a broken lampshade. As Season knelt down in front of Sally and reached out her arms for her, quivering with the fright of what had happened, her eyes glistening with tears, Granger laid his hands on both of them in what was almost a benediction.

  A young man in a clipped brown beard and a black T-shirt came in through the french windows, holding a rifle over his arm.

  ‘That’s all of them,’ he reported, quietly.

  Season hugged Sally closer, and cried. They both cried. Then Carl came in with Vee, dabbing his mouth with a bloody kitchen towel.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Granger.

  ‘Thanks to you, yes,’ said Carl. He looked down at his safari suit and realised it was splashed in squiggles of the Angel’s blood. ‘My God, I don’t know what happened. How did you get here?’

  ‘I was coming up this morning to see if you wanted to join us down at the Church of the Practical Miracle,’ said Granger, gently and almost absent-mindedly stroking Season’s hair. ‘When we drove up from the road, we saw the bikes. That’s all. We were suspicious about what was going on, so Helmut here went around the back to the pool-deck and saw one of the Angels in the living-room with Sally. The dull bulb had laid his gun down on the table; I guess he didn’t think he was going to get any trouble from a nine-year-old girl. So Helmut crept in behind him and gave him the benefit of five years’ karate lessons.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Carl.

  Helmut, the bearded one, rubbed his knuckles. ‘If he isn’t,’ he grinned, ‘he’ll be lying there wishing he was.’

  ‘Now then,’ Granger admonished him. ‘Love thine enemy, even in defeat.’

  Carl pulled a Mexican blanket off the sofa, brought it across, and draped it around Season’s shoulders. Vee had already pulled on her sun-dress again, although it was back to front.

  ‘We’re all pretty shocked,’ Carl told Granger. ‘I guess Season and Vee are both going to feel like a good hot soak in the tub, and we’re all going to need a brandy. You’ll have to forgive us if we act a little odd. I thought we were all going to die for a moment there, and what these girls have been through doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘I’d like to stay and help, if I can,’ said Granger. ‘But won’t you think about coming down to join us? From what I hear, there are mobs attacking private houses all over. We saw five or six houses burning along Topanga Canyon alone.’

  ‘Is it really that serious?’ asked Vee, unsteadily.

  ‘Oh, it’s serious all right,’ nodded Granger. ‘And by the looks of it, it’s going to get a whole lot worse. Have you heard the news about all food less than three weeks old being contaminated? And I mean, all food.’

  ‘We heard it on the news,’ said Carl. ‘They said it was only a rumour – unconfirmed.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Granger, shaking his head. ‘I wish it were.’

  Carl said: ‘So what’s your congregation going to do? Pool their food? Try to survive by sticking together?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Granger. ‘From what I hear, groups of people are getting together all over the country for their mutual protection. I mean, Carl, there aren’t just Angels out there now, there are organised mobs of looters. And our particular advantage at the Church of the Practical Miracle is that one of my oldest friends is Mike Bull, who runs the Hughes supermarket on Highland. He has a whole stockroom of food down there which he managed to keep out of the hands of the looters. He called me last night and asked if I could get together about a hundred really trustworthy and responsible people, so that we could barricade ourselves in with all that food and try to weather this whole crisis through.’

  ‘What about the contaminated food?’ asked Vee.

  ‘That’s easy. Mike’s a supermarket manager, so he knows all the dating codes. He won’t feed us with anything risky.’

  Season stood up. She was very pale, and for the first time she felt the acute muscular pain of what Oxnard had done to her. Reality was just beginning to jangle through the soundproofing of shock. ‘Can we really justify shutting ourselves in with all that food, while other people starve?’ she asked Granger. ‘Is that really what Christ would have advocated?’

  Granger stared at her for a long moment. ‘Christ said. There is no man that hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God’s sake. Who shall not receive manifold more in this present time, and in the world to come life everlasting.’

  He reached out his hand for her, but she did not take it, or acknowledge it. She said simply, ‘I was violated today by a man who seemed to believe that the only moral he had to observe before taking anything, or assaulting anyone, was that he should want to. The effect that his behaviour had on other people didn’t matter, as far as he was concerned. Shock them, frighten them – so what? Well, I’ll tell you so what. He hurt me beyond belief, and humiliated my sister in front of her husband. And I’m afraid the way you’re talking now, Granger, and the way you’ve acted towards me since I’ve been here – well, they’re both nothing more than less obvious and less offensive examples of the same moral attitude.’

  She laid her arm around Sally’s shoulders, and said, ‘You saved Sally’s life, and you saved the rest of us, too. I’m very grateful, and it’s a debt I won’t ever be able to repay you. But as far as your Church is concerned, and as far as your own personality is concerned, I think I’ve seen them today for what they are – or at least for what they could be. I don’t like people who take what they want by force, Granger, and I don’t like people who believe that they are chosen by God, and free of the rules of kindness and sharing that are supposed to govern the rest of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Granger gave Helmut a backwards glance to see if he was listening, and then turned back to Season. ‘Quite a preacher yourself,’ he told her, with unexpected sourness. But then he smiled, remembering himself, and said solicitously, ‘Well – you’ve been through a bad time. I can understand that you’re feeling kind of off-balance. So the offer’s still open. You can come down to the supermarket and join us if you want – provided you get there before midnight tonight, because that’s when we’re going to start barricading ourselves in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Season whispered.

  ‘As for that other stuff…’ went on Granger. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve washed the stench of that animal off of you, and forgotten the stink of his breath.’

  Season stood up straight, and the blanket slipped down her shoulders a little, baring her neck. ‘Actually,’ she said, almost hysterically, ‘he used Scope.’

  Granger watched her lead Sally towards the staircase, walking awkwardly as an automaton and climb the stairs. He blinked at Carl and Vee in perplexity, and said: ‘Scope?’

  Carl said: ‘Thanks for the rescue. Granger. I mean it, sincerely. You saved us. And you too, Helmut. And, Granger. Don’t worry too much about Season. If you went through what she’s just been through, and talked half as much sense, then you’d be twice the preacher you are now.’

  ‘Carl,’ said Granger, ‘I’m not sure that anybody’s talking sense. The whole darn world’s gone out of its head.’

  Nine

  In a special newsflash on Wednesday evening, at nine o’clock Central Time, the President of the United States confirmed that ‘all food produce containing cereals — and that includes processed meats, breads, cookies, pastas, beers, and spirits – must now come under suspicion of having been contaminated with heavy cobalt radiation. As a general rule, foodstuffs produced more than three weeks ago can be considered safe – provided, of course, they are canned, or frozen, or still fresh. But if you are in doubt, a more detailed explanation will be broadcast immediately after this message on your local television station, and on your local radio. You will also be able to obtain leaflets from your City Hall or local citizens’ centre.’

  The President, looking twenty years older than he had the previous week, and with a pronounced stutter, went on to say that ‘everybody should s
tay at home unless essential business takes them out.’

  He was asked if he could now confirm that there was a Communist plot to overthrow the United States by ‘starving us out.’ He said tiredly: ‘I can neither confirm nor deny such a plot at this stage of the crisis.’

  After the newsflash, the President was called urgently back to the Oval Office. A top-secret report had just arrived from the office of the Secretary of Health and Scientific Affairs. The President read the report slowly, watched by his two closest friends and personal aides. When he had finished reading it, at 10.13 p.m., he said: ‘I—’ and collapsed. He was rushed at once to the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre where he was confined to an oxygen tent. His doctors agreed that he was suffering from ‘overwork, high blood pressure and severe stress.’

  The health report revealed that there had been thirty-five cases of fatal botulism throughout the preceding forty-eight hours. They had occurred all over the continent, from New Jersey to Arizona, from Texas to Alaska. In each case, the carrier had been a canned food product – not necessarily from the same manufacturer, and not necessarily the same variety of foodstuff. But every can that had been inspected by government health researchers had been punctured by a tiny hole – so small that the contents did not even leak – and in some cases the hole had been resealed by a dab of candle-wax.

  The Secretary of Health concluded that ‘it must be beyond serious doubt that some malevolent agency has deliberately and in a calculated manner introduced Clostridium botulinum into a random variety of canned foods throughout the nation. Therefore – as grave as I realise the implications of such a recommendation must be – I have to put forward the urgent suggestion that the sale of all canned foods in the United States be immediately suspended pending more detailed investigation.’

  Acting alone, the Vice-President sent desperate appeals for canned, dried, and frozen foods to the EEC nations, to Japan, China, and even to the USSR. The first response, even from our allies, was guarded. If the United States was really on the verge of economic and social collapse, then it was almost inevitable that the future of world politics would be heavily centred on the Soviet Union, and few nations were keen to mortgage their future by helping the United States too enthusiastically.