by Jerry
“Guess summer’s about over, pooch,” he said softly. “Look!” He pointed to the heavens. Blaze’s tail wagged furiously and he bounded back and forth, as though he thought his master had given him command to play. But Norton’s eyes were riveted on the heavens. The Perseids, those meteorites whose visit to our atmosphere were an unfailing August occurrence, were out in force. Norton could not remember when he had seen so many of them.
Yet on this night there was something strange about them. For a moment he could not think what it was. Then it came to him. They were not all meteors! For some of them did not explode in flaming incandescence. There were those who passed overhead with a speed beyond human comprehension. He could not take his eyes from the spectacular display. More and more of the strange phenomena passed above him.
Norton didn’t remember at what precise moment panic took him in its grip. The transition between peace and fear was an instant of which he had no cognizance. He only knew that his clothes had become too tight. That his throat had become parched. He tore his clothes from his body with frantic fingers, ripping away buttons and tearing at the restraining cloth: until he was completely nude!
He panted and gasped as if each breath he took was his last. A sudden sound made him whirl about. Blaze had appeared from between a stand of corn and was regarding him with cocked ear. The dog whined in fear. And Norton echoed the sound. Only in the man’s voice there was something horrible beyond words. Blaze’s head sunk down and the hackles rose along the furry back. Slowly, he began to retreat.
Norton crouched low. His mouth opened and sounds—they could not be words, there was nothing human in them—reached out to stop the dog. It stopped. The man advanced in a slow shambling trot toward it. The dog’s head lifted in a sort of puzzled movement, as if it were not quite certain of itself.
Then, before it could move, Norton leaped on it!
Blaze whirled even as a grasping hand slid along the fur. Almost it was clear of the clutching fingers. Then they found a grip on a hind leg. And Blaze howled once in pain and fear. For the man had twisted savagely at the leg until there was a sound as of breaking wood.
The dog’s head swept downward and sideways in a swift movement that was sheer reflex. Its teeth slashed at the naked, hairy forearm lying on its flank. Blood streamed in a crimson tide where the teeth ripped into the flesh. Then the man’s hands came up to meet in a vise around the furry throat of the dog. There was an instant of whirling movement when the man and dog were as one. Then Norton flung the dog to the ground. His foot came down in a terrible, stomping crash on the small of the dog’s back at its hind quarters. His right arm pulled the dog’s head back—and Dale Norton sank his teeth in the dog’s throat and ripped savagely until the flesh tore and his mouth became filled with the hot salty blood!
THE man, it was no longer a man, but rather some strange sort of brute-being, lifted his head from the grotesque body of the dog. The head swayed back and forth in odd movement that was like a person in sorrow. The head stopped its shaking. The man arose until it stood almost erect, but not quite, as though the crouch it was in was as far as it could get to the perpendicular. Turning, it began an ape-like shambling toward the small cluster of buildings at the far edge of the first orderly row of corn. Blood stained the face into a red mask out of which his eyes gleamed in warm, animal pleasure.
He didn’t seem to notice the gravel of the path. If he did, he paid no attention to the fact that the coarse bits of rock tore at the tender flesh of his soles. The path wound past the steel-ribbed fence of the big pen. Grunting animal sounds took his attention. He paused for an instant, then moved across the grass to investigate. The fence gleamed in an oddly broken pattern in the moonlight, as if it were stained on some parts of its usual gleaming surface.
He stumbled over an obstruction. Stopping, he bent to see what it was. It proved to be a short, double-bitted axe, imbedded in a cord of wood. He pulled it free and continued his advance to the pen. His nostrils dilated and his mouth loosened in a grin as he smelled the familiar odor, sweet and warm, of blood. He became aware too, of a strange chomping sound. Then there was silence. He peered down from over the top rail of the fence. The coarse grin broadened and a trickle of saliva made its way down the cleft chin. A chuckling sound, half of pleasure and half of anticipation came from his throat. His fingers fumbled at the latch, then it opened wide and he stepped within.
The brood sow regarded him with a quiet look. Scattered around the pen were the mutilated figures of a half dozen piglets. On the ground, below the ugly snout was the body of another, its belly ripped open by her tusks. Her snout dripped blood. The man looked only once at the dead animals. His interest was only in the living. For they too had to die!
For in that delicate instrument of flesh and bone which only a short time before had been that which made him different from the animal world, had only a single thought. To kill! To kill whatever living thing came into its path!
The two moved simultaneously in each other’s direction. Nor did either give warning. But the man was much the faster. The blade of the axe described a flashing half-circle of light before it found haven in the sow’s skull. The man looked down at the body and once more there was the sound of mad laughter. Then, without another look at either the animal or the axe, he turned and walked from the pen.
NEITHER beast nor man nor machine moved on the broad, four-lane highway. Only the shambling figure of Dale Norton moved on the concrete. The moon beat down in pale indifference to the scene. Nor was it any more indifferent than the man. He passed an overturned car. He peered into its interior with an incurious glance. The driver, his head bent at an impossible angle was lying half in the seat and half on the floor. He was dead. Norton moved around the front of the car to the other side. Two people, a man and a woman, were locked in an embrace on the ground. They too were dead. But their’s was a death more horrible than the driver’s. For his had been one of accident.
The two on the ground had fought each other to the death. Neither had any clothes on. The woman had a broken neck. Clenched in her teeth was the man’s ear. She had bitten it off in her death struggle. Her fingers were around his throat as were his around hers. Norton nudged the bodies with his toe. They moved stiffly, then rolled back into the same position of frozen immobility. He went back on the highway.
A dozen times he came across similar scenes. Always, they were dead. And always they had found it necessary to remove their clothes. The positions were different. That was all.
He walked along, the only living thing to be seen on the whole plane of that land. A human robot, moving in patternless, purposeless motion. The moon sank below the horizon. And still the figure of Dale Norton strode on. A grey murk rose up out of the east. Mist came from the edge of the meadow, flanking the broad highway. The greyness lighted into a pale effulgence of rosy color. The rim of the sun appeared from the edge of the earth. Higher and higher it rose until its rays struck full into his eyes. And a terrible transformation took place in the man.
His mouth opened and bestial, inhuman, tortured sounds came from the twisted, grimacing lips. His hands lifted and tore at his head with clawing fingers, tore until the black hair that covered his scalp did so only in patches. A last, horror-filled shriek rasped from his throat. And he fell to the ground. His body twitched in epileptic-like paroxysms, then was stilled.
DALE NORTON turned and rolled to his side. He groaned with the effort it took. Every muscle in his body ached as though he had been beaten. He arose and looked down at his naked body. Shame swept over him at the sight. It was a shame born out of nothingness, for he was incapable of thought. As it had come, so did it leave him, instantly, nor did he wonder at the feeling.
The sun was overhead. And he felt hunger. He moved his head from side to side, his eyes peering keenly into the underbrush for sight of anything that moved. He grunted in disappointment for he saw that nothing disturbed the rank grass. He rubbed a hand across a stubbled cheek. The hair rasped
strongly. It puzzled him, for instinct still played a role in his life and he never permitted the hair to grow for more than a day. That, too, like his feeling of shame passed quickly.
He stepped back on the highway. Something told him to move in the direction of the sun’s rising. Time after time, he passed the rusted wrecks of machines strange to his eyes. Their once sleek bodies, chromium-plated, were now rusted and mis-shapen. He gave them no more than a cursory glance.
The sun sank below the horizon. The moon arose. And now he came to the reaches of a large city. There was no light illuminating the small homes of the suburb through which he passed. Nor was there any human being to be seen on the wide, paved streets. It was a town, dead for all practical purposes. He did not think it strange that such a thing could be.
He passed a trolley, that like the homes he had seen, was without light. It stood motionless upon the street. A voice, hoarse, emotionless, yet which held implications of terror, suddenly called to him:
“Hist!”
He paused.
Once again the voice called:
“Hey there!”
He turned and peered at the trolley. Then he saw it. First he saw the head. Then he saw the rest of the body within the street car. An arm came through the broken glass of one of the windows and motioned him forward. He came forward on wary, tip-toeing feet.
Norton peered up at the face at the window. It was a thin, emaciated face. Hunger and terror had given it lines nature had not intended it to have. A wispy beard covered the face from the cheekbones to the chin.
“Quick, friend,” the voice said. “In here! Before the guard makes its rounds.”
The words meant nothing to Norton. Guards? Rounds? From around the corner of a bisecting street there came the sounds of marching feet. Once again the voice urged, “quickly!” This time Norton didn’t hesitate. Before the vanguard of the watch came around the corner, he was through one of the open windows and crouching on the floor beside the stranger. His body bulked large against the tiny one of the man within the car. Words came from the little man, as he peered from the window, nor did he turn to look at Norton once he was in the safety of the trolley!
“Are you mad, that you walk about naked, in the hours between dark and dawn? Life means little these days, true enough. But at least you are free. If one of them catches you . . .”
He ducked his head down suddenly, in the midst of warnings, and came face to face with Norton, for the first time. The moon, slanting down through the windows shone full upon his face.
The bearded face stared at him as if he was seeing a ghost.
“You! You!” the voice rasped hoarsely. “Dale! Dale Norton! Oh no! Not to you!”
NORTON, hunkered down on his heels, gave the other a glance of bewilderment. The other went on in a low voice, as if to himself:
“And why not Dale Norton? Is he so different from the rest? Only mentally. And first—” he left off and peered closely into the other’s countenance. There was fear in the old man’s eyes, then. After a moment he sighed deeply. “No. No, the kill mood is gone. If I only knew how long . . .” again there was the reflective stop. “H’m. His beard is long,” he resumed in his monologue. “But that can mean little. And it can mean a lot. If only I could break through to his . . .” he stopped again, this time to listen. For Norton had broken his silence. From the other’s sub-conscious, a small wave had broken through:
“Beard—too—long. Shave every—day. Norton Norton. I’m Norton.”
Excitement sent the little man’s voice into a squeak:
“You’re coming through, man. Think hard! Who are you?”
Silence.
Then the monotone, “Norton. I’m Norton. I’m Norton!” The last had been a hoarse acknowledgment of a fact that was understood. The spell he was in was broken. And with the return of Norton’s mental faculties, there came recognition of the little man.
“Witson!” Norton exclaimed. “Jarvis Witson. What are . . .” he became aware then, of his condition. “Holy cats! Someone took my clothes!” he muttered.
“Shh!” Witson hissed sharply. He had been on the alert ever since he had first heard the approach of the patrol. Norton heard the sound of pounding feet also. A voice, hoarse, strident, shouted:
“Rota! The trolley! Numbers, 3, 7, 4, 8, follow me.”
“Quick!” Witson called a low warning. “Down! As low as you can.”
Norton hunkered down on his haunches as far as he was able. There was an urgency in Witson’s voice that didn’t permit questioning, then. Booted feet sounded in rising crescendo. They came up the steps of the trolley. The two men, crouched behind the bulwark of the seat heard the guard come to a halt as he stepped within the motorman’s cab. Then a narrow beam of light came to life and swept down the narrow aisle.
The darkness was intense when the beam snapped off. And then the guard, satisfied that no one was hiding in the trolley, trotted down the stairs.
Witson’s eyes gleamed in satisfaction. They had outwitted the guard. And Norton’s calf muscles cramped into a tight knot. He shifted his weight, leaning against the seat as he did so. It gave suddenly, rolling back on squeaking rollers. The squealing sound was as the knell of doom. For the guard came to a halt. And his voice rose in warning, as he ran back to the trolley:
“Guards! Mio! This way!”
“Run for it!” Witson commanded.
In an instant he was out the window, Norton close behind him. They sped across the street. While behind them, the guards came swiftly around the sides of the trolley. A half dozen fingers of light moved to pick them up. One struck the figures and whining, whiplash-sounds screamed toward them. Norton sped past a tree and something struck it as his body was shielded, momentarily by its trunk. There was a burst of flame, an explosive crack, and the tree slowly toppled to the ground. Fear lent wings to the feet of the two refugees.
They ran down a passageway between two homes. The concrete of the path continued to a gate, set in a stone wall. The gate was open. Norton in the lead, came to an abrupt halt. It was an impasse. Before them was a screen fence. And beyond it he saw the moonlight reflecting on water. There was no place for them to go. To either side was open ground. Already, he heard the running sound of the guards. Without an instant’s hesitation, he ran to the fence and scaled it, hanging by his fingers for a second, gauging the distance to the water. He dropped nor was there the smallest splash when he struck. Witson followed immediately. He was not as good a diver as Norton, There was more than a perceptible splash when he lit.
NORTON swam at an angle for the far bank. Behind him, a few feet, he heard Witson. Once again the lights came into play. And suddenly the water boiled in a puff of smoke, just past his head.
“Swim under water,” he called to Witson. “That tree upstream—safe under it.”
Norton scrambled up the bank, turned and dragged Witson after him. The little man was visibly tired. But there was no time to rest. Norton recognized their haven. It was a forest preserve. He remembered the river they had swum, also. It meandered in zig-zag fashion through the preserve for its entire length. And somewhere, nearby he hoped, there should be a narrow, wooden span which crossed it.
“Wait here,” he whispered.
Without a further word, he went flat on his belly and squirmed forward until he lay on the edge of the bank, only a little ways past the tree. The marsh grass hid him well. Lifting his head, he peered up and down the river’s length. A grin appeared on his face. The bridge lay a hundred yards upstream.
He crawled back to Witson.
“Follow me,” he said. And set off at a trot. Witson panted after him. They ran for perhaps three minutes. The older man noticed that they were on a well-defined path. The path led past a small, railed enclosure. Wire cages were set behind the bars. Witson could not see whether there was anything alive in the cages. There was no sound from them. The path led in a circle around the small animal zoo. At the far end was a house or rather a log cabin. Nort
on made straight for it.
There were two dead people in it, a man and a woman.
Norton’s face was twisted in grief, as he knelt at their side. They lay in a close embrace, as though death had caught them in the midst of a kiss. Neither had a stitch of clothes on. And Norton’s horror-stricken eyes saw that it was not love which held them so close, but hate. For they had died, tearing at each other’s throats—with their teeth. The man’s lips were glued to the woman’s throat at the point where the jugular vein had once pulsed in living. Her face had only rested against his. So it seemed to Norton, until he looked closer. Then he saw that she had already accomplished her purpose. The man’s throat had been ripped wide open.
Norton straightened and staggered over to the doorway and was violently sick for a moment. He felt a hand on his shoulder and a gentle voice ask:
“Friends?”
“Ye-s,” he mumbled. Then louder, “what horrible thing has happened? I—I seem to remember other—horrors like these.”
Witson pulled him back into the cabin. He made Norton sit while he roamed the narrow confines of the small cabin. There wasn’t much to be seen. Simply furnished, it held little of luxury, except a fine radio set. Witson sighed audibly as he went to the set and fiddled with the dials. He did it haphazardly, as if he was only wasting time until the man sitting at the deal table would regain his composure. Witson started as the light glowed bright, then faded but did not go out. Almost feverishly, Witson manipulated the dials. A humming sound was heard.
The man at the table lifted his head from his arms and looked dazedly about him when the sound of a strange human voice came into the oppressive air of the cabin.
The voice said:
“B.B.C. calling New York! B.B.C. calling New York!” There was a second’s silence, then the voice came on again, “Come in New York.” Another pause, then the announcer’s voice once again, this time it held overtones of fright, “what is wrong over there? Why don’t you answer? What is . . .?” Witson snapped the set off with a muttered imprecation, “damn them! Our last hope—gone!”
