Empty World

by John Christopher

  He and Billie had split up. He heard her moving about in the kitchenware department, and remembered her talking of getting Lucy a new casserole dish to replace one that had cracked. He put a tin of oil and half a dozen tins of potatoes by the door, where they could be easily picked up, and wandered along the aisles to see if there was anything else worth taking. Sardines: they must be getting low on them. He scooped up tins, and carried them over to put with the rest.

  He heard Billie coming while he was bending over the stack of tins. He paid little attention, but then was struck by something: her footsteps had a quieter, more purposeful tread than usual. He straightened up, and turned to look. As he did, she rushed the last few paces, the kitchen knife bright in her upraised hand.

  Neil tried to fling himself to one side, but she was too close. He felt the blow on his chest, seeming to punch more than stab, and staggered, almost falling. But he could still think clearly. He thrust a hand in his pocket, and found the butt of the revolver.

  Billie came at him again. Her face was strained, as though she were concentrating hard. He pressed the trigger, heard the hammer click futilely, and was just in time to throw up his left hand and grasp the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

  He managed to divert that blow, but she was struggling to get at him and her strength surprised and shocked him. They swayed together, and he felt the warmth of her breath. His chest felt as though a heavy weight was pressing against it. He had a frightening sense of weakness, a despairing conviction that she had him at her mercy, and would show none.

  Unexpectedly he had a recollection of the last time he had wrestled with someone—his brother Andy, on a Sunday morning, with his father calling out to them to keep quiet. On that occasion he had been in the ascendancy, until Andy suddenly switched from push to pull and, caught off balance, he had crashed across the bed on to the floor. He tried it now, yielding to Billie’s straining effort, dodging, and wrenching hard. She came flying past him and slammed into a display shelf. Bottles of sauce and tubes of tomato puree cascaded round her as she fell.

  Neil did not wait for her to get up. He ran for the door, grabbed his bicycle, and pedalled away. The weight on his chest was turning into pain, and he had noticed red specks in the drift of snow outside the Supermarket door. At the corner he risked a look back, but there was no-one in sight. The pain was worse and so was the feeling of weakness, but he forced his legs to pedal faster.

  • • •

  He was even more faint by the time he reached the house and pushed home the bolt inside the door. He leaned against it for a moment, clutching his chest. There was blood around the gaping slit in the anorak and on his trousers. Drops spotted the carpet as he went upstairs.

  Lucy’s face whitened when she saw him.

  “You’re hurt! What happened?”

  He told her, briefly; it was painful to talk, even to breathe. She led him to the bathroom, supporting him, and eased off the anorak and the bloody shirt underneath. Although very pale, she was calm. She examined the wound closely.

  “It’s nasty,” she said. “But not deep. It must have slid off your ribs.”

  “She meant to stab me in the back.” He winced. “She would have, if I hadn’t turned to face her.”

  “I’ll sponge it. With antiseptic. It’s going to hurt, I’m afraid.”

  She busied herself at the medicine chest while Neil held a towel to stanch the blood. He said:

  “I wonder how long she’s been planning that?”

  “It was probably on impulse—a sort of brain-storm.”

  Neil reached painfully into his pocket, and produced the gun. He flicked the barrel.

  “Empty. She’d taken the bullets out.”

  Lucy stared at him. “Then she really meant to kill you. . . .”

  Her face had tightened; it was as though she only now grasped what had happened. Neil nodded.

  “I bolted the door downstairs.”

  “And almost succeeded!” Lucy drew in breath, a small wail of horror. “You’d have been dead.”

  He managed a smile. “I’m not, though. Ready with the sulphuric acid?”

  It was more painful than he had expected, and he could not help crying out at one point. Lucy looked at him with concern, but carried on with the cleansing until she was satisfied she had done a thorough job. The rest, the dressing and bandaging, was comparatively easy going. Afterwards she sat him in an armchair while she made tea.

  Neil said: “I was ready for that.” He sipped it. “Whew! Brandy?”

  She nodded. “I thought you needed something.”

  “Good,” he said appreciatively. He felt it warming him. “I wonder where she is. Or how she is. It was a heavy fall and might have knocked her out. I didn’t stay to check.”

  “I hope she’s dead.”

  It was said calmly, but with conviction. Neil moved in the chair, and felt the pain pull at him.

  “I don’t think she’ll come back here. But just in case she does. . . .”

  “We mustn’t take chances.”

  It was odd, hearing the echo of Billie’s remark about food supplies; odder to realize that had been only about an hour ago. He said:

  “Bullets. On the bookcase shelf. Can you bring me a box?”

  He reloaded the gun, and felt safer. Lucy said:

  “She might try again. She could be lying in wait for you—anywhere, any time. We’ll move, as soon as you’re fit to travel.”

  “I’m fit now.”

  “No.” Her tone admitted no argument, “In a day or two, maybe.”

  • • •

  As the afternoon faded they sat and talked; about the future chiefly, about the place they were going to find, and what they would make of it. A vegetable garden, a potato patch, an orchard with apple—and pear-trees, cherries and plums and damsons. Eventually, maybe, a wheat-field, and they would grind corn and make their own bread. And animals, of course: hens, pigs, a small herd of cattle. Hard work, but worth the effort.

  And it was a future, too, from which an unpleasant cloud had lifted. There was a positive joy for Neil in the thought of not hearing the flat voice grinding on, the heavy unmistakeable thump of her footsteps.

  But, more important still, having Lucy to himself. She had come to sit on the rug beside his chair, her head against his knee. He stroked the soft hair, and felt her press back on to his hand.

  It was all going to be marvellous, he thought contentedly, and was checked by a stab of pain. But that had been worth it. This would not be happening if Billie hadn’t tried to kill him. Much more than worth it.

  Lucy said: “We ought to get to a good bookshop before we leave London. Foyle’s, maybe.”

  “Ought we? There are bookshops outside London. And we don’t want to have too much to lug around.”

  “Not so comprehensive. We want books on farming. Even though my father worked on a farm, I know next to nothing about it. He wasn’t much of a talker, of course. There’ll be a lot to learn.”

  “Yes.” He gently tugged her hair. “Clever Lucy.”

  “I’d like us to have a pond. So we can have ducks.”

  “Yes.” A thought struck him. “Have you done any horse-riding?”

  “A bit. Have you?”

  “No. You’ll have to teach me.”

  She laughed. “A bit, I said! Not enough to teach anybody.”

  “We’ll learn together, then. It’s going to be our best way of getting around.”

  “They’ll have gone wild.”

  “We’ll catch them and tame them again. Like the cows.”

  Everything seemed simple; and if it weren’t, it didn’t matter. They sat in easy silence. The windows were getting quite dark. Lucy said: “I’d better be seeing to supper,” but did not stir. Then, in a changed voice, she said:

  “What’s that?”
/>
  Neil listened. It came from somewhere outside, a low keening sound. Too loud for a cat, and different. The wild beast? It became louder still. He got out of the chair and went to the window. Pain struck him as he tried to lift the sash, and Lucy said:

  “Let me do it.”

  The weather was clear but cold; there would be frost soon if it weren’t freezing already. Together they looked out of the window. The moaning was coming from a dark shape, sitting huddled against the gatepost.

  She had heard the sound of the window being opened. She looked up at them.

  “Let me in. Please! Oh, please. . . .”

  Lucy slammed the window shut. They stood close, and he could feel her shivering. The voice went on; fainter, but still intelligible.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t again. I promise. Don’t leave me out here. Please, let me in! For God’s sake. . . .”

  Neil looked at Lucy in the dusk of the room.

  “She tried to kill you.” Her voice was hard and certain.

  Neil thought about Billie. She was not to be trusted. Whatever she said now, there was the chance of it happening again. He would need to watch out for her every minute of the day. And even then he could never be sure of being safe.

  The crying, begging, protestations went on. Letting her in meant letting her into the dream as well—subjecting it to the grind of that voice, the stamp of those feet. And putting everything—the future, life itself—at risk.

  Take no chances: that was the sensible principle for life in an empty world. And he need do nothing but sit tight. She would have to go eventually, to find shelter for the night. They could carry out their plan, and slip away. She would never find them.

  Lucy said, as though echoing his thought:

  “She’ll go away soon.”

  It would be easy. The dream would become a reality—for the two of them, with no unwelcome third. He moved from the window, and Lucy went with him. The cries continued, but more distantly. One could ignore them for now, and tomorrow they would be miles away.

  Billie would manage. Things were no worse for her than they had been for him on his own. Take no chances: too much was at stake. He looked at Lucy and knew she was his, wholly. You’re a winner, he told himself. Losers are losers—and she did try to kill you.

  The voice was raised again, but she could not keep it up indefinitely. If they went into the kitchen or the back room, and closed the door. . . .

  • • •

  It was no use. If they travelled to the opposite end of England those cries would ring in his mind, and go on ringing through the years ahead. It did not matter what the chances were, nor how much was at stake. All that counted was the emptiness of the world, and that she was human and alone.

  He looked at Lucy. “It’s no good.”

  She asked no question; just nodded. One of the many good things that were there, and would continue. Neil pressed her arm, and went downstairs to let Billie in.

  Read on for a peek at another adventure from John Christopher!

  FOR MANY DAYS AFTER THEY started their trek southward, the tribe were in familiar territory with recognizable landmarks and known water holes; but at last they came to the point, ten days’ march from the Cave, beyond which they had never previously ventured. It was a small out­cropping of rock, nothing to note in the vast emptiness of the grasslands and invisible fifty yards away.

  There they halted, and Dom’s father turned to the north, to where the Cave lay far beyond the horizon. He spoke to the spirits of their ancestors who dwelt there, telling them of his sadness at taking the tribe into the unknown lands of the south. It was a hateful thing but necessary; because year after year there had been less game, and without game the tribe could not live.

  He did not ask the spirits for their protection in the future. They all knew it would have served little purpose. The protection of the spirits had power only in lands where they themselves had roamed in the flesh. Uncharted strangeness lay ahead.

  Then Dom’s father turned his back on the Cave, and raised his hand in signal to the tribe.

  “Now we go.”

  • • •

  Day after day they traveled south. At first the country was no different from that to which they were accustomed: rolling grassland with occasional rocks and small bushes, a few rounded hills. All that had changed was their awareness of it, the sense of familiarity. But that counted for much. A feeling of unease clung to them, bowing their shoulders and chilling their hearts despite the sun that burned from dawn to rapid dusk out of the blue arch of the sky. Children whimpered unaccountably. Hunters quarreled with one another and sometimes fought savagely.

  And water holes had to be found. In the land they had known, all but the youngest children could have made their way unhesitatingly to those oases on which, even more urgently than on meat, their lives depended. The tribe could live at a pinch on roots, if need be go for days with empty bellies, but without water they must die.

  They searched and found them, following signs—tracks of animals, a bird distantly hovering, small changes in the pattern of vegetation—but it was not easy, and they learned to live with thirst. In addition the searching took up time which otherwise could have been devoted to the hunt.

  Game remained scarce. The herds of antelope they discovered were few and small. They hunted them and occasionally made a kill and filled their bellies, but more often than not they went hungry; and hunger increased the unease which racked them. They feared this alien land.

  Then one day they met strangers.

  The first encounter was at a water hole. They had gone there following a kill and the hunters were resting beside the pool. There were hills nearby, peaked with jagged rock. One of the women called out, pointing to the figure that stood on the ridge above them.

  It was a man who wore skins as they did and carried a club. From this distance his features were indistinguishable: he might have been one of themselves. But Dom, hearing the low growl of anger that swelled from the throats of the other hunters, felt the hair prickling on his head. He growled himself with the beginning of rage, and his heart beat faster.

  Dom’s father gave a command and the hunters moved, but they needed no urging. They raced up the ridge toward the stranger, yelling their hatred, and the old ones and the boys followed after them, shouting more shrilly. When the stranger fled their shouts grew louder and more savage.

  The chase led them in the direction of the hills. The fleeter-footed of the hunters were gaining on the man as he reached the first rocky slope and scrambled up it, scattering small stones. The slope leveled to a rugged plateau, about a hundred yards wide, then rose more steeply. They saw him run across it and shouted in anticipation of triumph. On the second steeper slope the rock was bare of grass or plants, and higher up Dom saw the openings of caves. It was toward them that the stranger was climbing.

  Figures emerged from the openings and the hunters yelled with sharpened anger. They flung themselves at the second slope, using their clubs to get purchases in clefts of rock, pulling themselves up with their free hands. The men of the other tribe, standing above them, shouted in reply. The words in themselves meant nothing but what they conveyed—rage and defiance—was plain enough.

  Dom’s father was in the lead, Dom behind him to his right. He had no thought of what might happen when they came to grips with these others, beyond the awareness that they were enemies and so must be killed.

  Then the rocks began to hurtle down. He thought the first one had been dislodged by accident but it was followed by a second, by a shower of rocks. Near him a hunter cried out and fell backward. Dom looked up and saw one of the enemy, standing on a ledge, hurl down a boulder as big as an antelope’s skull. It would have hit him if he had not flattened himself against the rock face in time and seen it go bouncing and crashing down the slope.

  A second hunter fell, and a third.
The enemy shouted more loudly, and there was something in their cries which began to chill his blood. He saw his father get as far as the first ledge, on which the man who had thrown the boulder stood; now he swung furiously with a club. He stood half a man’s height above Dom’s father and the blow landed: not cleanly but with power enough to send him tumbling backward. When the other hunters saw that, they retreated and Dom went with them.

  They collected together at the foot of the slope. One of those who had fallen had an arm that hung loose and his face was twisted with pain, but the rest were not badly injured. Dom’s father, though he had taken the blow on his shoulder, showed only the small cuts and abrasions of his fall.

  High above, the enemy chanted in triumph. They stood outlined on the ledges below the caves, and Dom could see that there were fewer of them than the hunters of the tribe—scarcely half as many. His father looked up, too, silently for a moment while the hunters watched him. Then with a frightening yell that echoed among the rocks he started to climb again.

  Stones and boulders crashed down as Dom and the hunters followed him. One caught Dom on his right arm and the club almost fell from his suddenly nerveless hand. This time fear was already in his mind, not far beneath the anger. He clung to the rock face, irresolute. As he prepared to climb again he saw the hunter above him struck by a stone just above the eyes. He fell with a screech of agony, his body dropping through the air only a foot or two from Dom, hit a needle of rock and fell once more, silent now, to lie unmoving on the ground below.

  That was when fear overcame anger. Dom ­scrambled down, concerned only to get away from the hail of stones. He had reached the foot of the slope before he realized he was not alone. Others of the hunters had fled with him and more were following suit; last of all his father.

  The enemy yelled but the hunters were silent. They picked up the one who had fallen, though he was plainly dead, and went away. As they descended the second slope toward level ground, the enemy came pouring down and across the plateau to jeer at them. The hunters slouched back in the direction of the water hole. One or two moaned from their wounds; otherwise they walked in silence. The old ones and the boys, who had waited at the foot of the hill, followed dejectedly.