by Guy N Smith
The sheep milled, their frightened bleating filling the still air, pressing back into that corner, oblivious of the cruel strands of barbed-wire. By some miracle the fence stil! held firm, posts and wire taking a tremendous strain.
The fleeing dog halted momentarily. Again its instinct was offering it a choice. Flight or those sheep, the latter easy prey, pull one down after another, run them until they were incapable of running any further. It bounded, heading right towards the flock, then for some inexplicable reason altered course up towards the forest on the horizon.
Jon and Sylvia stood watching until the animal was out of sight, lost to view in those acres of darkness up on the skyline. Like the sheep, they were trembling with relief.
'Never did take to Gwyther's bloody dog,' Jon spoke at last in a hushed whisper as though he was afraid lest the Alsatian might hear him and come back to take its revenge on them. Because it hated Man, no other reason. The thing always was wild, kept caged up all the time. Old Bill's got a persecution complex, lives all on his own, too mean even to have the electricity put in, and the bugger's worth a fortune. Doesn't believe in banks either, and there's rumours that he keeps his money buried in coffee jars in the garden. I never liked calling there in case the Alsatian happened to be loose. Perhaps that's why he kept it, to deter visitors. Well it's loose now and . . . oh Jesus!'
They had stepped forward a few paces and now they saw down into the hollow which had previously been out of their view. A thick muddy patch chewed up into a sloppy mire by the hooves and droppings of cattle. A putrid stench wafting up at them but it was only too obvious where the smell was coming from.
Below them in the mud lay the missing Charolais calf. At least Jon presumed it was because he couldn't think of anything else which the mutilated remains might belong to. The head lolled back exposing a gashed throat which had stained the surrounding morass a deep crimson as if there was a sandstone element in the soil. The underside of the creature had been ripped open, hide and skin shredded into bloody strips so that the intestines had spilled out, a mess of offal that had been partially eaten. Wide staring dead eyes looked up at them, frozen in death at the peak of terror. You wanted to clap your hands over your ears to shut out its death cry, thought you could still hear the dying echoes of it across the distant range of hills. Sylvia turned her head away, almost threw up. Jon felt the bile rise in his own throat, a mixture of fear and anger engulfing him. Gwyther's fucking dog had done this, turned sheep and cattle killer now that it was on the loose. If only he'd brought the gun he could have rolled the bastard over as it fled up the bank. As it was, it was free to kill again. And again.
If the animal was Gwyther's Alsatian. It had to be. Not necessarily, he could not have sworn positively in a court of law that the dog was the culprit; it was much bigger and stronger, only a faint resemblance to a domestic guard dog. More like ... a wolf.
You're letting your imagination run wild. It was Bill Gwyther's dog, different, just like the goats, the calves, the hens, but Gwyther's dog all the same. A feeling of futility, helplessness. There was no law left to award him damages or to order the creature to be put down. No damages because money didn't count for anything any more. You'll have to shoot the bugger yourself if you want it destroyed.
'Let's get back.' He turned away, let Sylvia lean her full weight on him. 'We can't do anything here.'
That was right enough. A week ago he would have reported the matter to the police, rung the hunt kennels to fetch the dead beast or else buried it himself, cried at a funeral that had cost him a hundred and fifty quid. But there were no police, no kennels, there couldn't be. So Nature would take over, the buzzards and ravens would strip the flesh, leave the bones to whiten in the sun, gradually sink out of sight into the mud. And that would be that.
Sylvia managed to stop herself from saying 'I can't go on any longer, Jon' because you did not have any choice except to go on. There was no alternative. Maybe those who had got caught by this holocaust were the fortunate ones, they weren't left to witness what had happened. But at that moment there was no way of knowing just what had happened to the rest of civilisation; she and Jon had only explored a few acres of the whole world. And what they had seen was enough.
The cottage looked forbidding, its windows frowning at them as they approached it. Go away, you don't belong here. You're aliens, freaks.
Jon kicked open the door, saw that the twelve-bore was still leaning up in the corner of the porch. It looked good, a piece of driftwood floating in reach of a drowning man. But it would not solve the overall problem.
'Well, I don't think there's any point in going back down to the cellar,' he said, peeling off his overalls.
Thank God for that.' She leaned back up against the wall as a wave of vertigo hit her. Exhaustion, despair, you couldn't go through the last few days and come out unscathed. 'I think I'd go stark raving mad if I just had to go down those steps once more.'
'Me, too,' he laughed. 'Except that most of our food's down there.'
That goat and that dog.' She closed her eyes. 'I'll have nightmares about them every night for the rest of my life. But they can't be the only animals that have gone wild, there must be thousands up and down the country, maybe over the whole world, just like they've never ever been domesticated.'
'That's something we've got to find out.' He went through into the kitchen, without thinking switched the electric kettle on. Almost before he realised what he had done they heard the element beginning to heat up. 'Hey, just listen to that, we've got electric!'
'Maybe not for long,' she replied. "Don't forget, it's not like a nuclear attack which knocks all power out. Things just grind to a halt. We'll either run out of power or else there'll be a fault and with nobody to repair it that'll be that.'
'I guess you're right.' He found some coffee and a tin of powdered milk. There was a stack of frozen goats* milk in the freezer but it would take time to unthaw a pint. 'Our first step is to try and find out what's happened elsewhere.'
'Maybe we should light a beacon on top of the hill or something. If the phone's still working we could ring a few numbers.'
'Not just yet.' He pursed his lips. 'I think it's best that we try and find out about fellow survivors before they find out about us. Don't forget, law and order will have gone to the winds. We're back to the jungle, survival of the fittest. There would be mobs on the rampage and we don't want to be taken unawares. The less they know about us, the better.'
'Surely we're safe enough right out here in the sticks.' She raised her eyebrows.
'Not necessarily. It could be that people have deserted the,towns, headed for wild places like this. That's something we just don't know, so we'll have to be on our guard until we find out.'
'So when do we make our first reconnaissance trip?' She watched him carefully, her expression determined. Don't try leaving me behind, Jon Quinn, because no way am I stopping here on my own. Not after what we've seen this morning.
'I'm going to take a ride across to Gwyther's place this afternoon,' he said. 'I'll use the Land Rover.'
'We are, you mean.'
'No.' He shook his head. 'I want you to lock the door after me, sit tight and don't open up until I get back. I won't be long and I'll be OK in the Land Rover, neither wild dogs nor goats can get at me. I'll take the gun too. When we start making trips further afield then we'll go together.' Damn it, it sounded lame. If it had been Jackie here instead he would have taken her because she would have adapted, been some help; he could have relied on her. Grit, that was what it amounted to. One girl had it, the other didn't. In bed it didn't matter much but when your back was to the wall you realised an awful lot of things, things you'd been blind to before, like why things had not worked out between himself and Jackie. They'd work out now but it was too late, she was gone for ever. A tinge of sadness almost had his eyes watering but with an effort he threw the feeling off. This was no time to start feeling sorry for himself. He had to fight all the way and now he could
not let Sylvia down. In.effect these last few days he had been widowed and remarried. Sylvia was his mate, his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. And he wasn't going to risk her on the first trip out.
'We'd better get something to eat,' he smiled, and reached a tin down from the shelf. 'Sausalatas, vegetable protein sausages in brine. They're delicious cold.'
'I guess right now I don't fancy meat or poultry.' She managed a smile. 'In for a penny, in for a pound. I'll give the Jon Quinn diet a try. Starvers can't be choosers.'
Jon wasn't listening. In his mind he saw Bill Gwyther, small and wizened, never seen without his faded brown 'cow-gown', torn cap pulled well down over his eyes to shade them from the sun whether it was shining or not. Hollowed cheeks, retracted toothless gums that had hardened enough to hold a pipe. Bright blue eyes that sized you up and often discovered what you were thinking.
Patched Wellington boots that let the wet in, the tread worn down so that the soles were smooth, all part of the uniform.
Bill didn't trust 'outsiders' and you were an outsider if you hadn't been born within a five-mile radius of the Hill. The Hill was his world, a kingdom which he ruled over in his own stubborn way. You called him a bloody old fool but as often as not he proved you wrong. He'd never married, never had time to go courting, and you got used to being called 'boy'. Bill Gwyther had aged when he was thirty and had remained static ever since. You cursed him for a lot of things but you had to admit grudgingly that the Hill wouldn't be the same without him.
Which was one reason why Jon Quinn was going down to Gwyther's place that afternoon.
CHAPTER FIVE
ERIC ATKINSON stood and looked at his naked body in the full-length hotel bedroom wardrobe mirror, puffed his chest out, pulled his stomach in, indulged in a few moments of self-admiration. One big con, and deep down he knew it. He was getting fat, a slow but sure middle-aged spread taking over. He told himself he'd lost a pound or two lately and knew damned well he was lying. At thirty-six you were only just coming up to your peak.
A once fine physique had run to fat, a combination of six hours a day behind the wheel of a car and five nights a week on average hotel board. The best hotels, the best food. Whisky, too, sometimes brandy according to how his expenses account was running. Rep's disease—overweight.
No, not really, but he'd have to watch it. He towelled his damp hair into a fluffy blonde mop. He was starting to get a double chin; no, it was a trick of the light, or the mirror, one of them anyway. A little on the plump side, he had to admit. What was the term that girl up in Anglesey had used? Cuddly. He grimaced, flexed his biceps; they bulged but he didn't test their hardness, didn't dare.
He looked down and a sly smirk crossed his face. Well, there was nothing wrong with that, anyway; that compensated for everything.
He had no need to stop over in Shrewsbury tonight. He could have made it home easily. Except for Marlene. What a bloody awful name for such a lovely girl, but what was there in a name? He'd be getting poetic soon, Marlene did that to you, had you showering and checking yourself over like a Ferrari before an IROC.
He turned back to the bed, meticulously began to choose his clothes for the evening. Tonight was something special, the climax to the whole week. He had worked for it, earned it.
Sylvia crossed his mind, a slight twinge of guilt, but it was gone immediately. She wouldn't care even if she knew because that guy up at the organic farm would have been fucking the arse off her all week. It was a kind of mute arrangement which they didn't mention because that would have spoiled everything. Screw with who you like in the week and then we'll get together at the weekend. Funny, it didn't make him jealous, in fact it was one helluva turn-on. The time to worry was when no guy wanted to lay your wife. She really was getting past it then and so were you.
He found himself basking in a kind of erotic nostalgia as he dressed. Sylvia was a cracker and a real nympho but it was like eating the same kind of exotic food every day of the year. You didn't actually come to dislike it but it got boring, so you decided to try a change and then came back to the original refreshed.
That had happened to himself. And Sylvia. Thirteen years ago, two years after they had married. It had had a most unlikely beginning, like taking a seemingly harmless drug and then before you realised it you were hooked on it.
Alan had been the root cause; if it hadn't been for Alan, he and Sylvia might have spent years struggling to stay faithful to each other and then broken up. As it was they were still together and the relationship did have its rewards. Tonight was one of them.
Alan's wife had left him for another guy and poor old Alan had been pretty cut-up. That was why they had started inviting him over on Saturday evenings for dinner. Maybe it was the drink that triggered it all off, had them casting their inhibitions overboard and telling dirty stories. Sylvia was the worst, Eric winced, wondered where the hell she had heard them all, but after a bit he didn't care. None of them did.
Alan began bemoaning the fact that he hadn't had a woman for three months, almost cried. So frustrated that he was toying with the idea of having a week in London and spending his nights in Soho. That was when Sylvia had come up with her offer, straight out with it like she might have been asking Alan to go to the club with them next Saturday night. 'How would you like to screw me, Al?' She was deadly serious, a genuine offer. 'I know Eric won't mind, not just this once, will you, Eric?'
Suddenly everybody had sobered up into a stunned silence, all eyes on Eric. Well, Eric, you won't mind, will you?
No, I don't mind, not at all. You fuck her, Al, leave her lying up there on the bed ready for me when you've finished. Sylvia and Alan drained their glasses, went out of the room. Eric poured himself a stiff brandy with a shaking hand, found himself listening to them moving about in the bedroom directly above the dining-room, pictured the scene. Sylvia couldn't wait to get everything off, she was always like that, Al maybe nervous and losing his initial erection, having difficulty getting it up again.
It wasn't fair to eavesdrop on them. Eric heard the bed creak the way it always did when you got in, stood up and walked unsteadily across the room, switched on the stereo. A slow rhythm on the first track, speeding up on the second, just like those two upstairs.
God, this was the ultimate in eroticism, everything he had ever fantasised about coming true in one electrifying session. He wondered if Sylvia had ever done it with anybody else since they had been married. He told himself she had, she must have; he wanted it that way. Those nights when he was away . . .
He thought maybe the clock on the mantelshelf had stopped, stooped and put his ear up against it but couldn't be sure over the music. 12.10. Christ, they'd been up there an hour and a half, Al was really giving Sylvia a banging, making up for everything he had been forced to go without over the past months.
It was 12.35 when he heard Alan go, footsteps in the hall, the front door closing softly, a kind of guilty click. In a way it was a disappointment, his best mate slinking off, not wanting to face him. Sorry, Eric, I've screwed your wife and I feel pretty bad about it. Don't, Al, it's been a great evening. For me, too.
Sylvia hadn't had enough whatever had gone on, that much was plain. When Eric entered the bedroom she was lying on top of the quilt, legs lewdly spread, a small damp patch on the material between them; eyes closed, ecstasy not guilt.
He went straightway to her, no preliminaries, pushing right into her, feeling the liquid warmth of adulterous seed. God, what a night, he made it twice, almost a third time. If ever he needed a fantasy for the future then this was it.
Three or four times after that Al came round and it got to be a Saturday night routine. Too much of a routine probably, too clinical, and nothing could ever match that first night. Then Alan found himself a girlfriend, moved in to live with her and that was the end of that. But Sylvia had had a taste of the grass on the other side and she wasn't going to let it drift away like that.
He wondered to himself now as he sat on
the edge of his hotel bed just who had set up that relationship with the Joneses. They had known George and Marie for two or three years but it had never been more than a casual dropping in on each other at infrequent intervals. Then one Friday when Eric returned home Sylvia seemed more vivacious than usual, told him that they had been invited over to have a few drinks with George and Marie the next night. Nothing to get excited about but Sylvia certainly was. He sensed then that something was in the air. No, it couldn't be, the Joneses were far too conventional, even went to church some Sundays. Unless Sylvia was casting her line for George; Eric wouldn't put it past her. But he was curious enough to want to find out.
It was damned funny the way that evening had trickled on into the early hours before anybody (Sylvia) made a positive move. Half-innuendoes became innuendoes fired by a cheap bottle of Scotch. The Joneses couldn't really afford drinking on this scale; George was on the dole and he wasn't the type to go moonlighting. Too honest, too bloody conventional. Except when Sylvia and Scotch got to him.
Sylvia engineered it all, nobody actually came right out with it and said, 'Shall we swap, then?' Somehow she got herself on to George's lap in the armchair and left Eric and Marie together on the settee. A lot of couples change over for a bit of snogging when everybody's had too much to drink, Eric decided, didn't dare try for a feel. It would all fizzle out before long, and then the party would break up; he didn't want to make a fool of himself.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw George and Sylvia slipping out of the room, heard them going upstairs. There couldn't be any further doubt, Marie was expecting him to play his part in this sexy foursome.
She was OK, a bit nervous at first, then he broke through the barrier and she exploded. In fact, she couldn't get enough, unbottled every inhibition which she had ever had during the next hour. But it wasn't her that was turning him on like this, had him achieve that elusive third orgasm. It was the knowledge that Sylvia was upstairs revelling in another session of red-hot infidelity.
