Throwback

by Guy N Smith

  The man walked forward, not hurrying^ confident, the death-stick cradled under one arm, reached down and retrieved the dead creature by its back legs, carried it back towards the house.

  Eric watched him until he disappeared inside. Still heard the killing sound.

  Bang.. .baa-ng...

  The same would happen to him if he ventured too close to the building. The other had already tried to kill him once. He could run now, escape, leave this place. He would have done so had it not been for the woman. His woman.

  Instead he would watch and wait from up here. Incapable of forming any other plan, he could think of nothing else.

  The days were shorter, colder. The leaves had begun to fall from the trees leaving the branches stark, no longer a protection against the chill westerly winds, and the dense bracken lay brown and flattened by the rain and sleet storms.

  Eric had attempted to make himself a shelter out of dead branches and bracken because the thorn bushes no longer shielded him from the elements. He had worked on it for a whole day and that night a gale had demolished it. He would have to move on up to the forest, find himself a place amongst the thick firs. The idea did not appeal to him. The forest was alive at night, wild dogs that howled and bayed as they hunted their prey. And people who had moved up here crept stealthily through the trees and fled at the first sign of a stranger. He did not seek any company other than his own and that of the woman down below.

  He was permanently hungry too. The wild fruit was becoming mildewed and sour and he was having to rely almost solely on rowan berries. He had long since given up setting deadfall rock traps for rabbits because it was a waste of time. He never caught anything.

  Grey skies stretched to the furthermost hills and beyond, low cloud that brought hill-fog and fine drizzle. He shivered, knew that he would have to go into the forest. First, though, he had to find some food of a more substantial nature.

  During the summer months he had feasted ravenously on the small tubers which grew at the base of the long-stemmed plants with the white flower. They were scarce now, harder to find because the flowers had died down. Armed with a knife, one he had taken from the Quinn workshop, he embarked upon another, more desperate, hunt for the bulbs.

  It was painstaking work, his stomach urging him on. Scrabbling with his fingers, hacking until he broke the knife blade; finding one or two, cramming them into his mouth, spitting out the soil, obsessed with his task.

  So obsessed that he did not see the snake until it was too late! The adder had burrowed deep into a pile of dead leaves, its hibernation already begun, its colouring rendering it almost invisible. Something awoke it, a sharp pain as the jagged knife nicked its body. It turned, spat, struck blindly and instinctively.

  Eric Atkinson screamed, dropped the knife, stared in horror at the wriggling reptile which was now visible, a black zig-zag on its back. Excruciating pain and terror, revulsion. His fear of snakes went back further than his memory; to that day when his parents had taken him to Whipsnade Zoo. He had virtually had a fit in the reptile house, gone hysterical, angered his parents because they did not understand, had tried to force him to overcome his phobia, had held him there, pinioned his arms, dragged him from glass cage to glass cage.

  And now, thirty years later, that fear came to its peak. He stumbled, fell, crawled, could not put his full weight on his poisoned hand. Gibbering, sobbing, blind to direction. Flee. Anywhere.

  A dim realisation that he was in the forest. It had to be night because it was dark. Crawling until he collapsed from exhaustion, edging himself up against the bole of a huge fir, its branches dripping condensation steadily. Drip . . . drip . . . trickling . . . the kind of sound a pursuing snake would make . . .

  Wide-eyed, staring into the blackness, seeing innumerable moving things, pushing his back hard against the tree trunk. Eyes; green ones, red ones, things moving about, twigs crackling. Circling him. Watching.

  Waiting for him to die!

  His hand throbbed. He held it up before his face, tried to see it, could just discern its outline. It was huge, throbbing with pain, so swollen that he could not lift it for more than a few seconds.

  You're going to die!

  Whimpering. He heard those animals snuffling again. They weren't in any hurry.

  The darkness was streaked with red, brightening, dulling. His head pounded, but uppermost in his mind was the basic will to survive. He wasn't going to die, he would be all right when daylight came, find a stream or a pool and bathe his wound. He thought he could hear the rushing of water somewhere far away; it might just have been the rain.

  Exhaustion was taking its toll, stronger than the pain; his arm seemed numb right up to his shoulder. He shifted his position, made himself as comfortable as he could. Those creatures had gone away; they were frightened of him after all.

  People. Lots of them, frightening because they did not have long hair, nor were they dressed in crudely fashioned animal hides. Smooth flesh, tight-fitting clothing, sitting in a brightly lit room, eating strange food off the tables.

  And he was with them, one of them, the same as them!

  He held out his hand, examined it. There was no sign of the snake bite, the swelling had gone down, not even the puncture to be seen. Those clothes, he was wearing them too!

  'What's the matter, Eric?' The woman sitting at his table eyed him with concern. 'You're acting very strangely.'

  He stared at her, fought to remember her name, finally came up with it. Marlene. He could understand what she said, wondered if he could converse in the same language.

  He took his time, got the words out, 'I'm OK. Really I am.'

  'You're certainly acting very strangely then. Or are you trying to avoid the issue?'

  'What issue?' What's an issue? Oh yes, I remember. I don't remember what this particular issue is, though. So strange, a kind of faraway feeling like he was sickening for something, a spectator to his own actions.

  'Oh, you're impossible!' She was twirling the stem of her empty wine-glass angrily, it might snap at any second. 'AH you want me for is to screw, Eric. Now answer me straight, do you or do you not want to go back to your wife? Come on, let's have it straight.'

  'My ... wife?'

  'Yes, your wife. The woman you are legally married to. Sylvia.'

  Sylvia . . . Sylvia . . . Sylvia. His arm was starting to throb again, his vision had darkened or else they had .dimmed the lighting in the restaurant. Whisperings, like those creatures moving about in the wood. What creatures? What wood? Sylvia. . .Sylvia. . . Sylvia. SYLVIA. Oh God, he could hear her calling him somewhere. He staggered to his feet, clutched at the table and slopped a carafe of water.

  'You've been taking me for a ride, haven't you, Eric?' Marlene spat out her venom in a shriek. She hurled her wine-glass; he felt the rush of air as it skimmed his face, smashed somewhere behind him. 'Well, if you want your wife that bad, you go to her, and she's welcome to you. You're a wastrel. You go back to Sylvia!'

  Sylvia.

  He turned away, Marlene already forgotten. He had to find Sylvia. She could be anywhere, he had to search for her. Pushing his way past people who seemed oblivious of his presence, staggering out into a street that was brightly lit with orange lamps. Crowds everywhere, having to fight his way through them. Have any of you seen my wife? Her name's Sylvia. Nobody even glanced in his direction. He was a man alone.

  Constant traffic, horns blaring. He gave up trying to cross the road, continued on his way along the packed pavement, lurching from side to side, would have fallen if the throng had not kept him upright.

  Has anybody seen my wife? Her name's Sylvia. I've been unfaithful to her and now I need her more than I've ever needed anybody in my life. Please, somebody find her for me.

  Featureless hairless faces everywhere, trying to scrutinise them but they were gone too quickly. All hurrying, all searching for somebody. They've all lost someone! This is hell, purgatory without the promised flames. You repent for your sins, want to s
ay sorry to somebody but that somebody isn't there.

  The town was gone. Where there had been light there was darkness now, tall trees instead of buildings. Everybody gone, nobody to buffet or lean on any more. The pain was back again, a liquid fire that burned its way right up into his shoulder and was beginning to dip into his chest. He couldn't keep going much longer, he would have to rest soon.

  Eric Atkinson leaned against a tree, clutched at its gnarled trunk for support. Then his legs weakened, refused to hold him upright any longer, a sinking sensation like vertigo; that time he had gone on a tour of the cathedral with the choir, and the head verger had taken them up the main spire. A steel ladder, one slip and you would fall several hundred feet. You'll see the countryside for miles around when we get to the top. I don't want to go to the top. His senses were swimming.

  At least he was lying on the ground where he could not fall anywhere. The pain! Sylvia . . . Sylvia ... he could smell her, that unmistakable musky odour. She was around somewhere. Why didn't she come to him? Oh God, I'm sorry, my darling, it's you I want. I didn't really want Alan to fuck you, it made me jealous. I didn't enjoy going with Marie either. I wanted you all the time. I've told Marlene to get lost, I wasn't going to leave you. Don't leave me, please. Sylvia, can you hear me?

  Somebody was out there in the darkness. Sylvia? Shuffling sounds as though whoever it was came and had a look at him, went away again. Come back, Sylvia.

  It was daylight when he awoke, a sort of daylight. Grey drizzly fog pervaded the damp forest, dripped steadily off the branches. A crow was calling harshly a short distance away.

  Eric's pain was worse, his arm thick and swollen, red with poison. He didn't want to look at it. He wouldn't, he would go and find ... he couldn't remember her name, the woman who was his mate. She would soothe him, bathe his infection with cool fresh water.

  He tried to get to his feet, almost made it then fell back again, almost blacked out. He grunted, tried to shout but only a hoarse whisper came from his parched throat.

  And that was when his fear really hit him. Fear of the unknown, a dark forest world where fierce tribes hunted and animals roamed in search of easy prey. Worse than that, the loner was afraid of being alone.

  You 're going to die!

  The will to survive was weaker, nothing left to fight with. It had been a long gruelling search and it had proved futile. The woman was not far away, even now he scented her, but his strength was failing. He whimpered softly, closed his eyes.

  He was going to die.

  Sylvia had made up her mind to go to Eric. Tonight. She could not leave him out there any longer. For two whole days now she had not caught sight of him because the tops of the hills had been shrouded by low cloud. He might not still be up there. On the other hand he might. She had to go and see.

  For once Jon did not fall asleep the moment he got into bed. Damn him, tonight of all'nights he would choose to be restless. She thought for one awful moment that he might be in the mood for love, would have yielded to him just to get it over with and then perhaps he would go to sleep. But no, he was in a talkative mood.

  'There's an awful lot of them moved up into the hills.' He had remembered to bring the shotgun upstairs tonight. 'I counted one lot of at least fifty. Funny thing, they didn't all seem to be together, rather small groups which had met up, just happened to be travelling the same route. It looks to me like they're going to winter in the forest. Well, there certainly won't be much in the way of food up there for them. I heard some shooting, too, sounded in the direction of the village. I'm just wondering if the army's constantly moving them on, trying to drive them to outlying areas whilst they try and get things back to normal.'

  Things will never be normal again.' She laughed bitterly. 'How can they?' Just look what they've done to my Eric. Christ, I wish they'd done it to me, too. It would solve a lot of problems.

  'I reckon there've got to be more survivors than we think,' he answered her. 'Damn it, it would take hundreds of germ bombs to destroy a whole country the size of Britain. The Continent, the States, you've got an even better chance of dodging the germs there. All we can do is sit tight, hold on and wait.'

  You can, Jon. Me, I'm going out there and even if I don't find Eric I'd sooner die than go on living like a prisoner, not knowing when you're going to be attacked.

  His conversation dwindled and she could tell he was becoming drowsy. At length his breathing became regular and she knew he was asleep.

  Cautiously she slid off the bed, crawled on her hands and knees towards the bedroom door, stopped every time a floorboard creaked. But he didn't waken. Down the stairs, dressing in the living-room. She wouldn't need anything except a torch. Eric would surely have some food and if not then perhaps she could persuade him to accompany her to a deserted cottage or farmhouse where there was sure to be an abundance; these throwbacks didn't understand what packaged food was.

  She let herself out into the night, clicked the door softly shut behind her.

  And that was when she saw them. And they had seen her, too!

  The throwbacks were in the yard, ten or fifteen of them, an ominous semi-circle of them stealthily closing in on the cottage, surrounding it. Stooped creatures that would have seemed more natural walking on all-fours, every one of them carrying some kind of improvised weapon, scythes, pitchforks, clubs.

  Sylvia froze, cringed. Searching their bearded squat faces; they all looked the same in the faint starlight, might all have been cast from the same mould. They stopped, watching her.

  She fought to make her vocal cords work, struggling to get words out and when finally she succeeded all that she managed was a hoarse frightened whisper. 'Eric . . . are you there, Eric?'

  No answer. No movement. Staring at her, eyes narrowed as though they suspected a trap. Shuffling forward a few paces, stopping again.

  Sylvia screamed, a long shriek of sheer terror, and in that instant movement returned to her limbs. Panicking, turning back, her fingers struggling with the heavy door handle, slipping, unable to secure a grip and turn it. Pulling, pushing, knowing that they were coming for her, smelling their rancid animal odour. Eric wasn't amongst them, he wasn't like this', he would not hurt her.

  She screamed again, an inarticulate yell, tugging at the door. Don't touch me, you brutes. 'Jon . . . Jon!'

  And then she felt their grip, claw-like fingers digging into her arms and shoulders, dragging her out of the porch, lifting her up, carrying her. She struggled, kicked until they grabbed her legs, grunted their surprise and lust at finding one so unlike themselves. Curiosity, others crowding round, prodding at her, hurting her, starting to tear her clothes.

  She almost passed out. They would rape her, maybe kill her when they had finished with her. Perhaps they had already murdered Eric; he would not let them do this to her.

  Sobbing softly, her eyes closed because she could not bear to look, wanted to die now and get it all over; there was nothing left to live for. Kill me, please1.

  Suddenly there was a deafening explosion, an ear-splitting report that ripped through her, a vivid flash that she saw even with her eyes closed. A sensation of falling, hitting the ground, lying there, not understanding, not wanting to. Oh God, I want to die, please let me be dead.

  A second explosion and then she heard her captors screaming, primitive cries of pain and fear. Opened her eyes, saw but did not understand. One of them was lying on the ground, a still, crumpled form from which blood poured out of innumerable wounds. Surely he was dead. Two others, bleeding but still upright, whimpering, pawing at their bodies in shocked amazement. The rest were running, howling.

  'Sylvia . . . Sylvia are you all right?'

  She recognised Jon's voice, got to her knees. A sliver of orange light played on her, momentarily dazzled her. A torch, coming from an upstairs window.

  Two more loud reports. She recognised the stabbing flames of a shotgun blast, screamed as she saw the two wounded throwbacks stagger, clutch at their faces. Oh Jesus
God, they didn't have faces any longer, just scarlet bloody mulch, their screams drowned by the blood that spouted from where their mouths had been seconds before. They hit the ground, did not move again.

  Sylvia knelt there, tried not to think, heard the door opening, Jon's bare feet running across the yard. Smelled the sharp tang of burned gunpowder, coughed and was almost sick.

  'Sylvia. . .Sylvia. . .'Still holding the gun, helping her to her feet with his free hand. 'Are you OK?'

  'I'm all right.' The words came instinctively, a habit of civilised society. Somebody asked you how you were and you said you were OK even if you were ill. Polite conversation because nobody was really interested in your health.

  This was neither the time nor the place for formalities, though.

  He was helping her back to the house, supporting her weight, moving backwards so that he did not have to turn his back on the dark night, holding the heavy twelve-bore one-handed.

  He kicked open the door, bundled her through, slammed it behind him and forced the key to turn. Then he shone the torchlight on her, ran the beam anxiously over her, breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw nothing more serious than scratches on her face and arms,

  'What the hell were you doing out there?' Angry now, demanding an answer, 'You're fully dressed. Where were you going?'

  She bit her lip and in that one instant made up her mind to tell him. Better now than later, tell him the truth. She had not got the ingenuity right now to think up a plausible lie.

  'I was leaving.' She was surprised how calmly she spoke. *I was going to find Eric because he's out there. It was Eric who came here for me that time. My husband, alive and . . . one of them.'

  He stared. Disbelief on his pale features. 'You're mistaken,' he said, almost said, 'You're crazy,' but checked it just in time. 'You imagined it.'

  'No, I didn't,' she screamed, suddenly sensed a wave of hysteria threatening to engulf her. 'It was Eric. He's been out there watching the house for weeks now. He needs me!'