by Guy N Smith
Jon Quinn closed his eyes for a second or two. I don't believe it, I won't. I do, it's feasible. Jackie's out there somewhere too. She's got to be.
'If it's Eric,' he swallowed, hated himself for saying it, didn't quite know how to put it, 'then , . . then it won't really be him. I mean, not the Eric you once knew.' Just as Jackie won't be the Jackie I once knew.
'It's still Eric though.1 Her voice was subdued, she wanted to cry but couldn't. 'My Eric.'
They've surrounded the house,' he muttered. 'We've got a fight on our hands. There are hundreds of them in the hills, starving and without adequate homes. It's them or us, I'm afraid.'
She nodded dumbly. I still want to go to Eric though. If we've got to die then I want to be with him. But she made no move towards the door, just asked, 'What are we going to do, then?'
'Nothing much we can do except fight.' He tried to smile. 'They're frightened of guns, I've proved that. It all depends on how determined they are. We'd better get back upstairs, the bedroom window is the best place to hold them off from.'
They went back upstairs and Jon returned to the window, looked out. There was nobody in sight, just those three bloody corpses in the yard. He felt physically sick, Christ, it was bloody murder whichever way you looked at it; they had been ordinary people like himself once.
And if Eric Atkinson was out there somewhere then the chances were... his heart threatened to stop then speeded up ... so was Jackie.
He rested the shotgun on the window-sill and waited for daylight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JACKIE KNEW by the time she reached the forest that she had thrown off her pursuers, temporarily at least. But the dog was still on her trail.
She had been aware of it about a mile back. On the slopes below her she had caught a glimpse of it as it darted from gorse bush to gorse bush snuffling on her scent, a huge black shaggy thing which she recognised. Kuz's hound, the hellish creature he had trained to run down deer, take them in full flight and tear their throats out. It had been a stray, an outcast from one of the wild packs that inhabited these hills but Kuz had taken it into the village and now it knew only one master. It had had its orders—run down the woman! And it would run until its heart burst.
It could have caught up with her earlier but possibly it hesitated, hung back because it knew her and was uncertain. But now its mind was made up and it had her scent. It had adapted to hunting humans.
Jackie could not go much further. Her legs had gone soft and if she did not give them a respite they would take it. A pain in her side, a stitch that had her doubling up. She could not outrun the creature, neither could she destroy her scent and hide from it. There was only one possible chance . . . she saw the trees, their low branches, so easy to climb . . .
Even as she reached for a bough and was about to haul herself up she heard the low moans, groans of pain and hopelessness, physical and mental agony. Delirium.
She hesitated, looked behind her once more. There was no sign of the dog but it could not be far away. Safety lay within her grasp.
A cry, a hoarse whispered shout of pain as though whoever it was had lost the strength to give full voice. She peered into the darkness, a mass of dark shapes that were tree trunks and branches, could have been anything. The noise came again, nearer than she had at first thought. Climb up into the boughs whilst there is still time. No, somebody needs help. The female protective instinct prevailed.
She walked forward, outstretched arms warding off low branches, protecting her face. That dog could not be far away now. She ought not to linger. It might be a trap. It might . . .
Something grabbed her ankle, a tightening grip that would have thrown her off balance had she not clutched at a branch. She gasped, tried to drag herself away but the hold on her was too strong to break. A groan but there was nothing threatening in it. Pain, despair.
Jackie looked down, could just make out the shape of a man on the pine-needles, one who was incapable of doing anything more than hold on to her. He was either ill or injured.
'What is the matter?' she whispered, thought about the dog again. There was not much time, there couldn't be.
'Snake,' he grunted, held up his other arm for a second but its weight was too much for him. 'I am dying.'
His hold on her relaxed; she dropped to her knees, felt at his arm. The hairy flesh was very swollen, throbbing, so hot. His whole body was lathered in sweat. She could see his eyes in the blackness, the whites showing starkly.
'Sylvia.' His voice altered to a tongue which she did not understand. 'Where is Sylvia? They haven't taken her, have they? I must see Sylvia but I am too weak. Too weak.'
'I do not understand,' she answered him. This strange language frightened her. Words like Phil Winder had used but this man was not one of the smooth-skinned race. So why did he talk like one?
She listened intently for a second. Twigs cracked somewhere not far away. That dog . . . She wondered if she could lift this man up into the trees.
'A dog is following me,' she breathed. *A fierce one that will kill us both. If I help you can you climb up into the branches of this tree?'
There was silence for a moment. Those eyes dulled, brightened again. 'Where is Sylvia?'
Jackie grasped his uninjured arm, pulled with all her strength. Perhaps she could make him understand. He groaned, began to .push with his legs. That's it, now try and hold on to this branch. A slow process and at any second that loathsome hound might show up.
He gripped the branch and she lifted his feet up on to a lower one. Pull and I will push. The bough creaked but somehow she got him up there. Pushed again. Now he was lying across a hammock of interlaced fir branches; they sagged but held. It would have to do, she could not get him any further.
Jackie had just taken the weight of her body on another thick branch when she heard the dog coming. A fast trot now, panting heavily, the need for caution gone. The beast knew its prey could not outrun it now.
Her sweat went cold, she could smell its stale sweaty odour, heard the low killing growl in its throat. She gripped the branch, kicked her legs and swung her body at the same time, a trapeze artist getting early momentum, a human pendulum gathering speed.
Just in time! She was aware of the dog's spring, its snapping slavering jaws, mad eyes glinting in the forest blackness. Had it anticipated her swing it would have hit her, instead it leaped behind, missed and fell back. It snarled its fury, head upturned, waiting for her to fall, tensed and ready, hackles raised.
Jackie grabbed another bough, forced her protesting muscles into one last tremendous effort. She made it, hauled herself up and gave a sob of relief as she lay across the branches, a couple of feet above her unknown companion.
The dog barked, howled, jumped at the tree trunk, its vicious claws shredding the bark, trying for a hold but failing. It snarled, sat back on its haunches, stared at the two humans with sheer malevolence.
Jackie looked down at the man. His body was limp but with luck the branches would hold. If they didn't . . .
She could smell the animal's breath, foul vapours that drifted up to her, reeked of putrid flesh. A scavenger. Jaws that had killed, mutilated. A ravening beast whose only thought was to rip human flesh to bloody shreds, devour it raw. Canine madness.
She trembled, wished she had some water. The stream she had splashed through earlier, its icy cold current serving to revive her, came back to taunt her. She should have paused to slake her thirst but there had not been time. Likewise she had not eaten for several hours. Hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and afraid to sleep.
The dog's jaws opened. Not a snarl, something much more sinister. A yawn, a noisy slow relaxation that posed the worst threat of all. The creature had overcome its initial fury and frustration, now it was resorting to patience and cunning. It was in no hurry. Its prey was trapped in the tree above it and there was no way of escape. It could rest and watch. Sleep if necessary, because its senses were so alert that the slightest movement would wake it in
stantly. Time was on its side.
Jackie shivered, moved slightly and dislodged a shower of icy raindrops out of the foliage above. Staring at that shape below, the wolf-like silhouette with eyes that glowed green fire.
She transferred her gaze to the man immediately below her. He was desperately ill, he might die before morning, but better that he died peacefully than fell and was savaged by the waiting animal.
He moved and her heart threatened to stop as the big branch creaked. He was restless, changing position. His head turned to one side, craning his neck until he could see her, his eyes unnaturally bright and shiny.
'Have you seen . . . Sylvia?' Soft tones, chilling. Tell me, have you seen her?'
Jackie did not understand, just shook her head and tried to smile. He went into a fit of coughing; the fever inside him was raging, building up to a peak. He had not long to go-
'Lie still or you might fall. Perhaps the dog will get tired and go away.' She knew it wouldn't. It had the cunning and cruelty of its master.
'She knows it is me even though I have changed like everybody else.' He was talking fast now. 'She's with that Quinn fellow, that's what hurts me most. Somehow she escaped, just as he did. I've been turned into an animal but I still want to see her before I die. Everybody's going to die before long.'
His voice tailed off and she could hear him shivering, his teeth banging together. A glance downwards; the dog's eyes flickered open for a second, closed again. It wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. She stretched out, made sure her grip was secure. She wouldn't fall. How long before it got light? Not that it would make any difference.
She was aware of sleep claiming her, a soft soothing blanket that numbed her terror, gave her a sensation of warmth, a bed that was comfortable.
It was light. Or rather it wasn't quite so dark, a foggy greyness that created its own weird shapes. Trees became grotesque monsters, changed back to trees again. There was only one monster, a shaggy one with permanently erect pointed ears, lying with its head on its paws, its eyes wide and staring upwards. Waiting.
Jackie tried to ease her stiff limbs, felt excruciating pins and needles as the trapped blood began to flow again. The man was still there on the bed of branches beneath her, a still form with one arm that was twice the thickness of the other. For a moment she thought that he was dead, that the cold damp night air had put an end to his suffering. And then his head moved, his eyes coming round to meet hers, filmed but clearing slowly.
'Perhaps somebody will come before long,' she said. If somebody did come it would undoubtedly be Kuz and his followers. She would be rescued to meet a worse fate.
They would kill her companion because they had no use for the sick or the maimed. Only the fittest survived.
He nodded, shifted his position, and began to convulse! And she knew then that he was going to fall!
A combination of weakness and pins and needles robbed him of any chance of holding on. In his own fevered mind Eric Atkinson surrendered, had given up all hope of ever seeing Sylvia again. That single glowing ember, the spark that had kept him going, was dying. His fingers did not even attempt to grasp the interwoven fir boughs as he started to slip.
Jackie watched in horror. The branches bent, held him up for a final second or two but his sliding weight was too much for them and then they catapulted him down.
The dog had him the moment he struck the ground, Eric Atkinson's final scream of agony torn from his throat in a mass of bloody flesh, a jagged open wound that pumped scarlet fluid, saturating the crazed beast as it bit and tore, its fangs crunching on brittle bones. The man's head sagged to one side, the vertebrae snapped so that the body twisted round as it was dragged. Clothing tore, exposed more flesh for mutilation; an open groin wound, intestines being pulled, unravelled.
It was several minutes before the creature's frenzy subsided, and only then did it begin to feast on the carnage, masticating noisily, ravenously, glancing round as though it feared lest its master might suddenly appear and deprive it of its prize.
Jackie closed her eyes but could not shut out the horror below her. Sooner or later she too would weaken.
The dog's hunger appeased, it lay down by the remains of the man it had savaged, turned its attention once more to the woman in the trees above it; watched her steadily. It gave a contented, threatening yawn. It would wait until tomorrow, the day after, next week if need be. It had food; she did not.
The false warmth inside Jackie's body had long since evaporated. Her skin was goose pimpled, the cold and damp beginning to penetrate deep. A feeling of drowsiness, a fight to keep awake. If she slept again she might move, roll. . . fall! She would not make it through another night, she knew that.
Weak sunlight slanted down through the forest ceiling, a vain attempt because shortly afterward the hill-fog rolled back again as though it had something to hide. Strange thoughts, frightening ones, plagued Jackie Quinn's tortured mind. Phil Winder, a hairless race of weaklings; a face she half-knew flitting in, then disappearing and leaving her with a blurred image. A man, his features would be familiar if only she could visualise them, reaching out for her. But he could not help her, nobody could.
Her mouth was dry. She moistened her fingers on the wet foliage, sucked them. They tasted of resin, made her want to spit. Hunger gnawed, brought with it nausea. Once the lower branch creaked alarmingly, and she grabbed the overhead one but it did not crack. And below her the dog appeared to sleep but if she watched it long enough she saw an eye flicker open. It was playing a cruel game with her, savouring every second of it.
Dozing, hearing in her mind the baying of the brute as it picked up a fresh scent, the killing urge strong. A baying that grew louder. And louder.
Until at last it jerked her awake in a cold shivering sweat. She gripped the bough tightly for surely what she saw was an hallucination brought on by exposure to the elements.
There must have been a dozen dogs down below her! An assortment of mangy long-haired animals, mongrels of various strains, collies, Alsatians, deerhounds, a mixed ancestry with one overriding common factor—ferocity! They bunched together, their tongues dwindling to a low warning growl. The big dog stood its ground, spread-legged across the remnants of its Man-kill, its coat bloodsoaked and dried, its slobbering jaws challenging them to take its rightful prey if they dared.
They hung back, cowed. Growled again. An encounter, a cowardly hunting pack warily eyeing a King Beast, a champion. Weighing up their chances. They could conquer it but some of them would be killed and none wanted to be amongst the unlucky ones. Threatening barks but the big dog did not back off. If they wanted his food they would have to kill him for it.
Suddenly, without warning, they charged. A melee, a fighting tearing throng, fang and claw ripping deep into hide and flesh. A collie was airborne, the first one in tossed high by the beast at bay, its neck broken, dead before it thudded down on to the soft ground. Blood spouted and sprayed, ruby aerosol tinsel on Christmas tree branches, a mass of fighting fury so that the spectator above was unable to follow blow by blow. The wounded squealed, leaped clear, came back into the fray.
The big dog was eventually pulled down. Jackie thought that they had got him because she could not see him any more. A pile of dead, a carpet for the living, the low cloud drifting in even thicker than before, a curtain to hide canine shame.
Now the animals were fighting each other, two of the smaller ones being driven off. Finally only five remained, two of them unscathed, tearing flesh from the dead human body, gnawing at the bones. Finally they lay down, belched with contentment. The pack had hunted and killed, were satisfied for the moment.
And up in the fir branches Jackie Quinn wondered how much longer she could hold on. She contemplated leaping down, offering herself to the wild dogs and hoping that the end would be quick.
Today or tomorrow, the outcome would be the same. Every torturous minute was only delaying the awful moment when she must face death in its most horrible form. There could
only be one outcome.
CHAPTER TWENTY
REITZE HAD regulated the temperature in the cold store compartment to minus 20°C. That represented the coldest winter you were likely to get in Britain. It might not even drop that low this year but he always worked on extremities; give your specimens the severest of tests and you proved something conclusively. Otherwise it was a waste of time and you finished up with shit in your face.
He lit a Camel, inhaled deeply, rechecked his Progress Chart:
November 21-2 adults (1 male, 1 female both aged approx. 30)
1 male child aged approx. 10
1 ditto aged approx. 5
The youngster had died the first night, the ten-year-old the next day. The male adult had made it until 23 November. The woman lasted up until 25 November.
Conclusion: they couldn't live at that temperature. The whole throwback species would be wiped out before the spring. That would solve a lot of problems.
November 28-2 adults (1 male, 1 female both aged
approx. 20/25)
1 female child aged approx. 12 1 male child aged approx. 7
Temperature 28°F.
The two children died on 30 November, the adult male on 3 December, the female lasted up until 7 December. Conclusion: the female of the species is more resilient.
But overall the throwbacks would be wiped out in a month at the most if the weather worsened.
Reitze had a meeting that afternoon with the Prime Minister, only their second in three months so it had to be something pretty important. For once the Professor felt slightly uneasy. He got the feeling that these guys were looking to throw the book at somebody; they needed a scapegoat. They were starting to panic.
In the meantime he had better go and check the 'natural environment' experiments; the PM would want a full report. He wouldn't take Westcote because the latter was becoming squeamish. Reitze had always suspected that would happen once their experiments went beyond animals. He was the kind who would opt out if things ever returned to normal, defect to the 'amis' and use as a weapon all the information he had collected over the years. Build an empire then destroy it. He needed careful watching. Barnes would be glad of a trip out; he was another who needed watching but for a different reason. He would go to any lengths to gain another step up the ladder, knife you in the back if it was to his advantage and he thought he could get away with it. But he was dedicated and that counted for a lot.
