The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  He knew that the Horde, temporarily frightened by his mad rush, had given him time to stumble up again and once more lift the girl, before they had ventured to creep into the arcade in search of their prey.

  He remembered that the spear had been gone then. Raving, he must have broken and plucked it out. The blood, he recalled, was spurting freely as he had carried Beatrice through the wreckage and up to the first landing, where she had regained partial consciousness.

  Then he shuddered at recollection of that stealthy, apelike creeping of the Horde scouts in among the ruins, furtive and silent; their sniffing after the blood-track; their frightful agility in clambering with feet and hands alike, swinging themselves up like chimpanzees, swarming aloft on the death-hunt.

  He had evaded them, from story to story. Beatrice, able now to walk, had helped him roll down balustrades and building-stones, fling rocks, wrench stairs loose and block the way.

  And so, wounding their pursuers, yet tracked always by more and ever more, they had come to the landing, where by aid of the rifle barrel as a lever they had been able to bring a whole wall crashing down, to choke the passage. That had brought silence. For a time, at least, pursuit had been abandoned. In the sliding, dusty avalanche of the wall, hurled down the stairway, Stern knew by the grunts and shrieks which had arisen that some of the Horde had surely perished—how many, he could not tell. A score or two at the very least, he ardently hoped.

  Fear, at any rate, had been temporarily injected into the rest. For the attack had not yet been renewed. Outside in the forest, no sign of the Horde, no sound. A disconcerting, ominous calm had settled like a pall. Even the birds, recovered from their terrors, had begun to hop about and take up their twittering little household tasks.

  As in a kind of clairvoyance, the engineer seemed to know there would be respite until night. For a little while, at least, there could be rest and peace. But when darkness should have settled down—

  “If they’d only show themselves!” thought he, his leaden eyes closing in an overmastering lassitude, a vast swooning weakness of blood-loss and exhaustion. Not even his parched thirst, a veritable torture now, could keep his thoughts from wandering. “If they’d tackle again, I could score with—with lead—what’s that I’m thinking? I’m not delirious, am I?”

  For a moment he brought himself back with a start, back to a full realization of the place. But again the drowsiness gained on him.

  “We’ve got guns now; guns and ammunition,” thought he. “We—could pick them off—from the windows. Pick them—off—pick—them—off—”

  He slept. Thus, often, wounded soldiers sleep, with troubled dreams, on the verge of renewed battle which may mean their death, their long and wakeless slumber.

  He slept. And the girl, laying his gashed head gently back upon the pile of furs, bent over him with infinite compassion. For a long minute, hardly breathing, she watched him there. More quickly came her breath. A strange new light shone in her eyes.

  “Only for me, those wounds!” she whispered slowly. “Only for me!”

  Taking his head in both her hands, she kissed him as he lay unconscious. Kissed him twice, and then a third time.

  Then she arose.

  Quickly, as though with some definite plan, she chose from among their store of utensils a large copper kettle, one which he had brought her the week before from the little Broadway shop.

  She took a long rawhide rope, braided by Stern during their long evenings together. This she knotted firmly to the bale of the kettle.

  The revolvers, fully reloaded, she examined with care. One of them she laid beside the sleeper. The other she slid into her full, warm bosom, where the clinging tiger-skin held it ready for her hand.

  Then she walked noiselessly to the door leading into the hallway.

  Here for a moment she stood, looking back at the wounded man. Tears dimmed her eyes, yet they were very glad.

  “For your sake, now, everything!” she said. “Everything—all! Oh, Allan, if you only knew! And now—good-by!”

  Then she was gone.

  And in the silent room, their home, which out of wreck and chaos they had made, the fevered man lay very still, his pulses throbbing in his throat.

  Outside, very far, very faint in the forests, a muffled drum began to beat again.

  And the slow shadows, lengthening across the floor, told that evening was drawing nigh.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  TO WORK!

  The engineer awoke with a start—awoke to find daylight gone, to find that dusk had settled, had shrouded the whole place in gloom.

  Confused, he started up. He was about to call out, when prudence muted his voice. For the moment he could not recollect just what had happened or where he was; but a vast impending consciousness of evil and of danger weighed upon him. It warned him to keep still, to make no outcry. A burning thirst quickened his memory.

  Then his comprehension returned. Still weak and shaken, yet greatly benefited by his sleep, he took a few steps toward the door. Where was the girl? Was he alone? What could all this mean?

  “Beatrice! Oh, Beatrice!” he called thickly, in guarded tones. “Where are you? Answer me!”

  “Here—coming!” he heard her voice. And then he saw her, dimly, in the doorway.

  “What is it? Where have you been? How long have I been asleep?”

  She did not answer his questions, but came quickly to him, took his hand, and with her own smoothed his brow.

  “Better, now?” asked she.

  “Lots! I’ll be all right in a little while. It’s nothing. But what have you been doing all this time?”

  “Come, and I’ll show you.” She led him toward the other room.

  He followed, in growing wonder.

  “No attack, yet?”

  “None. But the drums have been beating for a long time now. Hear that?”

  They listened. To them drifted a dull, monotonous sound, harbinger of war.

  Stern laughed bitterly, chokingly, by reason of his thirst.

  “Much good their orchestra will do them,” said he, “when it comes to facing soft-nosed .38’s! But tell me, what was it you were going to show me?”

  Quickly she went over to their crude table, took up a dish and came back to him.

  “Drink this!” bade she.

  He took it, wondering.

  “What? Coffee? But—”

  “Drink! I’ve had mine, already. Drink!”

  Half-stupefied, he obeyed. He drained the whole dish at a draft, then caught his breath in a long sigh.

  “But this means water!” cried he, with renewed vigor. “And—?”

  “Look here,” she directed, pointing. There on the circular hearth stood the copper kettle, three-quarters full.

  “Water! You’ve got water?” He started forward in amazement. “While I’ve been sleeping? Where—?”

  She laughed with real enjoyment.

  “It’s nothing,” she disclaimed. “After what you’ve done for me, this is the merest trifle, Allan. You know that big cavity made by the boiler-explosion? Yes? Well, when we looked down into it, before we ventured out to the spring, I noticed a good deal of water at the bottom, stagnant water, that had run out of the boiler and settled on the hard clay floor and in among the cracked cement. I just merely brought up some, and strained and boiled it, that’s all. So you see—”

  “But, my Lord!” burst out the man, “d’you mean to say you—you went down there—alone?”

  Once more the girl laughed.

  “Not alone,” she answered. “One of the automatics was kind enough to bear me company. Of course the main stairway was impassable. But I found another way, off through the east end of the building and down some stairs we haven’t used at all, yet. They may be useful, by the way, in case of—well—a retreat. Once I’d reached the arcade, the rest was easy. I had that leather rope tied to the kettle handle, you see. So all I had to do was—”

  “But the Horde! The Horde?”
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br />   “None of them down there, now—that is, alive. None when I was there. All at the war-council, I imagine. I just happened to strike it right, you see. It wasn’t anything. We simply had to have water, so I went and got some, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” echoed Stern, in a trembling voice. “That’s—all!”

  Then, lest she see his face even by the dim light through the window, he turned aside a minute. For the tears in his eyes, he felt, were a weakness which he would not care to reveal.

  But presently he faced the girl again.

  “Beatrice,” said he, “words fall so flat, so hopelessly dead; they’re so inadequate, so anticlimactic at a time like this, that I’m just going to skip them all. It’s no use thanking you, or analyzing this thing, or saying any of the commonplace, stupid things. Let it pass. You’ve got water, that’s enough. You’ve made good, where I failed. Well—”

  His voice broke again, and he grew silent. But she, peering at him with wonder, laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Come,” said she, “you must eat something, too. I’ve got a little supper ready. After that, the Pulverite?”

  He started as though shot.

  “That’s so! I can make it now!” cried he, new life and energy suffusing him. “Even with my one hand, if you help me, I can make it! Supper? No, no! To work!”

  But she insisted, womanlike; and he at last consented to a bite. When this was over, they began preparations for the manufacture of the terrible explosive, Stern’s own secret and invention, which, had not the cataclysm intervened, would have made him ten times over a millionaire. More precious now to him, that knowledge, than all the golden treasures of the dead, forsaken world!

  “We’ve got to risk a light,” said he. “If it’s turned low, and shaded, maybe they won’t learn our whereabouts. But however that may be, we can’t work in the dark. It would be too horribly perilous. One false move, one wrong combination, even the addition of one ingredient at the improper moment, and—well—you understand.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes,” said she. “And we don’t want to quit—just yet!”

  So they lighted the smaller of their copper lamps, and set to work in earnest.

  On the table, cleared of dishes and of food, Stern placed in order eight glass bottles, containing the eight basic chemicals for his reaction.

  Beside him, at his left hand, he set a large metal dish with three quarts of water, still warm. In front of him stood his copper tea-kettle—the strangest retort, surely in which the terrific compound ever had been distilled.

  “Now our chairs, and the lamp,” said he, “and we’re ready to begin. But first,” and, looking earnestly at her, “first, tell me frankly, wouldn’t you just a little rather have me carry out this experiment alone? You could wait elsewhere, you know. With these uncertain materials and all the crude conditions we’ve got to work under, there’s no telling what—might happen.

  “I’ve never yet found a man who would willingly stand by and see me build Pulverite, much less a woman. It’s frightful, this stuff is! Don’t be ashamed to tell me; are you afraid?”

  For a long moment the girl looked at him.

  “Afraid—with you?” said she.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE PULVERITE

  An hour passed. And now, under the circle of light cast by the hooded lamp upon the table, there in that bare, wrecked office-home of theirs, the Pulverite was coming to its birth.

  Already at the bottom of the metal dish lay a thin yellow cloud, something that looked like London fog on a December morning. There, covered with the water, it gently swirled and curdled, with strange metallic glints and oily sheens, as Beatrice with a gold spoon stirred it at the engineer’s command.

  From moment to moment he dropped in a minute quantity of glycerin, out of a glass test-tube, graduated to the hundredth of an ounce. Keenly, under the lamp-shine, he watched the final reaction; his face, very pale and set, reflected a little of the mental stress that bound him.

  Along the table-edge before him, limp in its sling, his wounded arm lay useless. Yet with his left hand he controlled the sleeping giant in the dish. And as he dropped the glycerin, he counted.

  “Ten, eleven, twelve—fifteen, sixteen—twenty! Now! Now pour the water off, quick! Quick!”

  Splendidly the girl obeyed. The water ran, foaming strangely, out into a glass jar set to receive it. Her hands trembled not, nor did she hesitate. Only, a line formed between her brows; and her breath, half-held, came quickly through her lips.

  “Stop!”

  His voice rang like a shot.

  “Now, decant it through this funnel, into the vials!”

  Again, using both hands for steadiness, she did his bidding.

  And one by one as she filled the little flasks of chained death, the engineer stoppered them with his left hand.

  When the last was done, Stern drew a tremendous sigh, and dashed the sweat from his forehead with a gesture of victory.

  Into the residue in the dish he poured a little nitric acid.

  “That’s got no kick left in it, now, anyhow,” said he relieved. “The HNO3 tames it, quick enough. But the bottles—take care—don’t tip one over, as you love your life!”

  He stood up, slowly, and for a moment remained there, his face in the shadow of the lamp-shade, holding to the table-edge for support, with his left hand.

  At him the girl looked.

  “And now,” she began, “now—?”

  The question had no time for completion. For even as she spoke, a swift little something flicked through the window, behind them.

  It struck the opposite wall with a sharp crack! then fell slithering to the floor.

  Outside, against the building, they heard another and another little shock; and all at once a second missile darted through the air.

  This hit the lamp. Stern grabbed the shade and steadied it. Beatrice stooped and snatched up the thing from where it lay beside the table.

  Only one glance Stern gave at it, as she held it up. A long reed stem he saw wrapped at its base with cotton fibers—a fish-bone point, firm-lashed—and on that point a dull red stain, a blotch of something dry and shiny.

  “Blowgun darts!” cried he. “Poisoned! They’ve seen the light—got our range! They’re up there in the treetops—shooting at us!”

  With one puff, the light was gone. By the wrist he seized Beatrice. He dragged her toward the front wall, off to one side, out of range.

  “The flasks of Pulverite! Suppose a dart should hit one?” exclaimed the girl.

  “That’s so! Wait here—I’ll get them!”

  But she was there beside him as, in the thick dark, he cautiously felt for the deadly things and found them with a hand that dared not tremble. And though here, there, the little venom-stings whis-s-shed over them and past them, to shatter on the rear wall, she helped him bear the vials, all nine of them, to a place of safety in the left-hand front corner where by no possibility could they be struck.

  Together then, quietly as wraiths, they stole into the next room; and there, from a window not as yet attacked, they spied out at the dark treetops that lay in dense masses almost brushing the walls.

  “See? See there?” whispered Stern in the girl’s ear. He pointed where, not ten yards away and below, a blacker shadow seemed to move along a hemlock branch. Forgotten now, his wounds. Forgotten his loss of blood, his fever and his weakness. The sight of that creeping stealthy attack nerved him with new vigor. And, even as the girl looked, Stern drew his revolver.

  Speaking no further word, he laid the ugly barrel firm across the sill.

  Carefully he sighted, as best he could in that gloom lit only by the stars. Coldly as though at a target-shot, he brought the muzzle-sight to bear on that deep, crawling shadow.

  Then suddenly a spurt of fire split the night. The crackling report echoed away. And with a bubbling scream, the shadow loosened from the limb, as a ripe fruit loosens.

  Vaguely th
ey saw it fall, whirl, strike a branch, slide off, and disappear.

  All at once a pattering rain of darts flickered around them. Stern felt one strike his fur jacket and bounce off. Another grazed the girl’s head. But to their work they stood, and flinched not.

  Now her revolver was speaking, in antiphony with his; and from the branches, two, three, five, eight, ten of the ape-things fell.

  “Give it to ‘em!” shouted the engineer, as though he had a regiment behind him. “Give it to ‘em!” And again he pulled the trigger.

  The revolver was empty.

  With a cry he threw it down, and, running to where the shotgun stood, snatched it up. He scooped into his pocket a handful of shells from the box where they were stored; and as he darted back to the window, he cocked both hammers.

  “Poom! Poom!”

  The deep baying of the revolver roared out in twin jets of flame.

  Stern broke the gun and jacked in two more shells.

  Again he fired.

  “Good Heaven! How many of ‘em are there in the trees?” shouted he.

  “Try the Pulverite!” cried Beatrice. “Maybe you might hit a branch!”

  Stern flung down the gun. To the corner where the vials were standing he ran.

  Up he caught one—he dared not take two lest they should by some accident strike together.

  “Here—here, now, take this!” he bellowed.

  And from the window, aiming at a pine that stood seventy-five feet away—a pine whose branches seemed to hang thick with the Horde’s blowgun-men—he slung it with all the strength of his uninjured arm.

  Into the gloom it vanished, the little meteorite of latent death, of potential horror and destruction.

  “If it hits ‘em, they’ll think we are gods, after all, what?” cried the engineer, peering eagerly. But for a moment, nothing happened.

  “Missed it!” he groaned. “If I only had my right arm to use now, I might—”

  Far below, down there a hundred feet beneath them and out a long way from the tower base, night yawned wide in a burst of hellish glare.