gns.throwback-第18部分

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ce　that　the　telephone　in　the　kiosk　had　been　vandalised；　the　receiver　and　dialling　mechanism　were　torn　away；　left　smashed　and　bent　on　the　floor。
　　
　　He　sighed　his　despair；　glanced　at　the　Mazda's　petrol　gauge。　Almost　empty；　just　about　enough　juice　to　get　him　back　to　the　farm。　And　he　was　only　going　back　there　because　it　had　once　been　his　home。
　　
　　He　made　it　to　the　yard　gates　before　the　engine　stuttered　and　died；　free…wheeled　the　last　few　yards。　It　was　only　later　that　he　asked　himself　why　he　hadn't　tried　some　of　those　parked　cars　in　the　village；　almost　surely　he　would　have　found　one　with　the　keys　in　and　some　petrol　in　the　tank。　But　he　hadn't　and　that　was　that。　He　wasn't　going　back　there　again。
　　
　　Days　stretched　into　weeks　and　still　he　hung　around　the　farm　doing　nothing。　When　the　fridge　was　empty　he　started　on　the　freezer；　the　generator　out　by　the　buildings　would　keep　it　going　for　some　time　yet　because　it　was　not　running　anything　else。　When　he　ran　out　of　food　he　would　think　of　something　but　not　until。　His　parents　would　not　be　ing　back；　the　sheep　were　still　in　the　barley　and　there　wasn't　a　goddamned　thing　he　could　do　about　it。　For　the　time　being　he　would　sit　it　out。
　　
　　The　initial　terror　had　numbed　him　but　gradually　it　was　wearing　off。　Acceptance　came　in　stages　but　reasoning　was　a　different　matter。　The　eternal　'why'。　Why　had　everybody　just　up　and　gone？　It　was　some　sort　of　nuclear　attack；　of　course。　He　had　escaped　because　he　had　been　down　the　mine　but　soon　radiation　would　take　its　toll　of　him。　When　he　felt　really　ill　and　started　throwing　up　he　would　know　that　he　had　radiation　sickness；　the　beginning　of　the　end。　Cancer；　really。　And　once　he　was　sure；　he　would　do　something　about　it；　he'd　read　somewhere　that　it　could　take　you　months；　even　years；　to　die　depending　upon　how　exposed　to　it　you　had　been。　He　wasn't　going　to　wait　and　suffer　that　long。
　　
　　What　he　needed　to　do；　he　decided；　was　to　get　away　from　this　place；　move　further　afield　and　maybe　meet　up　with　some　other　survivors…if　there　were　any。
　　
　　And　it　was　on　his　very　first　trek　beyond　the　boundary　stile　on　the　bridle…path　that　he　met　up　with　that　party　of　hunters　from　the　hills。　They　must　have　heard　him　ing；　had　lain　in　wait　for　him　along　that　overgrown　path；　some　of　them　up　in　the　trees　above。
　　
　　Something　hit　him。　Ape　actors　in　a　jungle　movie　ing　right　out　of　the　screen；　sending　him　sprawling；　surrounding　him；　jabbering。　Breathless；　he　looked　up；　found　the　twin　prongs　of　a　pitchfork　only　an　inch　or　so　from　his　throat。　He　tried　to　swallow　but　couldn't　make　it；　let　his　eyes　roll　because　he　couldn't　move　his　head。　There　were　a　lot　of　them；　maybe　twenty　or　more；　others　standing　just　outside　his　range　of　vision。　And　every　one　of　them　bore　a　strong　resemblance　to　how　his　parents　had　looked　the　last　time　he　had　seen　them。
　　
　　His　captors　forced　him　to　his　feet。　He　read　the　malevolence　in　their　expressions；　the　curiosity　as　they　fingered　his　clothing；　stroked　his　smooth　skin　with　their　rough　hands；　chattered　in　low　tones。　What　creature　is　this　with　soft　flesh　and　clothes　that　stifle　his　body？
　　
　　The　pitchfork　remained　at　Phil's　throat；　the　threat　of　impalement　more　real　than　ever。　They　pulled　his　hands　behind　his　back　and　he　felt　the　roughness　of　a　rope　beginning　to　bind　his　wrists；　pulled　tight；　thrown　around　his　arms　so　that　they　were　pinioned　to　his　body。　A　dog　on　a　leash；　being　dragged　along；　prodded　from　behind　with　those　devilish　prongs。
　　
　　He　didn't　know　where　they　were　taking　him；　didn't　care；　wished　he　had　died　of　radioactive　poisoning　or　anything　that　would　spare　him　this。　Wondering　if　his　parents　were　amongst　this　band　of　barely　human　beings；　claiming　their　son　for　their　own。　No；　they　wouldn't　see　him　treated　this　way。
　　
　　So　in　due　course　they　arrived　at　the　encampment　in　the　hills；　the　women　streaming　out　to　greet　them；　gazing　in　awe　at　the　live　prey　which　their　menfolk　had　brought　home　from　a　hunting　trip。
　　
　　Phil's　lips　were　blistered；　his　throat　crying　out　for　water。　A　blinding　thumping　headache　like　wild　horses　cantering　around　inside　his　brain。　Now　they　were　all　fingering　him；　ripping　at　his　shirt；　tearing　it　away　from　his　body；　pointing　in　amazement　at　the　hairless　flesh　beneath。
　　
　　Oh　God；　they　were　shredding　his　corduroy　trousers　now。　Embarrassment　mingled　with　his　terror；　his　natural　inhibitions　screaming　at　him　that　there　were　women　here。　Closing　his　eyes；　if　he　could　have　backed　away　he　would　have　when　they　began　feeling　at　his　flaccid　genitals　and　laughing　in　that　frightening　monkey…like　whickering；　squeezing　him　so　that　he　was　doubled　up　in　agony；　the　pain　stabbing　right　into　his　guts。
　　
　　A　grunted　mand　and　they　fell　back。　Kuz　has　demonstrated　his　prize　exhibit　and　now　there　was　work　to　be　done。　Phil　Winder　opened　his　eyes；　saw　the　female　who　was　obviously　their　leader's　woman　by　the　way　she　stood　close　to　him。　By　any　standards　she　was　beautiful；　her　features　still　retaining　a　civilised　look　about　them。　Her　gaze　centred　on　the　prisoner　for　a　second　and　in　her　eyes　Phil　read　passion；　pity。　If　I　had　my　way　you　would　be　set　free。　You　have　done　us　no　harm。　But　I　dare　not　speak　out。
　　
　　A　guttural　snarl　from　Kuz　and　those　behind　Phil　began　pushing　him　forward　again；　digging　the　points　of　the　pitchfork　into　his　buttocks　so　that　he　gasped　with　pain。　It　was　difficult　to　walk；　the　remnants　of　his　trousers　having　fallen　to　his　ankles　and　restricting　his　movements。　Yet　he　had　to　keep　moving　for　at　the　slightest　hesitation　his　nearest　captor　jabbed　him　again；　gave　vent　to　sadistic　delight　by　sucking　in　his　breath　and　expelling　it　noisily　every　time　he　thrust　with　the　pitchfork。
　　
　　Through　the　cluster　of　buildings；　along　a　hard…trodden　track　which　was　these　people's　main　village　street；　crude　stone　dwellings　constructed　of　uneven　stones　giving　them　an　unstable　look；　the　roofs　cut　tree　boughs　with　heavy　boulders　preventing　the　elements　from　dislodging　them。　So　primitive　but　none　the　less　effective。
　　
　　Winder　did　not　see　the　hole　in　the　ground　until　he　was　a　yard　or　two　from　it；　a　huge　yawning　grave　with　a　rickety　ladder　protruding　from　it。　The　sweat　on　his　body　went　icy　cold　as　those　behind　him　slashed　through　his　bonds。　There　was　no　misunderstanding　what　was　expected　of　him　as　they　shoved　him　forward。　That　is　your　prison；　stranger。　Go　to　it！
　　
　　He　was　prodded　again　even　as　he　reached　for　the　ladder；　saw　down　into　the　hole　for　the　first　time。　Just　a　hole；　not　even　squared　sides；　twenty　feet　deep　at　least；　soil　and　rock；　nothing　else。　His　hands　were　numb；　he　could　not　grasp　the　rungs；　relying　on　his　feet　and　his　body　to　maintain　his　balance。　He　tried　to　kick　the　remnants　of　his　trousers　free　but　they　caught；　twisted。
　　
　　That　pikle　threatened　him　again。　Hurry。　For　Christ's　sake　I　can't　go　any　faster！　Faces　peering　down　at　him；　grinning。　They　were　enjoying　this；　every　damned　one　of　them；　except　maybe　that　pretty　girl　who　looked　out　of　place　here。
　　
　　Suddenly　Phil　Winder　felt　himself　start　to　totter；　the　ragged　trouser　bottoms　tearing　at　his　foothold。　Flailing　the　air　with　hands　that　had　no　feeling；　were　just　starting　to　tingle　painfully。
　　
　　Toppling　backwards；　he　couldn't　check　his　scream。　His　body　hit　the　side；　seemed　to　bounce　off　it；　hands　scraping　the　sheer　wall；　a　futile　grab　for　a　hold。　It　was　like　being　in　an　elevator　that　had　gone　out　of　control；　a　snapped　cable　plunging　it　down　the　shaft；　the　walls　hurtling　by；　giving　you　an　optical　illusion　so　that　you　had　the　crazy　feeling　you　were　shooting　back　upwards。　Dizziness；　your　guts　turning　over；　any　second　you　would　spew　them　out。　Anticipating　the　awful　bone…shattering　impact　。　。　。
　　
　　Then　he　hit　the　bottom　and　for　a　second　everything　went　black；　the　wind　knocked　right　out　of　him　so　he　was　gulping　to　fill　his　lungs。　Groaning；　wanting　to　weep。　You　bastards！　He　was　aware　that　the　ladder　was　moving；　being　pulled　up。　He　almost　grabbed　for　it　but　they　would　only　have　wrenched　it　from　his　grasp；　maybe　stoned　him　for　his　defiance。　Then　the　ladder　was　gone；　probably　laid　on　the　ground　at　the　top；　well　beyond　his　reach。
　　
　　Sheer　terror；　his　brain　a　jumble　of　ideas　of　what　they　might　do　to　him。　Perhaps　they　were　going　to　bury　him　alive；　shovel　back　that　mound　of　soil　and　rubble。　No！　Oh　Christ；　no　please！
　　
　　Or　leave　him　here　to　starve　and　die　of　thirst　in　the　hot　sun；　day　after　day　growing　weaker；　willing　himself　to　die　but　death　cruelly　eluding　him。　And　if　it　rained　heavily　the　hole　would　fill　up　quickly；　the　water　slow　to　seep　away　through　the　rocky　sides。　Swimming；　treading　water　until　his　strength　gave　out　and　he　drowned。
　　
　　Maybe　they　would　just　stone　him　to　death　for　sport！　Shut　up　or　you'll　go　mad！　He　glanced　up；　saw　that　they　had　gone；　returned　to　their　chores　in　the　knowledge　that　he　could　not　escape。　He　would　still　be　there　when　they　came　back；　more　frightened　than　when　they　had　left　him；　He　leaned　his　back　against　the　side；　bit　his　lip　as　his　circulation　began　to　flow　again。　His　shoulder　hurt　from　the　fall　but　he　was　sure　no　bones　were　broken。　He　was　alive；　paratively　unhurt　except　for　those　damned　pitchfork　pricks　in　his　back　and　buttocks；　and　the　lump　on　his　head　where　they　had　felled　him　in　the　first　place。　He　was　lucky。　Every　minute　of　life　now　was　a　bonus。　Or　was　it？　What　was　the　point　in　going　on　living　in　a　land　of　savages；　civilised　people　turned　into　creatures　like　those　up　there？　When　it　came　to　that　you　were　better　off　dead。
　　
　　Suicide　occurred　to　him。　If　the　means　had　been　available　he　would　have　gone　through　with　it。　But　they　weren't。　Not　even　a　shard　of　rock　sharp　enough　to　slash　his　wrists。　He　had　no　choice　except　to　live　and　his　life…span　would　be　determined　by　his　captors。
　　
　　He　thought　about　his　parents　again。　Could　it　be　that　they　were　amongst　the　throng　which　had　imprisoned　him　in　this　hellhole？　Surely　not。　Father；　Mother；　don't　you　recognise　your　own　son？　It　was　doubtful　if　they　would。
　　
　　Irony　that　brought　a　cracked　mirthless　laugh　from　his　blistered　lips。　He　had　survived　the　holocaust　because　he　had　taken　refuge　in　a　deep　hole；　and　as　a　result　he　was　now　cast　into　another　one。　If　he　had　been　above　ground