gns.throwback-第26部分

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　　The　house　was　still　and　dark；　no　smoke　ing　from　the　chimney。　Deserted；　like　every　other　dwelling　you　came　upon；　the　occupants　having　answered　the　calling　and　deserted　civilisation。　Except　that　Eric　knew　that　she　was　in　there　and　this　time　he　scented　her　man；　a　sour；　stronger　aroma　that　was　borne　to　him　on　the　soft　summer　breeze；　one　that　made　him　uneasy。
　　
　　Eric　laughed　softly　to　himself；　there　were　enough　of　them；　there　would　be　no　problem。
　　
　　They　crowded　into　the　workshop　outbuilding；　grunted　and　hissed　their　delight　at　what　they　found　in　there。　Tools　and　weapons　beyond　the　realms　of　their　limited　expectation；　scrabbling　for　possession　of　whatever　took　their　fancy；　examining　them　with　childish　glee。
　　
　　Eric　watched　them　from　the　doorway；　smelled　the　bitch…smell　again。　In　there；　she's　in　there。　Help　me　break　in；　kill　the　male　and　take　her。　He　clutched　at　one　of　them　in　his　frustration；　was　pushed　away。　They　had　forgotten　the　bargain；　were　not　interested　in　anything　except　what　they　found　in　this　treasure　cave。
　　
　　Anger。　He　grabbed　up　a　hammer；　swung　it　above　his　head　and　as　he　did　so　a　blow　from　behind　sent　him　reeling；　catapulted　him　against　the　solid　workbench；　an　agonising　blow　in　the　small　of　his　back。　He　fell；　showered　spanners　and　the　contents　of　a　small　tool…box　over　himself；　hit　the　floor。　Somebody　kicked　him；　doubled　him　up；　had　him　clutching　at　his　stomach。
　　
　　These　primitive　burglars　had　what　they　had　e　for。
　　
　　If　they　had　made　a　bargain　then　it　did　not　exist　any　more　because　they　were　incapable　of　thinking　beyond　the　initial　haul。　The　one　who　had　brought　them　here　had　obstructed　them　so　they　had　struck　him　down。　If　he　bothered　them　further　they　would　kill　him。
　　
　　He　lay　there；　watched　them　shuffle　back　out　into　the　night；　laden　with　their　loot；　he　was　already　forgotten　as　though　he　had　not　existed。
　　

　　Sometime　later　he　followed　them；　but　only　as　far　as　the　fir　spinney；　skulking　in　the　dark　shadows　and　staring　back　at　the　outline　of　the　house。　She　was　in　there。　He　didn't　know　who　she　was；　not　even　sure　what　she　looked　like；　just　a　shapely　hairless　body　partly　enshrouded　by　mist。　Wanting　him！
　　
　　Don't　leave　me；　Eric。
　　
　　He　heard　her　cry　in　his　brain；　winced　because　he　had　let　her　down。　Because　they　had　let　him　down。　Guilt　and　frustration。　He　would　go　to　her　whatever；　he　did　not　need　their　help。
　　
　　A　plan；　as　far　as　his　brain　was　capable　of　forming　one。　He　would　not　return　to　the　camp；　there　was　nothing　there　for　him　anyway。　Those　who　wanted　Marlene　could　have　her。　He　would　remain　here；　live　in　these　fields　and　woods；　watch　the　house　day　and　night。　Sooner　or　later　either　she　or　the　male　had　to　e　outside。　If　it　was　the　latter　then　he　would　kill　him；　creep　up　on　him　and　strike　him　down。　If　it　was　the　woman　then　he　would　grab　her；　carry　her　off　into　the　forest。　She　would　not　struggle　for　had　she　not　called　to　him　for　help？
　　
　　Eric　Atkinson　began　to　haul　himself　up　into　the　boughs　of　one　of　the　big　pines；　disturbed　some　roosting　fowl　which　squawked　their　protest　at　this　nocturnal　disturbance；　fluttered　in　alarm；　hit　the　ground　below　with　a　thump　and　ran　off　clucking　angrily。
　　
　　He　settled　down；　his　eyes　fixed　unwaveringly　on　that　door　which　had　barred　his　entrance　earlier。　Before　long　it　must　surely　open。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　THIRTEEN
　　
　　IT　WAS　late　July　before　Rod　Savage　finally　reached　the　Welsh　borderlands。　The　going　had　been　slower　than　even　he　had　anticipated；　involving　many　detours　to　avoid　the　settlements　of　wild　tribes　which　had　sprung　up　across　the　countryside。　No　fixed　pattern；　that　was　the　danger；　you　might　walk　into　them　in　places　you　least　expected　to　find　them。　Once　he　had　lain　up　in　a　dilapidated　cowshed　for　three　days　because　a　number　of　travelling　throwbacks　had　set　up　camp　all　around　him　overnight。　Just　when　he　feared　lest　their　site　might　be　a　permanent　one　they　had　moved　on；
　　
　　You　could　not　risk　getting　near　them。　Sometimes　if　they　caught　sight　of　you　they　fled　with　howls　of　anguish；　other　times　they　stood　and　stared　in　bewilderment；　began　to　follow　you。　So　you　did　your　best　to　lose　them　as　quickly　as　possible。　Once　you　had　been　out　of　their　sight　for　more　than　a　few　minutes　they　seemed　to　forget　all　about　you。　But　you　couldn't　trust　them；　so　you　kept　out　of　their　way。
　　
　　Throughout　his　travels　Savage　had　continued　to　pile　his　notes。　He　noted　the　behaviour　of　the　'enemy'；　watched　from　cover　as　they　killed　livestock　in　the　fields；　saw　how　they　gathered　wild　fruit　and　raided　vegetable　gardens。　Food　was　plentiful　for　both　them　and　himself。　Deserted　village　shops；　the　shelves　laden　with　canned　and　convenience　foodstuffs　which　these　people　had　no　idea　how　to　open　or　prepare。　He　carried　a　small　supply　with　him；　replenished　it　every　few　days。
　　
　　He　steered　clear　of　survivors　too。　From　time　to　time　he　found　people　who　for　a　variety　of　reasons　had　escaped　the　devastation　of　germ　warfare；　had　barricaded　themselves　in　their　houses　and　were　determined　to　repel　any　invaders。
　　
　　Once　he　was　fired　at　with　an　air…rifle；　a　。177　slug　chipping　the　brickwork　of　a　low　stone　wall　only　a　foot　or　so　in　front　of　him。
　　
　　'Keep　moving；　you　bastard！'
　　
　　Savage　saw　the　face　at　the　upper　window　of　a　cottage　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　road；　an　old　man　struggling　to　cock　his　weapon；　trying　to　reload　it　with　a　shaking　hand。　Senile；　trusting　nobody。　He　couldn't　blame　him。
　　
　　There　were　isolated　troop　movements。　Rod　Savage　lay　and　watched　them　from　a　steep　hillside。　Sporadic　gunfire；　driving　the　raiders　out　of　a　blazing　tract　of　suburbia；　a　couple　of　Green　Goddesses　moving　in　and　playing　their　hoses　on　the　flames。　Some　of　the　mob　came　back　to　within　throwing　distance；　hurled　stones。　More　shots。　Two　or　three　of　them　dropped；　the　rest　ran。　Guerrilla　warfare；　Britain　was　likely　to　be　this　way　for　a　long　time　to　e。
　　
　　Occasionally　Rod　spied　a　helicopter　or　a　light　aircraft。　Reconnaissance　craft；　maybe　locating　the　movements　of　the　tribes；　doing　a　count　of　numbers。　The　remnants　of　civilisation　had　the　technology　to　fight　this　war；　the　enemy　had　the　advantage　of　numbers。
　　
　　In　Herefordshire　he　witnessed　some　ruthless　counterattacks；　mando…style；　that　could　only　be　SAS　manoeuvres。　Three　or　four　attackers　surprised　an　encampment；　mowed　the　fleeing　occupants　down　with　submachine　gunfire。
　　
　　Rod　Savage　almost　threw　up。　Pointless　slaughter。　The　area　reeked　of　death。
　　
　　It　was　early　August；　according　to　the　calendar　in　his　diary　which　he　meticulously　ticked　off　daily；　when　he　finally　reached　his　cottage　outside　the　small　market　town　of　Knighton。　The　building　had　its　usual　look　of　dereliction　which　wasn't　surprising；　the　small　garden　a　mass　of　lush　weeds。
　　
　　He　struggled　with　the　lock　and　eventually　the　key　turned。　At　least　they　had　not　broken　in。　Funny；　they　seemed　afraid　of　locked　houses；　only　raided　outbuildings　and　open　sheds。
　　
　　He　spent　the　first　day　straightening　the　interior；　preparing　for　a　long　stay。　He　could　even　be　here　for　the　rest　of　his　life。　He　only　wished　he　could　find　out　how　the　rest　of　the　world　had　fared。　Had　the　States　reverted　to　pre…Columbus　days；　the　redskins　finally　taking　back　their　land　from　the　invading　white　man？　Europe　overrun　by　primitive　man？　Syria　and　Lebanon　fighting　a　meaningless　war　as　they　had　done　for　years；　the　Soviet　Union　paying　the　supreme　penalty　for　their　interference？
　　
　　Questions　that　would　possibly　never　be　answered　because　survival　was　a　priority　and　you　didn't　give　a　damn　about　anybody　else。
　　
　　He　went　outside；　sensed　a　change　in　the　atmosphere；　the　coolness　of　a　late　summer　evening。　Soon　it　would　be　autumn。　Then　winter。
　　
　　Winter　would　be　the　big　test　for　everybody。　The　hardiness　of　the　new　race　of　Britons　would　be　put　to　the　supreme　test。　Would　their　change　enable　them　to　withstand　the　rigours　of　winter？
　　
　　Only　time　would　tell。
　　
　　
　　
　　　PART　TWO
　　　AUTUMN　AND　WINTER
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　FOURTEEN
　　
　　PROFESSOR　REITZE　adjusted　his　rimless　spectacles；　surveyed　the　human…like　creature　which　was　chained　to　the　wall　of　the　small　brightly…lit　cell。　No　emotion　showed　on　the　Professor's　features　as　he　carefully　checked　the　small　syringe；　plunged　the　long　needle　deep　into　the　skin　below　the　neck。
　　
　　The　victim　mouthed　a　mute　scream；　tensed；　but　the　manacles　only　allowed　muscle　movement；　expansion　and　contraction。　Reitze　pressed　the　plunger；　waited　a　second　or　two；　then　withdrew　the　needle；　handed　the　instrument　to　the　white…coated　man　at　his　side。
　　
　　'We'll　have　to　check　him　every　hour。'　He　spoke　flatly；　a　doctor　perhaps　concerned　with　a　hospital　patient's　high　blood　pressure。
　　
　　'Ugly　devil；　isn't　he？'　The　second　man　could　not　disguise　the　revulsion　he　felt　for　the　prisoner。　'The　original　missing　link；　if　you　ask　me。'
　　
　　'Maybe　you're　not　far　wrong。'　Reitze　stared　into　the　throwback's　eyes；　saw　how　they　rolled　until　the　pupils　virtually　disappeared；　egg…white　without　the　yoke。　The　features　were　mongoloid；　the　body　short　and　muscular。　Water　sprayed　on　to　the　tiled　floor　with　force；　the　creature　had　emptied　its　bladder　in　its　terror。　'It's　like　a　kind　of　partial　stroke；　the　brain　stupefied　but　the　body　allowed　full　function。　Just　a　change　of　skin　texture；　any　surplus　fat　solidifying　into　muscle。'
　　
　　'You　reckon　we　can　do　anything？'　Westcote's　tone　betrayed　his　own　lack　of　confidence。　He　had　spent　five　years　at　the　animal　research　centre　in　Arizona。　You　took　a　cage　of　monkeys　and　injected　them　with　drugs　which；　in　theory；　were　supposed　to　give　a　certain　reaction。　They　seldom　did。

　　
　　Most　of　the　time　you　ended　up　with　dead　monkeys。　The　public　protested　so　you　were　forced　to　keep　your　experiments　under　cover；　you　couldn't　share　success　or　failure　with　them。
　　
　　*I　don't　know。'　Reitze　watched　the　eyes　closely；　saw　the　pupils　click　back　down　into　focus。　'But　it's　worth　a　try。　Anything's　worth　a　try。　In　theory　this　should　soften　the　arteries　to　the　brain。　These　micro…organisms；　and　we　still　haven't　been　able　to　identify　them；　produce　a　kind　of　angina。　Not　fatal　but　slowing　the　blood