Throwback

by Guy N Smith

  'But how . . . how would an enemy attack us with these germs? Surely there would have been some kind of warning?'

  'I guess it's the most deadly weapon of all, the one which we're most vulnerable to,' Jon Quinn went on. 'As you say, no bang, no warning. I suppose the enemy synchronise their agents to release the micro-organisms into the atmosphere, say at half a dozen strategic points in the western part of Britain so that the prevailing winds will spread the germs. You can't see 'em, hear 'em or smell 'em and they've got you before you realise it. It could be the same story in the States and in Western Europe. At the moment we've no means of finding out. But you can bet there's a few other survivors besides us, total annihilation would be an impossibility even for the most ruthless enemy. At the moment we've no idea what the effects of these diabolical bugs are. Early reports seem to suggest that they affect the skin and the brain but nobody seemed to be dying as a direct result of it! At least, not right away.'

  'It's horrible.' Sylvia shuddered.

  True, but think of the advantages from the enemy's point of view. Buildings are left intact and when it's ah over the enemy just arrives and takes over. They could have all the slave labour they need, thousands of zombies at their disposal. And the rest go to the gas chambers.'

  'We'd be better off dead,' she groaned.

  'Well we're alive and we've got to make the most of it,' he grinned, hoped that he sounded optimistic. 'As I said, that storm came from the west and with luck it will have cleared the micro-organisms. We've got all the food we need so we're lucky. Tomorrow I'm going to take a walk outside, see what's happened to the livestock.'

  'I'll come with you,' she said, a sudden fear of being left alone; suppose something happened to Jon and he didn't come back.

  'No,' he replied. 'If we both go then there's a double risk of contamination or whatever. I shan't go far, just a quick look around the holding. And if everything's OK then maybe we'll be able to make some plans to explore further afield.'

  'All right.' She lapsed into another silence and her thoughts returned to Eric, her husband. For the first time for years she found herself wishing they were together, which was damned silly because they had got used to spending their lives apart. As a feedstuffs rep covering most of Wales he was away for days at a time and she knew bloody well he'd got other women. It was a rep's perk. So she got her own back by having Jon; she just needed screwing, every woman did, and when your man was away from home week after week you took steps to get it, just like he did. You never admitted it to each other but you both suspected—knew. Life went on that way, you didn't expect it to change. And then without warning something totally unexpected like this cropped up and you had your lover for keeps and your husband, if he was lucky, had one of his fancy women. A kind of enforced wife-swap. But right now she'd have swapped for Eric, because of all the men she had over the years he was the one she had never really got to know. Now it looked like it was too late.

  So she was going to stick to Jon Quinn because she needed somebody to protect her. Somebody to screw her. And he needed her because, like Eric, Jackie was out there in a dying land.

  She would have to accept the situation and so would Jon. Il would be like a second marriage for both of them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACKIE QUINN had a sensation like waking from a long deep sleep, refreshed but still having to fight to bring back hazy recollections which did their best to elude her like marshland jack-o'-lanterns.

  She was indoors; Pauline's mother's house. She recognised the lounge even though all the furniture was gone and the paper was peeling off the walls, exposing spreading patches of damp which even the hot dry weather had not been successful in eradicating.

  Outside it was getting dark, the sky turning saffron, a single twinkling star seeming to mock her through the dirt-streaked window-pane. She crossed to the window, stood looking out across the overgrown garden towards the roadside hedge, a thick untended length of hawthorn and lilac. The streetlamps came on, one flickering, dimming, burning low due to some electrical fault probably. She shuddered. It was eerie, artificial lighting still operating in a world where nobody was ^capable of any kind of maintenance. Unless, of course, like herself lucidity came back in flashes. But it would not be enough. Sooner or later the lighting would pack up and all amenities would come to a standstill. No medical service. Disease would follow. One way or another, if you didn't die now you would later. It was the beginning of the end.

  Suddenly she stiffened, narrowed her eyes and stared out into the orange-tinted dusk. Something had attracted her attention. She saw a shape, then another, movements that rustled the scorched vegetation in the garden; branches swaying, twigs snapping.

  Oh God! Unmistakable silhouettes in the half-light, grotesque naked shapes that had to be human because they

  could not have been anything else, stooping, shambling forms, men and women, crouched amongst the bushes, conversing by means of gesticulations and grunts,

  Jackie stifled a scream, backed away from the window, an urge to flee but there was nowhere to go because she was trapped in this place, a prisoner between the four walls of a terraced house, outside a bunch of naked savages that belonged to a primitive age.

  She dropped on to her hands and knees, crawled across the room. They must not see her, must not be aware that she was hiding in here; the frail doors and windows would not keep them out. Her head began to ache again but it was too dark inside here to know whether her vision was starting to tunnel again.

  Out into the hall, listening. Chattering. The noise reminded her of those jungle movies her father used to take her to on wet Saturday afternoons when she was a child. Incessant grunts and squeaks. And she knew only too well that the sounds were real, that no way were they the figments of her tortured brain.

  She found herself in a rear room, vaguely recognised it as once having been the dining-room. A few years ago Pauline's mother had persuaded Jackie to stay to supper and they had eaten in here. The ceiling bulged, there was a gaping hole where water from the bathroom directly above had deluged through, probably a burst pipe during one of the recent severe winters. A rusted electric fire hung precariously to the wall in one corner; a broken concrete floor, a two-foot deep hole in the centre, further evidence of where the surveyors had dug down in an attempt to locate the fault in the foundations. And a telephone perched on me window-sill!

  Jackie stared at the dust-coated instrument, experienced a sudden surge of hope. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and it was still there; afraid in case it was a mirage, her brain taunting her with false hopes. But it was real, dusty but real.

  She raised herself up to the level of the sill, peeped over it. Those awful sub-human creatures were in the rear garden, too, a group of them squatting in a circle amidst the tall seedy grass of the larger lawn, a cross-legged gathering as though they represented some kind of council seated in judgement, grunting and nodding to one another, their rough bodies stark naked.

  They're awful, inhuman.

  You're one of them, too!

  But I can reason, think.

  But for how long? Your periods of civilised behaviour are becoming shorter and shorter!

  Her stomach churned. Suddenly that telephone on the ledge by her hand was shrinking, growing smaller and smaller, framing itself in a reducing circle, around which was impenetrable blackness spotted with red! Now, before it's too late!

  She grabbed the receiver, almost dropped it. Rehearsing her words in case they suddenly evaporated from a brain that was starting to go blank. I'm in number one, First Terrace, Jon. They're outside, camped in the garden. Primitive savages and they'll break in and kill me if you don't come quick. Please believe me, Jon, it's true, I swear it is. Come quickly. Bring the shotgun. Oh Jon, please save me from these hideous creatures!

  Starting to dial ~ 0 ... 5 ... 8 ... 8 ...

  Something was wrong, her failing sense of reasoning screamed it at her, a realisation that modern technology had ceased
to function. No dialling tone, just a total silence. When the house had been emptied the telephone had been disconnected!

  Sheer primordial rage engulfed her. She gripped the plastic-coated object with both hands, snapped it in half so easily that it might have been rotten. One half fell, bounced on the bare floor, the other swung on its flex, mocking her. She caught it, pulled, tore it from its connection, then grabbed the squat remainder, not knowing what it was, not understanding, only that it was an alien that had to be destroyed. Smashing it against the wall, fragmenting it, kicking it, crushing it beneath her feet. Killing it!

  And then she was sitting there in the darkening room, smiling to herself. Whatever it was that had angered her was no more and she was satisfied. Outside those voices were louder, soft footsteps padding round the house. A scratching sound. She looked up, saw the face pressed against the glass, squat hairy features, eyes that rolled and only became still when they saw her. Fingers, long broken nails, scraping on the glass, clawing it, trying to find a way in. More faces, coarse beneath the masses of hair, jostling each other eagerly, angrily, for a view of the creature which lay within.

  Jackie was not frightened, only puzzled. She did not know why she was here, why she should be in one place and those people should be in another, cut off from her. She stood up, smiled at them, grunted a kind of welcome. Let me out, please.

  A crash of breaking glass, shards falling into the room, splintering. A bloody clenched fist powered a second blow and half the window shattered. Those outside were clamouring excitedly, beginning to force their way in, shoving one another on the sill. Blood was spurting, a crimson fountain, but they did not appear to notice it, jetting on to walls and ceiling, sluggish rivulets trickling down.

  Four of them, fearsome muscular naked males of a species that surely dated back to the mists of time, rough hair matting their tough coarse skin, shaggy beards that virtually hid their expressions; except for their eyes, pinpoints of fire that burned with a lust that was necessary to keep their race alive, circling the woman who stood before them, uncertain. Perhaps slightly afraid. Then backing off, except for one.

  Jackie's gaze met the latter's and a half-smile eased out of her stoic expression. Instinct, somehow knowing what was expected of her, accepting it, even relishing the prospect of what lay ahead.

  The man was big, well over six feet tali in spite of his hunched shoulders, his muscular legs slightly bowed as though he had only recently learned to walk upright. He stepped close, tapped her on the shoulder with an extended forefinger then pointed to himself. An order. The other three retreated to a corner of the room, the smallest of them still spouting blood from a gashed wrist and trying to stem the flow unsuccessfully with his other hand. His hairy torso was saturated with the bright scarlet fluid; he did not appear to understand; amazement but not fear. None of the others seemed to realise that soon he would die, or perhaps it was not important. They had found a female who would in time bear young; their numbers would not be diminished.

  Jackie Quinn followed the big man's fingers with her eyes, saw the outstretched hand coming towards her, a tentative exploration, not so much a fee! at her well-formed breasts but rather a stroking of her nylon blouse, callouses snagging the material. Pulling at it, grunting.

  She did not understand any more than the other did. Her body should have been free, unencumbered; instead it was unnaturally encased, uncomfortable, preventing her from stretching her limbs, displaying herself for the admiration of these males who had come to her. Something was wrong, she should not be imprisoned, shackled in this shameful way. Her skin was itching, screaming out for its freedom.

  Now it was her fingers, no longer slim and sensuous, which secured a grip on her upper garment. Buttons were beyond her comprehension, she just knew that she had to rid herself of these garments in the quickest possible way. She pulled, the blouse tore diagonally. Another tug and it was shredded right across; tearing frantically, desperate to free herself.

  A gasp of surprise from the tall dark male, stabbing with his fingers again at her tight bra-cups, rubbing in search of the nipples which were hidden from view. Somehow his clumsy fumblings found the strap and the strained elastic twanged, brought a howl of fear from his thick bearded lips as it lashed him. Then he saw the exposed pink firm nipples and his teeth showed in a wide smile. She was female after all.

  The tight-fitting jeans posed a problem for both of them, smooth cotton with nowhere to grip. He spun her round, ran his hands down her buttocks, let out a loud sigh. A nod of his head and two of the others stepped forward, the third one already crumpled to the floor still trying to plug his gashed artery.

  Help me, for this is indeed a strange woman!

  It was sheer combined strength which finally conquered the stubborn jeans, the trouser legs being ripped upwards from the bottom so that the fastener flew open. Further amazement as a pair of scarlet pants were revealed but there was no time for curiosity now. They were torn asunder, flung to one side. A warning growl and the two helpers hastily retreated to join their dying companion. Their leader had picked his woman and it would be a foolish man who tried to contest the prize.

  Beneath her coating of fluffy hair Jackie Quinn's coarse skin prickled and she shuddered in anticipation, knew automatically the role which she was expected to play. It was her duty, pleasure came second. A half-glance down at the other's lower regions showed her the solid length of pink flesh protruding from a thick forest of hair. He was ready, she must not delay or else he would become angry, might fly into a rage and kill her. None could deny him his right.

  She nodded, turned, and dropped lithely on to all-fours, thighs well apart, buttocks raised. Tensed, waiting.

  He fell on her from behind with the primitive eagerness of an animal which has been kept waiting too long, gripping her thighs painfully for support, stabbing at her to find her entrance, hurting her but she did not cry out. She pushed backwards to aid his penetration, braced herself in readiness for his slamming thrusts.

  So hard and fast, over almost as soon as it had begun, dragging her upright with him, gripping her arm tightly as he turned to face the watchers. The fleeting glimmer of hope in their tiny eyes died instantly. This time the pleasure was not to be a shared one. Their leader sought more than the delights of mating; he required this strange woman to bear his child, to prepare his food and to tend his needs.

  His word was law and none would question it until the day came when his leadership was disputed. And that time was not nigh yet.

  Blood dripped steadily into that square hole in the concrete floor, following the slight slope, with a noise like a leaking tap, a crimson lake that would partially empty and then congeal. The man on the floor was dead but his passing would not be mourned. Where there was life there was always death, it was the law of Nature and was accepted without question.

  Jackie looked up into the face of her lover, recognised his sheer strength and power and her flesh goosepimpled with pride.

  'Jac,' she tapped her breasts and smiled.

  His eyes appeared to glaze over for a second, a moment of half-hesitation as though he was trying to remember something but his brain withheld it; a flicker that might just have been fear and then it was gone.

  'Kuz.' His reply was forced as though his vocal chords were unused to speech.

  There was no more to be said. Between the three of them they lifted her safely through the broken window, climbed after her with more caution than they had shown on entering. Glass was not strong but it was capable of cutting. And killing. They had learned and they would not forget.

  Shapes emerged from the wilderness that had once been a suburban garden but in the darkness it was difficult to distinguish between male and female. A silent watching crowd which looked to the one called Kuz for leadership. Where he went, they would follow unquestioningly.

  With Jackie at his side he strode off in a southerly direction, striking across the fields, skirting those lines of amber lights, glancing fear
fully at them and quickening his pace, obeying an instinctive calling to be away from this place which he did not understand. Ahead lay the hills, a landscape unchanged and older than his own species.

  The calling was very strong.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT NEEDED an awful lot of courage to step outside the cottage into a world you had once come to accept and now feared what you might find there. Jon considered some type of protective clothing; there had been a play on TV some time ago about the survivors of a nuclear holocaust. They had donned plastic coveralls to go outside, left them at the doorway when they returned. Fine, but he didn't have any such garments, an oversight which had caught him out. But this wasn't radioactive fall-out, it was micro-organisms of a decidedly nasty species. His working overalls hung in the lobby, Jackie's alongside them.

  'We'd better put these on,' he said, 'and leave 'em here when we come back.' 'If we get back!

  Sylvia wrinkled her nose in disapproval; a mistress clad in the wife's apparel. Humiliating.

  'I'd . . . rather not,' she replied huskily.

  'Look.' His tone was sharp. 'You either put them on or else you stay here and wait for me. I ought not to be taking you along anyway.'

  Reluctantly Sylvia Atkinson reached down the thin green plastic overalls. There was a rip in the side, the rest plastered with dried mud like a suit of army camouflage clothing.

  'They're too big,' she muttered sulkily. 'I can't wear these.'

  'You'll have to,' he snapped. 'Roll the sleeves and legs up. You're not going on a fashion parade, after all.'

  Reluctantly, petulantly, she obeyed. 'Is that to your satisfaction, sir?'

  'That's OK,' he nodded, glimpsed the twelve-bore propped in the corner, wondered if he should take it along. No, it would not be necessary; you couldn't shoot micro-organisms.