by Guy N Smith
Jackie was pulling at his arm, the brief respite in her urgency over. We must not delay, they are surely not far behind us. Let us follow the valley; pointing, stabbing the air with a finger in an easterly direction.
'No,' he snapped, pointed at the Winder farm insistently. 'We can go there. That is my home.'
She didn't understand, was becoming frantic, pulling at his arm, making little grunting noises. We must hurry.
And that was when he hit her. A stinging slap across the face that jerked her head sideways, brought a yelp of shock and pain from her lips. Anger had him yelling, 'That's my bloody home down there and if I want to go back I will and you can go your own way.1 I don't want to go home, I walked out because of what happened there, but since I found out about the outside world I'm running back. To hide. To die.
Guilt and remorse came fast on the heels of his unleashed fury. 'Oh Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you.' I did, I just wish I hadn't.
He saw the tears in her eyes, the way her body trembled.
She was trying to cry but it didn't come easy because out here crying was a weakness that your own kind took advantage of. If only he could made her understand; point down there to that farmhouse, tap your chest. My home. It might get through.
He didn't need to because her hand had found his again, a squeeze this time instead of an insistent tug. I'm sorry, it was not my place to protest against your will because you are now my man.
It was settled then and he knew that she would follow him down the Hill.
He had to keep reminding himself that it was only yesterday that he had left the farm. It seemed an age, like returning home for the summer vacation, wondering what had changed in his absence.
Jackie's grip tightened on his arm but she wasn't trying to dissuade him from going into the house, only showing her own fear of an unfamiliar dwelling-place. He saw her amazement at things like doors and windows, the smoothness of the stonework on the walls. Starting in alarm as the latch clicked, clinging to him like a child.
Phil glanced around, thought perhaps his mother and father might have returned. But they hadn't. Once you turned feral you didn't come back.
Jackie stood there watching him as he went to the kitchen cupboard, reached down a can of beans and a small square tin of corned beef, began to open them. He filled the kettle, discovered to his relief that there was still power coming from the generator. Jackie backed away a step as the kettle began an increasing hum up towards the boil. He gave a little laugh, the first time he had seen the funny side of all this since he had come up from the mine. How the fuck do you explain coffee to an Ancient Brit?
His first task was to work at putting her at her ease. After they had eaten he would look out some clothes for himself; he didn't need them but it would boost his morale. Then they would need to rest. He had not slept for thirty-six hours and he doubted if she had either.
Once again his inhibitions surfaced. Where and how were they going to sleep? There were three bedrooms upstairs, his own, his parents', and the spare room which was full of lumber. He didn't want to sleep in his parents' because . . . well, not after that, certainly. His own then, just a single bed.
'We'd better get some sleep.' He closed his eyes, made a pillow out of his pressed hands.
She nodded, took his arm again. Where you go, I go.
New fears troubled him as they mounted the stairs, Jackie viewing her surroundings with undisguised awe. They were going to share a bed, his own single bed, which meant that they would be crushed up tightly together. He should have been aroused, mankind's strongest urge taking over. Instead, his stomach rolled and he felt sick; perhaps she was aware of his trembling, misinterpreted it for eagerness.
Phil Winder had often wondered if he was gay. No, not really, he just had a very low sex drive, and he was naturally shy of girls. He had had only one real date in his life, Julie who worked in the cafe at Pontypridd, the one that most of the students used. It had taken him six weeks before he had been able to stammer out a request to take her out and it had been a real shock to him when she had nodded her assent and replied, 'Yes, that would be nice.'
Christ, it had to be his biggest anti-climax, an evening of embarrassment and overwhelming inhibitions. He hadn't even kissed her goodnight, knew she didn't want to see him again, knew it would happen again with any girl he dated. Later he got an erection but it was too late then.
Maybe he wasn't exactly gay, just bi-sexual. He hadn't had a homosexual relationship as such, just little things that had happened between himself and Hugh during the time they had shared digs. Two of a kind really, and there had to be an outlet for their frustrations somewhere.
It was Hugh who had begun it, and looking back it seemed relatively harmless. Or was it? Was it just the beginning of something which had never had the opportunity to come to fruition? The most thrilling moment of his life had been that night when he had been disturbed from a doze by Hugh sitting on the edge of his bed. Phil knew even before the other's hand began to creep beneath the sheets exactly what was going to happen. A moment of electrification and this time there was no embarrassment, no inhibitions because he knew Hugh felt the same way.
It had never ever gone further than gentle mutual masturbation, had lasted for over a year until Hugh graduated. Then Phil's loneliness came seeping back. Now he had a woman and his fears were beginning all over again.
'I'm Phil.' He tapped his bare chest, wished that he could keep her eyes elevated. 'Phil. . . Phil . . .' 'Jac,' she smiled.
He wondered why they had not got around to introductions before. It was the situation, of course. Names counted for nothing in a primitive classless society.
She crossed to the bed, lowered herself on to it, stretched herself out, eyes closed, legs slightly apart. Oh Christ, now it's me who's doing the looking, he thought, let his gaze sweep over her, come to rest on that slit of pink soft flesh. I'd better look out some clothes, some pyjamas maybe.
Her eyes flickered open, caught him staring at her; smiled softly. She had no inhibitions, only civilisation bred inhibitions. Society was gone, it was back to the basics now. He didn't need clothes because it was stifling hot in here. Right now they didn't need anything except each other.
It was fully dark when Phil Winder awoke, lay there and let everything come back to him in its own time. His parents, his capture and escape, the flight . . . Jac! He could hear her faint breathing, felt the warmth of her naked body against his own. So comforting.
Euphoria because they had made love. She had clung to him, wanted him, and now they were together. He did not ever want things to change and spoil all this. He didn't want his parents to come back; they wouldn't, he knew that. They might even be dead and he wasn't a bit sorry because they had made him like he was, given him a sheltered upbringing in every respect. They had sent him to a private school, not for his benefit but as a boost to their own status, wealthy farmers who bought only the best in life for themselves and their only son. Bullshit! They scraped a living, spent their money on building up a facade for the benefit of this scattered community, went without a lot of things that ordinary folks took for granted. And this is what they had done to him. God, he hated them for it, but he'd had the last laugh. This place was his now, every damned piece of stone, every field, every item of machinery. No bloody good to him but it was his and he still had his mind and body intact which was more than either of them had. It was bloody funny. He laughed to himself at the memory of his parents as he had last seen them, two mindless wretches fleeing from their own son because he was the Master Species and they knew it. He hoped they were dead, it would be better for them and for himself. That way a lot of problems were solved.
That just left himself and the girl who called herself Jac. They would live on here, build their own life, cut themselves off from the rest of the world and the remnants of its festering existence. Keep away, we don't need you.
Phil's euphoria took a nosedive. It wouldn't be quite as easy as that be
cause he and Jac were the hunted, fugitives on the run. He had stolen another man's woman, enraged those awful creatures in human shape and they would track him down. They wouldn't give up.
Phil Winder's sweat chilled on his body at the thought. If they found him it would be a fight to the death. But he and Jac could not keep on running for ever.
Up in the hills the wild dogs were howling again. They, too, scented death in the sultry night air.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ERIC ATKINSON had never been the gregarious type, as he had frequently sought to impress upon Sylvia. He didn't like parties, dancing, mixing with people. And even in this reversion to his most basic existence this trait had not changed. He and Marlene had fled the town, headed for wild open countryside. On the way others had joined them, a mass exodus, but he had never envisaged it being this way once they arrived at wherever they were going. Safety in numbers now but later they would all split up.
He did not like community life, it was in contrast to his nature. A dwelling-place somewhere for himself and Marlene, away from the others. But suddenly they were caught up in village life, expected to play their part. You built houses, hunted game, fished the river.
He told Marlene that they should be moving on, was both surprised and angered by her reluctance. She liked it here> she wanted to stay. The other men liked her, too, and that worried him. But there was something else disturbing him, too. It came and went and once it was gone his limited power of reasoning was unable to recall it, creating an unease which unsettled him, made him moody, truly the brooding loner.
But whilst the feeling lasted it was veFy strong. Up until now it had always come upon him at night, waking him out of the deepest slumber, already fully aroused but Marlene by his side was ignored. Sliding out of the bed they shared, a naked hairy being that smoothed his hands over his own body, felt the pulsing that drove him like pistons hammering inside him. Alert, sleep forgotten, going outside and sniffing the night air with dilated.nostrils. He smelled her, oh how he smelled her, her musky scent wafted to him on the breeze, filling him with a desire that transcended lust; the dog scenting a bitch on heat, two or three miles away, maybe even further. Inexplicable but compelling, a calling stronger than anything else that the forces of Nature could engender. One mate and one mate alone that mattered; and it was not Marlene.
The first time he had followed the scent, left the settlement and keeping the wind in his face had gone where it led. Steep and treacherous slopes, forced to travel on hands and knees in places, wanting to answer the call but not knowing whom or where, only that it was intended for him and none other.
Running, bounding, desperate for the mating. And then suddenly it was no more! The wind had swung round, taken it elsewhere. Frustrated, he circled the knoll, tried to pick it up again but it was gone. Mad with desire, finally giving vent to his feelings in the only way he knew how and even then he was not satisfied.
The following night it did not come. He waited, sniffed the air, but there was nothing except the sour sweaty smell of the encampment. Eager to copulate, he ignored once more the woman who was his mate, for her days were numbered.
Somewhere . . . somewhere . . . but where?
He went outside, listened. Far away in the deep woods dogs were howling, not the frantic baying of hunting beasts but rather a frustrated wail. He knew how the animals felt. They would, in all probability, get an answering call. He would not. It was up to him to go out and find his mate.
He slunk away into the darkness, breathing heavily. His skin burned, there was a roaring in his ears. Travelling by instinct, stopping every so often and sniffing the air. He was on the right trail. Alert to every sound, once climbing up into the boughs of an oak tree because he heard one of the wild dogs close by; usually they fled at the approach of humans unless it was a hunting pack scenting blood, but one could never be sure. Down below him he saw the animal cross a patch of faint moonlight, a huge shaggy beast that bore a resemblance to an Alsatian, slobbering mouth wide. It did not even pause when it caught his smell for its mind was on other things. Just as his own was.
A long night that seemed an eternity, a lost soul wandering in the Stygian blackness of the forest, several times losing the scent he was following, then picking it up again. When eventually he emerged from the forest dawn had already broken.
Eric Atkinson rested, sprawled in the soft heather, his urge temporarily overshadowed by the need to sleep. His body cried out for rest; and momentarily the trail had gone cold.
Sleep came with the warmth of the rising sun's rays; a deathlike slumber that only the exhausted know but within him a dream was struggling to surface, a fleeting image that came and went in his dulled brain. A woman's naked body, soft and hairless, her dark eyes sad, searching for him. Finding him. Calling him to her.
His arms reached out for her but she twisted tantalisingly away, those eyes wet with tears. Wisps of memory, mists floated across her features, hid all but the eyes. Watching him, a mute plea. Come back to me, Eric, I need you. Eric? Eric?
The familiarity of it all tortured him, dragged him into realms beyond his power of thinking. A creature so lovely, not his own kind but that did not matter because they had copulated before. Where? When? He didn't know, only that she was desperate for him to come back to her.
And then she faded, drifted back into the darkness and the hot sun beating down on him awoke him, had him righting his way back into the only world he knew. He tried to remember but it hurt, like stones pounding on his skull. But the scent was still there!
The sun was directly overhead when he came to the smallholding on the Hill, crouched down in the hedge bordering the field where four calves grazed, but he had no interest in meat. Only . . . the bitch smell was very strong and he knew that she was here!
It was difficult trying to formulate a plan because his brain did not know anything except basic cunning. Stay hidden here until it gets dark then go in to her, drag her out if necessary.
An hour passed and he could stand the waiting no longer. The urge to mate was driving him crazy; twice his fingers had strayed to his pulsing erection, screaming at him for relief. No, it was a waste when a willing mate lay inside those four stone walls. She wanted him.
Go to her, then!
A frightening thought, one that posed problems beyond his comprehension. He trembled, nausea churned his stomach. That face from his dreams came back again, still partly enshrouded by fingers of mist. I need you, Eric!
He began a stealthy approach up the rutted track, kept close to the hedge, wicked thorns tearing at his rough hide clothing—go back, go back . . . Ericl
He came to the end of the lane, saw the open yard, hard-baked clay that would turn back to mud with the first shower of rain. The house, a trickle of smoke coming from the chimney. He breathed in the sweet woodsmoke, something else which was musky and did things to him, had him starting forward into the open.
A door, he ran his fingers up and down the smooth woodwork, saw how the paint flaked off. He caught the latch accidentally; it clicked up, dropped back and he leaped away with a snarl in his throat. A strange place but she was indeed a strange woman.
I knew you would come, Eric.
He backed off; there had to be another entrance somewhere, one that he could just walk in through like his own house. Windows; he touched the glass pane, did not like the way they threw his own reflection back at him like still water when you stooped to drink.
A circuit of the cottage and he saw the outbuildings. Perhaps she was in there although his instincts told him otherwise. This time the door swung open at his touch and he stared in disbelief at the interior. A long table cluttered with all kinds of implements, sharp knives, knives with blunt spreading blades, a curved spear; he tested the rusty blade with his finger. It was sharp enough.
Weapons. He grabbed up an assortment of hammers, screwdrivers, chisels and the rusted sickle. With these he could break into this place . . , no, it was dangerous. Surely she had a
mate. The thought was disturbing, began to make him angry. A male lurking in there, knowing that Eric was here, why he had come. You killed for such a reason, because if you didn't it was you who ended up dead. No compromises, a fight to the finish. It was the law of the wild.
Eric licked his bearded lips. He did not relish an encounter, had avoided such skirmishes so far. His stomach did another flip. He was not strong enough to take on a rival, it was not his way. He had not challenged any of the other males when they had mated with Marlene, pretended he had not seen. Marlene did not matter, they could have her, do what they liked with her.
I need you, Eric. I'm waiting.
He drew back into the building, did not want her to see him skulking like this, smell his sweat of terror. Then, in gradual stages, an idea began to form in his slow muzzy brain.
With help he could overcome his rival, take this woman for his own. He studied the various implements. The men back at the camp would relish the prospect of owning such an array of hunting weapons. Sharp blades that would pierce and slash, blunt ones to club with and shatter stubborn bones. They would follow him here, smash their way into the house for him, kill anybody who tried to stop
them.
Do not harm the woman, she is mine. That was the promise. You have the weapons, I have the female. But could they be trusted when the mating smell hung so heavy in the air?
It was a chance he would have to take. He would put it to the others, weapons and tools in return for the woman who was now taunting him day and night, sleeping and waking.