The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  Sharply he inspected it a moment.

  “Facing stones are pretty well gone,” said he, “but, so far as I can see, the steel frame isn’t too bad. Putting everything together, I’ll probably be able before long to make some sort of calculation of the date. But for now we’ll have to call it ‘X,’ and let it go at that.”

  “The year X!” she whispered under her breath. “Good Heavens, am I as old as that?”

  He made no answer, but only drew her to him protectingly, while all about them the warm summer wind swept onward to the sea, out over the sparkling expanses of the bay—alone unchanged in all that universal wreckage.

  In the breeze her heavy masses of hair stirred luringly. He felt its silken caress on his half-naked shoulder, and in his ears the blood began to pound with strange insistence.

  Quite gone now the daze and drowsiness of the first wakening. Stern did not even feel weak or shaken. On the contrary, never had life bounded more warmly, more fully, in his veins.

  The presence of the girl set his heart throbbing heavily, but he bit his lip and restrained every untoward thought.

  Only his arm tightened a little about that warmly clinging body. Beatrice did not shrink from him. She needed his protection as never since the world began had woman needed man.

  To her it seemed that come what might, his strength and comfort could not fail. And, despite everything, she could not—for the moment—find unhappiness within her heart.

  Quite vanished now, even in those brief minutes since their awakening, was all consciousness of their former relationship—employer and employed.

  The self-contained, courteous, yet unapproachable engineer had disappeared.

  Now, through all the extraneous disguise of his outer self, there lived and breathed just a man, a young man, thewed with the vigor of his plentitude. All else had been swept clean away by this great change.

  The girl was different, too. Was this strong woman, eager-eyed and brave, the quiet, low-voiced stenographer he remembered, busy only with her machine, her file-boxes, and her carbon-copies? Stern dared not realize the transmutation. He ventured hardly fringe it in his thoughts.

  To divert his wonderings and to ease a situation which oppressed him, he began adjusting the “level” telescope to his eye.

  With his back planted firmly against the tower, he studied a wide section of the dead and buried world so very far below them. With astonishment he cried:

  “It is true, Beatrice! Everything’s swept clean away. Nothing left, nothing at all—no signs of life!

  “As far as I can reach with these lenses, universal ruin. We’re all alone in this whole world, just you and I—and everything belongs to us!”

  “Everything—all ours?”

  “Everything! Even the future—the future of the human race!”

  Suddenly he felt her tremble at his side. Down at her he looked, a great new tenderness possessing him. He saw that tears were forming in her eyes.

  Beatrice pressed both hands to her face and bowed her head. Filled with strange emotions, the man watched her for a moment.

  Then in silence, realizing the uselessness of any words, knowing that in this monstrous Ragnarok of all humanity no ordinary relations of life could bear either cogency or meaning, he took her in his arms.

  And there alone with her, far above the ruined world, high in the pure air of mid-heaven, he comforted the girl with words till then unthought-of and unknown to him.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE CITY OF DEATH

  Presently Beatrice grew calmer. For though grief and terror still weighed upon her soul, she realized that this was no fit time to yield to any weakness—now when a thousand things were pressing for accomplishment, if their own lives, too, were not presently to be snuffed out in all this universal death.

  “Come, come,” said Stern reassuringly. “I want you, too, to get a complete idea of what has happened. From now on you must know all, share all, with me.” And, taking her by the hand he led her along the crumbling and uncertain platform.

  Together, very cautiously, they explored the three sides of the platform still unchoked by ruins.

  Out over the incredible mausoleum of civilization they peered. Now and again they fortified their vision by recourse to the telescope.

  Nowhere, as he had said, was any slightest sign of life to be discerned. Nowhere a thread of smoke arose; nowhere a sound echoed upward.

  Dead lay the city, between its rivers, whereon now no sail glinted in the sunlight, no tug puffed vehemently with plumy jets of steam, no liner idled at anchor or nosed its slow course out to sea.

  The Jersey shore, the Palisades, the Bronx and Long Island all lay buried in dense forests of conifers and oak, with only here and there some skeleton mockery of a steel structure jutting through.

  The islands in the harbor, too, were thickly overgrown. On Ellis, no sign of the immigrant station remained. Castle William was quite gone. And with a gasp of dismay and pain, Beatrice pointed out the fact that no longer Liberty held her bronze torch aloft.

  Save for a black, misshapen mass protruding through the treetops, the huge gift of France was no more.

  Fringing the water-front, all the way round, the mournful remains of the docks and piers lay in a mere sodden jumble of decay, with an occasional hulk sunk alongside.

  Even over these wrecks of liners, vegetation was growing rank and green. All the wooden ships, barges and schooners had utterly vanished.

  The telescope showed only a stray, lolling mast of steel, here or yonder, thrusting up from the desolation, like a mute appealing hand raised to a Heaven that responded not.

  “See,” remarked Stern, “up-town almost all the buildings seem to have crumbled in upon themselves, or to have fallen outward into the streets. What an inconceivable tangle of detritus those streets must be!

  “And, do you notice the park hardly shows at all? Everything’s so overgrown with trees you can’t tell where it begins or ends. Nature has her revenge at last, on man!”

  “The universal claim, made real,” said Beatrice. “Those rather clearer lines of green, I suppose, must be the larger streets. See how the avenues stretch away and away, like ribbons of green velvet?”

  “Everywhere that roots can hold at all, Mother Nature has set up her flags again. Hark! What’s that?”

  A moment they listened intently. Up to them, from very far, rose a wailing cry, tremulous, long-drawn, formidable.

  “Oh! Then there are people, after all?” faltered the girl, grasping Stern’s arm.

  He laughed.

  “No, hardly!” answered he. “I see you don’t know the wolf-cry. I didn’t till I heard it in the Hudson Bay country, last winter—that is, last winter, plus X. Not very pleasant, is it?”

  “Wolves! Then—there are—”

  “Why not? Probably all sorts of game on the island now. Why shouldn’t there be? All in Mother Nature’s stock-in-trade, you know.

  “But come, come, don’t let that worry you. We’re safe, for the present. Time enough to consider hunting later. Let’s creep around here to the other side of the tower, and see what we can see.”

  Silently she acquiesced. Together they reached the southern part of the platform, making their way as far as the jumbled rocks of the fallen railing would permit.

  Very carefully they progressed, fearful every moment lest the support break beneath them and hurl them down along the sloping side of the pinnacle to death.

  “Look!” bade Stern, pointing. “That very long green line there used to be Broadway. Quite a respectable Forest of Arden now, isn’t it?” He swept his hand far outward.

  “See those steel cages, those tiny, far-off ones with daylight shining through? You know them—the Park Row, the Singer, the Woolworth and all the rest. And the bridges, look at those!”

  She shivered at the desolate sight. Of the Brooklyn Bridge only the towers were visible.

  The watchers, two isolated castaways on their island in the sea of utte
rmost desolation, beheld a dragging mass of wreckage that drooped from these towers on either shore, down to the sparkling flood.

  The other bridges, newer and stronger far, still remained standing. But even from that distance Stern could quite plainly see, without the telescope, that the Williamsburg Bridge had “buckled” downward and that the farther span of the Blackwell’s Island Bridge was in ruinous disrepair.

  “How horrible, how ghastly is all this waste and ruin!” thought the engineer. “Yet, even in their overthrow, how wonderful are the works of man!”

  A vast wonder seized him as he stood there gazing; a fierce desire to rehabilitate all this wreckage, to set it right, to start the wheels of the world-machinery running once more.

  At the thought of his own powerlessness a bitter smile curled his lips.

  Beatrice seemed to share something of his wonder.

  “Can it be possible,” whispered she, “that you and—and I—are really like Macaulay’s lone watcher of the world-wreck on London Bridge?”

  “That we are actually seeing the thing so often dreamed of by prophets and poets? That ‘All this mighty heart is lying still,’ at last—forever? The heart of the world, never to beat again?”

  He made no answer, save to shake his head; but fast his thoughts were running.

  So then, could he and Beatrice, just they two, be in stern reality the sole survivors of the entire human race? That race for whose material welfare he had, once on a time, done such tremendous work?

  Could they be destined, he and she, to witness the closing chapter in the long, painful, glorious Book of Evolution? Slightly he shivered and glanced round.

  Till he could adjust his reason to the facts, could learn the truth and weigh it, he knew he must not analyze too closely; he felt he must try not to think. For that way lay madness!

  Far out she gazed.

  The sun, declining, shot a broad glory all across the sky. Purple and gold and crimson lay the light-bands over the breast of the Hudson.

  Dark blue the shadows streamed across the ruined city with its crowding forests, its blank-staring windows and sagging walls, its thousands of gaping vacancies, where wood and stone and brick had crumbled down—the city where once the tides of human life had ebbed and flowed, roaring resistlessly.

  High overhead drifted a few rosy clouds, part of that changeless nature which alone did not repel or mystify these two beleaguered waifs, these chance survivors, this man, this woman, left alone together by the hand of fate.

  They were dazed, fascinated by the splendor of that sunset over a world devoid of human life, for the moment giving up all efforts to judge or understand.

  Stern and his mate peered closer, down at the interwoven jungles of Union Square, the leafy frond-masses that marked the onetime course of Twenty-Third Street, the forest in Madison Square, and the truncated column of the tower where no longer Diana turned her huntress bow to every varying breeze.

  They heard their own hearts beat. The intake of their breath sounded strangely loud. Above them, on a broken cornice, some resting swallows twittered.

  All at once the girl spoke.

  “See the Flatiron Building over there!” said she. “What a hideous wreck!”

  From Stern she took the telescope, adjusted it, and gazed minutely at the shattered pile of stone and metal.

  Blotched as with leprosy stood the walls, whence many hundreds of blocks had fallen into Broadway forming a vast moraine that for some distance choked that thoroughfare.

  In numberless places the steel frame peered through. The whole roof had caved in, crushing down the upper stories, of which only a few sparse upstanding metal beams remained.

  The girl’s gaze was directed at a certain spot which she knew well.

  “Oh, I can even see—into some of the offices on the eighteenth floor!” cried she. “There, look?” And she pointed. “That one near the front! I—I used to know—”

  She broke short off. In her trembling hands the telescope sank. Stern saw that she was very pale.

  “Take me down!” she whispered. “I can’t stand it any longer—I can’t, possibly! The sight of that wrecked office! Let’s go down where I can’t see that!”

  Gently, as though she had been a frightened child, Stern led her round the platform to the doorway, then down the crumbling stairs and so to the wreckage and dust-strewn confusion of what had been his office.

  And there, his hand upon her shoulder, he bade her still be of good courage.

  “Listen now, Beatrice,” said he. “Let’s try to reason this thing out together, let’s try to solve this problem like two intelligent human beings.

  “Just what’s happened, we don’t know; we can’t know yet a while, till I investigate. We don’t even know what year this is.

  “Don’t know whether anybody else is still alive, anywhere in the world. But we can find out—after we’ve made provision for the immediate present and formed some rational plan of life.

  “If all the rest are gone, swept away, wiped out clean like figures on a slate, then why we should have happened to survive whatever it was that struck the earth, is still a riddle far beyond our comprehension.”

  He raised her face to his, noble despite all its grotesque disfigurements; he looked into her eyes as though to read the very soul of her, to judge whether she could share this fight, could brave this coming struggle.

  “All these things may yet be answered. Once I get the proper data for this series of phenomena, I can find the solution, never fear!

  “Some vast world-duty may be ours, far greater, infinitely more vital than anything that either of us has ever dreamed. It’s not our place, now, to mourn or fear! Rather it is to read this mystery, to meet it and to conquer!”

  Through her tears the girl smiled up at him, trustingly, confidingly. And in the last declining rays of the sun that glinted through the window-pane, her eyes were very beautiful.

  CHAPTER V

  EXPLORATION

  Came now the evening, as they sat and talked together, talked long and earnestly, there within that ruined place. Too eager for some knowledge of the truth, they, to feel hunger or to think of their lack of clothing.

  Chairs they had none, nor even so much as a broom to clean the floor with. But Stern, first-off, had wrenched a marble slab from the stairway.

  And with this plank of stone still strong enough to serve, he had scraped all one corner of the office floor free of rubbish. This gave them a preliminary camping-place wherein to take their bearings and discuss what must be done.

  “So then,” the engineer was saying as the dusk grew deeper, “so then, we’ll apparently have to make this building our headquarters for a while.

  “As nearly as I can figure, this is about what must have happened. Some sudden, deadly, numbing plague or cataclysm must have struck the earth, long, long ago.

  “It may have been an almost instantaneous onset of some new and highly fatal micro-organism, propagating with such marvelous rapidity that it swept the world clean in a day—doing its work before any resistance could be organized or thought of.

  “Again, some poisonous gas may have developed, either from a fissure in the earth’s crust, or otherwise. Other hypotheses are possible, but of what practical value are they now?

  “We only know that here, in this uppermost office of the Tower, you and I have somehow escaped with only a long period of completely suspended animation. How long? God alone knows! That’s a query I can’t even guess the answer to as yet.”

  “Well, to judge by all the changes,” Beatrice suggested thoughtfully, “it can’t have been less than a hundred years. Great Heavens!” and she burst into a little satiric laugh. “Am I a hundred and twenty-four years old? Think of that!”

  “You underestimate,” Stern answered. “But no matter about the time question for the present; we can’t solve it now.

  “Neither can we solve the other problem about Europe and Asia and all the rest of the world. Whether London, P
aris, Berlin, Rome, and every other city, every other land, all have shared this fate, we simply don’t know.

  “All we can have is a feeling of strong probability that life, human life I mean, is everywhere extinct—save right here in this room!

  “Otherwise, don’t you see, men would have made their way back here again, back to New York, where all these incalculable treasures seem to have perished, and—”

  He broke short off. Again, far off, they heard a faint re-echoing roar. For a moment they both sat speechless. What could it be? Some distant wall toppling down? A hungry beast scenting its prey? They could not tell. But Stern smiled.

  “I guess,” said he, “guns will be about the first thing I’ll look for, after food. There ought to be good hunting down in the jungles of Fifth Avenue and Broadway!

  “You shoot, of course? No? Well, I’ll soon teach you. Lots of things both of us have got to learn now. No end of them!”

  He rose from his place on the floor, went over to the window and stood for a minute peering out into the gloom. Then suddenly he turned.

  “What’s the matter with me, anyhow?” he exclaimed with irritation. “What right have I to be staying here, theorizing, when there’s work to do? I ought to be busy this very minute!

  “In some way or other I’ve got to find food, clothing, tools, arms—a thousand things. And above all, water! And here I’ve been speculating about the past, fool that I am!”

  “You—you aren’t going to leave me—not to-night?” faltered the girl.

  Stern seemed not to have heard her, so strong the imperative of action lay upon him now. He began to pace the floor, sliding and stumbling through the rubbish, a singular figure in his tatters and with his patriarchal hair and beard, a figure dimly seen by the faint light that still gloomed through the window:

  “In all that wreckage down below,” said he, as though half to himself, “in all that vast congeries of ruin which once was called New York, surely enough must still remain intact for our small needs. Enough till we can reach the land, the country, and raise food of our own!”