The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  A vast conical hole of flame was gouged in the dark. For a fraction of a second every tree, limb, twig stood out in vivid detail, as that blue-white glory shot aloft.

  All up through the forest the girl and Stern got a momentary glimpse of little, clinging Things, crouching misshapen, hideous.

  Then, as a riven and distorted whirl burst upward in a huge geyser of annihilation, came a detonation that ripped, stunned, shattered; that sent both the defenders staggering backward from the window.

  Darkness closed again, like a gaping mouth that shuts. And all about the building, through the trees, and down again in a titanic, slashing rain fell the wreckage of things that had been stone, and earth, and root, and tree, and living creatures—that had been—that now were but one indistinguishable mass of ruin and of death.

  After that, here and there, small dark objects came dropping, thudding, crashing down. You might have thought some cosmic gardener had shaken his orchard, his orchard where the plums and pears were rotten-ripe.

  “One!” cried the engineer, in a strange, wild, exultant voice.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE BATTLE ON THE STAIRS

  Almost like the echo of his shout, a faint snarling cry rose from the corridor, outside. They heard a clicking, sliding, ominous sound; and, with instant comprehension, knew the truth.

  “They’ve got up, some of them—somehow!” Stern cried. “They’ll be at our throats, here, in a moment! Load! Load! You shoot—I’ll give ‘em Pulverite!”

  No time, now, for caution. While the girl hastily threw in more cartridges, Stern gathered up all the remaining vials of the explosive.

  These, garnered along his wounded arm which clasped them to his body, made a little bristling row of death. His left hand remained free, to fling the little glass bombs.

  “Come! Come, meet ‘em—they mustn’t trap us, here!”

  And together they crept noiselessly into the other room and thence to the corridor-door.

  Out they peered.

  “Look! Torches!” whispered he.

  There at the far end of the hallway, a red glare already flickered on the wall around the turn by the elevator-shaft. Already the confused sounds of the attackers were drawing near.

  “They’ve managed to dig away the barricade, somehow,” said Stern. “And now they’re out for business—clubs, poisoned darts and all—and fangs, and claws! How many of ‘em? God knows! A swarm, that’s all!”

  His mouth felt hot and dry, with fever, and the mad excitement of the impending battle. His skin seemed tense and drawn, especially upon the forehead. As he stood there, waiting, he heard the girl’s quick breathing. Though he could hardly see her in the gloom, he felt her presence and he loved it.

  “Beatrice,” said he, and for a moment his hand sought hers, “Beatrice, little girl o’ mine, if this is the big finish, if we both go down together and there’s no to-morrow, I want to tell you now—”

  A yapping outcry interrupted him. The girl seized his arm. Brighter the torchlight grew.

  “Allan!” she whispered. “Come back, back, away from here. We’ve got to get up those stairs, there, at the other end of the hall. This is no kind of place to meet them—we’re exposed, here. There’s no protection!”

  “You’re right.” he answered. “Come!”

  Like ghosts they slid away, noiselessly, through the enshrouding gloom.

  Even as they gained the shelter of the winding stairway, the scouts of the Horde, flaring their torches into each room they passed, came into view around the corner at the distant end.

  Shuffling, hideous beyond all words by the fire-gleam, bent, wizened, blue, the Things swarmed toward them in a vague and shifting mass, a ruck of horror.

  The defenders, peering from behind the broken balustrade, could hear the guttural jabber of their beast-talk, the clicking play of their fangs; could see the craning necks, the talons that held spears, bludgeons, blowguns, even jagged rocks.

  Over all, the smoky gleams wavered in a ghastly interplay of light and darkness. Uncanny shadows leaped along the walls. From every corner and recess and black, empty door, ghoulish shapes seemed creeping.

  Tense, now, the moment hung.

  Suddenly the engineer bent forward, staring.

  “The chief!” he whispered. And as he spoke, Beatrice aimed.

  There, shambling among the drove of things, they saw him clearly for a moment: Uglier, more incredibly brutal than ever he looked, now, by that uncanny light.

  Stern saw—and rejoiced in the sight—that the obeah’s jaw hung surely broken, all awry. The quick-blinking, narrow-ridded eyes shuttled here, there, as the creature sought to spy out his enemies. The nostrils dilated, to catch the spoor of man. Man, no longer god, but mortal.

  One hand held a crackling pine-knot. The other gripped the heft of a stone ax, one blow of which would dash to pulp the stoutest skull.

  This much Stern noted, as in a flash; when at his side the girl’s revolver spat.

  The report roared heavily in that constricted space. For a moment the obeah stopped short. A look of brute pain, of wonder, then of quintupled rage passed over his face. A twitching grin of passion distorted the huge, wounded gash of the mouth. He screamed. Up came the stone ax.

  “Again!” shouted Stern. “Give it to him again!”

  She fired on the instant. But already, with a chattering howl, the obeah was running forward. And after him, screaming, snarling, foaming till their lips were all a slaver, the pack swept toward them.

  Stern dragged the girl away, back to the landing.

  “Up! Up!” he yelled.

  Then, turning, he hurled the second bomb.

  A blinding glare dazzled him. A shock, as of a suddenly unleashed volcano, all but flung him headlong.

  Dazed, choked by the gush of fumes that burst in a billowing cloud out along the hall and up the stairs, he staggered forward. Tightly to his body he clutched the remaining vials. Where was Beatrice? He knew not. Everything boomed and echoed in his stunned ears. Below there, he heard thunderous crashes as wrecked walls and floors went reeling down. And ever, all about him, eddied the strangling smoke.

  Then, how long after he knew not, he found himself gasping for air beside a window.

  “Beatrice!” he shouted with his first breath. Everything seemed strangely still. No sound of pursuit, no howling now. Dead calm. Not even the drum-beat in the forest, far below.

  “Beatrice! Where are you? Beatrice!”

  His heart leaped gladly as he heard her answer.

  “Oh! Are you safe? Thank God! I—I was afraid—I didn’t know—”

  To him she ran along the dark passageway.

  “No more!” she panted. “No more Pulverite here in the building!” pleaded she. “Or the whole tower will fall—and bury us! No more!”

  Stern laughed. Beatrice was unharmed; he had found her.

  “I’ll sow it broadcast outside,” he answered, in a kind of exaltation, almost a madness from the strain and horror of that night, the weakness of his fever and his loss of blood. “Maybe the others, down there still, may need it. Here goes!”

  And, one by one, all seven of the bombs he hurled far out and away, to right, to left, straight ahead, slinging them in vast parabolas from the height.

  And as they struck one by one, night blazed like noonday; and even to the Palisades the crashing echoes roared.

  The forest, swept as by a giant broom, became a jackstraw tangle of destruction.

  Thus it perished.

  When the last vial of wrath had been out-poured, when silence had once more dropped its soothing mantle and the great brooding dark had come again, “girdled with gracious watchings of the stars,” Stern spoke.

  “Gods!” he exclaimed exultantly. “Gods we are now to them—to such of them as may still live. Gods we are—gods we shall be forever!

  “Whatever happens now, they know us. The Great White Gods of Terror! They’ll flee before our very look! Unarmed, if we meet a thous
and, we’ll be safe. Gods!”

  Another silence.

  Then suddenly he knew that Beatrice was weeping.

  And forgetful of all save that, forgetful of his weakness and his wounds, he comforted her—as only a man can comfort the woman he loves, the woman who, in turn, loves him.

  CHAPTER XXX

  CONSUMMATION

  After a while, both calmer grown, they looked again from the high window.

  “See!” exclaimed the engineer, and pointed.

  There, far away to westward, a few straggling lights—only a very few—slowly and uncertainly were making their way across the broad black breast of the river.

  Even as the man and woman watched, one vanished. Then another winked out, and did not reappear. No more than fifteen seemed to reach the Jersey shore, there to creep vaguely, slowly away and vanish in the dense primeval woods.

  “Come,” said Stern at last. “We must be going, too. The night’s half spent. By morning we must be very far away.”

  “What? We’ve got to leave the city?”

  “Yes. There’s no such thing as staying here now. The tower’s quite untenable. Racked and shaken as it is, it’s liable to fall at any time. But, even if it should stand, we can’t live here any more.”

  “But—where now?”

  “I don’t just know. Somewhere else, that’s certain. Everything in this whole vicinity is ruined. The spring’s gone. Nothing remains of the forest, nothing but horror and death. Pestilence is bound to sweep this place in the wake of such a—such an affair.

  “The sights all about here aren’t such as you should see. Neither should I. We mustn’t even think of them. Some way or other we can find a path down out of here, away—away—”

  “But,” she cried anxiously, “but all our treasures? All the tools and dishes, all the food and clothing, and everything? All our precious, hard-won things?”

  “Nothing left of them now. Down on the fifth floor, at that end of the building, I’m positive there’s nothing but a vast hole blown out of the side of the tower. So there’s nothing left to salvage. Nothing at all.”

  “Can you replace the things?”

  “Why not? Wherever we settle down we can get along for a few days on what game I can snare or shoot with the few remaining cartridges. And after that—”

  “Yes?”

  “After that, once we get established a little, I can come into the city and go to raiding again. What we’ve lost is a mere trifle compared to what’s left in New York. Why, the latent resources of this vast ruin haven’t been even touched yet! We’ve got our lives. That’s the only vital factor. With those everything else is possible. It all looks dark and hard to you now, Beatrice. But in a few days—wait and see!”

  “Allan!”

  “What, Beatrice?”

  “I trust you in everything. I’m in your hands. Lead me.”

  “Come, then, for the way is long before us. Come!”

  Two hours later, undaunted by the far howling of a wolfpack, as the wan crescent of the moon came up the untroubled sky, they reached the brink of the river, almost due west of where the southern end of Central Park hall been.

  This course, they felt, would avoid any possible encounter with stragglers of the Horde. Through Madison Forest—or what remained of it—they had not gone; but had struck eastward from the building, then northward, and so in a wide detour had avoided all the horrors that they knew lay near the wreck of the tower.

  The river, flowing onward to the sea as calmly as though pain and death and ruin and all the dark tragedy of the past night, the past centuries, had never been, filled their tired souls and bodies with a grateful peace. Slowly, gently it lapped the wooded shore, where docks and slips had all gone back to nature; the moonlit ripples spoke of beauty, life, hope, love.

  Though they could not drink the brackish waters, yet they laved their faces, arms and hands, and felt refreshed. Then for some time in silence they skirted the flood, ever northward, away from the dead city’s heart. And the moon rose even higher, higher still, and great thoughts welled within their hearts. The cool night breeze, freshening in from the vast salt wastes of the sea—unsailed forever now—cooled their cheeks and soothed the fever of their thoughts.

  Where the grim ruin of Grant’s Tomb looked down upon the river, they came at length upon a strange, rude boat, another, then a third—a whole flotilla, moored with plaited ropes of grass to trees along the shore.

  “These must certainly be the canoes of the attacking force from northward, the force that fought the Horde the night before we took a hand in the matter; fought, and were beaten, and—devoured,” said Stern.

  And with a practical eye, wise and cool even despite the pain of his wounded arm, he examined three or four of the boats as best he could by moonlight.

  The girl and he agreed on one to use.

  “Yes, this looks like the most suitable,” judged the engineer, indicating a rough, banca-like craft nearly sixteen feet long, which had been carved and scraped and burned out of a single log.

  He helped Beatrice in, then cast off the rope. In the bottom lay six paddles of the most degraded state of workmanship. They showed no trace of decoration whatsoever, and the lowest savages of the pre-cataclysmic era had invariably attempted some crude form of art on nearly every implement.

  The girl took up one of the paddles.

  “Which way? Up-stream?” asked she. “No, no, you mustn’t even try to use that arm.”

  “Why paddle at all?” Stern answered. “See here.”

  He pointed where a short and crooked mast lay, unstopped, along the side. Lashed to it was a sail of rawhides, clumsily caught together with thongs, heavy and stiff, yet full of promise.

  Stern laughed.

  “Back to the coracle stage again,” said he. “Back to Caesar’s time, and way beyond!” And he lifted one end of the mast. “Here we’ve got the Seuvian pellis pro velis, the ‘skins for sails’ all over again—only more so. Well, no matter. Up she goes!”

  Together they stepped the mast and spread the sail. The engineer took his place in the stern, a paddle in his left hand. He dipped it, and the ripples glinted away.

  “Now,” said he, in a voice that left no room for argument, “now, you curl up in the tiger-skin and go to sleep! This is my job.”

  The sail caught the breath of the breeze. The banca moved slowly forward, trailing its wake like widening lines of silver in the moonlight.

  And Beatrice, strong in her trust of him, her confidence and love, lay down to sleep while the wounded man steered on and on, and watched her and protected her. And over all the stars, a glory in the summer sky, kept silent vigil.

  Dawn broke, all a flame of gold and crimson, as they landed in a sheltered little bay on the west shore.

  Here, though the forest stood unbroken in thick ranges all along the background, it had not yet invaded the slope that led back from the pebbly beach. And through the tangle of what once must have been a splendid orchard, they caught a glimpse of white walls overgrown with a mad profusion of wild roses, wisterias and columbines.

  “This was once upon a time the summer-place, the big concrete bungalow and all, of Harrison Van Amburg. You know the billionaire, the wheat man? It used to be all his in the long ago. He built it for all time of a material that time can never change. It was his. Well, it’s ours now. Our home!”

  Together they stood upon the shelving beach, lapped by the river. Somewhere in the woods behind them a robin was caroling with liquid harmony.

  Stern drew the rude boat up. Then, breathing deep, he faced the morning.

  “You and I, Beatrice,” said he, and took her hand. “Just you—and I!”

  “And love!” she whispered.

  “And hope, and life! And the earth reborn. The arts and sciences, language and letters, truth, ‘all the glories of the world’ handed down through us!

  “Listen! The race of men, our race, must live again—shall live! Again the forests and the plai
ns shall be the conquest of our blood. Once more shall cities gleam and tower, ships sail the sea, and the world go on to greater wisdom, better things!

  “A kinder and a saner world this time. No misery, no war, no poverty, woe, strife, creeds, oppression, tears—for we are wiser than those other folk, and there shall be no error.”

  He paused, his face irradiate. To him recurred the prophecy of Ingersoll, the greatest orator of that other time. And very slowly he spoke again:

  “Beatrice, it shall be a world where thrones have crumbled and where kings are dust. The aristocracy of idleness shall reign no more! A world without a slave. Man shall at last be free!

  “‘A world at peace, adorned by every form of art, with music’s myriad voices thrilled, while lips are rich with words of love and truth. A world in which no exile sighs, no prisoner mourns; a world on which the gibbet’s shadow shall not fall.

  “‘A race without disease of flesh or brain, shapely and fair, the wedded harmony of form and function. And as I look, life lengthens, joy deepens, and over all in the great dome shines the eternal star of human hope!’”

  “And love?” she smiled again, a deep and sacred meaning in her words. Within her stirred the universal motherhood, the hope of everything, the call of the unborn, the insistent voice of the race that was to be.

  “And love!” he answered, his voice now very tender, very grave.

  Tired, yet strong, he looked upon her. And as he looked his eyes grew deep and eager.

  Sweet as the honey of Hymettus was the perfume of the orchard, all a powder of white and rosy blooms, among which the bees, pollen-dusted, labored, at their joyous, fructifying task. Fresh, the morning breeze. Clear, warm, radiant, the sun of June; the summer sun uprising far beyond the shining hills.

  Life everywhere—and love!

  Love, too, for them. For this man, this woman, love; the mystery, the pleasure and the eternal pain.

  With his unhurt arm he circled her. He bent, he drew her to him, as she raised her face to his.

  And for the first time his mouth sought hers.

  Their lips, long hungry for this madness, met there and blended in a kiss of passion and of joy.