The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  “Why—yes. What about it?”

  “It’s moving, that’s all. Every night that black patch moves among the stars, and cuts their light off; and one night it grazed the moon—passed before the eastern limb of it, you understand. Made a partial eclipse. You were asleep; I didn’t bother you about it. But if there’s a new body in the sky, it’s up to us to know why, and what about it, and all. So the quicker—”

  “The quicker you get well, the better all around!”

  She drew his head down and kissed him tenderly on the forehead with that strange, innate maternal instinct which makes women love to “mother” men even ten years older than themselves.

  “Don’t you worry your brains about all these problems and vexations to-night, Allan. Your getting well is the main thing. The whole world’s future hangs on just that! Do you realize what it means? Do you?”

  “Yes, as far as the human brain can realize so big a concept. Languages, arts, science, all must be handed down to the race by us. The world can’t begin again on any higher plane than just the level of our collective intelligence. All that the world knows to-day is stored in your brain-cells and mine! And our speech, our methods, our ideals, will shape the whole destiny of the earth. Our ideals! We must keep them very pure!”

  “Pure and unspotted,” she answered simply. Then with an adorable and feminine anticlimax:

  “Dear, does your shoulder pain you now? I’m awfully heavy to be leaning on you like this!”

  “You’re not hurting me a bit. On the contrary, your touch, your presence, are life to me!”

  “Quite sure you’re comfy, boy?”

  “Positive.”

  “And happy?”

  “To the limit.”

  “I’m so glad. Because I am, too. I’m awfully sleepy, Allan. Do you mind if I take just a little, tiny nap?”

  For all answer he patted her, and smoothed her hair, her cheek, her full, warm throat.

  Presently by her slow, gentle breathing he knew she was asleep.

  For a long time he half-lay there against the oak, softly swathed in his bearskin, on the odorous bed of fir, holding her in his arms, looking into the dancing firelight.

  And night wore on, calm, perfumed, gentle; and the thoughts of the man were long, long thoughts—thoughts “that do often lie too deep for tears.”

  CHAPTER V

  DEADLY PERIL

  Pages on pages would not tell the full details of the following week—the talks they had, the snaring and shooting of small game, the fishing, the cleaning out of the bungalow, and the beginnings of some order in the estate, the rapid healing of Stern’s arm, and all the multifarious little events of their new beginnings of life there by the river-bank.

  But there are other matters of more import than such homely things; so now we come to the time when Stern felt the pressing imperative of a return to the tower. For he lacked tools in every way; he needed them to build furniture, doors, shutters; to clear away the brush and make the place orderly, rational and beautiful; to start work on his projected laboratory and power-plant; for a thousand purposes.

  He wanted his binoculars, his shotgun and rifles, and much ammunition, as well as a boat-load of canned supplies and other goods. Instruments, above all, he had to have.

  So, though Beatrice still, with womanly conservatism, preferred to let well enough alone for the present, and stay away from the scene of such ghastly deeds as had taken place on the last day of the invasion by the Horde, Stern eventually convinced and overargued her; and on what he calculated to be the 16th day of June, 2912—the tenth day since the fight—they set sail for Manhattan. A favoring northerly breeze, joined with a clear sky and sunshine of unusual brilliancy, made the excursion a gala time for both. As they put their supplies of fish, squirrel-meat and breadfruit aboard the banca and shoved the rude craft off the sand, both she and he felt like children on an outing.

  Allan’s arm was now so well that he permitted himself the luxury of a morning plunge. The invigoration of this was still upon him as, with a song, he raised the clumsy skin sail upon the rough-hewn mast. Beatrice curled down in her tiger-skin at the stern, took one of the paddles, and made ready to steer. He settled himself beside her, the thongs of his sail in his hand. Thus happy in comradeship, they sailed away to southward, down the blue wonder of the river, flanked by headlands, wooded heights, crags, cliffs and Palisades, now all alike deserted.

  Noon found them opposite the fluted columns of gray granite that once had borne aloft the suburbs of Englewood. Stern recognized the conformation of the place; but though he looked hard, could find no trace of the Interstate Park road that once had led from top to bottom of the Palisades, nor any remnant of the millionaires’ palaces along the heights there.

  “Stone and brick have long since vanished as structures,” he commented. “Only steel and concrete have stood the gaff of uncounted years! Where all that fashion, wealth and beauty once would have scorned to notice us, girl, now what’s left? Hear the cry of that gull? The barking of that fox? See that green flicker over the pinnacle? Some new, bright bird, never dreamed of in this country! And even with the naked eye I can make out the palms and the lianas tangled over the verge of what must once have been magnificent gardens!”

  He pointed at the heights.

  “Once,” said he, “I was consulted by a sausage-king named Breitkopf, who wanted to sink an elevator-shaft from the top to the bottom of this very cliff, so he could reach his hundred-thousand-dollar launch in ease. Breitkopf didn’t like my price; he insulted me in several rather unpleasant ways. The cliff is still here, I see. So am I. But Breitkopf is—elsewhere.”

  He laughed, and swept the river with a glance.

  “Steer over to the eastward, will you?” he asked. “We’ll go in through Spuyten Duyvil and the Harlem. That’ll bring us much nearer the tower than by landing on the west shore of Manhattan.”

  Two hours later they had run past the broken arches of Fordham, Washington, and High Bridges, and following the river—on both banks of which a few scattered ruins showed through the massed foliage—were drawing toward Randall’s and Ward’s islands and Hell Gate.

  Wind and tide still favored them. In safety they passed the ugly shoals and ledges. Here Stern took the paddle, while Beatrice went to the bow and left all to his directing hand.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon they were drawing past Blackwell’s Island. The Queensboro Bridge still stood, as did the railway bridges behind them; but much wreckage had fallen into the river, and in one place formed an ugly whirlpool, which Stern had to avoid by some hard work with the paddle.

  The whole structure was sagging badly to southward, as though the foundations had given way. Long, rusted masses of steel hung from the spans, which drooped as though to break at any moment. Though all the flooring had vanished centuries before, Stern judged an active man could still make his way across the bridge.

  “That’s their engineering,” gibed he, as the little boat sailed under and they looked up like dwarfs at the legs of a Colossus. “The old Roman bridges are good for practically eternity, but these jerry steel things, run up for profits, go to pieces in a mere thousand years! Well, the steel magnates are gone now, and their profits with them. But this junk remains as a lesson and a warning, Beta; the race to come must build better than this, and sounder, every way!”

  On, on they sailed, marveling at the terrific destruction on either hand—the dense forests now grown over Brooklyn and New York alike.

  “We’ll be there before long now,” said Allan. “And if we have any luck at all, and nothing happens, we ought to be started for home by nightfall. You don’t mind a moonlight sail up the Hudson, do you?”

  It was past four by the time the banca nosed her way slowly in among the rotten docks and ruined hulks of steamships, and with a gentle rustling came to rest among the reeds and rushes now growing rank at the foot of what had once been Twenty-Third Street.

  A huge sea-tortoise, disturbed,
slid off the sand-bank where he had been sunning himself and paddled sulkily away. A blue heron flapped up from the thicket, and with a frog in its bill awkwardly took flight, its long neck crooked, legs dangling absurdly.

  “Some mighty big changes, all right,” commented Stern. “Yes, there’s got to be a deal of work done here before things are right again. But there’s time enough, time enough—there’s all the time we need, we and the people who shall come after us!”

  They made the banca fast, noting that the tide was high and that the leather cord was securely tied to a gnarled willow that grew at the water’s edge. Half an hour later they had made their way across town to Madison Avenue.

  It was with strange feelings they once more approached the scene of their battle against such frightful odds with the Horde. Stern was especially curious to note the effect of his Pulverite, not only on the building itself but on the square.

  This effect exceeded his expectations. Less than two hundred feet of the tower now stood and the whole western facade was but a mass of cracked and gaping ruin.

  Out on the Square the huge elms and pines had been uprooted and flung in titanic confusion, like a game of giants’ jack-straws. And vast conical excavations showed, here and there, where vials of the explosive had struck the earth. Gravel and rocks had even been thrown over the Metropolitan Building itself into the woodland glades of Madison Avenue. And, worse, bits of bone—a leg-bone, a shoulder-blade, a broken skull with flesh still adhering—here or there met the eye.

  “Mighty good thing the vultures have been busy here,” commented Stern. “If they hadn’t, the place wouldn’t be even approachable. Gad! I thank my stars what we’ve got to do won’t take more than an hour. If we had to stay here after dark I’d surely have the creeps, in spite of all my scientific materialism! Well, no use being retrospective. We’re living in the present and future now; not the past. Got the plaited cords Beatrice? We’ll need them before long to make up our bundle with.”

  Thus talking, Stern kept the girl from seeing too much or brooding over what she saw. He engaged her actively on the work in hand. Until he had assured himself there was no danger from falling fragments in the shattered halls and stairways that led up to the gaping ruin at the truncated top of the tower he would not let her enter the building, but set her to fashioning a kind of puckered bag with a huge skin taken from the furrier’s shop in the Arcade, while he explored.

  He returned after a while, and together they climbed over the débris and ruins to the upper rooms which had been their home during the first few days after the awakening.

  The silence of death that lay over the place was appalling—that and the relics of the frightful battle. But they had their work to do; they had to face the facts.

  “We’re not children, Beta,” said the man. “Here we are for a purpose. The quicker we get our work done the better. Come on, let’s get busy!”

  Stifling the homesick feeling that tried to win upon them they set to work. All the valuables they could recover they collected—canned supplies, tools, instruments, weapons, ammunition and a hundred and one miscellaneous articles they had formerly used.

  This flotsam of a former civilization they carried down and piled in the skin bag at the broken doorway. And darkness began to fall ere the task was done.

  Still trickled the waters of the fountain in Madison Forest through the dim evening aisles of the shattered forest. A solemn hush fell over the dead world; night was at hand.

  “Come, let’s be going,” spoke the man, his voice lowered in spite of himself, the awe of the Infinite Unknown upon him. “We can eat in the banca on the way. With the tide behind us, as it will be, we ought to get home by morning. And I’ll be mighty glad never to see this place again!”

  He slung a sack of cartridges over his shoulder and picked up one of the cord loops of the bag wherein lay their treasure-trove. Beatrice took the other.

  “I’m ready,” said she. Thus they started.

  All at once she stopped short.

  “Hark! What’s that?” she exclaimed under her breath.

  Far off to northward, plaintive, long-drawn and inexpressibly mournful, a wailing cry reechoed in the wilderness—fell, rose, died away, and left the stillness even more ghastly than before.

  Stern stood rooted. In spite of all his aplomb and matter-of-fact practicality, he felt a strange thrill curdle through his blood, while on the back of his neck the hair drew taut and stiff.

  “What is it?” asked Beatrice again.

  “That? Oh, some bird or other, I guess. It’s nothing. Come on!”

  Again he started forward, trying to make light of the cry; but in his heart he knew it well.

  A thousand years before, far in the wilds near Ungava Bay, in Labrador, he had heard the same plaintive, starving call—and he remembered still the deadly peril, the long fight, the horror that had followed.

  He knew the cry; and his soul quivered with the fear of it; fear not for himself, but for the life of this girl whose keeping lay within the hollow of his hand.

  For the long wail that had trembled across the vague spaces of the forest, affronting the majesty and dignity of night and the coming stars with its blood-lusting plaint of famine, had been none other than the summons to the hunt, the news of quarry, the signal of a gathering wolf-pack on their trail.

  CHAPTER VI

  TRAPPED!

  “That’s not the truth you’re telling me, Allan,” said Beatrice very gravely. “And if we don’t tell each other the whole truth always, how can we love each other perfectly and do the work we have to do? I don’t want you to spare me anything, even the most terrible things. That’s not the cry of a bird—it’s wolves!”

  “Yes, that’s what it is,” the man admitted. “I was in the wrong. But, you see—it startled me at first. Don’t be alarmed, little girl! We’re well armed you see, and—”

  “Are we going to stay here in the tower if they attack?”

  “No. They might hold us prisoners for a week. There’s no telling how many there may be. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. Once they get the scent of game, they’ll gather for miles and miles around; from all over the island. So you see—”

  “Our best plan, then, will be to make for the banca?”

  “Assuredly! It’s only a matter of comparatively few minutes to reach it, and once we’re aboard, we’re safe. We can laugh at them and be on our homeward way at the same time. The quicker we start the better. Come on!”

  “Come!” she repeated. And they made their second start after Stern had assured himself his automatic hung easily in reach and that the guns were loaded.

  Together they took their way along the shadowy depths of the forest where once Twenty-Third Street had lain. Bravely and strongly the girl bore her half of the load as they broke through the undergrowth, clambered over fallen and rotten logs, or sank ankle-deep in mossy swales.

  Even though they felt the danger, perhaps at that very moment slinking, sneaking, crawling nearer off there in the vague, darkling depths of the forest, they still sensed the splendid comradeship of the adventure. No longer as a toy, a chattel, an instrument of pleasure or amusement did the idea of woman now exist in the world. It had altered, grown higher, nobler, purer—it had become that of mate and equal, comrade, friend, the indissoluble other half of man.

  Beatrice spoke.

  “You mustn’t take more of the weight than I do, Allan,” she insisted, as they struggled onward with their burden. “Your wounded arm isn’t strong enough yet to—”

  “S-h-h-h!” he cautioned. “We’ve got to keep as quiet as possible. Come on—the quicker we get these things aboard and push off the better! Everything depends on speed!”

  But speed was hard to make. The way seemed terribly long, now that evening had closed in and they could no longer be exactly sure of their path. The cumbersome burden impeded them at every step. In the gloom they stumbled, tripped over vines and creepers, and became involved among the close-crowding boles.r />
  Suddenly, once again the wolf-cry burst out, this time reechoed from another and another savage throat, wailing and plaintive and full of frightful portent.

  So much nearer now it seemed that Beatrice and Allan both stopped short. Panting with their labors, they stood still, fear-smitten.

  “They can’t be much farther off now than Thirty-Fifth Street,” the man exclaimed under his breath. “And we’re hardly past Second Avenue yet—and look at the infernal thickets and brush we’ve got to beat through to reach the river! Here, I’d better get my revolver ready and hold it in my free hand. Will you change over? I can take the bag in my left. I’ve got to have the right to shoot with!”

  “Why not drop everything and run for the banca?”

  “And desert the job? Leave all we came for? And maybe not be able to get any of the things for Heaven knows how long? I guess not!”

  “But, Allan—”

  “No, no! What? Abandon all our plans because of a few wolves? Let ‘em come! We’ll show ‘em a thing or two!”

  “Give me the revolver, then—you can have the rifle!”

  “That’s right—here!”

  Each now with a firearm in the free hand, they started forward again. On and on they lunged, they wallowed through the forest, half carrying, half dragging the sack which now seemed to have grown ten times heavier and which at every moment caught on bushes, on limbs and among the dense undergrowth.

  “Oh, look—look there!” cried Beatrice. She stopped short again, pointing the revolver, her finger on the trigger.

  Allan saw a lean, gray form, furtive and sneaking, slide across a dim open space off toward the left, a space where once First Avenue had cut through the city from south to north.

  “There’s another!” he whispered, a strange, choked feeling all around his heart. “And look—three more! They’re working in ahead of us. Here, I’ll have a shot at ‘em, for luck!”