The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

“Be very bold! Do my bidding!”

  “Speak only the word, Kromno, and I obey!”

  “Go you, then, very quietly, very swiftly, to the other side of these great growing things—these trees, we call them. Then call, so that this thing shall turn toward you. Thus, I may shoot, and perhaps not kill the woman. It is the only way!”

  “I hear, master. I go!”

  Allan and Bremilu waited, while from the thicket came, at intervals, the savage snuffling, with now and then a grumbling mutter.

  All at once a call sounded from far ahead.

  “Come!” commanded Allan. Together he and Bremilu crept through the jungle toward the thicket.

  Wide-eyed, yet seeing almost nothing, Allan crawled noiselessly, automatic in hand. The Merucaan slid along, silent as an Apache.

  “Tell me if you see the thing again—if you see it turn!” whispered Stern. “Tell me, for you can see.”

  Now the distance was cut in half; now only a third of it remained. Before Stern it seemed a fathomless pit of black was opening. Under the close-woven arches of the giant fern-trees the night was impenetrable.

  And as yet he dared not dart the light-beam into that pit of darkness, for fear of precipitating an unthinkable tragedy—if, indeed, the horror had not already been cons summated.

  But now Bremilu gripped his arm. Afar, on the other side of the thicket, they heard a singular commotion, cries, shouts, and the vigorous beating of the fern-trees.

  “The thing has turned, master!” the Merucaan exclaimed, at Allan’s side. “Now throw the fire-death! Etvur! Quickly, throw!”

  Stern swept the thicket with his beam.

  “Ah! There—there!”

  The light caught a moving, hairy mass of brown—a huge, squat, terrible creature, its back now toward them. At one side Stern saw a vague blackness—the long, unbound hair of Beatrice!

  He glimpsed a white arm dangling limp; and in his breast the heart flamed at white-heat of rage and passion.

  But his hand was steel. Never in his life had he drawn so fine a bead.

  “Hold the light for me!” he whispered, passing it to his companion. “I want both hands for this!”

  Bremilu held the beam true, blinking strangely with his pink eyes. Stern, resting his pistol hand in the hollow of his left elbow, sighted true.

  A fraction of a hair to the left, and the bullet might crash through the brain of Beatrice!

  “Oh, God—if there be any God—speed the shot true—” he prayed, and fired.

  A hideous yell, ripping the night to shreds, burst in a raw and rising discord through the forest—a scream as of a damned soul flung upon the brimstone.

  Then, as he glimpsed the white arm falling and knew the thing had loosed its grip, the light died. Bremilu, starting at the sudden discharge close to his ear, had pressed the ivory button.

  Stern snatched for the flash-lamp, fumbled it, and dropped it there among the lush growths underfoot.

  Before he could more than stoop to feel for it a heavy crash through the wood told that the thing was charging.

  With bubbling yells it came, trampling the undergrowth, drumming on its huge breast, gibbeting with demoniac rage and pain—came swiftly, like the terrific things that people nightmares.

  Behind it, shouts echoed. Stern heard the voice of Zangamon as, spear in hand, the Merucaan pursued.

  He raised his revolver once more, but dared not fire.

  Yet only an instant he hesitated, in the fear of killing Zangamon.

  For, quick-looming through the darkness, a huge bulk, panting, snarling, chattering, sprang—an avalanche of muscle, bone, fur, mad with murder—rage.

  Crack! spoke the automatic, point-blank at this rushing horror, this blacker shadow in the blackness.

  The fire-stab revealed a grinning white-fanged face close to his own, and clutching hands, and terrible, thick, hairy arms.

  Then something hurled itself on Stern; something bore him backward—something beside which his strength was as a baby’s—something vast, irresistible, hideous beyond all telling.

  Stern felt the flesh of his left arm ripped up. Crushed, doubled, impotent, he fell.

  And at his throat long fingers clutched. A fetid, stinking breath gushed hot upon his face. He heard the raving chatter of ivories, snapping to rend him.

  Up sprang another shadow. High it swung a weapon. The blow thudded hollow, smashing, annihilating.

  Hot liquid gushed over Allan’s hand as he sought to beat the monster back.

  Then, fair upon him, fell a crushing weight.

  Swooning, he knew no more.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A RESPITE FROM TOIL

  The bright beam of the flash-lamp in his face roused Allan to a consciousness that he was bruised and suffering, and that his left arm ached with dull insistence. Dazed, he brought it up and saw his sleeve of dull brown stuff was dripping red.

  Beside him, in the trampled grass, he vaguely made out a hairy bulk, motionless and huge. Bremilu was kneeling beside his master, with words of cheer.

  “It is dead, O Kromno! The man-beast is dead! My stone ax broke its skull. See, now it lies here harmless!”

  The currents of thought began to flow once more. Allan struggled up, unmindful of his wounds.

  “Beatrice! Where is the girl?” he gasped.

  As though by way of answer, the tall growths swayed and crackled, and through them a dim figure loomed—a man with something in his arms.

  “Zangamon!” panted Allan, springing toward him. “Have you got her? The girl—is she alive?”

  “She lives, master!” replied a voice. “But as yet she remains without knowledge of aught.”

  “Wounded? Is she wounded?”

  Already he had reached Zangamon, and, injured though he was, had taken the beloved form in his arms.

  “Beatrice! Beatrice!” he called, pressing kisses to her brow, her eyes, her mouth—still warm, thank God!

  He sank down among the underbrush and gathered her to his breast, cradling her, cherishing her to him as though to bring back life and consciousness.

  To her heart he laid his ear. It beat! She breathed!

  “The light, here! Quick!”

  By its clear ray he saw her hair disheveled; her coarse mantle of brown stuff ripped and torn, and on her throat long scratches.

  Bruises showed on her hands and arms, as from a terrible fight she had put up against the monster. And his heart bled; and to his lips rose execrations, mingled with the tenderest words of pity and love.

  “We must get her back to the cave at once!” he exclaimed. “Quick! Break branches. Make a litter—a bed—to carry her on! Everything depends on getting her to shelter now!”

  But the two Merucaans did not understand. All this was beyond their knowledge. Ignoring his hurts, Allan laid the girl down very gently, and with them set to work, directing the making of the litter.

  They obeyed eagerly. In a few minutes the litter was ready-made of fern-tree branches thickly covered with leaves and odorous grasses.

  On this he placed the girl.

  “You, Zangamon, take these boughs here. Bremilu, those others. Now I will hold the light. Back to the cave, now—quick!”

  “We need not the light, master. We see better without it. It dazzles our eyes. Use it for yourself. We need it not!” exclaimed Bremilu, stooping above the body of the dead monster to recover his ax.

  Involuntarily Allan turned the beam upon the horrible creature. There stood Bremilu, his foot upon the hairy shoulder, tugging hard at the ax-handle. Thrice he had to pull with all his might to loosen the blade which had buried itself deep in the shattered skull.

  “A giant gorilla, so help me!” he cried, shuddering. “My God, Beatrice—what a ghastly terror you’ve been through!”

  Still grinning ferociously, in death, with blood-smeared face and glazed, staring eyes, the creature shocked and horrified even Allan’s steady nerves. He gazed upon it only a moment, then turned away.

&nbs
p; “Enough!” said he. “To the cave!”

  A quarter-hour had passed before they reached shelter again. Allan bade the Merucaans heap dry wood on the embers in the cavern, while he himself laid Beatrice upon the bed.

  With a piece of their brown cloth dipped in one of the water-jars he bathed her face and bruised throat.

  “Fresh water! Fetch a jar of fresh water from the river below!” he commanded Zangamon.

  But even as the white barbarian started to obey, the girl stirred, raised a hand, and feebly spoke.

  “Allan—oh—are you here again? Allan—my love!”

  He strained her to his breast and kissed her; and his eyes grew hot with tears.

  “Beatrice!”

  Her arms were round his neck, and their lips clung.

  “Hurt? Are you hurt?” he cried. “Tell me—how—”

  “Allen! The monster—is he dead?” she shivered, sitting up and staring wildly round at the cave walls on which the fresh-built fire was beginning to throw dancing lights.

  “Dead, yes. But hush, Beta! Don’t think of that now. Everything’s all right—you’re safe! I’m here!”

  “Those men—”

  “Two of our own Folk. I brought them back with me—just in time, darling. Without them—”

  He broke short off. Not for worlds would he have told her how near the borderland she had been.

  “You heard my shouts? You heard our signal?”

  “Oh—I don’t know Allan. I can’t think, yet—it’s all so terrible—so confused—”

  “There, there, sweetheart; don’t think about it any more. Just lie down and rest. Go to sleep. I’ll watch here beside you. You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you now!”

  She lay back with a sigh, and for a while kept silence while he sat beside her, his uninjured arm beneath her head.

  His one ambition, now that he found she was not seriously hurt in body, was to keep her from talking of the horrible affair—from exciting herself and rehearsing her terrors. Above all, she must be quieted and kept calm.

  At last, in her own natural voice, she spoke again.

  “Allan?”

  “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “I owe you my life once more! If I was yours before, I’m ten times more yours now!”

  He bent and kissed her, and presently her deepened breathing told him she had drifted over the borderline into the sleep of exhaustion.

  He blessed her strength and courage.

  “No futility here,” thought he. “No useless questions or hysterics; no scene. Strong! Gad, but she’s strong! She realized she was safe and I was with her again; that sufficed. Was there ever another woman like her since the world began?”

  Only now that the girl slept did he pay attention to the two Merucaans who, sitting by the cave door, were regarding him with troubled looks.

  “Master!” said Zangamon, arising and coming toward him.

  “Well, what is it now?”

  “You are wounded, O Kromno! Your arm still bleeds. Let us bind it.”

  “It is nothing—only a scratch!”

  But Zangamon insisted.

  “Master,” said he, “in this we cannot obey you. See? While you and the woman talked I fetched water, as you commanded. Now I must wash your hurts and bind them.”

  Allan had to accede. Together the two Merucaans examined the injuries with words of commiseration. The “scratch” turned out to be three severe lacerations of the forearm. The gorilla’s teeth had missed the radial artery only by a fluke of fortune.

  They bathed away the clotted blood and bandaged the arm not unskilfully. Allan pressed the hand of Zangamon, then that of his companion.

  “No thanks of mine can tell you what I feel!” he exclaimed straight from the heart. “Only for you to guide me, to drive the man-brute, to strike it down when it was just about to throttle me—only for you, both she and I—”

  He could not finish. The words choked him. He felt, as never before, a sudden, warm, human touch of kinship with the Merucaans—a strong, nascent affection. Till now they had been savages to him—inferiors.

  Now he perceived their inner worth—the strong and manly stamina of soul and body; and through him thrilled a love for these strange men, his saviors and the girl’s.

  Once more he seemed to see a vision of the future—a world peopled by the descendants of this hardy and resourceful folk, “without disease of flesh or brain, shapely and fair, the married harmony of form and function”—and, as with a gesture, he dismissed them wondering, not understanding in the least why he should thank them, he knew the world already had begun once more to come back under the hand, under the strong control of man.

  “Sleep now, master,” Bremilu entreated. “We who are new to this strange world will sit outside the door upon the rock and watch those fires so far above that you call stars. And the big sun-fire that is coming, too—we would see that!”

  “No, not yet!” Stern commanded. “You cannot bear it for a while. Stay within and roll the rock against the door and sleep. The great fire might injure you or even kill you, as it did the—”

  He checked himself just in time, for “the patriarch” had all but escaped him. Zangamon, with sudden understanding, once more advanced toward him as he sat there by the girl.

  “O master! You mean the ancient man? He is dead?”

  Stern nodded.

  “Yes,” he answered. “He was so old and weak, the touch of the fire in the sky—he could not bear it. But his death was happy, for at least he felt its warmth upon his brow!”

  The Merucaans kept silence for a moment, then Stern heard them murmuring together, and a vague uneasiness crept over him.

  He strove, however, to put it away; though in his heart the shame of the lie he had been forced to tell would not be quieted.

  The colonists, however, made no further speech, but presently rolled the rock in front of the cave entrance, then wrapped themselves in their long cloaks and lay down by the fire.

  Soon, like the healthy savages they were, they were fast asleep, with vigorous snorings.

  Thus the night passed, while Stern kept watch over the girl; and another day crept slowly up the sky, and in the cave now rested four human beings—the vanguard of the coming nation.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE DISTANT MENACE

  Stern never knew when he, too, drifted off to sleep; but he awoke to find Zangamon sitting beside him, with his cloak drawn over his head, while Beatrice and Bremilu still slept.

  “The light, master—it is like knives to me! Like spears to my eyes, master! I cannot bear it!” whispered the Merucaan, pointing to where, around the interstices of the doorway, bright white gleams were streaming in.

  Allan considered with perplexity.

  “It hurts, you say?”

  “Yes, Kromno! Once or twice I have tried to watch that strange fire, but I cannot. The pain is very great!”

  “Humph!” thought Allan. “This may be a more serious factor than I’ve reckoned on. These people are albinos. White hair and pink eyes—not a particle of protecting pigmentation. For thirty or so generations they’ve been subjected to nothing but torchlight. The actinic rays of the sun are infinitely more penetrating than anything they’ve ever known. It may take months, years even, to accustom them to sunlight!”

  And disquieting situations presented themselves to his mind. True, if it were necessary, the Folk could work and take the air only at night.

  They could fish, hunt and till the soil by star and moonlight, and sleep by day; but this was by no means the veritable reestablishment of a real, human civilization.

  Then an idea struck him.

  “The very thing!” cried he. “Once I can put it into effect, it will solve the question. And the second generation, at the outside, will be normal. They’ll ‘throw back’ to remote ancestry under changed conditions. In time, even if only a long time, all will yet be well!”

  But now immediate labors and difficult problems were pressi
ng. The future would have to look out for itself.

  Stern felt positive that to let the Merucaans out of the cave would not only blind them, but might also kill them outright as well.

  Their unprotected skins would inevitably burn to a blister under the rays of the sun, and they would in all probability die. So said he:

  “Listen, Zangamon! You must stay here till the dark comes again, which will not be very long. The woman and I will prepare another cave for your dwelling. When it is dark you can fish in the flowing water beneath. In the mean time we will bring you your accustomed food and your nets from the flying boat.

  “You must be patient. In a short time all things shall be as you wish, and you shall see the wonderful and beautiful world up into which I have brought you!”

  The man nodded, yet Stern clearly saw his face betrayed uneasiness, distrust and pain. In all fairness, the Merucaans’ first experience of the upper world had been enough to shake the faith even of a philosopher—how much more so that of simple and untaught barbarians!

  Terror, violence, slaughter and insecurity—these all had greeted the colonists; and now, in addition, they found the patriarch was dead. Above all, they were virtually prisoners in this gloomy cavern of the rock.

  But Stern was very wise. He by no means thought of commiserating or excusing. His only course was to make light of trials and hardships, and, if need were, to command.

  He arose, carefully stopped up the chinks around the rock at the doorway, and bade Zangamon replenish the fire with dry sticks. Then, Bremilu awakening, they prepared food.

  Now Beatrice, too, awoke. Allan took her in his arms, unmindful of the newcomers, and there were words of love and joy, and self-reproaches, and a new faith plighted between them once again.

  She was unharmed, except for a few bruises and scratches. Her nerves had already recovered something of their usual strength. But at sight of Allan’s bandaged arni she turned pale, and not even his assurances could comfort her.

  They talked of the terrible adventure.

  “It was all my fault, Allan—every bit my fault!” she exclaimed remorsefully. “It all came from my not obeying orders. You see, I was expecting you last night. Instead of staying in the cave, with the door barricaded, I lingered on the terrace, after having piled the signal-fire high with wood.