gns.throwback-第21部分

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efuge　in　a　deep　hole；　and　as　a　result　he　was　now　cast　into　another　one。　If　he　had　been　above　ground　at　the　time　then　he　would　now　be　one　of　them。　Holy　Mother！
　　
　　The　evening　shadows　began　to　darken　the　bottom　of　the　pit；　Phil　Winder's　body　temperature　lowering　so　that　he　shivered。　It　was　going　to　be　bloody　cold　in　here　tonight。
　　
　　But　it　was　the　thought　of　tomorrow　that　worried　him　most　as　he　gradually　slipped　into　an　uneasy　doze。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　NINE
　　
　　JON　QUINN　had　not　told　Sylvia　what　had　happened　down　at　Gwyther's　farm。　There　was　nothing　to　be　gained　by　telling　her；　the　countryside　around　them　seethed　with　horror。　She　would　find　out　soon　enough　what　was　going　on。
　　
　　'Don't　you　think　you　ought　to　try　and　contact　somebody？'　she　asked　him　the　next　morning；　chewed　on　a　spoonful　of　muesli　with　obvious　disdain。　'I　mean；　we　can't　go　on　living　like　this　week　in；　week　out；　can　we？　There　are　bound　to　be　others　like　ourselves　somewhere。　Why　don't　we　go　into　the　village　and　fill　the　Land　Rover　up　from　that　hand…pump　like　you　suggested？'
　　
　　Tomorrow。'　He　avoided　her　gaze。　'I　want　to　spend　today　lugging　firewood。　We're　going　to　need　every　stick　we　can　find。'
　　
　　'But　just　how　long　do　you　think　we're　going　to　have　to　stay　here？'　She　dropped　her　spoon　into　her　bowl。　The　way　you're　talking　we're　going　to　be　here　forever！'
　　
　　That's　a　strong　possibility。　If　Gwyther　was　a　typical　specimen　of　what　mankind　has　reverted　to　then　we're　going　to　be　holed　up　here　for　the　rest　of　our　lives　like　a　pair　of　rabbits　down　a　warren　with　a　hungry　fox's　earth　right　on　top　of　us。
　　
　　'Well？'　Sylvia　was　insistent。　'If　you　won't　do　something　positive　then　/will。　I'll　take　the　Land　Rover　myself。　And　I　might　not　e　back！'
　　
　　You　probably　wouldn't。　He　sighed。　Damn　her；　if　only　Jackie　was　here　instead。
　　
　　'OK；　we'll　go　to　the　village　tomorrow；'　he　told　her；　'but　today　I　want　to　get　some　wood　in。　Also　I　want　to　see　if　I　can　round　up　those　nanny　goats。'
　　
　　'Another　boring　day　for　me　loafing　around　the　house；'　she　groaned。　'And　if　I　don't　get　a　proper　meal　soon　I'll　waste　away。　I　might　even　die　of　starvation。'
　　
　　'Once　we've　got　wood　we　can　cook。　I'll　maybe　shoot　a　rabbit　or　something；　and　I　guess　we　may　as　well　start　eating　the　vegetables。　We'll　have　to　risk　contamination　sometime　but　personally　I　think　we'll　be　OK。　It's　certainly　not　radioactive　fall…out。'　We　just　might　end　up　like　old　Bill　Gwyther　instead！
　　
　　'You　haven't　told　me　what　happened　at　Gwyther's　farm？'　She　asked　the　question　pointedly　now。　Don't　lie　to　me；　Jon；　because　I　can　tell　that　something　was　dreadfully　wrong　there。　You　can't　hide　it　from　me。
　　
　　'Much　the　same　as　here。'　He　did　his　best　to　meet　her　gaze。　The　animals　had　gone　wild；　broken　out。　Old　Bill's　gone；　too；　I　guess。'　He　had　that；　Jon　Quinn　felt　his　stomach　churn；　relived　that　awful　moment　when　Gwyther's　head　had　exploded　like　a　ripe　tomato　thrown　at　a　wall。　I'll　go　and　make　a　start　on　the　wood。'　He　scraped　his　chair　back。　Then　tomorrow　we'll　go　down　to　the　village。'
　　
　　She　accepted　his　decision　reluctantly　and　he　went　outside。　Tomorrow　they　would　definitely　be　going　into　the　village。
　　
　　He　walked　across　to　the　tractor；　an　old　Ferguson　which　had　seen　better　days　back　in　the　sixties。　Rusted　and　battered　it　had　given　him　good　service。　Today　was　probably　its　most　important　day　since　it　came　off　the　assembly　line。
　　
　　The　trailer　was　hitched；　he　climbed　up　into　the　seat。　The　engine　fired　first　time；　belched　thick　black　oily　smoke　out　of　its　upright　exhaust。　He　revved　the　engine；　thought　about　the　shotgun　in　the　porch。　Maybe　he　should　take　it。　No；　he　would　not　be　gone　long；　he　could　pick　it　up　for　the　next　trip　if　necessary。　If　he　went　back　for　it　now　it　might　alarm　Sylvia　still　further。　She　was　getting　to　be　a　real　pain　in　the　arse；　there　were　going　to　be　problems　with　her　shortly。　I'm　bored。　I　don't　like　the　food　here。　I'm　lonely。　That　was　the　difference　between　a　wife　and　a　mistress。　The　latter　you　mostly　saw　the　good　side　of　because　you　didn't　have　to　live　with　her；　the　former　was　the　devil　you　knew　and　you　could　promise　with。　Except　that　he　hadn't　promised　with　Jackie。
　　
　　There　was　a　lump　in　his　throat　as　he　pulled　out　of　the　yard　on　to　the　rutted　track。　Oh　God；　Jackie；　if　only　you　were　here。　But　she　wasn't　and　she　wouldn't　be　returning。　That　was　something　he　had　to　face　up　to。
　　
　　He　headed　for　that　strip　of　pinewoods　where　the　poultry　had　been　perching。　Beyond　it　was　a　tract　of　silver　birch；　part　of　the　Winders'　farm。　Scrub　that　was　no　good　to　anybody；　not　even　a　useful　shelter　belt。　Winder　had　told　him　months　ago　to　help　himself　to　any　wood　he　wanted　out　of　it　because　he　was　going　to　get　some　contractors　in　to　clear　it　and　plough　it。　Jon　hadn't　had　time　to　bother　up　until　today。　Now　he　could　have　taken　wood　from　anywhere　he　chose　and　it　wouldn't　have　mattered　a　damn　but　he　still　thought　of　it　as　stealing。　Maybe　in　a　few　weeks　he　would　have　got　over　that　psychological　hurdle　but　for　the　moment　he　would　cut　his　firewood　legitimately。　Live　for　today　because　there　might　be　no　tomorrow。　That　was　a　very　strong　possibility。
　　
　　He　skirted　the　tall　pines；　slowed　up　and　tried　to　look　up　into　their　branches　but　the　dark　green　foliage　was　too　dense　to　afford　him　a　proper　view。　He　didn't　have　time　to　go　and　see　if　the　hens　were　still　up　in　the　branches。　In　a　far　corner　of　the　adjoining　field　he　spied　the　nanny　goats　browsing　the　hawthorn　hedge。　Later　he　would　try　and　catch　Rosie；　maybe　milk　her　by　force　if　necessary。　The　longer　he　left　it；　the　more　difficult　it　would　be。
　　
　　The　strip　of　scrub　was　an　untidy　two　or　three　acres；　silver…birch　which　had　reached　their　allotted　span　of　a　half　century；　died；　rotted；　and　conceded　to　the　gales。　Trunks　lay　half　buried　in　the　bracken；　an　hour　or　so　with　the　chainsaw　and　he　would　fill　the　trailer。　Two　or　three　trips　would　last　them　up　until　Christmas　at　least。
　　
　　He　swung　round　in　a　half…circle；　backed　the　trailer　up　as　near　to　the　spinney　as　he　could；　switched　off　the　engine。　He　sat　there　listening。　A　wood…pigeon　was　cooing　softly　in　the　tall　pines；　a　peaceful　summer　sound　that　transcended　anything　mankind　did。　A　bird　that　was　at　peace　with　the　world。　Some　distance　away　a　carrion　crow　was　calling；　magpies　answering　with　their　harsh　ratchet　noises；　corvines　conversing　over　what　had　befallen　Man？
　　
　　Jon　climbed　down；　lifted　the　chainsaw　out　of　the　trailer；　so　many　windblown　trees　that　it　was　a　job　to　know　where　to　start。　Even　as　he　grasped　the　cord；　was　about　to　jerk　the　saw　into　life；　something　caught　his　eye；　made　him　hesitate。　A　patch　of　white　showing　starkly　through　the　green　fronds　of　bracken；　artificiality　spoiling　the　natural　scenery。
　　
　　He　almost　ignored　it。　It　could　have　been　an　empty　plastic　fertiliser　bag　blown　off　Winder's　fields　（damn　the　man；　he　would　never　understand　that　he　was　polluting　the　environment　with　his　chemicals）。　Or　a　discarded　bedsheet　dumped　by　selfish　Jitterbugs。　Or　。。。　he　didn't　have　to　go　and　see；　it　wasn't　even　his　wood；　but　he　found　himself　laying　down　the　chainsaw　and　walking　in　that　direction。　A　hunch；　a　very　uneasy　one。
　　
　　Realisation　came　slowly　because　it　took　him　several　seconds　to　identify　the　remains　of　the　dead　animal。　His　first　thought　was　that　it　was　a　ewe　that　had　wandered　in　here；　got　caught　up　in　the　briars　and　died。　But　the　fleece　was　not　woolly　enough；　the　patchy　white　hairs　coarse　and　strong。　A　broken　neck　had　twisted　the　head　round　at　an　unnatural　angle　so　that　the　empty　eye　sockets　watched　him。　Skeletal；　just　the　hide　remaining；　the　scavengers　had　done　their　task　well。
　　
　　Those　magpies　were　still　telling　the　crow　all　about　it；　how　they　had　feasted　from　first　light　to　dusk；　and　then　the　foxes　had　e　and　taken　over；　rats；　too。　Now　the　meat　was　all　gone。
　　
　　Long　curved　horns。　Jon　tried　to　tell　himself　that　it　was　a　ram；　lied　to　try　and　avoid　accepting　the　fact　that　what　was　left　of　the　carcass　was　indisputably　goat。　Billy　goat。　Gilbert。'
　　
　　He　wished　again　that　he'd　brought　the　shotgun。　Damn　it；　he's　dead；　he　can't　hurt　you　now。　No；　but　whatever　killed　him　might　still　be　around；　lurking　in　the　undergrowth；　creeping　up　on　you　。　。　。
　　
　　He　glanced　back　to　where　he　had　left　the　chainsaw；　began　edging　towards　it。　A　hellish　weapon　in　the　right　hands。　Pull　yourself　together；　Gilbert　was　probably　killed　soon　after　we　last　saw　him；　jumped　by　that　dog　of　Gwyther's　in　the　same　way　that　it　killed　the　calf。　It　ran　before　and　it'll　run　again；　like　a　desert　jackal。　It　won't　attack　a　human。
　　
　　All　the　same　he　fetched　the　saw；　kicked　it　into　life　and　began　cutting　up　a　thick　trunk；　a　deafening　whine　that　showered　sawdust　everywhere。　Chainsaws　were　noisy　things；　they　let　all　and　sundry　know　exactly　where　you　were　。　。　。　and　you　wouldn't　hear　if　anything　crept　up　on　you。
　　
　　Nervous；　working　fast；　wanting　to　get　the　job　over　and　done　with。　But　you're　ing　back　for　another　load。　And　a　third。
　　
　　Within　an　hour　the　trailer　was　full　of　neatly　sawn　cylindrical　birch　trunk。　He　climbed　back　up　to　the　wheel；　started　on　the　bumpy　journey　back　home。