gns.throwback-第23部分

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　　'I　guess　it's　the　same　for　everybody　else　maybe　the　whole　world　over；'　he　answered。　'You　just　have　to　learn　to　live　with　it。　We're　not　doing　so　bad　really。　Tomorrow　we'll　bring　those　calves　home。'
　　
　　'All　you　think　about　is　goats　and　calves　and　organic　food；'　she　sneered。　'I'm　beginning　to　believe　that　you　want　it　this　way；　Jon。　That's　why　Jackie　was　on　the　point　of　walking　out　on　you。　I　saw　a　play　once　on　the　telly；　this　guy　had　kidded　his　family　that　there　had　been　a　nuclear　attack；　had　kept　them　living　in　a　shelter　for　a　whole　fortnight；　even　removed　the　fuses　so　that　they　thought　the　electric　was　gone。'
　　
　　'We'll　go　to　the　village　tomorrow。'　Jesus；　he　hated　her　for　saying　that。　'And　then　you　can　see　for　yourself　that　I'm　not　conning　you。'
　　
　　A　strained　silence。　He　almost　considered　getting　up　and　going　downstairs；　sleeping　on　the　sofa　in　the　kitchen。　But　they　needed　each　other　whether　they　liked　it　or　not。　He　found　himself　thinking　about　Jackie　again；　a　kind　of　defence　mechanism　when　the　going　got　tough。　He　almost　laughed　aloud　when　he　became　aware　that　he　had　an　erection；　and　it　was　nothing　to　do　with　Sylvia　Atkinson。　If　she　had　rolled　over　towards　him　now　he　would　probably　have　softened　up；　turned　away。
　　
　　He　recalled　the　first　time　it　had　happened　with　himself　and　Jackie；　back　in　their　courting　days　when　life　was　nice　and　boring。　They　had　been　parked　up　in　a　field　gateway　one　autumn　night；　had　almost　been　scared　to　go　the　whole　way　but　eventually　they　had　gone　too　far　to　back　down。　Both　of　them　scared；　tense；　in　case　they　proved　to　be　a　disappointment　to　the　other。　Let's　fuck　and　get　it　over　with；　for　Christ's　sake。
　　
　　He　always　reckoned　that　she　had　faked　an　orgasm　that　night。　He'd　nearly　had　to　do　just　that　himself；　had　to　make　a　concerted　physical　effort　to　achieve　his　climax。　Hard　work　for　both　of　them。　That　was　what　marriage　was　all　about；　working　at　everything　to　make　it　work。　Crazy；　but　it　was　no　good　on　your　own。
　　
　　Sylvia　was　asleep；　he　could　tell　by　her　heavy　rhythmic　breathing。　He　started　to　feel　sorry　for　her。　Sooner　or　later　she　would　find　out　just　what　was　going　on　out　there　and　then　she'd　really　need　him。　It　might　serve　to　bring　them　together。
　　
　　Suddenly　he　was　aware　of　something　outside　the　workings　of　his　own　grasshopper　mind；　a　noise　that　infiltrated　his　fantasies；　wilted　his　erection。　A　distant　baying　sound；　rising　to　a　wailing　pitch；　so　that　it　vibrated　the　night　air　like　an　electric　storm；　brought　with　it　a　lowering　of　the　body　temperature　as　your　terror　began。　Dogs；　at　least　Jon　supposed　they　were　canine；　beasts　of　the　chase　running　down　their　prey　just　as　they　had　pursued　Gilbert；　pulled　him　down；　torn　the　flesh　from　the　goat's　bones　whilst　it　still　lived；　its　screams　growing　weaker　and　weaker　until　death　finally　released　it　from　its　agonies。　Then　silence。
　　
　　A　silence　that　revealed　a　far　more　insidious　noise；　one　that　was　closer　than　the　forest　on　the　skyline；　one　that　chilled　his　blood　almost　to　freezing　point。　He　stiffened；　listened　and　tried　to　relate　the　sounds　to　those　who　made　them。　Padding　bare　footsteps；　a　snuffling　of　breath　like　a　jungle　hunting　beast　trying　to　scent　its　prey。　A　metallic　click；　following　by　the　creaking　of　rusted　hinges；　the　shed　door　opening；　another　foray　amongst　the　tools　on　the　workbench。
　　
　　He　almost　got　out　of　bed；　went　to　the　window；　tried　to　see　these　creatures　of　the　night。　No；　he　didn't　want　to　see！　His　brain　conjured　up　a　vision　of　old　Gwyther；　those　mad　eyes；　the　killing　look。　Enough　to　drive　a　man　right　out　of　his　mind　because　they　had　no　right　to　exist　on　this　earth。
　　
　　Lying　there；　forced　to　listen；　trying　to　make　out　how　many　of　them　there　were。　It　was　impossible　to　tell；　a　bunch　of　them　certainly；　maybe　as　many　as　a　dozen。　Bestial　intruders。
　　
　　Another　click；　a　rattling：　the　latch　on　the　front　door。　Please；　Jesus；　no；　Jon　remembered　that　the　twelve…bore　was　still　down　in　the　porch；　cursed　himself　for　not　bringing　it　upstairs。　His　reaction　was　to　pull　the　sheets　up　over　his　head；　shut　himself　off　from　the　outside　world；　just　himself　and　Sylvia。　We　don't　belong　here；　they　won't　see　us；　won't　harm　us。
　　
　　They'll　kill　you　if　they　find　you。
　　
　　He　could　still　hear　them　at　the　door；　scraping　the　woodwork　with　ragged　fingernails　trying　to　find　some　way　in；　one　of　them　wheezing　as　though　he　had　asthma。　Sylvia　was　still　asleep；　thank　God。　If　they　got　inside　then　there　was　no　hope　for　either　of　them；　just　brutal　death。　Jon　wanted　to　clasp　his　hands　over　his　ears；　didn't　want　to　hear　them　when　they　came　up　the　stairs。
　　
　　And　suddenly　he　couldn't　hear　them　at　all；　no　stealthy　footfalls；　no　stertorous　breathing。　Total　silence。　Even　those　animals　up　in　the　forest　had　stopped　howling；　a　total　cessation　of　those　awful　nocturnal　activities。
　　
　　It　was　some　time　before　he　realised　that　those　semi…human　beings　had　gone。　He　lay　listening　but　there　were　no　further　sounds；　nothing　at　all。
　　
　　A　reprieve；　no　more。　They　had　discovered　this　place；　knew　that　survivors　were　hiding　out　there。
　　
　　And　sooner　or　later　they　would　return。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TEN
　　
　　ROD　SAVAGE　had　one　regret　and　that　was　the　fact　that　there　was　no　newspaper　still　running　which　could　print　his　feature　article。　When　one　is　a　leading　freelance　journalist；　and　has　managed　to　escape　from　a　London　seething　with　primitive　fury　and　death；　then　it　is　a　major　disaster　to　have　an　eye…witness　account　of　happenings　with　nowhere　to　publish　it。
　　
　　Tall　and　lean；　with　sparse　hair；　balding　faster　now　that　he　was　past　forty；　he　was　rarely　seen　without　a　pipe　in　his　mouth；　most　of　the　time　unlit；　the　tobacco　juice　in　the　bowl　bubbling　every　time　he　drew　on　it。　A　loner；　he　devoted　his　life　to　ing　up　with　unusual　and　sensational　articles；　acquiring　inside　information　which　had　on　more　than　one　occasion　raised　the　eyebrows　of　officialdom。
　　
　　Had　he　been　a　religious　man　he　would　have　been　convinced　that　God　had　spared　him　so　that　he　might　chronicle　events　which　had；　in　fact；　thrown　Britain　into　a　state　of　civil　war。　But　he　was　an　atheist　and　attributed　the　fact　that　he　had　been　spared　to　coincidence；　but　he　was　determined　to　capitalise　on　it。　One　day　things　had　to　return　to　some　kind　of　normality　and　when　that　happened　there　would　be　a　paper　somewhere　only　too　eager　to　publish　his　story。　He　might　even　stretch　it　into　a　book。
　　
　　Rod　Savage　had　no　permanent　residence　outside　his　cottage　in　Wales；　a　little　two…up；　two…down　stone　building　to　which　he　retired　at　infrequent　intervals。　Usually　he　rented　a　bedsit　or　small　flat　in　the　metropolis　on　a　six…month　lease　and　then　moved　on。　No　ties；　he　often　quoted；　was　the　secret　of　a　successful　journalist。
　　
　　The　basement　flat　in　Finchley　had　been　vacant　for　over　a　year；　which　was　hardly　surprising　when　one　viewed　its　state　of　dereliction。　The　landlord　was　biding　his　time；　waiting　for　the　flats　on　the　upper　storeys　to　be　vacated　by　their　dissatisfied　tenants　and　then　the　whole　building　would　be　renovated　and　put　on　the　market。　In　the　meantime　he　was　not　prepared　to　spend　money　on　either　repairs　or　decorations。　But　he　was　not　averse　to　letting　the　basement　on　a　weeky　basis　for　cash。
　　
　　Savage　had　wrinkled　his　nose　at　the　smell　of　damp；　noted　that　the　only　two　windows　had　been　broken　and　boarded　up　so　that　it　was　necessary　to　keep　the　electric　light　on　the　whole　time。　Unfit　for　human　habitation；　it　might　even　have　been　condemned　had　its　state　been　brought　to　the　notice　of　the　authorities；　but　the　rent　was　less　than　half　what　he　would　have　paid　elsewhere。　A　sleeping　bag　and　something　to　cook　on　were　all　that　Rod　Savage　required；　there　was　no　lease　involved　for　obvious　reasons　and　the　rent　was　paid　in　cash　on　a　Friday。　Convenient；　he　could　e　and　go　as　he　pleased；　did　not　even　have　to　give　notice　when　he　was　moving　on　elsewhere。
　　
　　A　month　later　he　went　down　with　flu。　Nothing　to　do　with　his　living　conditions；　damp　and　airless；　he　told　himself；　just　a　virus　he　had　picked　up；　possibly　on　the　crowded　undergrounds；　nothing　to　get　worried　about；　all　you　did　was　go　to　bed　and　let　the　fever　run　its　course。
　　
　　It　was　a　bad　attack　all　right；　several　days　of　feverishness；　lying　in　that　darkened　basement　flat；　followed　by　a　week　of　resting；　noting　a　gradual　improvement。　Once　he　had　almost　made　the　effort　to　go　outside　and　ask　somebody　to　call　a　doctor　but　he　didn't　because　he　had　no　faith　in　GPs。　All　they　did　was　to　pack　you　with　drugs　which　could　produce　very　nasty　side…effects。　He　also　had　a　fear　of　hospitals　and　some　well…meaning　doctor　might　order　him　to　be　removed　to　one。　He　would　fight　the　illness　his　own　way。
　　
　　So　he　just　sweated　it　out；　felt　his　strength　returning；　and　by　the　time　he　was　able　to　go　outside　the　city　was　caught　up　in　a　frenzy　of　destruction　and　looting；　tribal　warfare　that　went　back　at　least　four　thousand　years　to　the　days　when　London　was　no　more　than　a　cluster　of　stone…built　huts。
　　
　　Rod　Savage　began　to　piece　the　story　together　with　the　aid　of　his　transistor　and　CB　radio。　The　CB　had　served　him　well　in　the　past；　you　could　listen　in　to…all　kinds　of　conversations；