gns.throwback-第43部分

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ome　antibiotics；　inject　all　that　lot　up　in　the　environment　pound。　Right　now　I　can't　think　of　anything　else。'
　　
　　They　took　the　Land　Rover　again。　The　blizzard　had　increased　to　gale　force；　restricted　visibility　to　less　than　fifteen　yards。　The　snow　was　beginning　to　drift　and　several　times　they　had　wheel…spin　but　they　scarcely　noticed　it。
　　
　　The　same　sentry　unlocked　the　gate；　climbed　on　the　tailboard。　It　wasn't　going　to　be　easy　injecting　a　crowd　of　primitive　men　and　women　who　had　a　terror　of　civilisation。
　　
　　Reitze　drove　right　up　to　the　hut；　parked　the　Land　Rover　across　the　entrance　and　killed　the　engine。
　　
　　'Jesus　H。　Christ！'　was　all　he　said。
　　
　　His　panions　stared　where　he　was　looking。　There　was　limited　vision　through　the　driving　white　flakes　but　it　was　enough。　More　than　enough。
　　
　　Newman　wanted　to　say　'Maybe　they're　just　sleeping；　huddled　together　for　warmth。'　It　would　have　been　a　pointless　lie。　The　soldier　had　jumped　down　from　the　rear；　was　pressed　up　against　the　side　of　the　vehicle；　his　rifle　still　slung　on　his　shoulder　because　he　wouldn't　be　needing　it。
　　
　　Two　of　the　hut's　occupants　squatted　against　the　far　walls；　heads　forward；　nodding　as　though　they　were　on　the　verge　of　slumber。　They　did　nof　look　up　even　though　they　had　surely　heard　the　Land　Rover's　approach。　Two　children　lay　just　inside；　arms　entwined　around　each　other。
　　
　　The　rest　were　strewn　across　the　entire　floor　space；　lying　in　various　poses；　some　on　their　backs；　others　face　upwards。　Not　moving。
　　
　　The　snow　was　cutting　a　virgin　white　path　inside　as　far　as　the　centre；　creating　a　fluffy　shroud　which　was　fast　covering　the　bodies　in　the　foreground。　Maybe　in　a　few　hours　it　would　fill　the　whole　shed；　hide　the　horror　of　it　all。　Nature's　final　apology　before　the　world　died。
　　
　　Reitze　pushed　the　starter…button；　began　to　reverse　back　out　into　the　paddock。
　　
　　Test　Number　Three　was　conclusive　enough　without　further　examination　of　the　specimens…the　new　virus　was　fatal　within　a　matter　of　hours*。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TWENTY…ONE
　　
　　THE　THROWBACKS　would　not　be　attacking　again；　Jon　Quinn　was　optimistic　about　that。　They　would　not　face　guns；　they　had　learned　their　lesson。
　　
　　He　had　spent　the　remainder　of　that　awful　night　at　the　bedroom　window；　but　there　had　been　no　sign　of　the　enemy　out　there　in　the　darkness。　They　had　withdrawn；　were　doubtless　watching　from　the　hills　around。　But　they　had　no　answer　to　the　sudden　death　that　firearms　were　capable　of。　They　would　not　risk　another　raid；　would　rely　on　stealth；　maybe　an　ambush　if　they　got　the　chance。
　　
　　Dawn　came　gradually；　a　slow　greyness；　a　creeping　hill…fog　that　reduced　visibility　to　a　few　yards。　He　could　make　out　the　gate；　the　tall　hedge　that　bordered　the　lane；　but　only　because　he　knew　what　and　where　they　were。　Detail　was　obscured　in　a　still　damp　world。　If　you　listened　hard　enough　you　heard　the。　steady　dripping　of　condensation。　Not　even　the　harsh　squawking　of　a　crow　in　the　fir　spinney。　Nothing。
　　
　　Sylvia　was　sleeping　heavily。　He　bent　over　her；　for　one　awful　moment　thought　she　had　stopped　breathing。　Her　breasts　scarcely　rose　and　fell。　A　bination　of　shock　and　exhaustion。　She　would　probably　sleep　the　clock　round。
　　
　　As　he　turned　away　from　the　bed　an　awful　feeling　of　loneliness　assailed　him。　He　didn't　even　have　Sylvia　any　more。　Physically　she　was　here　in　the　cottage　but　her　love；　her　thoughts；　were　out　there　up　in　the　hills。　Eric　Atkinson　was　a　terrible　sight　to　behold　but　everything　in　her　had　gone　back　to　him。　She　might　even　go　to　him　now　and　if　that　was　her　wish　then　he　would　let　her　go。　There　was　no　point　in　trying　to　stop　her。
　　
　　Another　awful　thought；　out　there　in　the　yard　were　three　dead　bodies。
　　
　　Murderer！
　　
　　He　winced；　did　not　even　try　to　convince　his　conscience　that　it　was　self…defence；　that　he　had　shot　them　to　save　Sylvia；　just　accepted　that　he　had　killed　them。　The　corpses　had　to　be　buried；　there　was　no　question　about　that；　and　there　was　only　one　person　to　do　it。　It　was　a　task　that　could　not　be　delayed；
　　
　　He　went　downstairs　and　outside；　took　the　gun　with　him。　The　sooner　he　got　it　done；　the　better。　Funerals　were　therapy；　a　sort　of　climax　to　grief；　and　once　they　were　over　and　done　with　time　could　begin　to　heal；　perhaps　his　conscience　would　be　easier　when　the　dead　were　below　ground。
　　
　　The　cultivation　patch　was　the　obvious　choice；　the　soil　there　was　soft　and　the　digging　would　be　relatively　easy。　AH　the　same；　it　would　take　him　most　of　the　day。
　　
　　He　fetched　a　spade　from　the　outbuilding　and　propping　the　loaded　shotgun　up　against　the　fence　he　began　marking　out　the　first　oblong。　He　would　not　need　to　cultivate　the　whole　area　again；　all　he　would　need　would　be　a　few　rows　of　essential　basic　crops　for　himself　（Sylvia　would　not　be　here　then）。　He　might　not　even　bother　to　grow　vegetables　again。　He　wasn't　thinking　positively　any　more。
　　
　　The　digging　was　soft　and　easy；　rhythmic　motions；　taking　his　time；　piling　up　a　mound　of　soil；　some　of　it　sliding　back　into　the　shallow　rectangular　hole。
　　
　　The　fog　had　rolled　back　as　far　as　the　base　of　the　steep　hillside。　Every　so　often　he　paused　and　glanced　around　but　there　was　no　sign　of　anybody。　The　throwbacks　had　returned　to　the　hills；　maybe　now　they　would　leave　him　alone。
　　
　　His　eyes　smarted　with　tears　that　would　not　e；　he　could　not　remember　the　last　time　he　had　cried。　Probably　when　he　was　a　young　boy。　He　had　not　even　cried　when　his　parents　had　died　and　God　knows　he　had　tried　hard　enough。　Burning　grief　inside　him　that　could　not　escape；　knotting　him　up。　The　only　two　funerals　he　had　ever　attended。
　　
　　Morbid；　so　unnecessary。　A　grave　like　this　one　only　much；　much　deeper；　a　roll　of　artificial　grass　hiding　the　mound　of　earth　for　some　obscure　reason。　Civilisation　went　to　a　lot　of　needless　trouble。　A　coffin　that　had　cost　a　hundred　quid　in　those　days；　high…quality　polished　oak　that　would　only　rot　away　in　the　ground。　Pointless　in　the　extreme。
　　
　　His　mother's　wish　had　been　to　be　buried　in　the　same　grave　so　they　had　to　dig　it　all　out　again。　The　same　rigmarole；　plastic　grass　and　a　meaningless　ceremony　because　nobody　except　himself　really　cared。　That　night　he　had　almost　cried。　Almost；　but　not　quite。
　　
　　He　paused。　He　was　sweating　heavily。　The　sides　of　the　grave　were　up　to　his　thighs。　It　would　do；　it　would　have　to。　So　long　as　he　got　the　corpses　underground　that　was　all　that　mattered。　He　debated　going　and　fetching　one　of　them；　no；　he　would　dig　the　other　graves　first；　try　and　get　finished　before　dark。　Filling　them　in　would　not　take　long。
　　
　　He　worked　right　through　until　mid…afternoon。　The　fog　was　beginning　to　creep　in　again　and　he　could　only　just　make　out　the　outline　of　the　cottage。　Probably　Sylvia　still　slept。　He　wouldn't　be　long　now。
　　
　　There　was　no　way　Jon　could　carry　the　bodies　across　to　the　graves；　he　would　have　to　drag　them　by　the　legs；　unceremoniously。　Ignominious。　Like　the　time　he　had　buried　Nita；　the　old　milking　goat。　He　had　put　a　piece　of　rope　on　her　back　legs；　pulled　her　in　stages　out　of　the　shed；　across　the　yard　and　into　the　field。　He　would　have　to　do　the　same　now。
　　
　　He　took　the　nearest　first；　looped　the　rope　over　the　man's　ankles；　pulled　it　tight；　took　the　strain。　Stiff　and　resisting；　a　rigid　arm　being　caught　on　the　gatepost。　He　sweated；　had　to　go　and　free　it。　Damn　it；　the　eyes　had　e　open；　were　staring　balefully　at　him。
　　
　　Murderer！
　　
　　No；　I　didn't　want　to　kill　you；　please　believe　me。　I'm　sorry。　Oh　God；　I'm　sorry！
　　
　　It　took　him　ten　minutes　to　lug　the　corpse　to　the　graveside；　turned　his　head　away　as　he　fumbled　to　undo　the　knots。　Don't　look　at　me　please。　I'm　sorry。
　　
　　He　pushed；　the　corpse　slid；　took　a　small　avalanche　of　soil　and　stones　with　it；　fell　awkwardly；　face　downwards。　No；　I'm　not　going　down　there　to　turn　you　over。　It　doesn't　matter　anyway　because　you're　dead。
　　
　　Maybe　he　should　have　dug　deeper；　one　big　grave；　buried　all　three　together。　Funny　how　you　thought　of　these　things　when　it　was　too　late。
　　
　　It　was　dusk　by　the　time　he　had　all　three　of　them　in　their　graves；　took　the　spade　again　and　began　to　shovel　the　earth　back　in　with　dull　thumps。　Finality。　Dust　to　dust；　ashes　to　ashes。　The　Lord　has　given　and　the　Lord　has　taken　away；　He　could　hear　that　young　curate's　voice　at　his　mother's　graveside；　rushing　through　the　words　as　though　he　had　to　get　it　all　over　as　soon　as　possible。　Maybe　he　had　been　scared　too。　Secretly　everybody　was　frightened　of　death　because　no　matter　what　you　did　in　life　you　ended　up　like　this。　All　efforts　were　in　vain。
　　
　　He　finished；　smoothed　the　slight　mounds　over　with　the　flat　of　the　spade　and　stood　back。　It　was　almost　dark　now；　the　fog　seeming　to　have　melted　with　the　ing　of　night。　The　sweat　was　chilling　fast　on　his　body；　an　icy　shirt　clinging　damply　to　his　flesh。　It　felt　like　there　could　be　a　frost　tonight。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　retrieved　his　gun；　headed　back　to　the　cottage。　He　kicked　his　boots　off　in　the　porch；　went　inside　and　locked　the　door　behind　him。　Silence。　No　movement；　no　faint　glow　of　a　candle　burning。
　　
　　He　grabbed　a　storm　lantern；　lit　it　and　waited　for　the　flame　to　settle。　The　wic