gns.throwback-第16章

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dutch　barn　which　still　had　a　few　bales　of　last　year's　hay　in　it　and　。。。　oh　Christ；　it　wasn't　really　them　。　。　。　was　it？　No；　for　fuck's　sake；　you　aren't　my　parents！
　　
　　His　logic　tried　to　throw　out　all　sorts　of　answers；　tried　to　make　him　believe　them。　A　couple　of　tramps；　filthy　dirty　and　with　no　clothes；　they'd　hidden　in　the　barn。　But　these　weren't　tramps。　Facially　they　resembled　his　mother　and　father；　the　man　looking　like　his　pubic　hair　had　run　riot　and　grown　a　widening　path　right　up　to　his　stubble　of　a　beard。　Instead　of　the　old…fashioned　short　back　and　sides　his　hair　curled　greasily　down　to　his　shoulders。　Phil　kept　his　eyes　elevated；　it　was　too　embarrassing　to　look　below　the　waistline　of　your　own　father。
　　
　　On　to　his　mother：　she　had　lost　her　false　teeth　so　that　her　cheeks　were　hollowed；　her　mouth　shrunken。　Again　an　excess　of　hair　but　it　was　not　so　prolific　on　her　body　as　on　her　husband's。　Unsightly　baggy　breasts　that　sagged　with　age；　a　roll　of　waistline　fat　that　she　had　hidden　from　him　for　years　with　a　pair　of　corsets。　A　V　of　hair；　he　jerked　his　head　away；　saw　their　expressions　of　fear；　the　way　they　backed　away　from　him。　It　was　them。
　　
　　'Father；　mother。'　He　whispered　the　words；　tried　to　will　them　to　shout　back；　'We're　not　your　father　and　mother。'　They　huddled　together　pathetically；　whined　like　a　pair　of　collies　that　knew　they　were　in　for　a　good　larruping。　For　maybe　ten　seconds　parents　and　offspring　stared　at　one　another　and　then　with　a　shrill　shriek　the　two　hideous　caricatures　broke　into　a　shuffling　flight；　scrambling　over　hay　bales；　dragging　each　other　in　turn；　out　through　the　other　end　of　the　bay　and　into　the　fields。
　　
　　Phil　Winder　stood　and　watched　them　go。　He　did　not　pursue　them　because　he　did　not　want　to　catch　up　with　them　again；　did　not　want　to　have　to　look　upon　their　wizened　animal…like　faces　and　have　to　convince　himself　once　more　that　they　were　his　parents。
　　
　　He　didn't　need　any　more　convincing；　didn't　look　for　reasons；　accepted　that　some　terrible　change　had　e　over　everybody　and　everything。　Except　himself？　Fearfully　he　smoothed　his　hands　down　his　body；　felt　at　his　skin。　He　seemed　OK。

　　
　　It　was　a　long　time　before　he　finally　plucked　up　the　courage　to　go　into　the　house；　kicked　open　the　back　door　and　almost　shouted　'Is　anybody　there？'　Of　course　there　was　nobody　there。　Then　the　stench　hit　him；　a　foul　putrefying　odour　that　would　have　had　him　spewing　if　he　hadn't　had　an　empty　stomach。　He　retched　and　it　hurt；　recognised　the　smell　even　before　he　saw　the　mess　on　the　red　quarry　tiles；　patches　of　semi…solid　excreta　crawling　with　bluebottles。　They　lifted；　settled　again　almost　immediately；　fed　ravenously。
　　
　　They've　shit　on　the　floor；　a　voice　inside　him　gasped　and　he　wanted　to　cry。　Oh　Jesus；　who's　done　this　to　my　folks？
　　
　　Apart　from　that　the　house　was　much　the　same　as　it　always　was；　working…class　tidiness　reminiscent　of　his　mother's　upbringing　in　a　farm　labourer's　cottage　in　the　days　when　people　really　were　poor。　He　checked　himself　in　the　mirror；　didn't　really　care　now　whether　anything　had　happened　to　him　or　not。　Physically　he　looked　the　same。　But　I'm　going　slowly　fucking　mad。
　　
　　Looking　back　he　could　not　really　remember　how　he　had　passed　the　rest　of　that　awful　day。　He　had　shovelled　up　the　mess　on　the　kitchen　floor；　thrown　it　out　into　the　yard　and　the　flies　had　followed　it。　After　that　he　had　just　sat　about；　lying　to　himself　that　his　mother　and　father　would　be　back　later　and　everything　would　be　all　right。
　　
　　But　they　did　not　return　and　everything　wasn't　all　right。　Dusk　merged　into　darkness　and　he　still　sat　there　in　the　old　wooden　rocking　chair　by　the　dead　Rayburn。　He　was　still　there　in　the　morning　when　the　sun's　rays　gently　eased　him　awake　and　everything　came　flooding　back　to　him。　I'm　glad　I　don't　believe　in　you；　God；　because　you　wouldn't　have　let　this　happen。　He　ate　a　tin　of　cold　beans　and　cut　his　finger　opening　the　can　so　that　he　spottled　blood　on　the　working　surface。　Eventually　he　stopped　bleeding　and　made　himself　some　coffee；　tried　to　work　out　what　he　was　going　to　do。
　　
　　He　needed　help；　he'd　take　the　pick…up　into　the　village　and　tell　the　police。　The　police　always　knew　what　to　do；　didn't　get　in　a　flap。　His　mind　made　up；　he　went　outside；　noted　absent…mindedly　that　it　was　going　to　be　another　scorcher。　He　had　pletely　forgotten　about　his　experiences　below　ground；　this　was　far　more　terrifying。
　　
　　As　he　drove　into　the　village　he　knew　right　away　he　wasn't　going　to　get　any　help…because　there　wasn't　anybody　here　to　help　him。　Like　a　trained　burglar　sussing　out　prospective　houses　he　could　tell　that　every　one　was　empty；　whether　the　front　doors　hung　open　or　not。
　　
　　He　might　have　been　a　century　too　late；　the　inhabitants　dead　and　gone。　A　cat　jumped　off　a　stone　wall　and　fled　at　his　approach。　A　mongrel　dog　barked　at　him　from　a　distance　then　turned　and　ran　with　its　tail　between　its　legs。　Apart　from　that　there　was　no　sign　of　life。
　　
　　He　pulled　up　by　the　triangle　of　rough　unmown　grass　that　was　fondly　termed　'the　Green'　and　saw　at　a　glance　that　the　telephone　in　the　kiosk　had　been　vandalised；　the　receiver　and　dialling　mechanism　were　torn　away；　left　smashed　and　bent　on　the　floor。
　　
　　He　sighed　his　despair；　glanced　at　the　Mazda's　petrol　gauge。　Almost　empty；　just　about　enough　juice　to　get　him　back　to　the　farm。　And　he　was　only　going　back　there　because　it　had　once　been　his　home。
　　
　　He　made　it　to　the　yard　gates　before　the　engine　stuttered　and　died；　free…wheeled　the　last　few　yards。　It　was　only　later　that　he　asked　himself　why　he　hadn't　tried　some　of　those　parked　cars　in　the　village；　almost　surely　he　would　have　found　one　with　the　keys　in　and　some　petrol　in　the　tank。　But　he　hadn't　and　that　was　that。　He　wasn't　going　back　there　again。
　　
　　Days　stretched　into　weeks　and　still　he　hung　around　the　farm　doing　nothing。　When　the　fridge　was　empty　he　started　on　the　freezer；　the　generator　out　by　the　buildings　would　keep　it　going　for　some　time　yet　because　it　was　not　running　anything　else。　When　he　ran　out　of　food　he　would　think　of　something　but　not　until。　His　parents　would　not　be　ing　back；　the　sheep　were　still　in　the　barley　and　there　wasn't　a　goddamned　thing　he　could　do　about　it。　For　the　time　being　he　would　sit　it　out。
　　
　　The　initial　terror　had　numbed　him　but　gradually　it　was　wearing　off。　Acceptance　came　in　stages　but　reasoning　was　a　different　matter。　The　eternal　'why'。　Why　had　everybody　just　up　and　gone？　It　was　some　sort　of　nuclear　attack；　of　course。　He　had　escaped　because　he　had　been　down　the　mine　but　soon　radiation　would　take　its　toll　of　him。　When　he　felt　really　ill　and　started　throwing　up　he　would　know　that　he　had　radiation　sickness；　the　beginning　of　the　end。　Cancer；　really。　And　once　he　was　sure；　he　would　do　something　about　it；　he'd　read　somewhere　that　it　could　take　you　months；　even　years；　to　die　depending　upon　how　exposed　to　it　you　had　been。　He　wasn't　going　to　wait　and　suffer　that　long。
　　
　　What　he　needed　to　do；　he　decided；　was　to　get　away　from　this　place；　move　further　afield　and　maybe　meet　up　with　some　other　survivors…if　there　were　any。
　　
　　And　it　was　on　his　very　first　trek　beyond　the　boundary　stile　on　the　bridle…path　that　he　met　up　with　that　party　of　hunters　from　the　hills。　They　must　have　heard　him　ing；　had　lain　in　wait　for　him　along　that　overgrown　path；　some　of　them　up　in　the　trees　above。
　　
　　Something　hit　him。　Ape　actors　in　a　jungle　movie　ing　right　out　of　the　screen；　sending　him　sprawling；　surrounding　him；　jabbering。　Breathless；　he　looked　up；　found　the　twin　prongs　of　a　pitchfork　only　an　inch　or　so　from　his　throat。　He　tried　to　swallow　but　couldn't　make　it；　let　his　eyes　roll　because　he　couldn't　move　his　head。　There　were　a　lot　of　them；　maybe　twenty　or　more；　others　standing　just　outside　his　range　of　vision。　And　every　one　of　them　bore　a　strong　resemblance　to　how　his　parents　had　looked　the　last　time　he　had　seen　them。
　　
　　His　captors　forced　him　to　his　feet。　He　read　the　malevolence　in　their　expressions；　the　curiosity　as　they　fingered　his　clothing；　stroked　his　smooth　skin　with　their　rough　hands；　chattered　in　low　tones。　What　creature　is　this　with　soft　flesh　and　clothes　that　stifle　his　body？
　　
　　The　pitchfork　remained　at　Phil's　throat；　the　threat　of　impalement　more　real　than　ever。　They　pulled　his　hands　behind　his　back　and　he　felt　the　roughness　of　a　rope　beginning　to　bind　his　wrists；　pulled　tight；　thrown　around　his　arms　so　that　they　were　pinioned　to　his　body。　A　dog　on　a　leash；　being　dragged　along；　prodded　from　behind　with　those　devilish　prongs。
　　
　　He　didn't　know　where　they　were　taking　him；　didn't　care；　wished　he　had　died　of　radioactive　poisoning　or　anything　that　would　spare　him　this。　Wondering　if　his　parents　were　amongst　this　band　of　barely　human　beings；　claiming　their　son　for　their　own。　No；　they　wouldn't　see　him　treated　this　way。
　　
　　So　in　due　course　they　arrived　at　the　encampment　in　the　hills；　the　women　streaming　out　to　greet　them；　gazing　in　awe　at　the　live　prey　which　their　menfolk　had　brought　home　from　a　hunting　trip。
　　
　　Phil's　lips　were　blistered；　his　throat　crying　out　for　water。　A　blinding　thumping　headache　like　wild　horses　cantering　around　inside　his　brain。　Now　they　were　all　fingering　him；　ripping　at　his　shirt；　tearing　it　away　from　his　body；　pointing　in　amazement　at　the　hairless　flesh　beneath。
　　
　　Oh　God；　they　were　shredding　his　corduroy　trousers　now。　Embarrassment　mingled　with　his　terror；　his　natural　inhibitions　screaming　at　him　that　there　were　women　here。　Closing　his　eyes；　if　he　could　have　backed　away　he　would　have　when　they　began　feeling　at　his　flaccid　genitals　and　laughing　in　that　frightening　monkey…like　whickering；　squeezing　him　so　that　he　was　doubled　up　in　agony；　the　pain　stabbing　right　into　his　guts。
　　
　　A　grunted　mand　and　they　fell　back。　Kuz　has　demonstrated　his　prize　exhibit　and　now　there　was　work　to　be　done。　Phil　Winder　opened　his　eyes；　saw　the　female　who　was　obviously　their　leader's　woman　by　the　way　she　stood　close　to　him。　By　any　standards　she　was　beautiful；　her　features　still　retaining　a　civilised　look　about　them。　Her　gaze　centred　on　the　prisoner　for　a　second　and　in　her　eyes　Phil　read　passion；　pity。　If　I　had　my　way　you　would　be　set　free。　You　have　done　us　no　harm。　But　I　dare　not　speak　out。
　　
　　A　guttural　snarl　from　Kuz　and　those　behind　Phil　began　pushing　him　forward　again；　digging　the　points　of　the　pitchfork　into　his　buttocks　so　that　he　gasped　with　pain。　It　was　difficult　to　walk；　the　remnants　of　his　trousers　having　fallen　to　his　ankles　and　restricting　his　movements。　Yet　he　had　to　keep　moving　for　at　the　slightest　hesitation　his　nearest　captor　jabbed　him　again；　gave　vent　to　sadistic　delight　by　sucking　in　his　breath　and　expelling　it　noisily　every　time　he　thrust　with　the　pitchfork。
　　
　　Through　the　cluster　of　buildings；　along　a　hard…trodden　track　which　was　these　people's　main　village　street；　crude　stone　dwellings　constructed　of　uneven　stones　giving　them　an　unstable　look；　the　roofs　cut　tree　boughs　with　heavy　boulders　preventing　the　elements　from　dislodging　them。　So　primitive　but　none　the　less　effective。
　　
　　Winder　did　not　see　the　hole　in　the　ground　until　he　was　a　yard　or　two　from　it；　a　huge　yawning　grave　with　a　rickety　ladder　protruding　from　it。　The　sweat