gns.throwback-第35章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　'Are　you　absolutely　sure　they're　not　resilient？'　Rankine　was　clutching　at　straws。　'I　mean　。　。　。　you　could　be　wrong　。　。　。　couldn't　you。'
　　
　　Reitze　hoped　his　contempt　for　them　didn't　show。　You　lot　ballsed　it　up。　You　wouldn't　wait　for　my　tests。　Drive　'em　out　of　the　towns　into　the　wilds；　get　rid　of　'em。　We　don't　mean　'em　any　harm　because　they　are　our　people；　we　just　don't　want　'em　around。　Now　you're　shitting　yourselves　because　you　might've　got　rid　of　'em　for　good。　Please　help　us。　Professor；　or　else　we'll　blame　you。
　　
　　'I'm　not　wrong。'　Reitze's　voice　was　as　emotionless　as　ever。　'My　tests　have　proved　beyond　doubt　that　the　throw…backs　can't　stand　the　winter。'
　　
　　'Did　you　really　have　to　。。。　to　kill　those　few　to　prove　that？'　Caldecott's　eyebrows　knitted；　accusing。
　　
　　They　died。'　A　politician's　answer；　avoid　replying　to　a　direct　question。　'If　you　want　me　to　do　tests　then　there　are　bound　to　be　casualties。'
　　
　　The　Defence　Minister　and　the　Prime　Minister　exchanged　glances。　Both　were　uneasy。　They　gave　up　blaming　the　Americans；　looked　for　another　outlet；　there　weren't　many　left。
　　
　　'But　we've　got　to　do　something。'　Caldecott　spread　his　hands　in　despair。　'If　only　it　wasn't　winter。'
　　
　　There's　nothing　we　can　do。'　Reitze　took　his　time　selecting　and　lighting　a　Camel；　'The　way　the　snow's　blowing　up　right　now　we　won't　be　able　to　get　out　of　here　ourselves　before　long。　Even　if　we　could；　even　if　the　weather　was　mild；　it　would　be　an　impossibility　rounding　these　people　up　again。　They've　dispersed；　are　trying　to　adapt　to　a　new　environment。　Towns　and　cities　are　foreign　to　their　primitive　nature　so　no　way　will　they　be　ing　back。　We've　just　got　to　face　up　to　it…by　the　spring　there　won't　be　many　of　'em　left。'
　　
　　Silence。　The　battery　clock　on　the　wall　sounded　deafeningly　loud。　Time　was　everybody's　enemy　right　now。
　　
　　'What　about　these　。　。　。　these　latest　tests　you're　doing？'　Caldecott　asked　hesitantly。　'The　ones　in　the　。。。　outdoor　shelter。'
　　
　　'I've　just　e　back　from　there。'　Reitze　took　his　time　replying。　Damn　them；　they　would　ask　about　that。　There　was　no　point　in　lying；　the　truth　could　be　known　in　a　matter　of　hours。　Just　don't　try　blaming　me。　'We've　got　a　problem。'
　　
　　'What　sort　of　a　problem？'
　　
　　'At　the　moment　I'm　not　sure。　Newman　and　Barnes　are　conducting　tests　right　now　on　a　man　who　collapsed　less　than　an　hour　ago。　It　isn't　from　exposure　to　the　elements；　I'm　virtually　certain　of　that。'　'What　then？'
　　
　　'I'm　not　sure。　I'll　let　you　know　the　minute　I　am。'　That　should　break　the　meeting　up　if　anything　could。
　　
　　'All　right；'　Caldecott　nodded；　'we'll　be　waiting　to　hear　from　you；　Professor。　I　just　hope　it　isn't　bad　news。　It　seems　that　time　is　on　the　side　of　the　enemy　who　did　this　awful　thing　to　us。　They　have　only　to　sit　and　wait　and　within　a　matter　of　months　the　unpopulated　western　world　will　be　theirs　for　the　taking！　I　just　hope　you're　wrong。'
　　
　　'It's　bad。'　Brian　Newman's　features　were　devoid　of　colour。　He　sat　on　a　chair　in　the　corner　of　the　laboratory。　There　was　no　sign　of　Barnes　and　Reitze　didn't　ask　after　him。　On　the　operating　table　a　sheet　covered　the　body　of　the　man　they　had　brought　in　earlier。　There　was　no　movement　from　beneath　it　and　Reitze　did　not　enquire　if　he　was　dead　because　he　never　wasted　his　time　on　futile　questions。
　　
　　'How　bad？'　Don't　rush　him；　let　him　take　his　time　giving　the　facts。
　　
　　'A　virus；'　Newman　replied。　'An　off…shoot　of　the　microorganism　that　worked　on　the　skin　tissues；　doubtless。　It　affects　the　lungs　like　the　fastest　cancer　you've　ever　known　and　the　heart　can't　stand　the　strain。　Triggered　off　by　a　drop　in　body　temperature。　If　those　we　deep　froze　hadn't　died　so　quick　they'd've　got　it　almost　certainly。　Cold　and　wet　brings　it　on。　Whether　it　will　affect　every　single　one　of　the　millions　of　throwback　Britons　is　anybody's　guess；　but　I'd　say　you'd　have　to　be　bloody　lucky　to　survive　out　there。　Another　thing；　and　I'm　not　absolutely　sure　about　this；　but　I'd　say　it's　contagious。'
　　
　　The　hell　it　is！'　Reitze　instinctively　moved　back　a　pace。　'In　that　case　we'd　better　start　work　with　some　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　th