Two hours later, I was clear of the town, following the river bank west.
I kept having the idea that someone was following me. But when I
stopped to listen, there was never anything there; just the still, cold
night, and the frogs, singing away patiently in the low ground to the
south.
When the ground began to rise, I left the road and struck off across
the open field. I reached a wide street, followed it in a curve that
would bring me out at the foot of Ridge Avenue--my street. I could make
out the shapes of low, rambling houses now.
It had been the kind of residential section the local Junior Chamber
members had hoped to move into some day. Now the starlight that
filtered through the cloud cover showed me broken windows, doors that
sagged open, automobiles that squatted on flat, dead tires under
collapsing car shelters--and here and there a blackened, weed-grown
foundation, like a gap in a row of rotting teeth.
The neighborhood wasn't what it had been. How long had I been away? How
long...?
I fell down again, hard this time. It wasn't easy getting up. I seemed
to weigh a hell of a lot for a guy who hadn't been eating regularly. My
breathing was very fast and shallow now, and my skull was getting ready
to split and give birth to a live alligator--the ill-tempered kind.
It was only a few hundred yards more; but why the hell had I picked a
place halfway up a hill?
I heard the sound again--a crackle of dry grass. I got the pistol out
and stood flatfooted in the middle of the street, listening hard.
All I heard was my stomach growling. I took the pistol off cock and
started off again, stopped suddenly a couple of times to catch him
off-guard; nothing. I reached the corner of Ridge Avenue, started up
the slope. Behind me, a stick popped loudly.
I picked that moment to fall down again. Heaped leaves saved me from
another skinned knee. I rolled over against a low fieldstone wall and
propped myself against it. I had to use both hands to cock the pistol.
I stared into the dark, but all I could see were the little lights
whirling again. The pistol got heavy; I put it down, concentrated on
taking deep breaths and blinking away the fireflies.
I heard footsteps plainly, close by. I shook my head, accidentally
banged it against the stone behind me. That helped. I saw him, not over
twenty feet away, coming up the hill toward me, a black-haired man with
a full beard, dressed in odds and ends of rags and furs, gripping a
polished club with a leather thong.
I reached for the pistol, found only leaves, tried again, touched the
gun and knocked it away. I was still groping when I heard a scuffle of
feet. I swung around, saw a tall, wide figure with a mane of untrimmed
hair.
He hit the bearded man like a pro tackle taking out the practice dummy.
They went down together hard and rolled over in a flurry of dry leaves.
The cats were fighting over the mouse; that was my signal to leave
quietly.
I made one last grab for the gun, found it, got to my feet and
staggered off up the grade that seemed as steep now as penthouse rent.
And from down slope, I heard an engine gunned, the clash of a heavy
transmission that needed adjustment. A spotlight flickered, made
shadows dance.
I recognized a fancy wrought-iron fence fronting a vacant lot; that
had been the Adams house. Only half a block to go--but I was losing my
grip fast. I went down twice more, then gave up and started crawling.
The lights were all around now, brighter than ever. My head split open,
dropped off and rolled downhill.
A few more yards and I could let it all go. Ginny would put me in a
warm bed, patch up my scratches, and feed me soup. Ginny would ...
Ginny....
* * * * *
I was lying with my mouth full of dead leaves. I heard running feet,
yells. An engine idled noisily down the block.
I got my head up and found myself looking at chipped brickwork and the
heavy brass hinges from which my front gate had hung. The gate was gone
and there was a large chunk of brick missing. Some delivery truck had
missed his approach.
I got to my feet, took a couple of steps into deep shadow with feet
that felt as though they'd been amputated and welded back on at the
ankle. I stumbled, fetched up against something scaled over with rust.
I held on, blinked and made out the seeping flank of my brand new
'79 Pontiac. There was a crumbled crust of whitish glass lining the
bright-work strip that had framed the rear window.
A fire...?
A footstep sounded behind me, and I suddenly remembered several things,
none of them pleasant. I felt for my gun; it was gone. I moved back
along the side of the car, tried to hold on.
No use. My arms were like unsuccessful pie crust. I slid down among
dead leaves, sat listening to the steps coming closer. They stopped,
and through a dense fog that had sprung up suddenly I caught a glimpse
of a tall white-haired figure standing over me.
Then the fog closed in and swept everything away.
* * * * *
I lay on my back this time, looking across at the smoky yellow light of
a thick brown candle guttering in the draft from a glassless window.
In the center of the room, a few sticks of damp-looking wood heaped
on the cracked asphalt tiles burned with a grayish flame. A thin curl
of acrid smoke rose up to stir cobwebs festooned under ceiling beams
from which wood veneer had peeled away. Light alloy truss-work showed
beneath.
It was a strange scene, but not so strange that I didn't recognize
it: it was my own living room--looking a little different than when I
had seen it last. The odors were different, too; I picked out mildew,
badly-cured leather, damp wool, tobacco....
I turned my head. A yard from the rags I lay on, the white-haired man,
looking older than pharaoh, sat sleeping with his back against the wall.
The shotgun was gripped in one big, gnarled hand. His head was tilted
back, blue-veined eyelids shut. I sat up, and at my movement his eyes
opened.
He lay relaxed for a moment, as though life had to return from some
place far away. Then he raised his head. His face was hollow and lined.
His white hair was thin. A coarse-woven shirt hung loose across wide
shoulders that had been Herculean once. But now Hercules was old, old.
He looked at me expectantly.
"Who are you?" I said. "Why did you follow me? What happened to the
house? Where's my family? Who owns the bully-boys in green?" My jaw
hurt when I spoke. I put my hand up and felt it gingerly.
"You fell," the old man said, in a voice that rumbled like a
subterranean volcano.
"The understatement of the year, Pop." I tried to get up. Nausea
knotted my stomach.
"You have to rest," the old man said, looking concerned. "Before the
Baron's men come...." He paused, looking at me as though he expected me
to say something profound.
"I want to know where the people are that live here!" My yell came out
as weak as church-social punch. "A woman and a boy...."
He was shaking his head. "You have to do something quick. The soldiers
will come back, search every house--"
I sat up, ignoring the little men driving spikes into my skull. "I
don't give a damn about soldiers! Where's my family? What's happened?"
I reached out and gripped his arm. "How long was I down there? What
year is this?"
* * * * *
He only shook his head. "Come, eat some food. Then I can help you with
your plan."
It was no use talking to the old man; he was senile.
I got off the cot. Except for the dizziness and a feeling that my knees
were made of papier-mache, I was all right. I picked up the hand-formed
candle, stumbled into the hall.
It was a jumble of rubbish. I climbed through, pushed open the door to
my study. There was my desk, the tall bookcase with the glass doors,
the gray rug, the easy chair. Aside from a layer of dust and some
peeling wall paper, it looked normal. I flipped the switch. Nothing
happened.
"What is that charm?" the old man said behind me. He pointed to the
light switch.
"The power's off," I said. "Just habit."
He reached out and flipped the switch up, then down again. "It makes a
pleasing sound."
"Yeah." I picked up a book from the desk; it fell apart in my hands.
I went back into the hall, tried the bedroom door, looked in at heaped
leaves, the remains of broken furniture, an empty window frame. I went
on to the end of the hall and opened the door to the bedroom.
Cold night wind blew through a barricade of broken timbers. The roof
had fallen in, and a sixteen-inch tree trunk slanted through the
wreckage. The old man stood behind me, watching.
"Where is she, damn you?" I leaned against the door frame to swear and
fight off the faintness. "Where's my wife?"