'Let's get back.' He turned away, let Sylvia lean her full weight on him. 'We can't do anything here.'
That was right enough. A week ago he would have reported the matter to the police, rung the hunt kennels to fetch the dead beast or else buried it himself, cried at a funeral that had cost him a hundred and fifty quid. But there were no police, no kennels, there couldn't be. So Nature would take over, the buzzards and ravens would strip the flesh, leave the bones to whiten in the sun, gradually sink out of sight into the mud. And that would be that.
Sylvia managed to stop herself from saying 'I can't go on any longer, Jon' because you did not have any choice except to go on. There was no alternative. Maybe those who had got caught by this holocaust were the fortunate ones, they weren't left to witness what had happened. But at that moment there was no way of knowing just what had happened to the rest of civilisation; she and Jon had only explored a few acres of the whole world. And what they had seen was enough.
The cottage looked forbidding, its windows frowning at them as they approached it. Go away, you don't belong here. You're aliens, freaks.
Jon kicked open the door, saw that the twelve-bore was still leaning up in the corner of the porch. It looked good, a piece of driftwood floating in reach of a drowning man. But it would not solve the overall problem.
'Well, I don't think there's any point in going back down to the cellar,' he said, peeling off his overalls.
Thank God for that.' She leaned back up against the wall as a wave of vertigo hit her. Exhaustion, despair, you couldn't go through the last few days and come out unscathed. 'I think I'd go stark raving mad if I just had to go down those steps once more.'
'Me, too,' he laughed. 'Except that most of our food's down there.'
That goat and that dog.' She closed her eyes. 'I'll have nightmares about them every night for the rest of my life. But they can't be the only animals that have gone wild, there must be thousands up and down the country, maybe over the whole world, just like they've never ever been domesticated.'
'That's something we've got to find out.' He went through into the kitchen, without thinking switched the electric kettle on. Almost before he realised what he had done they heard the element beginning to heat up. 'Hey, just listen to that, we've got electric!'
'Maybe not for long,' she replied. "Don't forget, it's not like a nuclear attack which knocks all power out. Things just grind to a halt. We'll either run out of power or else there'll be a fault and with nobody to repair it that'll be that.'
'I guess you're right.' He found some coffee and a tin of powdered milk. There was a stack of frozen goats* milk in the freezer but it would take time to unthaw a pint. 'Our first step is to try and find out what's happened elsewhere.'
'Maybe we should light a beacon on top of the hill or something. If the phone's still working we could ring a few numbers.'
'Not just yet.' He pursed his lips. 'I think it's best that we try and find out about fellow survivors before they find out about us. Don't forget, law and order will have gone to the winds. We're back to the jungle, survival of the fittest. There would be mobs on the rampage and we don't want to be taken unawares. The less they know about us, the better.'
'Surely we're safe enough right out here in the sticks.' She raised her eyebrows.
'Not necessarily. It could be that people have deserted the,towns, headed for wild places like this. That's something we just don't know, so we'll have to be on our guard until we find out.'
'So when do we make our first reconnaissance trip?' She watched him carefully, her expression determined. Don't try leaving me behind, Jon Quinn, because no way am I stopping here on my own. Not after what we've seen this morning.
'I'm going to take a ride across to Gwyther's place this afternoon,' he said. 'I'll use the Land Rover.'
'We are, you mean.'
'No.' He shook his head. 'I want you to lock the door after me, sit tight and don't open up until I get back. I won't be long and I'll be OK in the Land Rover, neither wild dogs nor goats can get at me. I'll take the gun too. When we start making trips further afield then we'll go together.' Damn it, it sounded lame. If it had been Jackie here instead he would have taken her because she would have adapted, been some help; he could have relied on her. Grit, that was what it amounted to. One girl had it, the other didn't. In bed it didn't matter much but when your back was to the wall you realised an awful lot of things, things you'd been blind to before, like why things had not worked out between himself and Jackie. They'd work out now but it was too late, she was gone for ever. A tinge of sadness almost had his eyes watering but with an effort he threw the feeling off. This was no time to start feeling sorry for himself. He had to fight all the way and now he could not let Sylvia down. In.effect these last few days he had been widowed and remarried. Sylvia was his mate, his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. And he wasn't going to risk her on the first trip out.
'We'd better get something to eat,' he smiled, and reached a tin down from the shelf. 'Sausalatas, vegetable protein sausages in brine. They're delicious cold.'
'I guess right now I don't fancy meat or poultry.' She managed a smile. 'In for a penny, in for a pound. I'll give the Jon Quinn diet a try. Starvers can't be choosers.'
Jon wasn't listening. In his mind he saw Bill Gwyther, small and wizened, never seen without his faded brown 'cow-gown', torn cap pulled well down over his eyes to shade them from the sun whether it was shining or not. Hollowed cheeks, retracted toothless gums that had hardened enough to hold a pipe. Bright blue eyes that sized you up and often discovered what you were thinking.
Patched Wellington boots that let the wet in, the tread worn down so that the soles were smooth, all part of the uniform.
Bill didn't trust 'outsiders' and you were an outsider if you hadn't been born within a five-mile radius of the Hill. The Hill was his world, a kingdom which he ruled over in his own stubborn way. You called him a bloody old fool but as often as not he proved you wrong. He'd never married, never had time to go courting, and you got used to being called 'boy'. Bill Gwyther had aged when he was thirty and had remained static ever since. You cursed him for a lot of things but you had to admit grudgingly that the Hill wouldn't be the same without him.
Which was one reason why Jon Quinn was going down to Gwyther's place that afternoon.
CHAPTER FIVE
ERIC ATKINSON stood and looked at his naked body in the full-length hotel bedroom wardrobe mirror, puffed his chest out, pulled his stomach in, indulged in a few moments of self-admiration. One big con, and deep down he knew it. He was getting fat, a slow but sure middle-aged spread taking over. He told himself he'd lost a pound or two lately and knew damned well he was lying. At thirty-six you were only just coming up to your peak.
A once fine physique had run to fat, a combination of six hours a day behind the wheel of a car and five nights a week on average hotel board. The best hotels, the best food. Whisky, too, sometimes brandy according to how his expenses account was running. Rep's disease—overweight.
No, not really, but he'd have to watch it. He towelled his damp hair into a fluffy blonde mop. He was starting to get a double chin; no, it was a trick of the light, or the mirror, one of them anyway. A little on the plump side, he had to admit. What was the term that girl up in Anglesey had used? Cuddly. He grimaced, flexed his biceps; they bulged but he didn't test their hardness, didn't dare.