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 on his body went icy cold as those behind him slashed through his bonds. There was no misunderstanding what was expected of him as they shoved him forward. That is your prison, stranger. Go to it!
He was prodded again even as he reached for the ladder, saw down into the hole for the first time. Just a hole, not even squared sides; twenty feet deep at least, soil and rock, nothing else. His hands were numb, he could not grasp the rungs, relying on his feet and his body to maintain his balance. He tried to kick the remnants of his trousers free but they caught, twisted.
That pikle threatened him again. Hurry. For Christ's sake I can't go any faster! Faces peering down at him, grinning. They were enjoying this, every damned one of them; except maybe that pretty girl who looked out of place here.
Suddenly Phil Winder felt himself start to totter, the ragged trouser bottoms tearing at his foothold. Flailing the air with hands that had no feeling, were just starting to tingle painfully.
Toppling backwards; he couldn't check his scream. His body hit the side, seemed to bounce off it, hands scraping the sheer wall, a futile grab for a hold. It was like being in an elevator that had gone out of control, a snapped cable plunging it down the shaft, the walls hurtling by, giving you an optical illusion so that you had the crazy feeling you were shooting back upwards. Dizziness, your guts turning over, any second you would spew them out. Anticipating the awful bone-shattering impact . . .
Then he hit the bottom and for a second everything went black, the wind knocked right out of him so he was gulping to fill his lungs. Groaning, wanting to weep. You bastards! He was aware that the ladder was moving, being pulled up. He almost grabbed for it but they would only have wrenched it from his grasp, maybe stoned him for his defiance. Then the ladder was gone, probably laid on the ground at the top, well beyond his reach.
Sheer terror, his brain a jumble of ideas of what they might do to him. Perhaps they were going to bury him alive, shovel back that mound of soil and rubble. No! Oh Christ, no please!
Or leave him here to starve and die of thirst in the hot sun; day after day growing weaker, willing himself to die but death cruelly eluding him. And if it rained heavily the hole would fill up quickly, the water slow to seep away through the rocky sides. Swimming, treading water until his strength gave out and he drowned.
Maybe they would just stone him to death for sport! Shut up or you'll go mad! He glanced up, saw that they had gone, returned to their chores in the knowledge that he could not escape. He would still be there when they came back, more frightened than when they had left him, He leaned his back against the side, bit his lip as his circulation began to flow again. His shoulder hurt from the fall but he was sure no bones were broken. He was alive, comparatively unhurt except for those damned pitchfork pricks in his back and buttocks, and the lump on his head where they had felled him in the first place. He was lucky. Every minute of life now was a bonus. Or was it? What was the point in going on living in a land of savages, civilised people turned into creatures like those up there? When it came to that you were better off dead.
Suicide occurred to him. If the means had been available he would have gone through with it. But they weren't. Not even a shard of rock sharp enough to slash his wrists. He had no choice except to live and his life-span would be determined by his captors.
He thought about his parents again. Could it be that they were amongst the throng which had imprisoned him in this hellhole? Surely not. Father, Mother, don't you recognise your own son? It was doubtful if they would.
Irony that brought a cracked mirthless laugh from his blistered lips. He had survived the holocaust because he had taken refuge in a deep hole, and as a result he was now cast into another one. If he had been above ground at the time then he would now be one of them. Holy Mother!
The evening shadows began to darken the bottom of the pit, Phil Winder's body temperature lowering so that he shivered. It was going to be bloody cold in here tonight.
But it was the thought of tomorrow that worried him most as he gradually slipped into an uneasy doze.
CHAPTER NINE
JON QUINN had not told Sylvia what had happened down at Gwyther's farm. There was nothing to be gained by telling her; the countryside around them seethed with horror. She would find out soon enough what was going on.
'Don't you think you ought to try and contact somebody?' she asked him the next morning, chewed on a spoonful of muesli with obvious disdain. 'I mean, we can't go on living like this week in, week out, can we? There are bound to be others like ourselves somewhere. Why don't we go into the village and fill the Land Rover up from that hand-pump like you suggested?'
Tomorrow.' He avoided her gaze. 'I want to spend today lugging firewood. We're going to need every stick we can find.'
'But just how long do you think we're going to have to stay here?' She dropped her spoon into her bowl. The way you're talking we're going to be here forever!'
That's a strong possibility. If Gwyther was a typical specimen of what mankind has reverted to then we're going to be holed up here for the rest of our lives like a pair of rabbits down a warren with a hungry fox's earth right on top of us.
'Well?' Sylvia was insistent. 'If you won't do something positive then /will. I'll take the Land Rover myself. And I might not come back!'
You probably wouldn't. He sighed. Damn her, if only Jackie was here instead.
'OK, we'll go to the village tomorrow,' he told her, 'but today I want to get some wood in. Also I want to see if I can round up those nanny goats.'
'Another boring day for me loafing around the house,' she groaned. 'And if I don't get a proper meal soon I'll waste away. I might even die of starvation.'
'Once we've got wood we can cook. I'll maybe shoot a rabbit or something, and I guess we may as well start eating the vegetables. We'll have to risk contamination sometime but personally I think we'll be OK. It's certainly not radioactive fall-out.' We just might end up like old Bill Gwyther instead!
'You haven't told me what happened at Gwyther's farm?' She asked the question pointedly now. Don't lie to me, Jon, because I can tell that something was dreadfully wrong there. You can't hide it from me.
'Much the same as here.' He did his best to meet her gaze. The animals had gone wild, broken out. Old Bill's gone, too, I guess.' He had that; Jon Quinn felt his stomach churn, relived that awful moment when Gwyther's head had exploded like a ripe tomato thrown at a wall. I'll go and make a start on the wood.' He scraped his chair back. Then tomorrow we'll go down to the village.'