'Sylvia . . . Sylvia are you all right?'
She recognised Jon's voice, got to her knees. A sliver of orange light played on her, momentarily dazzled her. A torch, coming from an upstairs window.
Two more loud reports. She recognised the stabbing flames of a shotgun blast, screamed as she saw the two wounded throwbacks stagger, clutch at their faces. Oh Jesus God, they didn't have faces any longer, just scarlet bloody mulch, their screams drowned by the blood that spouted from where their mouths had been seconds before. They hit the ground, did not move again.
Sylvia knelt there, tried not to think, heard the door opening, Jon's bare feet running across the yard. Smelled the sharp tang of burned gunpowder, coughed and was almost sick.
'Sylvia. . .Sylvia. . .'Still holding the gun, helping her to her feet with his free hand. 'Are you OK?'
'I'm all right.' The words came instinctively, a habit of civilised society. Somebody asked you how you were and you said you were OK even if you were ill. Polite conversation because nobody was really interested in your health.
This was neither the time nor the place for formalities, though.
He was helping her back to the house, supporting her weight, moving backwards so that he did not have to turn his back on the dark night, holding the heavy twelve-bore one-handed.
He kicked open the door, bundled her through, slammed it behind him and forced the key to turn. Then he shone the torchlight on her, ran the beam anxiously over her, breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw nothing more serious than scratches on her face and arms,
'What the hell were you doing out there?' Angry now, demanding an answer, 'You're fully dressed. Where were you going?'
She bit her lip and in that one instant made up her mind to tell him. Better now than later, tell him the truth. She had not got the ingenuity right now to think up a plausible lie.
'I was leaving.' She was surprised how calmly she spoke. *I was going to find Eric because he's out there. It was Eric who came here for me that time. My husband, alive and . . . one of them.'
He stared. Disbelief on his pale features. 'You're mistaken,' he said, almost said, 'You're crazy,' but checked it just in time. 'You imagined it.'
'No, I didn't,' she screamed, suddenly sensed a wave of hysteria threatening to engulf her. 'It was Eric. He's been out there watching the house for weeks now. He needs me!'
Jon Quinn closed his eyes for a second or two. I don't believe it, I won't. I do, it's feasible. Jackie's out there somewhere too. She's got to be.
'If it's Eric,' he swallowed, hated himself for saying it, didn't quite know how to put it, 'then , . . then it won't really be him. I mean, not the Eric you once knew.' Just as Jackie won't be the Jackie I once knew.
'It's still Eric though.1 Her voice was subdued, she wanted to cry but couldn't. 'My Eric.'
They've surrounded the house,' he muttered. 'We've got a fight on our hands. There are hundreds of them in the hills, starving and without adequate homes. It's them or us, I'm afraid.'
She nodded dumbly. I still want to go to Eric though. If we've got to die then I want to be with him. But she made no move towards the door, just asked, 'What are we going to do, then?'
'Nothing much we can do except fight.' He tried to smile. 'They're frightened of guns, I've proved that. It all depends on how determined they are. We'd better get back upstairs, the bedroom window is the best place to hold them off from.'
They went back upstairs and Jon returned to the window, looked out. There was nobody in sight, just those three bloody corpses in the yard. He felt physically sick, Christ, it was bloody murder whichever way you looked at it; they had been ordinary people like himself once.
And if Eric Atkinson was out there somewhere then the chances were... his heart threatened to stop then speeded up ... so was Jackie.
He rested the shotgun on the window-sill and waited for daylight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JACKIE KNEW by the time she reached the forest that she had thrown off her pursuers, temporarily at least. But the dog was still on her trail.
She had been aware of it about a mile back. On the slopes below her she had caught a glimpse of it as it darted from gorse bush to gorse bush snuffling on her scent, a huge black shaggy thing which she recognised. Kuz's hound, the hellish creature he had trained to run down deer, take them in full flight and tear their throats out. It had been a stray, an outcast from one of the wild packs that inhabited these hills but Kuz had taken it into the village and now it knew only one master. It had had its orders—run down the woman! And it would run until its heart burst.
It could have caught up with her earlier but possibly it hesitated, hung back because it knew her and was uncertain. But now its mind was made up and it had her scent. It had adapted to hunting humans.
Jackie could not go much further. Her legs had gone soft and if she did not give them a respite they would take it. A pain in her side, a stitch that had her doubling up. She could not outrun the creature, neither could she destroy her scent and hide from it. There was only one possible chance . . . she saw the trees, their low branches, so easy to climb . . .
Even as she reached for a bough and was about to haul herself up she heard the low moans, groans of pain and hopelessness, physical and mental agony. Delirium.
She hesitated, looked behind her once more. There was no sign of the dog but it could not be far away. Safety lay within her grasp.
A cry, a hoarse whispered shout of pain as though whoever it was had lost the strength to give full voice. She peered into the darkness, a mass of dark shapes that were tree trunks and branches, could have been anything. The noise came again, nearer than she had at first thought. Climb up into the boughs whilst there is still time. No, somebody needs help. The female protective instinct prevailed.
She walked forward, outstretched arms warding off low branches, protecting her face. That dog could not be far away now. She ought not to linger. It might be a trap. It might . . .
Something grabbed her ankle, a tightening grip that would have thrown her off balance had she not clutched at a branch. She gasped, tried to drag herself away but the hold on her was too strong to break. A groan but there was nothing threatening in it. Pain, despair.
Jackie looked down, could just make out the shape of a man on the pine-needles, one who was incapable of doing anything more than hold on to her. He was either ill or injured.
'What is the matter?' she whispered, thought about the dog again. There was not much time, there couldn't be.
'Snake,' he grunted, held up his other arm for a second but its weight was too much for him. 'I am dying.'
His hold on her relaxed; she dropped to her knees, felt at his arm. The hairy flesh was very swollen, throbbing, so hot. His whole body was lathered in sweat. She could see his eyes in the blackness, the whites showing starkly.
'Sylvia.' His voice altered to a tongue which she did not understand. 'Where is Sylvia? They haven't taken her, have they? I must see Sylvia but I am too weak. Too weak.'
'I do not understand,' she answered him. This strange language frightened her. Words like Phil Winder had used but this man was not one of the smooth-skinned race. So why did he talk like one?
She listened intently for a second. Twigs cracked somewhere not far away. That dog . . . She wondered if she could lift this man up into the trees.