The individuals following him had become about a dozen. He did not look back again. Among the small noises that they made, he heard "H" spoken, several times.
Vehicles passed him, moving slowly. He did not look at them, consciously, though it seemed that there were many eyes fixed upon him.
He reached the center of town, passing along a small square situated there, a statue of some local hero/patriot/ benefactor turning green at its center.
He heard someone call out something in a language that he did not understand. He began to hurry; and now the sound of footfalls became more distinct at his back, as if the crowd had grown.
What were the words that had been spoken? he wondered.
He passed a church, and the sound of its bell was very loud as he moved before it. From behind him, he heard a woman utter an oath.
The touch of fear grew stronger. The sun had dropped a beautiful day about him, but he no longer took pleasure in its presence.
He turned to his right and headed toward the field, about three quarters of a mile distant. Now their voices rose, still not addressed to him, but talking about him. He heard the word "murderer" spoken.
He hurried, and as he moved he saw faces at windows. He heard curses at his back. No, it would not do to run. He crossed a street, and a vehicle swung toward him, then rushed away. He heard the strident cry of a bird, crouched beneath the eave of a house that he passed.
He had done it, they knew. People had died, and it had been traced back to him. The other day he had been a hero. Now he was a villain. And that damned primitive, superstitious aura that covered the town! All those references to gods, the talismans, the good luck charms--they added up to something, something that made him hurry his pace. Now, in their minds, he felt himself to be associated with demons rather than gods.
... If only he had not dwelled so long over his dinner, if he had fled from passers-by ...
I was lonely, he told himself. If I had been as wary as I was in the old days, it could have been avoided, there would have been no infection. I was lonely.
He heard someone call out, "H!" but he did not turn.
A child, standing beside a garbage can in an alleyway, shot him with a squirt gun as he passed.
He wiped his face. The bells continued their mournful clanging.
When he paused at a thoroughfare, someone flicked a cigarette butt in his direction. He stepped on it and waited. His followers massed behind him. Someone pushed him. It felt like an elbow in his kidney, though it could have been the heel of a hand. They jostled him, and he heard the word "killer" repeated several times.
He had encountered things of this nature previously. His past experience did not hearten him, however.
"What're you going to do now, mister?" someone called.
He did not answer.
"Infect more people?"
He did not answer.
Then he heard a woman coughing, suddenly, spasmodically, at his back.
He turned, now that he was clean and could help.
A woman had collapsed upon her knees and she was spitting blood.
"Let me through," he said, but they did not.
Held back by a wall of shoulders, he watched her die or go into a coma. She looked dead to him.
He tried to walk away, hoping that they would not notice, now that their attention was focused elsewhere. He moved to the next corner, crossed, began to run.
They were again at his back.
Running had been a mistake, for now he felt the first blow that was not administered by a hand. Someone had thrown something.
The stone clattered upon the pavement. It had glanced off his shoulder, inflicting no real damage. Still, a bad sign.
Now that he had begun the thing, however, he could not halt. The speed dictated more speed. He shed his pack and raced ahead.
The stones came clattering around him.
One touched his scalp, mussed his hair.
"Murderer! Killer!"
What will they take? he wondered.
He reviewed his assets and thought of possible bribes. He had been able to buy his way out of some tight situations in the past. This one, though, did not seem of a negotiable nature.
A small stone missed him and struck against the side of a building. The next one did not; it hit him on the arm, causing considerable pain.
He carried no weapons. There was nothing he could do to avert their madness; and mad was what he judged them.
Another stone passed by his ear. He shook his head.
"Bastard!" someone called.
"You don't know what you're doing!" he cried out. "It was an accident!"
He felt moisture on his neck. He touched it, and his fingertips came away bloody. Another stone struck him.
Could he dash into a store? Might he seek sanctuary in some place of business? He looked about, but could discover none that seemed to be open. Where were the police?
Several rocks fell against his back. He swayed, for they were thrown with some force and he felt sharp pains.
"I came here to be of help..." he began.
"Murderer!"
Then they rained against him, knocking him to his knees. He rose and ran. More of them hit him, but he stumbled on.
He continued to look for some place of refuge--any place--saw none, lengthened his strides.
There were more things thrown, and he fell. This time he did not rise so quickly. He felt several kicks, and someone spat into his face.
"Killer!"
"Please ... Listen to me! I can explain."
"Go to hell!"
He crawled, huddling finally against a wall, and now they came in close. There were kicks, spit, stones.
"Please! I'm clean again!"
"Bastard!"
Then came the fury. It was not right that they use him so, he felt. He had come to their town for a humanitarian purpose. He had undergone hardship to reach Italbar. Now he was bleeding on its streets and being cursed. Who were they to judge him as they had done, to call him names and abuse him? This thing rose up within him, and he knew that, had he the power, he would have reached out and crushed them all.
Hatred, that thing nearly unknown to him, suddenly filled his body with cold fire. He wished that he had not undergone catharsis. He would be the plague-bearer, infecting them all.
The kicks and missiles continued.
He drew his arms across his abdomen, hands before his face, and suffered them.
You'd better kill me, he said to himself. Because if you don't, I'll be back.
Where had he felt this way before? He did not seek the memory, but it returned.
The church. The Strantrian shrine. That was where he had experienced something akin to this hatred. Now he saw that it was right. Strange not to have realized it back then .
His ribs felt broken, his right kneecap dislodged. He was missing several teeth, and the blood and sweat kept filling his eyes. The crowd continued to abuse him, and he was never certain when it was that it let up.
Perhaps they thought that they had killed him, for he lay there very still. Or perhaps it was that they grew tired or ashamed. He never knew.
He lay there, huddled on the pavement, his back against the wall that had not opened to give him refuge. He was alone.
Something, like a dream of mumbling and cursing and receding footsteps, flickered through his consciousness.
He coughed and spat blood.
All right, he said. You tried to kill me. Probably think you did. You made a mistake. You let me live. Whatever your intentions were, don't ever ask me for forgiveness, or for mercy. You made a mistake.
Then he passed out again.
The rain fell gently upon his face. This was what had awakened him. It was into the afternoon of the day, and somehow he had been transported into an alley. He had no memory of having crawled to the place, but then he was certain that no one would have assisted him in achieving it.
Again there was a lapse of consciousness, and when it returned the sky was dark.