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diff --git a/29308.txt b/29308.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6146144 --- /dev/null +++ b/29308.txt @@ -0,0 +1,864 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Small World, by William F. Nolan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Small World + +Author: William F. Nolan + +Release Date: July 4, 2009 [EBook #29308] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMALL WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + _What will happen when the alien ships strike Earth? And later? Who + will survive? What will life be like in that latter-day jungle? + William F. Nolan, well known in SF circles on the West Coast, + returns with this grim story of the days and the nights of Lewis + Stillman--survivor ..._ + + + small + world + + _by WILLIAM F. NOLAN_ + + + He was running, running down the long tunnels, the + shadows hunting him, claws clutching at him, nearer ... + + +In the waiting windless dark, Lewis Stillman pressed into the +building-front shadows along Wilshire Boulevard. Breathing softly, the +automatic poised and ready in his hand, he advanced with animal stealth +toward Western, gliding over the night-cool concrete, past ravaged +clothing shops, drug and ten-cent stores, their windows shattered, their +doors ajar and swinging. The city of Los Angeles, painted in cold +moonlight, was an immense graveyard; the tall white tombstone buildings +thrust up from the silent pavement, shadow-carved and lonely. Overturned +metal corpses of trucks, busses and automobiles littered the streets. + +He paused under the wide marquee of the FOX WILTERN. Above his head, +rows of splintered display bulbs gaped--sharp glass teeth in wooden +jaws. Lewis Stillman felt as though they might drop at any moment to +pierce his body. + +Four more blocks to cover. His destination: a small corner delicatessen +four blocks south of Wilshire, on Western. Tonight he intended +bypassing the larger stores like Safeway or Thriftimart, with their +available supplies of exotic foods; a smaller grocery was far more +likely to have what he needed. He was finding it more and more difficult +to locate basic food stuffs. In the big supermarkets only the more +exotic and highly spiced canned and bottled goods remained--and he was +sick of caviar and oysters! + +Crossing Western, he had almost reached the far curb when he saw some of +_them_. He dropped immediately to his knees behind the rusting bulk of +an Olds 88. The rear door on his side was open, and he cautiously eased +himself into the back seat of the deserted car. Releasing the safety +catch on the automatic, he peered through the cracked window at six or +seven of them, as they moved toward him along the street. God! Had he +been seen? He couldn't be sure. Perhaps they were aware of his position! +He should have remained on the open street where he'd have a running +chance. Perhaps, if his aim were true, he could kill most of them; but, +even with its silencer, the gun would be heard and more of them would +come. He dared not fire until he was certain they discovered him. + +They came closer, their small dark bodies crowding the walk, six of +them, chattering, leaping, cruel mouths open, eyes glittering under the +moon. Closer. The shrill pipings increased, rose in volume. Closer. Now +he could make out their sharp teeth and matted hair. Only a few feet +from the car ... His hand was moist on the handle of the automatic; his +heart thundered against his chest. Seconds away ... + +Now! + +Lewis Stillman fell heavily back against the dusty seat-cushion, the gun +loose in his trembling hand. They had passed by; they had missed him. +Their thin pipings diminished, grew faint with distance. + +The tomb silence of late night settled around him. + + * * * * * + +The delicatessen proved a real windfall. The shelves were relatively +untouched and he had a wide choice of tinned goods. He found an empty +cardboard box and hastily began to transfer the cans from the shelf +nearest him. + +A noise from behind--a padding, scraping sound. + +Lewis Stillman whirled around, the automatic ready. + +A huge mongrel dog faced him, growling deep in its throat, four legs +braced for assault. The blunt ears were laid flat along the short-haired +skull and a thin trickle of saliva seeped from the killing jaws. The +beast's powerful chest-muscles were bunched for the spring when Stillman +acted. + +The gun, he knew, was useless; the shots would be heard. Therefore, with +the full strength of his left arm, he hurled a heavy can at the dog's +head. The stunned animal staggered under the blow, legs buckling. +Hurriedly, Stillman gathered his supplies and made his way back to the +street. + +How much longer can my luck hold? Lewis Stillman wondered, as he bolted +the door. He placed the box of tinned goods on a wooden table and lit +the tall lamp nearby. Its flickering orange glow illumined the narrow, +low-ceilinged room as Stillman seated himself on one of three chairs +facing the table. + +Twice tonight, his mind told him, twice you've escaped them--and they +could have seen you easily on both occasions if they had been watching +for you. They don't know you're alive. But when they find out ... + +He forced his thoughts away from the scene in his mind away from the +horror; quickly he stood up and began to unload the box, placing the +cans on a long shelf along the far side of the room. + +He began to think of women, of a girl named Joan, and of how much he had +loved her ... + + * * * * * + +The world of Lewis Stillman was damp and lightless; it was narrow and +its cold stone walls pressed in upon him as he moved. He had been +walking for several hours; sometimes he would run, because he knew his +leg muscles must be kept strong, but he was walking now, following the +thin yellow beam of his hooded lantern. He was searching. + +Tonight, he thought, I might find another like myself. Surely, _someone_ +is down here; I'll find someone if I keep searching. I _must_ find +someone! + +But he knew he would not. He knew he would find only chill emptiness +ahead of him in the tunnels. + +For three long years he had been searching for another man or woman down +here in this world under the city. For three years he had prowled the +seven hundred miles of storm drains which threaded their way under the +skin of Los Angeles like the veins in a giant's body--and he had found +nothing. _Nothing._ + +Even now, after all the days and nights of search, he could not really +accept the fact that he was alone, that he was the last man alive in a +city of seven million, that all the others were dead. + +He paused, resting his back against the cold stone. Some of them were +moving over the street above his head. He listened to the sharp +scuffling sounds on the pavement and swore bitterly. + +"Damn you," said Lewis Stillman levelly. "Damn all of you!" + + * * * * * + +Lewis Stillman was running down the long tunnels. Behind him a tide of +midget shadows washed from wall to wall; high keening cries, doubled and +tripled by echoes, rang in his ears. Claws reached for him; he felt +panting breath, like hot smoke, on the back of his neck; his lungs were +bursting, his entire body aflame. + +He looked down at his fast-pumping legs, doing their job with pistoned +precision. He listened to the sharp slap of his heels against the floor +of the tunnel--and he thought: I might die at any moment, but my _legs_ +will escape! They will run on down the endless drains and never be +caught. They move so fast while my heavy awkward upper-body rocks and +sways above them, slowing them down, tiring them--making them angry. How +my legs must hate me! I must be clever and humor them, beg them to take +me along to safety. How well they run, how sleek and fine! + +Then he felt himself coming apart. His legs were detaching themselves +from his upper-body. He cried out in horror, flailing the air with his +arms, beseeching them not to leave him behind. But the legs cruelly +continued to unfasten themselves. In a cold surge of terror, Lewis +Stillman felt himself tipping, falling toward the damp floor--while his +legs raced on with a wild animal life of their own. He opened his mouth, +high above the insane legs, and screamed. + +Ending the nightmare. + +He sat up stiffly in his cot, gasping, drenched in sweat. He drew in a +long shuddering breath and reached for a cigarette. He lit it with a +trembling hand. + +The nightmares were getting worse. He realized that his mind was +rebelling as he slept, spilling forth the bottled-up fears of the day +during the night hours. + +He thought once more about the beginning six years ago, about why he was +still alive, the last of his kind. The alien ships had struck Earth +suddenly, without warning. Their attack had been thorough and deadly. In +a matter of hours the aliens had accomplished their clever mission--and +the men and women of Earth were destroyed. A few survived, he was +certain. He had never met any of them, but he was convinced they +existed. Los Angeles was not the world, after all, and if _he_ escaped +so must have others around the globe. He'd been working alone in the +drains when the alien ships appeared, finishing a special job for the +construction company on B tunnel. He could still hear the weird sound of +the mammoth ships and feel the intense heat of their passage. + +Hunger had forced him out and overnight he became a curiosity. The last +man alive. For three years he was not harmed. He worked with them, +taught them many things, and tried to win their confidence. But, +eventually, certain ones came to hate him, to be jealous of his +relationship with the others. Luckily he had been able to escape to the +drains. That was three years ago and now they had forgotten him. + +His later excursions to the upper level of the city had been made under +cover of darkness--and he never ventured out unless his food supply +dwindled. Water was provided by rain during the wet-months--and by +bottled liquids during the dry. + +He had built his one-room structure directly to the side of an overhead +grating--not close enough to risk their seeing it, but close enough for +light to seep in during the sunlight hours. He missed the warm feel of +open sun on his body almost as much as he missed the companionship of +others, but he could not think of risking himself above the drains by +day. + +Sometimes he got insane thoughts. Sometimes, when the loneliness closed +in like an immense fist and he could no longer stand the sound of his +own voice, he would think of bringing one of them down with him, into +the drains. One at a time, they could be handled. Then he'd remember +their sharp savage eyes, their animal ferocity, and he would realize +that the idea was impossible. If one of their kind disappeared, suddenly +and without trace, others would certainly become suspicious, begin to +search for him--and it would all be over. + +Lewis Stillman settled back into his pillow, pulling the blankets tight +about his body. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the +distant screams, pipings and reedy cries filtering down from the street +above his head. + +Finally he slept. + + * * * * * + +He spent the afternoon with paper women. He lingered over the pages of +some yellowed fashion magazines, looking at all the beautifully +photographed models in their fine clothes. All slim and enchanting, +these page-women, with their cool enticing eyes and perfect smiles, all +grace and softness and glitter and swirled cloth. He touched their +images with gentle fingers, stroking the tawny paper hair, as though, by +some magic formula, he might imbue them with life. It was easy to +imagine that these women had never really lived at all--that they were +simply painted, in microscopic detail, by sly artists to give the +illusion of photos. He didn't like to think about these women and how +they died. + +That evening Lewis Stillman watched the moon, round and high and yellow +in the night sky, and he thought of his father, and of the long hikes +through the moonlit Maine countryside, of hunting trips and warm +campfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought of +his father's hopes for his future and the words of that tall, +gray-haired figure came back to him. + +"_You'll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you'll +succeed. I know you will._" + +He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father's great +mahogany desk, pouring over medical books and journals, taking notes, +sifting and re-sifting facts. He remembered one set of books in +particular--Erickson's monumental three-volume text on surgery, richly +bound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books, above all +others. + +What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow, the dream had faded, the +bright goal vanished and was lost. After a year of pre-med at the +University of Southern Cal, he had given up medicine; he had become +discouraged and quit college to take a laborer's job with a construction +company. How ironic that this move should have saved his life! He'd +wanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labor with the muscles of +his body. He'd wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then, later +perhaps, he would have returned to finish his courses. It all seemed so +far away now, his reason for quitting, for letting his father down. + +Now, at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him, a desire to +pour over Erickson's pages once again, to re-create, even for a brief +moment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood. + +He'd seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick's book store +in Hollywood, in their used book department, and now he knew he must go +after them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was a +dangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it. Despite the +risk of death, he would go after the books tonight. _Tonight._ + + * * * * * + +One corner of Lewis Stillman's room was reserved for weapons. His prize, +a Thompson submachine, had been procured from the Los Angeles police +arsenal. Supplementing the Thompson were two semi-automatic rifles, a +Luger, a Colt .45 and a .22-caliber Hornet pistol, equipped with a +silencer. He always kept the smallest gun in a spring-clip holster +beneath his armpit, but it was not his habit to carry any of the larger +weapons with him into the city. On this night, however, things were +different. + +The drains ended two miles short of Hollywood--which means he would be +forced to cover a long and particularly hazardous stretch of ground in +order to reach the book store. He therefore decided to take along +the .30-caliber Savage rifle in addition to the small hand weapon. + +You're a fool, Lewis, he told himself, as he slid the oiled Savage from +its leather case. Are the books important enough to risk your life? Yes, +another part of him replied, they _are_ that important. If you want a +thing badly enough and the thing is worthwhile, then you must go after +it. If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than a +coward; you betray yourself and the civilization you represent. Go out +and bring the books back. + +Running in the chill night wind. Grass, now pavement, now grass, beneath +his feet. Ducking into shadows, moving stealthily past shops and +theatres, rushing under the cold moon. Santa Monica Boulevard, then +Highland, the Hollywood Boulevard, and finally--after an eternity of +heartbeats--the book store. + +Pickwick's. + +Lewis Stillman, his rifle over one shoulder, the small automatic +gleaming in his hand, edged silently into the store. + +A paper battleground met his eyes. + +In the filtered moonlight, a white blanket of broken-backed volumes +spilled across the entire lower floor. Stillman shuddered; he could +envision them, shrieking, scrabbling at the shelves, throwing books +wildly across the room at one another. Screaming, ripping, destroying. + +What of the other floors? _What of the medical section?_ + +He crossed to the stairs, spilled pages crackling like a fall of dry +leaves under his step, and sprinted up the first short flight to the +mezzanine. Similar chaos! + +He hurried up to the second floor, stumbling, terribly afraid of what he +might find. Reaching the top, his heart thudding, he squinted into the +dimness. + +The books were undisturbed. Apparently they had tired of their game +before reaching these. + +He slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs. +Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling, as he moved +down the narrow aisles; a damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, an +odor of mold and neglect. + +Lewis Stillman paused before a dim hand-lettered sign: MEDICAL SECTION. +It was just as he had remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, he +struck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved it +along the rows of faded titles. Carter ... Davidson ... Enright ... +_Erickson_. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their gold +stamping dust-dulled but readable, stood in tall and perfect order on +the shelf. + +In the darkness, Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowing +it free of dust. At last all three books were clean and solid in his +hands. + +Well, you've done it. You've reached the books and now they belong to +you. + +He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down at +the table with his treasure, and linger again and again over the +wonderous pages. + +He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the books +inside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began his +descent to the lower floor. + +So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding. + +But as Lewis Stillman's foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out. + +The entire lower floor was alive with them! + +Rustling like a mass of great insects, gliding toward him, eyes gleaming +in the half-light, they converged upon the stairs. They had been waiting +for him. + +Now, suddenly, the books no longer mattered. Now only his life mattered +and nothing else. He moved back against the hard wood of the stair-rail, +the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the foot +of the stair; they were silent, looking up at him, the hate in their +eyes. + +If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you've still +got half a chance. That means you've got to get through them to the +door. All right then, _move_. + +Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic and three shots +echoed through the silent store. Two of them fell under the bullets as +Stillman rushed into their midst. + +He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt and trousers, heard the cloth +ripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic into +them, and three more dropped under the hail of bullets, shrieking in +pain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming, from the door. + +The gun was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy Savage rifle +free from his shoulder as he reached the street. The night air, crisp +and cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope. + +I can still make it, thought Stillman, as he leaped the curb and plunged +across the pavement. If those shots weren't heard, then I've still got +the edge. My legs are strong; I can outdistance them. + +Luck, however, had failed him completely on this night. Near the +intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland, a fresh pack of them +swarmed toward him over the street. + +He dropped to one knee and fired into their ranks, the Savage jerking in +his hands. They scattered to either side. + +He began to run steadily down the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, using +the butt of the heavy rifle like a battering ram as they came at him. As +he neared Highland, three of them darted directly into his path. +Stillman fired. One doubled over, lurching crazily into a jagged +plate-glass store front. Another clawed at him as he swept around the +corner to Highland. He managed to shake free. + +The street ahead of him was clear. Now his superior leg-power would +count heavily in his favor. Two miles. Could he make it back before +others cut him off? + +Running, re-loading, firing. Sweat soaking his shirt, rivering down his +face, stinging his eyes. A mile covered. Half way to the drains. They +had fallen back. + +But more of them were coming, drawn by the rifle shots, pouring in from +side streets, stores and houses. + +His heart jarred in his body, his breath was ragged. How many of them +around him? A hundred? Two hundred? More coming. God! + +He bit down on his lower lip until the salt taste of blood was on his +tongue. You can't make it, a voice inside him shouted, they'll have you +in another block and you know it! + +He fitted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusted his aim, and fired. The +long rolling crack of the big weapon filled the night. Again and again +he fired, the butt jerking into the flesh of his shoulder, the smell of +powder in his nostrils. + +It was no use. Too many of them. + +Lewis Stillman knew that he was going to die. + +The rifle was empty at last, the final bullet had been fired. He had no +place to run because they were all around him, in a slowly closing +circle. + +He looked at the ring of small cruel faces and he thought: The aliens +did their job perfectly; they stopped Earth before she could reach the +age of the rocket, before she could threaten planets beyond her own +moon. What an immensely clever plan it had been! To destroy every human +being on Earth above the age of six--and then to leave as quickly as +they had come, allowing our civilization to continue on a primitive +level, knowing that Earth's back had been broken, that her survivors +would revert to savagery as they grew into adulthood. + +Lewis Stillman dropped the empty rifle at his feet and threw out his +hands. "Listen," he pleaded, "I'm really one of you. You'll _all_ be +like me soon. Please, _listen_ to me." + +But the circle tightened relentlessly around Lewis Stillman. He was +screaming when the children closed in. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ August 1957. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Small World, by William F. 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