He backed off; there had to be another entrance somewhere, one that he could just walk in through like his own house. Windows; he touched the glass pane, did not like the way they threw his own reflection back at him like still water when you stooped to drink.
A circuit of the cottage and he saw the outbuildings. Perhaps she was in there although his instincts told him otherwise. This time the door swung open at his touch and he stared in disbelief at the interior. A long table cluttered with all kinds of implements, sharp knives, knives with blunt spreading blades, a curved spear; he tested the rusty blade with his finger. It was sharp enough.
Weapons. He grabbed up an assortment of hammers, screwdrivers, chisels and the rusted sickle. With these he could break into this place . . , no, it was dangerous. Surely she had a mate. The thought was disturbing, began to make him angry. A male lurking in there, knowing that Eric was here, why he had come. You killed for such a reason, because if you didn't it was you who ended up dead. No compromises, a fight to the finish. It was the law of the wild.
Eric licked his bearded lips. He did not relish an encounter, had avoided such skirmishes so far. His stomach did another flip. He was not strong enough to take on a rival, it was not his way. He had not challenged any of the other males when they had mated with Marlene, pretended he had not seen. Marlene did not matter, they could have her, do what they liked with her.
I need you, Eric. I'm waiting.
He drew back into the building, did not want her to see him skulking like this, smell his sweat of terror. Then, in gradual stages, an idea began to form in his slow muzzy brain.
With help he could overcome his rival, take this woman for his own. He studied the various implements. The men back at the camp would relish the prospect of owning such an array of hunting weapons. Sharp blades that would pierce and slash, blunt ones to club with and shatter stubborn bones. They would follow him here, smash their way into the house for him, kill anybody who tried to stop
them.
Do not harm the woman, she is mine. That was the promise. You have the weapons, I have the female. But could they be trusted when the mating smell hung so heavy in the air?
It was a chance he would have to take. He would put it to the others, weapons and tools in return for the woman who was now taunting him day and night, sleeping and waking.
Reluctantly Eric Atkinson left the Ouinn holding, heard her pleas echoing in his brain, driving him crazy.
Don't leave me, Eric. I need you. I shall be back, that I promise. Wearily he set out on the return trip to the settlement beyond the Hill.
That night they were back, a dozen of them eager to get their hands on weapons which would give them supremacy over the other tribes in the hills. If they smelled the bitch-smell then they gave no outward sign. There were plenty of women back in the camp, more than enough to satisfy their needs.
The house was still and dark, no smoke coming from the chimney. Deserted, like every other dwelling you came upon, the occupants having answered the calling and deserted civilisation. Except that Eric knew that she was in there and this time he scented her man, a sour, stronger aroma that was borne to him on the soft summer breeze, one that made him uneasy.
Eric laughed softly to himself; there were enough of them, there would be no problem.
They crowded into the workshop outbuilding, grunted and hissed their delight at what they found in there. Tools and weapons beyond the realms of their limited expectation, scrabbling for possession of whatever took their fancy, examining them with childish glee.
Eric watched them from the doorway, smelled the bitch-smell again. In there, she's in there. Help me break in, kill the male and take her. He clutched at one of them in his frustration, was pushed away. They had forgotten the bargain, were not interested in anything except what they found in this treasure cave.
Anger. He grabbed up a hammer, swung it above his head and as he did so a blow from behind sent him reeling, catapulted him against the solid workbench, an agonising blow in the small of his back. He fell, showered spanners and the contents of a small tool-box over himself, hit the floor. Somebody kicked him, doubled him up, had him clutching at his stomach.
These primitive burglars had what they had come for.
If they had made a bargain then it did not exist any more because they were incapable of thinking beyond the initial haul. The one who had brought them here had obstructed them so they had struck him down. If he bothered them further they would kill him.
He lay there, watched them shuffle back out into the night, laden with their loot; he was already forgotten as though he had not existed.
Sometime later he followed them, but only as far as the fir spinney, skulking in the dark shadows and staring back at the outline of the house. She was in there. He didn't know who she was, not even sure what she looked like, just a shapely hairless body partly enshrouded by mist. Wanting him!
Don't leave me, Eric.
He heard her cry in his brain, winced because he had let her down. Because they had let him down. Guilt and frustration. He would go to her whatever, he did not need their help.
A plan, as far as his brain was capable of forming one. He would not return to the camp, there was nothing there for him anyway. Those who wanted Marlene could have her. He would remain here, live in these fields and woods, watch the house day and night. Sooner or later either she or the male had to come outside. If it was the latter then he would kill him, creep up on him and strike him down. If it was the woman then he would grab her, carry her off into the forest. She would not struggle for had she not called to him for help?
Eric Atkinson began to haul himself up into the boughs of one of the big pines, disturbed some roosting fowl which squawked their protest at this nocturnal disturbance, fluttered in alarm, hit the ground below with a thump and ran off clucking angrily.
He settled down, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on that door which had barred his entrance earlier. Before long it must surely open.
IT WAS late July before Rod Savage finally reached the Welsh borderlands. The going had been slower than even he had anticipated, involving many detours to avoid the settlements of wild tribes which had sprung up across the countryside. No fixed pattern, that was the danger, you might walk into them in places you least expected to find them. Once he had lain up in a dilapidated cowshed for three days because a number of travelling throwbacks had set up camp all around him overnight. Just when he feared lest their site might be a permanent one they had moved on,
You could not risk getting near them. Sometimes if they caught sight of you they fled with howls of anguish, other times they stood and stared in bewilderment, began to follow you. So you did your best to lose them as quickly as possible. Once you had been out of their sight for more than a few minutes they seemed to forget all about you. But you couldn't trust them, so you kept out of their way.
Throughout his travels Savage had continued to compile his notes. He noted the behaviour of the 'enemy', watched from cover as they killed livestock in the fields, saw how they gathered wild fruit and raided vegetable gardens. Food was plentiful for both them and himself. Deserted village shops, the shelves laden with canned and convenience foodstuffs which these people had no idea how to open or prepare. He carried a small supply with him, replenished it every few days.
He steered clear of survivors too. From time to time he found people who for a variety of reasons had escaped the devastation of germ warfare, had barricaded themselves in their houses and were determined to repel any invaders.
Once he was fired at with an air-rifle, a .177 slug chipping the brickwork of a low stone wall only a foot or so in front of him.
'Keep moving, you bastard!'
Savage saw the face at the upper window of a cottage on the opposite side of the road, an old man struggling to cock his weapon, trying to reload it with a shaking hand. Senile, trusting nobody. He couldn't blame him.
There were isolated troop movements. Rod Savage lay and watched them from a steep hillside. Sporadic gunfire, driving the raiders out of a blazing tract of suburbia, a couple of Green Goddesses moving in and playing their hoses on the flames. Some of the mob came back to within throwing distance, hurled stones. More shots. Two or three of them dropped, the rest ran. Guerrilla warfare; Britain was likely to be this way for a long time to come.
Occasionally Rod spied a helicopter or a light aircraft. Reconnaissance craft, maybe locating the movements of the tribes, doing a count of numbers. The remnants of civilisation had the technology to fight this war, the enemy had the advantage of numbers.
In Herefordshire he witnessed some ruthless counterattacks, commando-style, that could only be SAS manoeuvres. Three or four attackers surprised an encampment, mowed the fleeing occupants down with submachine gunfire.
Rod Savage almost threw up. Pointless slaughter. The area reeked of death.
It was early August, according to the calendar in his diary which he meticulously ticked off daily, when he finally reached his cottage outside the small market town of Knighton. The building had its usual look of dereliction which wasn't surprising, the small garden a mass of lush weeds.
He struggled with the lock and eventually the key turned. At least they had not broken in. Funny, they seemed afraid of locked houses, only raided outbuildings and open sheds.
He spent the first day straightening the interior, preparing for a long stay. He could even be here for the rest of his life. He only wished he could find out how the rest of the world had fared. Had the States reverted to pre-Columbus days, the redskins finally taking back their land from the invading white man? Europe overrun by primitive man? Syria and Lebanon fighting a meaningless war as they had done for years, the Soviet Union paying the supreme penalty for their interference?
Questions that would possibly never be answered because survival was a priority and you didn't give a damn about anybody else.
He went outside, sensed a change in the atmosphere, the coolness of a late summer evening. Soon it would be autumn. Then winter.
Winter would be the big test for everybody. The hardiness of the new race of Britons would be put to the supreme test. Would their change enable them to withstand the rigours of winter?
Only time would tell.
PROFESSOR REITZE adjusted his rimless spectacles, surveyed the human-like creature which was chained to the wall of the small brightly-lit cell. No emotion showed on the Professor's features as he carefully checked the small syringe, plunged the long needle deep into the skin below the neck.
The victim mouthed a mute scream, tensed, but the manacles only allowed muscle movement, expansion and contraction. Reitze pressed the plunger, waited a second or two, then withdrew the needle, handed the instrument to the white-coated man at his side.
'We'll have to check him every hour.' He spoke flatly, a doctor perhaps concerned with a hospital patient's high blood pressure.
'Ugly devil, isn't he?' The second man could not disguise the revulsion he felt for the prisoner. 'The original missing link, if you ask me.'