The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

EMERGENCY EXIT, by E. C. Tubb

It came like a gentle benison from heaven upon the place beneath, a soft yet steady downpour, drumming with a thousand fingers on the shattered rubble above and seeping through cracked brick and moldy plaster, splintered beams and twisted steel as it sought the soft, rich loam far below the mountains of man-made debris.

Ron Prentice liked the sound of the rain. He liked it even when it wet his tattered clothing and turned the inside of his shelter into a streaming, wet-walled cavern. He liked to lie on the heap of rotting sacks and salvaged paper which served as a bed and listen to it and, in imagination, he thought of it washing away the dirt and destruction littering the face of the earth and restoring it to its primeval beauty.

It never did, of course. It would take more than rain to sweep aside the jumble of geared concrete and war-tom brick. That would take time, eons of passing years, the heat of summer and the freezing chill of winter. It would take wind and blown soil, humus and wind-borne seeds. It might take a thousand years, more than that, and sometimes, in idle imagery, Ron wished that he could live so long.

He wouldn’t, of course, and he knew it, but dreams were cheap and there was little else to do but dream. And so he lay, staring at the trickling water until the dim light filtering through a dozen crevasses faded and died into the soft velvet of night then, painfully, he rose.

The pains weren’t so bad tonight. Not as they had been three nights ago when he hadn’t eaten for a week, and not as bad as they had been two nights ago when he had gorged his stomach full, but they were there, with him as his breath was with him, as his skin, as the hair on his head and the fingers on his hands. He lived with pain, slept with it, ate with it. He had long forgotten what it was to be without pain. Sometimes, when they were too bad, he would rise from his apology of a bed and stride about his scooped-out cave in the mountain of rubble, biting his wrists and slamming his hands against the jagged stone. Sometimes he would curse himself and all those before him and once, but only once, he had actually left his cave and wandered for hours in the cold light of a winter’s day. But that had only happened once, when the pains were more than he could bear, and he had been very lucky then.

He had not done it again.

Now he waited, mastering his impatience as he had done a thousand times before, adjusting his clothing and making certain that his weapons were to hand. There were two of them. A long, razor-edged, needle-pointed knife and a short, lead-weighted club. One day perhaps he would get a gun, eyen one of the air pistols would be valuable, but until then he had to make do with what he had.

After a while, when he was sure that the cloak of night was tightly drawn about the world, he wriggled his way out into the open air.

It was still raining, the water splashing as it rebounded from the twisting lane of cracked cement writhing between the heaped rubble, and the sound of it as it trickled in a hundred streams from the torn ruins mingled with the splashing and filled the night with the hint of fairy bells and elfin chiming. He was glad of the sound for rain meant that the streets would be almost deserted and there would be few eyes to mark his passage and follow his trail. Moving with silent caution, a shadow among shadows, he made his way towards the center of the city.

Lights blazed there, smoking animal-fat lamps suspended from high poles, and the streets were clear of rubble. Houses lined the streets, the lower floors of once tall buildings, their shattered tops looking like a row of splintered teeth and candle light and lamp light shone from their papered’ windows. A few shops were still open, glassless windows displayed salvaged clothing, weapons, some of the rare cans of food, articles of metal and plastic, coils of wire and even some country produce, potatoes, greens, dried meat and shapeless mounds of butter and cheese.

Between the shops and houses, light spilling from their oiled paper windows and doors, were the taverns and gambling houses. As usual they were crowded with men and women, hard-faced and hard-eyed, dressed in an assortment of clothing and bearing an assortment of weapons. Noise spilled from them, laughter and ribald mirth, the razor-edged mirth that could change in a flash to snarling hate and savage violence, and from one tavern came the incredible sound of a mechanical jukebox playing scratched and discordant jazz.

A cart creaked down the street, a late arrival from the country districts, a dozen men straining at the shafts and a bearded carter cracking at naked backs with the thong of a rawhide whip. It rumbled towards the stables and the carter yelled savage anger as one of the haulers slipped and fell.

“Get up, you swine! Up I say!” The whip drew blood from a heaving back. “Get up or I’ll strip the skin from your back and feed you to the dogs!”

Painfully the man struggled to his feet and leaned against the ropes. Blood ruled from the gaping wounds on his scrawny back, washed by the rain into a pink film, and his bare feet left red tracks as they thrust at the broken stone.

Silently Ron watched, standing in the darkness until the cart had creaked its slow passage down the narrow street. As usual he felt afraid. But as usual the pains fought against his fear with the agony of grim necessity, and he knew that there could be no running back, no hiding in his hidden place, no escape from reality. He had to go on.

Avoiding the brightly-lit main street he slipped through the shadows and walked cautiously down the less frequented areas. There were lights here too, smoking torches sizzling in the rain, but fewer, the patches of shadow deeper and more frequent. He did not avoid the lighted areas, to do that would be dangerous, but he strode through them with a kind of defiance, feeling the tug of fear at the nape of his neck and glad when darkness closed around him again. He halted with trained abruptness as his foot struck against something soft and yielding.

“Mister,” the beggar stared up at him in the dimness, “give me the price of a bed, will you?”

Ron said nothing, but his eyes flickered as he stared down the street.

“I’m an old man,” whined the beggar. “Ill, starving, and this rain’s killing me.” He licked his lips and his claw-like hand trembled as he thrust it, palm upwards, towards the tall man. “Just a coin or two, a crust of bread even, anything.”

“Why don’t you sleep in the ruins?”

“Are you crazy?” The beggar almost forgot to whine. “Out there? Among them?” He shuddered. “Not on your life. I’m human and I stay where I belong.” His hand trembled again. “Give me something, mister. Anything! A coin, the price of a drink. I’m starving.”

“Are you alone?” He knew the answer even as he asked the question. Beggars were never alone. They huddled in groups, in droves, each within ear and eyeshot of each other, hunched together for a meager warmth and mutual protection, gaining some degree of comfort from misery shared. Of all people the beggars were at once the most miserable and the most safe. With nothing to lose they had no fear of being robbed. With a common misery shared they had no fear of loneliness. They were the herd, protected by their; sheer poverty and numbers. It had been a mistake to ask the question.

“Alone?” Surprise and swift suspicion echoed in the whining tones. “Why?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Yeah? What you after?” The hunched figure stirred as the man rose to his feet and his breath was a noisome miasma as he stared at the tall man. “Say! Are you—”

The blow was swift, soundless, feral in its cold, merciless accuracy. The beggar grunted as his skull yielded to the impact of the weighed club, then as the tall man supported his sagging body he collapsed gently to the wet ground. In the dim light it would seem as though he had sat down again, and Ron jingled a few coins in his pocket as he stooped over the lifeless figure.

He was sweating as he walked away.

It wasn’t the murder, for death was nothing and a beggar less than that. It was the danger, the unnecessary risk and the awful waste. He had walked among them and he had killed, and now he was walking away while behind him—

He swallowed and forced himself not to hurry. If the watching beggars even guessed at what he had done or why he wouldn’t stand a chance. They would rend him, tear his quivering flesh, smash the life from his body and vent their insensate hate on his delicate structure. Fear walked with him as he strode through the rain, and he was glad of the shielding darkness.

He walked directly into a patrol.

Light flared at him, thrown from a shuttered lantern, and he blinked in the sudden glare, conscious of hostile eyes staring at him from the tight knot of men.

“You! What are you doing here?”

“Heading for the main section.” He forced stiff features to smile. “I’m thirsty, thought I’d get me a drink and a spin at the wheel. Why?”

They didn’t answer, but a rough hand swept the hair back from his forehead and ears and calloused fingers probed at his skull. They found the knife and club, but that meant nothing, a man would be worse than a fool to travel unarmed, and he stood, cringing a little, as they ‘examined his body.

“He seems all right, Luke,” grunted a man. “Human; anyway.”

“Sure I’m human,” he snapped, and made his voice carry injured innocence. “You think I’m one of those damn Muties?”

“You could be. They’ve been coming into town too often of late. It’s getting so a man ain’t safe after dark, and a lot of ’em are trying to pass the line.”

“Not me.” He shrugged his clothing back into position. “Thanks, anyway, I’ll be more careful.” He made as if to walk on, and halted as the hard-eyed men barred his passage. “What’s the matter?”

“In a hurry, ain’t you?”

“I’m cold and wet and I want a drink.” He glared at the men. “You’ve examined me, haven’t you? Well?”

“Where do you work? What do you do? Where do you live?” The question spat like bullets from the thin lips of the man called Luke. “I ain’t satisfied.”

“I work for myself, collecting metal, copper and zinc for Zamboni piles, some ali and iron.” Ron shrugged. “During the day I work in the ruins, but at night I come into town.”

“Address?”

“Any flop house which has a spare bed.” He grinned. “You’re wasting time. I’m okay.”

“Sounds reasonable, Luke,” said a man quietly. “He looks human, anyway, let’s get on.”

“You coming with us?” Luke stared coldly at Ron, and looking at him the tall man knew that he daren’t refuse. Suspicion was too near the razor-edge of action, and one dead man more or less wouldn’t matter. It would be simple to slam a bullet through him — just in case, and any refusal might trigger the blood lust. He nodded, falling into step with the men and waiting for a chance to dodge free. In a way it had its advantages. With the patrol he was safe, above suspicion, and could walk the streets with impunity, but within him the pains mounted, tearing at his sanity and making his hands sweat and tremble.

Grimly he bit his lips and forced himself to walk as they walked, do as they did, deliberately bumping into obstacles and cursing with human impatience. Gradually the tension eased as they accepted him for what he appeared to be, and he began looking for a chance to escape.

The sound of shots cut through the night like the repeated slamming of a door. Three of them, blurring into one long rolling explosion, then, after a pause, two more echoing down the rain-washed streets like exclamation marks, cutting across the mechanical grinding of the distant jukebox and bringing a stir of life to the huddled beggars.

Whoever had fired the shots was either a bad shot or hated what he shot at, and few men were bad shots. The echoes died, yielding to the sound of running feet and the thick, blood-crazed cursing of a man. He staggered from a leaning doorway, dressed in a tattered shirt and trousers, the pistol still in his hand, and in the sudden glare of the lantern his eyes were bloodshot and mad looking.

“Two of them,” he mouthed. “A pair of the swine. I got one but the other got away.”

“Let’s have a look.” Luke thrust himself forward and stared at the others. “Cover the back and two of you go after it.” He looked at the man. “Male or female?”

“A bitch. The pair of them were bitches.” He spat and rubbed his chin with the hand holding the pistol. “The young one got away.”

“I’ll go after it,” said Ron. He stared at Luke. “I haven’t got a gun, so could you—?”

“Go with him, Sam. You’re armed. Bring back the body if you find it, but don’t go too far out.” The lantern light glistened from Luke’s eyes. “I’ll examine this one, a female you say?”

“Yeah.” The man led the way through the doorway and Ron stared at Sam.

“Let’s go.”

It was almost too easy. Swiftly Ron led the way towards the ruins, weaving skillfully between the heaps of rubble, taking a path that twisted far from the lights and noise of the center. Sam stumbled after him, the sound of his breathing harsh against the soft murmur of the rain, cursing when he fell. The sounds of the discordant music faded into the distance, throbbing like a forgotten dream, and the smoking flares cast a dim radiance faraway.

“Take it easy.” gasped Sam. He paused, wiping his face and staring into the darkness, the pistol held tensely in his hand. “This is far enough, too far, let’s get back.”

“I think she went just a little further,” suggested Ron. “Maybe she holed up in that heap over there.” He pointed and the other man narrowed his eyes as he tried to see through the rain-dimmed night.

“She? He squinted at the tall man. “Over where? How can you see in the damn darkness?” Suspicion again. The ever-ready suspicion of a man who mistrusted everything he couldn’t understand, and Ron frowned as he realized how he had given himself away. He stepped closer to the other man.

“Look,” he said. “You can just make it out, that white blob there.” Automatically Sam turned his head, peering in the direction of the pointing arm, then stared back — too late.

First the club, the weighed material crushing thin bone with deceptive ease. Then the knife, the honed edge opening the gushing gates of life. Then—

When Ron straightened from the empty body the pains had died almost away, almost, as far as they ever died, and the trembling urgency had gone. Swiftly he examined the body, taking the pistol and the handful of cartridges, the underarm holster and the belt knife. A few coins spilled from one of the pockets and he grabbed them, thrusting them with his own. He tensed, skin prickling to primitive warning, and glided with soundless strides from the huddled figure.

A girl stumbled slowly through the darkness.

Pale she was, her skin almost luminescent in the night, with long hair straggling over her face and a thin dress, torn and soiled, clinging damply to her well-made figure. Ron stared at her, crouched beside a heap of heat-seared brick, and within him strange hunger pulsed into vibrant life.

He moved and she recoiled. He stepped forward and she shrank back, her wide eyes terrified as she stared at him. He smiled, and incredibly her fear left her, reaction slumping her body, forcing her to lean against the jumbled ruins.

“You frightened me,” she said. “I thought—”

“That I was one of the men chasing you?” Ron shook his head. “You know better than that.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know — now.”

He didn’t have to ask how she knew or what she was. Gently he ran his fingers through her soaking hair, touching the soft, horn-like protuberances high on her forehead, the betraying nodules of the telepath, and his hand trembled as he drew it away.

“You know?” he said, and swallowed with unfamiliar shame.

“You can’t help it,” she said softly. “None of us can help what we are or what we do. The blame lies there.” She pointed to where the dim glow of the suspended lights shone in the sky. “Our fathers,” she whispered, and bitterness weighed in her voice. “Are we to blame for, what we are?”

He didn’t answer, feeling again the burning rage and helpless anger at those who had so much and gave so little. They would kill him if they could, he knew that, they would smash his life and laugh as he writhed beneath their torture. They would do that and feel a glow of satisfaction at a thing well done, a warm, peculiarly human glow at dealing cruelty and death to a helpless creature. They would drink and laugh and praise each other, forgetting that they themselves were responsible for what he was, or if they remembered, wiping out the memory with stern, self-righteous justification.

They were human, weren’t they? They owned the world, didn’t they? Then kill and destroy everything the slightest bit different. Burn the telepath for the accidental that which could remake the shattered world. Rip apart the distorted creatures with extra limbs or misplaced organs. Hang those with eidetic memory, shoot those with precognition, stab the beings with two hearts, six fingers, the ability to heal by touch or an instinctive awareness of the workings of the human brain. Torture the creatures who were starving and who ate dead flesh, and drive a stake through the hearts of those with mutated stomachs who found it impossible to absorb other than a specific liquid nourishment.

Kill! Kill; Kill until the human race breeds true again and the blasted genes and chromosomes are with the thing that caused them — a sickening memory of the past.

But the mutants didn’t want to be killed.

“Could it be done, Ron?” She stared at him aware, without the necessity of words, of what was in his mind. He sighed.

“I don’t know. Call it a dream, perhaps, an idle fancy, but how long can we last as we are?”

“Some of us will live,” she said. “Those that manage to cross the line.”

“Is that what you tried to do?”

“Yes.” She swallowed and he caught the impact of her mental pain. “My mother and I managed to live in the town. We did dressmaking, sewing, anything, and for a long while we managed to hide the fact that we were — different.”

“Your mother?” He stared at her, realizing for the first time just how young she was.

“Yes. We lived quietly until that man—” She bit her lips. “He was drunk, spoiling for trouble or a woman, and he chose us. I knew what he wanted, of course, and so did mother and she tried to save us. Somehow he guessed, it’s hard not to act naturally with them, and he—” She shuddered and instinctively Ron slipped his arm about her shoulders. “Mother got between us and warned me to run.”

“I know the rest,” he said harshly. “Three shots for killing when one would have been enough, then two more fired by hate and detestation. Human!” He made the word sound like a curse.

“What can we do, Ron?”

“There’s only one thing we can do,” he said grimly. “They almost caught me tonight and each time I have to—” He swallowed. “Each time the danger increases. One day my luck will run out, or they will decide on a clean-up of the ruins, or maybe they will go back to identification tattoos, anything. We’re on the losing side unless we get together and do something about it.”

“Could we?”

“Why not? I’ve a gun now, and cartridges for it. With money I can buy more. Then we can get together, leave this area, go somewhere remote where we won’t be bothered.” He touched her arm. “We could marry, have children, teach them and build a new civilization. Even though’ it doesn’t know it, or won’t admit it, the human race is dying out. The mutants will take over merely because more mutants will be born than normals. If we had somewhere safe for them to grow up in—” He gripped her shoulders. “We’re more intelligent than they are. Look at the way they use captured slaves to drag their carts, when a slight adaptation of the Zamboni piles would give them all the power they need. Even I know that, and others of us must know more. We could do it!”

“We could try,” she said evenly, and stared at him. “How about you? Must you have—”

“Animals will serve,” he said harshly. “But where are the animals?”

“We could each give a little,” she said thoughtfully. There isn’t really a problem there at all.” Hope lit her eyes. “Ron! Are you serious?”

“Why ask?” he said gently. “Can’t you tell?”

“Yes,” she said happily. “Yes. I can tell.”

For a long time they sat in the darkness and now the pains within him seemed more bearable than ever before. Now he had something to complete his life and, without asking, he knew that she was his. Someone to share the lonely hours, to comfort and help, to warm and cherish. A soft and vibrant woman to help meet the future, a woman who would, perhaps, mother the beginnings of a new race.

But first they needed money.

Money for weapons, for guns and ammunition, for tools and thick clothing. Money to ease their passage and to buy the things the new community would need. Some things they could find, others take, but money could obtain the crude instruments, the rare metals and the essential Geiger counters still to be found and bought. They had to have money.

“Gambling,” she said. “They gamble in the taverns; one of the games is guessing which is the highest of three cards.” She smiled. “Naturally they cheat, the dealer knows which will win, but I’m a telepath.”

“So you could read his mind and tell me how to bet!” Ron counted the few coins in his pockets. “We could do it. It would be risky, of course, but if we don’t win too much at a time we could do it.” He held out the captured pistol. “Here. Take this, hide it under your dress and use it if you have to.” He rose and gripped her shoulders

“You’re staying with me now,” he said. “I have a cave in the ruins, not much but it will do until we move.” He kissed her.

“Yes?”

“Of course — until we move.”

Together they moved towards the distant lights.

Late as it was the main street still resounded to the sounds of a frenzied, almost desperate amusement. Men and women eddied through the open doors of the taverns, and the spring jukebox still tried to emulate what passed for music. Above the laughter and discordant jazz the sound of clinking glasses and shuffling feet mingled with the drone from the tables, where smoothed faced men watched their customers lose, and lose, and keep on losing. All the play was in coins, no paper money had survived the effects of heat and time, rats and constant handling. Copper, some silver and a little gold made up the coinage and the players bet as much as they wished.

Ron slumped in a vacant chair, the girl standing just behind him, and tensed himself as the old, familiar fear began to tear at his guts. He would pass, he knew that. Despite his rags of clothing, his deathly pale skin and soaking wet condition, he could pass. He bore no outward signs of his inward difference and humanity had long ago lost all respect for outward conventions.

The game was a simple one, three cards, one an ace, flipped and placed by expert fingers, the trick being to find the ace.

“Come on, gents,” droned the gambler. “Even money bets. The more you put down the more you pick up.” The cards flashed between his fingers, the ace showing for a moment as it fell.

“I’ll take that one.” A burly carter placed a heap of copper opposite his card.

“And me.”

“Me too.”

A little heap of coins grew against one of the cards. Ron tensed as he felt a finger press against his right shoulder blade.

“I’ll take that one.” He spilled a few silver coins on the stained table.

“Any more players?” The gambler stared around the circle. “No?” He flipped over the cards. “The gent wins.”

Ron scooped up the doubled heap of silver and waited for the next play. Again the signaling pressure, this time between his shoulders. He bet on the center card — and won. He bet on the left hand card — and won. The center card again, and again he picked up silver. Then he lost, twice in a row, then won again, fighting the desire to double his money each play.

To do that would be worse than stupid. It would be suicide, which was why he had deliberately lost twice in a row. Even as it was the gambler stared at him through narrowed eyes and an invisible tension seemed to build up around the table. Ron swallowed as he felt it, knowing that men who won too often had a habit of being found dead and penniless the next dawn. Deliberately he lost again, ignoring the guiding pressure against his back, sighing with relief as he felt the tension lessen. He won the next and rose from the table.

“Going?” The gambler stared at him as he poised the cards.

“For a drink.” Ron jerked his head towards the bar. “I’ll be back.”

The bar was a splintered length of salvaged wood, mottled and ringed with the stains of countless glasses. Ron ordered drinks, lifting the thick, hand-made glass and wrinkling his nose at the odor of the rotgut it contained. It smelled of potato and cabbage, of peelings and garbage, but it was alcohol and strong and it served to ease the inward pain. He gulped the drink, then that of the girl resting untouched on the counter.

“I understand,” she whispered. “Outside?”

“Yes.”

“Will you win some more?”

“Not here. We’ve won too much as it is. Some other place.”

“Of course.” She shivered. “I’m afraid. There’s danger here. I wish.…”

“You wish what?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. What’s worrying you?” He stared at her. “Tell me.”

She didn’t answer and he felt the stirrings of impatient anger. “I can’t read your mind,” he whispered harshly. “I can’t guess what you’re thinking. What’s wrong?”

“It’s these people.” She bit her lip as she looked at the sweat-stained, hard-eyed, hard-faced crowd. “Their thoughts, they sicken me, like beasts or things worse than beasts.” She gripped his arm. “Let’s go now. We don’t belong here. Let them keep their money. There must be some other way.”

For a moment he hesitated, feeling the coins in his pocket, knowing that she spoke sense but knowing too that without money he wouldn’t be able to obtain the rotgut that could ease the pains so much. With her help he would be able to win and win and win again. It was so easy, even taking the necessary care he could win enough to buy what he needed.

“Ron!” He thinned his lips as he remembered that she could read his mind. “I’m afraid! Let’s go now. Please.”

“I’ll look after you,” he muttered. “You’re safe with me.”

“Please, Ron.”

He nodded, turning reluctantly from the bar, thrusting his way through the crowd as he followed her towards the door. Outside it was dark and wet and cold with the thin wind blowing from the north. Here it was warm and gay and comfortable. He thought of his cave, the lair in the rubble, soaking with filtering rain and bleak with loneliness. He thought of the woman, of her warmth and understanding, and for a moment felt quick shame at his selfishness.

A man grabbed at his arm.

“You! I’ve been looking for you. Where’s Sam?”

“Sam?” He blinked at glittering eyes and a stubbled chin. Memory returned as he stared at the man and with memory came a quick and searing terror. “Luke!”

“Yeah. So you know me. Where’s Sam?”

“I lost him.” Ron shivered to the cold sweat of fear. “We parted in the ruins, I tried to find him but it was too dark.”’

“So you left him.” Luke bared broken teeth in a snarl. “I found him. I know where he is, lying out there with his throat slashed and his head caved in. You did that, Mutie.”

“I’m no Mutie.”

“No? Then that’s just too damn’ bad — for you.”

“Wait!” Sweat oozed in great beads from his pallid skin and his stomach seemed to shrivel as he stared at the ring of accusing faces. “You examined me. You know I’m human.”

“Sam’s dead. That’s enough for me.”

“He won at the tables,” offered a man. “Kept on winning. Seemed funny to me.”

“Get the tar,” yelled a man at the rear of the crowd. “Tar and a rope. We’ll burn him as a warning to the rest.”

“Skin him!” screamed a woman. “Cut his eyes out!”

“Kick the swine to death!”

“Soak him in oil and set him alight!”

“Rip his guts out!”

One after the other they yelled their suggestions, their eyes lazed and their mouths slack with anticipation.

“No!” Ron cowered from what he saw. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it I tell you!”

“It’s lying,” snapped a man. “What you waiting for, Luke?” He thrust forward, hooked fingers outstretched.

“Wait! I know who did it,” he gasped desperately. “I followed her. She’s the Mutie, not me.” He didn’t stop to think of what he was saying. All he could see was the ring of animal-faces, the naked hate, the gloating anticipation of what was to come Fear clawed at him, panic, sick desperation and utter terror. “She’s to blame I tell you. You can’t hurt me for what she did.”

“She?”

“The one that got away. Remember?”

“Yeah.” Luke sucked at his teeth. “A bitch. I remember.” He narrowed his eyes. “You lying?”

“No. I swear it!”

“He came in with a woman,” said the gambler. “They drank together.”

“I was playing up to her, trying to make sure and hoping that I’d meet up with you.” Ron gulped air into his burning lungs. “She’s got away by now, but I can find her. I spotted her lair.”

“No need for that.” Luke turned and jerked his head at someone at the rear of the crowd. “Fetch her here.”

She stood before them, very young in her damp dress, with her long hair streaming to her shoulders and her eyes twin pools of enigmatic darkness. Silently she stared at him, standing very straight and proud, and he writhed to the knowledge of what he must appear to be.

“She looks all right to me,” said a man dubiously. “I still think he’s lying.”

“Sure he’s lying,” growled a man. “I’ve seen this girl before.” He spat. “A damn’ Mutie will do anything to save its hide. Get it over with, Luke.”

For a moment he was tempted. It would be so easy to save her, to admit what he was and let her go free. But if he did that they would kill him. They would gloat over his agony. They.…

“Search her,” he screamed. “Search her.”

They found the gun first, the weapon he had taken from Sam and given her for her protection. It was all they needed and Luke grinned as he probed at her skull.

“By God, he was right! We’ve caught a bitch, boys!”

“Yes,” she said calmly, and her eyes were steady as she stared at Ron. “We cannot help what we are.”

“But you can pay for it,” snarled a man.

Outside it was still raining, a soft, cleansing rain from above, filling the night with gentle murmurs and kind, innocent sounds. Ron walked among the ruins, almost running in his haste, but still he couldn’t move fast enough to miss the screams, the yells, the baying bloodlust and the final, merciful shot from the tavern.

Silence came then, the velvet silence of nature trying to undo what had been done, but no peace came with the silence, and he knew that for him peace would never come again.

The cave was as he had left it and he crawled between water soaked brick and oozing concrete to what he called home. Tiredly he threw down the knife and club, the money and cartridges, and throwing himself on the bed stared dully into darkness that to him was not darkness at all.

He felt empty, too dulled for thought, for regret, for idle dreams of what might have been. Tonight it had been her, tomorrow it could be him, and if not then some other night when hunger drove him to mingle with men.

Dully he stared at the thin trickles of seeping rain, washing over the mildewed stone and rusted iron.

He stared at the club and the knife, tools of his trade, and he stared at the scattered coins won with a woman’s help.

All thirty of them.