gns.throwback-第58部分

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　　And　then　at　last　he　found　them；　a　big　bunch　of　them；　twenty　at　least；　in　a　wide　clearing　amidst　the　dense　bushes；　men；　women　and　children。　A　strewn　litter　of　bodies；　corpses！
　　
　　It　took　some　time　for　Reitze　to　realise；　to　accept；　that　they　were　all　dead。　He　did　not　want　to　believe　it；　wanted　them　alive；　fleeing；　shrieking　their　terror　as　he　cut　them　down　one　by　one；　wanted　the　satisfaction　of　gazing　down　on　every　one　of　them　dead　by　his　own　hand。　But　the　elements　and　the　Coughing　Death　had　beaten　him　to　it。
　　
　　No；　it　couldn't　be；　it　wasn't　like　this。　They　were　all　alive；　trying　to　fool　him　into　thinking　they　were　dead　so　that　he　would　go　away。　But　you　can't　fool　me；　you　shit…pigs！
　　
　　'Get　up！'　He　screamed；　brought　the　rifle　up　to　his　shoulder。　'I　know　you're　not　fucking　well　dead。　D'you　hear　what　I　say？　Get　up　and　run　for　it。　I'm　giving　you　a　chance。　D'you　fucking　well　hear？'
　　
　　No　movement　except　a　piece　of　wet　snow　sliding　off　a　branch；　plopping　on　to　the　ground。　Faces　stared　back　at　him；　dull　orbs　that　were　filled　with　a　hopelessness　that　had　frozen　into　them。　Features　rigid；　defiant。　We're　not　going　to　run　because　we're　dead。　You're　too　late。
　　
　　'For　the　last　time；　are　you　going　to　fucking　well　get　up　and　take　your　chance　with　me？'
　　
　　No　answer；　no　movement。　Reitze　had　the　rifle　barrel　trained　on　the　forehead　of　the　nearest　inert　body；　took　another　trigger　pressure。　Your　chance　has　gone；　you　bastard！
　　
　　The　slug　split　the　skull　in　two；　exploded　a　shower　of　red　bone　splinters。　The　second　shot　was　almost　simultaneous；　bowled　a　small　child　over；　rolled　it　so　that　you　could　not　see　the　gaping　wound　in　its　side。　Firing　fast　now；　corpses　ing　alive　with　the　impact　of　the　bullets；　thrown　back；　jerked　one　way；　slumping　another。　Reloading；　shooting　again；　the　cloud　of　cordite　smoke　thickening；　doing　its　best　to　screen　the　awful　mutilation。
　　
　　Reitze　paused　to　reload；　looked　for　unscathed　bodies　and　could　not　find　any。　The　first　throwback　again；　this　time　a　chest　shot；　ripping　out　the　breast　bone；　breaking　legs；　arms；　disembowelling　others　so　that　the　stench　of　human　offal　mingled　with　the　smeil　of　powdersmoke。
　　
　　Only　when　he　was　out　of　cartridges　did　he　stop；　dropping　on　to　his　haunches；　leaning　back　against　the　birch　trunk。　His　eyelids　were　heavy；　wanted　to　close；　the　smoke　was　making　them　smart　but　he　forced　them　to　remain　open。　The　conqueror　revelled　in　the　sight　of　his　conquest；　wanted　to　savour　the　bloody　carnage。　All　my　own　work。　Liar！　No；　I　killed　'em　because　they　were　still　alive；　trying　to　fool　me　but　1　was　too　damned　smart　for　'em。　They　paid。
　　
　　'I　got　you；　you　fuck　bastards！'　A　cracked　whisper　that　was　meant　to　be　a　jubilant　yell。　'I　got　you　for　what　you　did　to　us。'
　　
　　And　when　dusk　drifted　into　the　wood　Reitze　was　still　propped　up　against　the　bole　of　that　tree；　rigid；　eyes　still　fixed　on　the　bloodshed　in　front　of　him。　The　rifle　had　fallen　from　his　grasp；　half…buried　in　a　patch　of　snow。　Anyone　stumbling　upon　him　might　have　been　forgiven　for　thinking　that　he　was　still　alive；　that　he　had　slaughtered　mercilessly　and　was　merely　resting。
　　
　　But　nobody　would　be　ing　here　any　more。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TWENTY…SIX
　　
　　JON　QUINN　had　wounded　a　hare　on　the　steep　hillside　that　led　up　to　Gwyther's　boundary。　An　almost　pathetic　creature　lolloping　in　the　snow；　its　size　confusing　his　judgement　of　distance　when　he　fired；　forty…five　yards　had　seemed　no　more　than　thirty。　It　had　squealed　once；　momentarily　lost　its　footing　then　regained　its　balance；　powered　itself　on　upwards　in　spile　of　the　pellets　embedded　in　its　back　legs；　bright　red　bloodspots　marking　the　course　it　took　once　it　had　gained　the　brow。
　　
　　'Damn！'　Quinn　ejected　the　spent　cartridge；　slipped　another　into　the　breech。　Guilt　because　he　had　wounded　the　creature　and　in　all　probability　it　would　die　a　lingering　death　up　in　the　big　forest　after　dark　when　the　temperature　dropped　below　freezing。　He　tried　to　console　his　conscience　that　he　was　desperate　for　meat。　Rubbish；　nobody　needs　meat；　there　are　ample　vegetables　stored　in　the　big　barn。　All　the　same；　he　had　to　follow　it　and　make　every　possible　attempt　to　alleviate　its　suffering。
　　
　　He　was　sweating　hard；　his　shirt　beneath　his　windcheater　sticking　to　his　skin。　There　was　the　danger　that　it　might　result　in　a　chill。　He　could　not　afford　to　be　ill；　survival　was　now　a　full…time　occupation。
　　
　　He　reached　the　horizon；　saw　that　the　footmarks　and　bloodstains　headed　across　in　the　direction　of　the　forest。　He　would　have　to　follow　them。　He　。。。
　　
　　Suddenly　he　heard　the　helicopter；　its　engine　powering　it　into　take…off　somewhere　close　by。　The　noise　hit　him　like　a　physical　blow；　froze　him　into　immobility。　Hide！　There's　nowhere　to　hide。　Run　before　they　see　you。　Open　country；　he　would　not　make　it　to　the　forest　in　time。
　　
　　The　helicopter　was　visible　now；　flying　low；　ing　towards　him。　Oh　Christ；　they've　seen　me；　they'll　take　me　back　with　then　to　enforced　civilisation。　The　hills　and　woods　are　throwback　territory；　everybody　else　has　to　get　out。　Emergency　regulations；　martial　law。　His　eyes　were　fixed　on　the　approaching　machine；　watching　it　grow　bigger　every　second；　nearer　and　nearer　。　。　。
　　
　　And　then；　without　warning；　it　stopped　as　though　it　had　run　into　an　invisible　barrier。　For　a　second　or　two　it　appeared　to　hover；　unbelievably　still　as　though　it　defied　Newton's　Law。　Then　dropped　vertically。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　braced　himself；　felt　the　vibration　of　the　crash；　screamed　his　horror　as　he　saw　the　chopper　bounce；　the　vanes　snap　like　bamboo　canes；　overturning；　rolling。　Breaking　up。
　　
　　It　bounced　again　off　a　rock　beneath　the　snow；　seemed　to　split　apart；　strewing　its　wreckage　as　it　careered　down　the　steep　slope。　Something　was　thrown　from　it；　a　mangled　bloodied　body；　blood　jetting　from　a　ragged　neck　stump　where　it　had　been　decapitated；　spraying　crimson　like　a　garden　sprinkler　in　summer；　a　deep　snowdrift　finally　swallowing　it　up。
　　
　　Finally　there　was　nothing　left　to　roll　any　further。　A　blinding　explosion　as　the　fuel　tank　ignited；　a　brief　funeral　pyre　that　quickly　extinguished　itself　in　the　frozen　wilderness。　Less　than　half　a　minute　and　it　was　all　over。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　did　not　want　to　go　and　look。　His　logic　screamed　at　him　that　there　could　be　no　survivors　but　his　conscience　yelled　even　louder　that　it　was　his　duty　to　check。　He　was　still　holding　the　shotgun；　euthanasia　was　his　only　remedy　if　anybody　still　lived；　for　he　could　offer　neither　medical　attention　nor　hope。　Just　mercy。
　　
　　Approaching　hesitantly；　the　urge　to　flee　this　place　very　strong。　Mangled　metal　stretched　for　over　a　hundred　yards　down　the　hillside；　a　bloody　hole　in　the　snow　where　the　headless　victim　had　disappeared。　A　crumpled　door　。　。　。　the　cab。　Oh　Jesus　Christ；　I　don't　want　to　look　inside　there。　You　have　to。
　　
　　The　pilot　had　hit　the　control　panel；　was　crushed　flat　across　it；　blood　dripping　steadily　off　the　instruments。
　　
　　Unrecognisable　as　a　human　being；　as　if　a　road…roller　had　gone　over　him。
　　
　　That　hare；　you　hurt　it　bad；　you　ought　to　be　going　and　trying　to　find　it。　Follow　the　bloodstains　in　the　snow。　There　was　blood　everywhere。
　　
　　The　rest　of　the　cab　was　empty　as　far　as　he　could　ascertain；　like　something　you　found　in　the　corner　of　a　breaker's　yard；　not　even　worth　stripping　for　spares。
　　
　　Go　and　search　for　that　hare；　put　it　out　of　its　misery。　There　was　nothing　to　linger　on　here　for。
　　
　　As　he　turned　away　Jon　Quinn　spied　a　third　body　in　the　snow。　It　lay　fifteen　or　twenty　yards　away；　face　down。　He　caught　his　breath；　wanted　to　back　off；　saw　at　a　cursory　glance　that　it　was　a　throwback。　He　licked　his　dry　lips。　Maybe　it　had　been　here　all　along；　was　nothing　to　do　with　the　crash。　The　hills　were　full　of　corpses；　when　the　thaw　came　（if　it　ever　did）　they　would　begin　to　depose；　fill　the　air　with　the　stench　of　rotting　flesh；　a　reminder　of　this　winter　of　death。
　　
　　That　hare　could　be　lying　up　there　in　the　forest　in　agony。　All　you　have　to　do　is　to　follow　the　blood。
　　
　　He　had　to　check　the　third　body；　he　would　never　be　able　to　live　with　himself　if　he　didn't。　It　had　been　a　person