John Christopher - The Death of Grass

John said: “Thanks. We’re not short of food, though. We’ve got something we think might interest you.”

“Keep it,” the man said. “Keep it, and clear off.”

“In that case…’ John said.

He jumped inwards so that he was pressed against the wall to the right of the door, out of sight of the farmer. The man reacted immediately. “If you want gunshot…’ he said. He came through the doorway, the gun ready, his finger on the trigger.

There was a distant crack, and at the same time the massive body turned inwards, like a top pulled by its string, and slumped towards them. As he fell, a finger contracted. The gun went off crashingly, its charge exploding against the wall of the farmhouse. The echoes seemed to splinter against the calm sky. The old dog roused and barked, feebly, against the sun. A voice cried something from inside the house, and then there was silence.

John pulled the shot-gun away from under the body which lay over it. One barrel was still unfired. With a nod to Roger, he stepped over the dead or dying man and into the house. The door opened immediately into a big living-room. The light was dimmer and John’s gaze went first to the closed doors leading off the room and then to the empty staircase that ascended in one corner. Several seconds elapsed before he saw the woman who stood in the shadows by the side of the staircase.

She was quite tall, but as spare as the farmer had been broad. She was looking directly at them, and she was holding another gun. Roger saw her at the same time. He cried:

“Watch it, Johnny!”

Her hand moved along the side of the gun, but as it did so, John’s own hand moved also. The clap of sound was even more deafening in the confinement of the room. She stayed upright for a moment and then, clutching at the banister to her left, crumpled up. She began to scream as she reached the ground, and went on screaming in a high strangled voice.

Roger said: “Oh, my God!”

John said: “Don’t stand there. Get a move on. Get that other gun and let’s get this house searched. We’ve been lucky twice but we don’t have to be a third time.”

He watched while Roger reluctantly pulled the gun away from the woman; she gave no sign, but went on screaming.

Roger said: “Her face…”

“You take the ground floor,” John told him. “I’ll go upstairs.”

He searched quickly through the upper story, kicking doors open. He did not realize until he had nearly finished his search that he had forgotten something—that had been the second barrel and, until the shot-gun was reloaded, he was virtually weaponless. One door remained. He hesitated and then kicked this open in turn.

It was a small bedroom. A girl in her middle ’teens was sitting up in bed. She stared at him with terrified eyes.

He said to her: “Stay here. Understand? You won’t get hurt if you stay in here.”

“The guns…’ she said. “Ma and Pa—what was the shooting? They’re not…”

He said coldly: “Don’t move outside this room.”

There was a key in the lock. He went out, closed the door and locked it. The woman downstairs was still screaming, but less harshly than she had been. Roger stood above her, staring down.

John said, “Well?”

Roger looked up slowly. “It’s all right. There’s no one else down here.” He gazed down at the woman again. “Breakfast cooking on the range.”

Pirrie came quietly through the open door. He lowered his rifle as he viewed the scene.

“Mission accomplished,” he commented. “She had a gun as well? Are there any others in the house?”

“Guns or people?” John asked. “I didn’t see any other guns, did you, Rodge?”

Still looking at the woman, Roger said: “No.”

“There’s a girl upstairs,” John said. “Daughter. I locked her in.”

“And this?” Pirrie directed the toe of one shoe towards the woman, now groaning deep-throatedly.

“She got the blast… in the face mostly,” Roger said. “From a couple of yards range.”

“In that case…’ said Pirrie. He tapped the side of his rifle and looked at John. “Do you agree?”

Roger looked at them both. John nodded. Pirrie walked with his usual precise gait to where the woman lay. As he pointed the rifle, he said: “A revolver is so much more convenient for this sort of thing.” The rifle cracked, and the woman stopped moaning. “In addition to which, I do not like using the ammunition for this unnecessarily. We are not likely to replace it. Shot-guns are much more likely equipment in parts like these.”

John said: “Not a bad exchange—two shot-guns and, presumably, ammunition, for two rounds.”

Pirrie smiled. “You will forgive me for regarding two rounds from this as worth half a dozen shot-guns. Still, it hasn’t been too bad. Shall we call the others up now?”

“Yes,” John said, “I think we might as well.”

In a strained voice, Roger said: “Wouldn’t it be better to get these bodies out of the way first—before the children come up here?”

John nodded. “I suppose it would.” He stepped across the corpse. “There’s generally a hole under the stairs. Yes, I thought so. In here. Wait a minute—here are the cartridges for the shotguns. Get these out first.” He peered into the dark recesses of the cubby-hole {113} 113 cubby-hole: small office . “I don’t think there’s anything else we want You can lift her in now.”

It took all three of them to carry the dead farmer in from the door and wedge his body also into the cupboard under the stairs. Then John went out in front of the house, and waved. The day was as bright, and seemed fresher than ever with the absence of the pungent smell of powder. The old dog had settled again in its place; he saw now that it was very old indeed, and possibly blind. A watchdog that still lived when it could no longer guard was an aimless thing; but no more aimless, he thought, than the blind millions of whom they themselves were the forerunners. He let the gun drop. At any rate, it was not worth the expenditure of a cartridge.

The women came up the hill with the children. The picnic air was gone; the boys walked quietly and without saying anything. Davey came up to John. He said, in a low voice:

“What was the shooting, Daddy?”

John looked into his son’s eyes. “We have to fight for things now,” he said. “We have to fight to live. It’s something you’ll have to learn.”

“Did you kill them?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you put the bodies?”

“Out of the way. Come on in. We’re going to have breakfast.”

There was a stain of blood at the door, and another where the woman had lain. Davey looked at them, but he did not say anything else.

When they were all in the living-room, John said:

“We don’t want to be here long. The women can be getting us a meal. There are eggs in the kitchen, and a side of bacon. Get it done quickly. Roger and Pirrie and I will be sorting out what we want to take with us.”

Spooks asked: “Can we help you?”

“No. You boys stay here and rest yourselves. We’ve got a long day in front of us.”

Olivia had been staring, as Davey had done, at the marks of blood on the floor. She said:

“Were there only—the two of them?”

John said curtly: “There’s a girl upstairs—daughter. I’ve locked her in.”

Olivia made a move towards the stairs. “She must be terrified!”

John’s look stopped her. He said: “I’ve told you—we haven’t time to waste on inessentials. See to the things we need. Never mind anything else.”

For a moment she hesitated, and then she went through to the kitchen. Millicent followed her. Ann stood by the door with Mary. She said: