Джон Макдональд - The Hunted [Short Story]

Peter dodged suddenly to one side, and then threw himself straight at the old one, knee plunging up toward the groin. The old one turned, caught the thrust on the hip bone, and his arms locked around Peter’s torso. The old one made a small purring sound of approval. Slowly his arms began to tighten. Peter took a deep breath. The old one had his face tight against Peter’s chest so that Peter could not get at his eyes. Peter grasped the hair of the old one’s head with both hands, pulled the old one’s head back. Then, letting go with his right hand, he quickly brought it around so that his forearm was across the mouth of the old one. Peter felt the stinging pain as teeth met in his arm.

His leverage was good, but the old one was stubborn. Sweat poured from both of them. Suddenly there was a dim crack, as of a dry twig in the forest. The old one slumped to the ground, his head at an odd angle. Peter kicked him full in the face with the hard ball of his foot, then turned and once more issued the challenge. There were no takers. He walked into the sleeping place, stretched out on the straw and began to lick the wound in his arm. It was in a difficult place, but he knew that if he did not lick it, it would not heal properly.

Somehow he felt no urge to join the others. They had gathered the sticks and built the fire. He could hear them quarreling mildly over the more succulent portions of the body of the old one. Though they had just been fed, they would eat the old one, because there was no other way to gain the strength that the old one had possessed.

After a time Peter slept, his big chest rising and falling very slowly, his dreams filled with memories of battle.

The next day, just as the sun had risen, a large number of the masters with the little silver tubes came to the wire. One of their floating platforms was brought close. The little tubes were aimed and Peter felt the sudden stillness that could not be broken.

With their lifting sticks, they picked him up, floated him through the door set into the wire and dropped him heavily onto the floating platform. Though he tried with all his strength, he could not break the invisible bonds of the silver tubes.

Others were dropped near him. He felt the thuds of their bodies. Many thuds. One man landed across Peter’s legs.

The gate closed and then the floating platform went off at great speed. He knew they were high in the air and it made him dizzy.

His stomach felt the sudden drop, the slowing, and once again the platform hung still in the air. They were all taken with lifting sticks and dropped onto rough broken pavement.

He heard the voice of one of those weak, soft men who served the masters. The hated voice of one of those who filled the feeding troughs and cleaned the pens.

“You are in the city. You are free. You cannot leave the city, because on one side is vast water and on the edges of the city are the areas of pain. But the city is large. There are many places to hide. The masters will come to hunt you down and kill you. If you can, you are permitted to kill first. There will be no punishment.

“In an hour the masters will come. Many of them. They will leave the city at dusk. They will return at dawn. If any of you last for three days without being found and killed, you will then be recaptured and sent to the pens where there are women.”

The voice stopped. The pressure was suddenly released. Peter jumped to his feet, saw the floating platform soaring above the shattered roofs. He looked about, his head thrown back, sniffing the air.

So the masters were coming to kill! Good! They would come to be killed, also. He, Peter, would see to that. At last a chance to tear their pale flesh! In the full pride of his strength, he beat his chest once more.

It did not occur to him, nor to any of the others, to band together in defense or offense. Set down with a common nucleus, they drifted off in all directions, wary and alert.

It was the first time Peter had seen a city. He did not like it. Great mouldering walls, and streets blocked with rubble. Pavement heaved and torn. One had to step carefully, because of the shattered glass.

He walked aimlessly at first, then suddenly remembered that the masters would begin the hunt in one hour. He did not know what an hour was, but he had the idea that it was a very short time. There were many hours in one sun.

A dark entrance looked like a place in which to hide. The doorway was almost blocked with rubble. He squeezed through, waited until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. A sagging stairway led up. He went up it rapidly, touching his knuckles to the stairs, his nose alert to the scents around him.

At the top of the stairs it was light. There was no roof on the building. It was not a good building in which to fight. He left it in disgust, but as he went down the stairs he wrenched free a stout club. It felt good in his hand. The firewood was always too small to use as a club. This was a fine, a wonderful club. He swung it, listened to the whistle it made. Ah, this club would smash the brains of the masters, the white, weak ones with the insect eyes.

The third entrance he tried was good. It was a very big place. His bare feet padded on some smooth cold stone on the floor. To his left were several cages made of metal. He stuck the club into an open place in the metal and twisted. The metal was weak. It broke under the strain.

The cage was dark inside. He looked up and saw that it went up a great distance and that long metal ropes, two of them, went up into the blackness. He wanted to climb the metal ropes to find a secret place high above him. Yet he could not climb and carry the club at the same time. It took a long time of thinking. Then he found a bit of rotted rope, tied it crudely where it seemed weakest, then tied one end to the club. He looped the other end around his waist and tied it.

He leaped up into the darkness, his powerful hands closing on the metal rope. Hand over hand, he went up into the darkness. The rope was sticky. His biceps began to crack and tingle with the strain. He locked his legs around the rope and rested for a time. Once he looked down and clung more tightly to the metal rope.

The second time he stopped to rest, he did not dare look down. He clung to the rope and shut his eyes. At last he came to the end. The metal ropes, both of them, went around wheels. There was a faint light. Above him was flat metal. His muscles ached with strain. He inched up further, clung with his legs and his right hand, and got the club with his left. He jabbed it up against the metal. There was a hollow sound, but it seemed solid. He waited for a moment, wondering what to do.

Then he saw a metal bar across the wall five feet away. Above the bar was a narrow space. He could squeeze through up there.

With sudden resolve, he grasped one of the wheels and swung across, reaching out his left hand, then hung, panting, to the metal bar. Slowly he worked his way up until he could stand on the metal bar. The narrow place touched his chest and his back. Above him was light. Finding small handholds, he worked his way up for a distance of about ten feet. Then the narrow space opened out and he found he could stand on a flat surface. As nearly as he could make out, the thing on which he stood was fastened to the metal ropes and fitted inside the shaft up which he had climbed. He wondered if it was used in the old world to carry people up and down the shaft.

Eight feet from the top of the box was an opening in the side of the shaft. He jumped, caught the edge with his fingers and pulled himself up, rolled out onto a stone floor like the one so far below.

There were many doors opening onto the long hall. They sagged on their hinges as though they had been driven open by a blast. He looked in the first one. In great wonder he looked at the gray fragile bones of a man who sat, in death, behind a large box. There were tiny shards of glass on the floor. The floor was covered with a soft, rotted fabric.