What will happen when the alien ships strike Earth? And later? Whowill survive? What will life be like in that latter-day jungle? William F.Nolan, well known in SF circles on the West Coast, returns with thisgrim story of the days and the nights of Lewis Stillman—survivor ...
He was running, running down the long tunnels, theshadows hunting him, claws clutching at him, nearer ...
In the waiting windlessdark, Lewis Stillman pressedinto the building-front shadowsalong Wilshire Boulevard.Breathing softly, theautomatic poised and ready inhis hand, he advanced withanimal stealth toward Western,gliding over the night-coolconcrete, past ravagedclothing shops, drug and ten-centstores, their windowsshattered, their doors ajar andswinging. The city of LosAngeles, painted in coldmoonlight, was an immensegraveyard; the tall whitetombstone buildings thrustup from the silent pavement,shadow-carved and lonely.Overturned metal corpses oftrucks, busses and automobileslittered the streets.
He paused under the widemarquee of the FOX WILTERN.Above his head, rowsof splintered display bulbsgaped—sharp glass teeth inwooden jaws. Lewis Stillmanfelt as though they mightdrop at any moment to piercehis body.
Four more blocks to cover.His destination: a small cornerdelicatessen four blockssouth of Wilshire, on Western.Tonight he intended bypassingthe larger stores likeSafeway or Thriftimart, withtheir available supplies of exoticfoods; a smaller grocerywas far more likely to havewhat he needed. He was findingit more and more difficultto locate basic foodstuffs. In the big supermarketsonly the more exotic andhighly spiced canned and bottledgoods remained—and hewas sick of caviar and oysters!
Crossing Western, he hadalmost reached the far curbwhen he saw some of them.He dropped immediately tohis knees behind the rustingbulk of an Olds 88. The reardoor on his side was open,and he cautiously eased himselfinto the back seat of thedeserted car. Releasing thesafety catch on the automatic,he peered through thecracked window at six orseven of them, as they movedtoward him along the street.God! Had he been seen? Hecouldn't be sure. Perhaps theywere aware of his position!He should have remained onthe open street where he'dhave a running chance. Perhaps,if his aim were true, hecould kill most of them; but,even with its silencer, thegun would be heard and moreof them would come. Hedared not fire until he wascertain they discovered him.
They came closer, theirsmall dark bodiescrowding the walk, six ofthem, chattering, leaping,cruel mouths open, eyes glitteringunder the moon. Closer.The shrill pipings increased,rose in volume. Closer.Now he could make outtheir sharp teeth and mattedhair. Only a few feet from thecar ... His hand was moist onthe handle of the automatic;his heart thundered againsthis chest. Seconds away ...
Now!
Lewis Stillman fell heavilyback against the dusty seat-cushion,the gun loose in histrembling hand. They hadpassed by; they had missedhim. Their thin pipings diminished,grew faint withdistance.
The tomb silence of latenight settled around him.
The delicatessen proved areal windfall. The shelveswere relatively untouched andhe had a wide choice oftinned goods. He found anempty cardboard box and hastilybegan to transfer thecans from the shelf nearesthim.
A noise from behind—apadding, scraping sound.
Lewis Stillman whirledaround, the automatic ready.
A huge mongrel dog facedhi