The Survivor - James Herbert, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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James HerbertThe SurvivorPrologueThe old man tightened his scarf and pulled the lapels of his heavy overcoat uparound his neck. The warm air from his lungs became visible as it emerged fromhis mouth and was instantly chilled by the cold night air. For a few seconds, heallowed his feet to beat a soft tattoo on the hard concrete surface of the ironbridge, then stopped, settling his ageing frame more comfortably on the unyieldingbench. He looked up at the dark October sky, enjoying the feeling of smallness itsdeepness gave him. There was a half moon, crisp and clear-edged, hanging flatlyand remotely, as though added as an afterthought and playing no important part inthe dark empyrean.Sighing inwardly, he lowered his gaze to the river, black with sudden splashes ofreflected light constantly joining and parting in a dazzling display of effulgence.He looked towards its banks: at the small boats and launches stirring smoothly inits easy flow; at the bright shops and restaurants, and the public house at the end,all night-lit clean, their middle greys of the day concealed in contrasts ofuncompromising light and dark.Beautiful, he thought. Beautiful, this time of night, this time of year. The latenessmeant fewer people used the bridge as a thoroughfare; the coldness meant lesspeople would linger on its unshielded length. Most of the tourists had left Windsorby now, their season having sighed to a halt. The day-trippers had scurried backinto their coaches and cars and departed with the short autumn dusk. Now therewould be fewer pilgrimages across the bridge from Windsor to see Eton, his town,to visit the famous College with its Tudor schoolyard and beautiful fifteenthcenturychapel, to admire the eighteenth-century shop fronts and half-timberedmedieval buildings, to browse through the numerous antique shops crammed intoits narrow high street. He hadn't quite appreciated the beauty of his birthplacehimself until he'd read the official guide-book for Eton a few years before; it hadbecome lost to him through a lifetime of familiarity. But now that he'd had a fewyears to pause, to look around him, to take stock of himself and his surroundings,he'd taken a deeper interest in the history and the uniqueness of his native town.For the past four years, since his retirement and after his illness, he had made astudy of Eton becoming an expert on the subject. Any tourists stopping the oldman in the street to ask for directions would suddenly find themselves with aknowledgeable and seemingly tireless guide, who would not let them go until theyhad grasped at least a fundamental history of the place. But towards the end ofsummer, he would grow tired of the tourists and the bustle they brought to hisnormally peaceful habitat, and he would welcome the arrival of the cold weatherand the darker evenings.Every night now, he would leave his tiny terraced house in Eton Square at about8.30 and walk down to the College, then back up to the High Street towards thebridge where he would spend at least twenty to thirty minutes, regardless ofweather, staring downriver to where the Thames divided around Romney Island,never particularly deep in thought, just enjoying the mood of the night.Occasionally, mainly in summer, he would be joined by others, some strangers,some acquaintances, and he would chat with them for a while, but soon fall intohis own reflective silence. Then he would walk back, stop in at The ChristopherCourage for a single brandy, one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, andafterwards return home to bed.Tonight, he imagined, would be no different from any other. Then, the drone of anaeroplane's engines reached his ears. It was nothing unusual - Eton was on a directair route from nearby Heathrow airport, a cause of much complaint to the localpeople both in Eton and Windsor - but for some reason he peered up into the skyto find the source of the noise. He saw the tail light first and then the huge bulk ofthe plane became visible as his eyes adjusted to the inky backdrop.One of the big 'uns, he thought. Damn nuisance, all these planes. Especially thosebig ones. Noisy brutes. Necessary evil I suppose. He wanted to avert his eyes, thetension in his neck muscles now becoming an uncomfortable strain as theystretched upwards; but for some reason, he was unable to do so. The huge body -quite low - the red light, the droning noise, had suddenly become fascinating tohim. He'd seen too many of the monsters for this one in particular to hold any realinterest, yet he found he could not tear his eyes away from it. Something waswrong. He had no idea how he knew, but there was something wrong up there.It seemed to be turning, which in itself was unusual because most other aircraftflew directly across Eton in a straight line. The right-hand wing seemed to bedipping. Yes, it was definitely turning. And then, he saw the plane split open. Heheard the muffled explosion, but his senses barely registered the noise. They weretoo entranced by the horror of the spectacle, for the aeroplane hadn't quite brokenup and the whole body was now plummeting towards the earth. He could seeobjects falling from it as it plunged; objects that could only be seats, cases -andbodies!Oh God!' he said aloud, as the noise suddenly penetrated his brain. 'It can't be!Help them, God, help - ' The whining roar drowned his cries as the falling planepassed over him, skimming over the High Street, its four engines and the rushingof wind combining to create a terrible sound, the force of the engines preventing itfrom merely dropping from the sky. The old man could see that the windows inthe front section were lit up by a red blaze, and tails of fire were emerging fromthe huge crack in its body, flattened by the rushing wind. The aircraft was hardlyheld together, the rear section dragging downwards, about to break away from themain body at any moment.The plane disappeared from view, the boathouses mercifully hiding the inevitableand final destruction from the old man's vision. There seemed to be a pause - amoment of silence, a moment when it appeared that nothing had happened - butthen came the explosion. The sky shone red and he saw the flames in the neardistance reach up from behind the boathouses. He fell to his knees at the sound,and the blast appeared to make even the bridge tremble. It filled his ears and heclapped his hands to them, leaning forward from the waist so that his face almosttouched his knees. But still the noise penetrated and reverberated inside his head,the shock of what had happened held in abeyance for the moment whilst his braindealt with the physical pain. At last, the sound seemed to diminish. It had onlytaken seconds, but they were frozen seconds, timeless.Slowly he raised his head, his hands still tight against his ears, his eyes wide withfear. He saw the pulsating glow, the rising palls of smoke, but everything else wasstill. He saw other figures along the High Street, their faces just white blobs in thestrangely red-hued night light, standing transfixed, afraid or unable to move. Theshattering of glass from a restaurant window at the foot of the bridge broke thestillness, and the old man observed the whole street was Uttered with glisteningshards of glass. People began to appear at windows and doorways; he heard voicescalling out. Nobody seemed sure of what had happened. He staggered to his feetand began to run towards the fields where he knew the plane had come to rest.As he ran past the boathouses, the old man noticed they were ablaze at the rear. Hereached a small lane that led into the long fields beyond, his breathing becomingmore painful with each step. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw therewere several small fires in the buildings behind him. Turning a corner, he stoppedat the edge of the field, one hand clutched to his chest, his shoulders heaving withexertion and the effort of breathing.He stared aghast at the wrecked aeroplane lit up by its own fires. Its belly wascrushed, its nose pushed up and squashed flat. The only wing he could see waslying alongside the rear end which had finally broken off completely from themain body. Only the tail rose majestically from the mangled wreckage, almostuntouched, but somehow obscene because of it, glowing red in the light from theflames, defiant, but now ugly in its sleekness.The area appeared to be covered with twisted metal, material that had beenscattered and flung wide on impact. The old man reluctantly entered the field,aware that there might be a possibility of helping someone. It seemed unlikely, butit was. the only thing to do. As he moved forward, he heard the sounds of shoutsand footsteps behind him. Others must be arriving on the scene; he prayed thatthey would be of some use. He carefully skirted around glowing pieces of metal,some that burned the grass they rested on. And then came the smell. He didn'trecognise it at first because it was mingled with smoke and the odour of meltingmetal. Then he realised its source. It was burning flesh.He retched and almost fell to his knees again. How many passengers did these bigplanes take? It was more than three hundred, he felt certain. Oh dear God, nowonder the smell was so strong!Suddenly the old man felt faint. It wasn't just the odious smell; the heat wasintolerable, and up till now he hadn't realised how fierce it was. He had to moveaway, it was no good, no one could have survived this carnage. He looked aroundin desperation just in case, and was repulsed when he discovered that some ofwhat he had imagined as being twisted metal was, ...
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