Small World Read online

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _What will happen when the alien ships strike Earth? And later? Who will 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 this grim story of the days and the nights of Lewis Stillman--survivor ..._

  small world

  _by WILLIAM F. NOLAN_

  He was running, running down the long tunnels, the shadows hunting him, claws clutching at him, nearer ...

  In the waiting windless dark, Lewis Stillman pressed into thebuilding-front shadows along Wilshire Boulevard. Breathing softly, theautomatic poised and ready in his hand, he advanced with animal stealthtoward Western, gliding over the night-cool concrete, past ravagedclothing shops, drug and ten-cent stores, their windows shattered, theirdoors ajar and swinging. The city of Los Angeles, painted in coldmoonlight, was an immense graveyard; the tall white tombstone buildingsthrust up from the silent pavement, shadow-carved and lonely. Overturnedmetal corpses of trucks, busses and automobiles littered the streets.

  He paused under the wide marquee of the FOX WILTERN. Above his head,rows of splintered display bulbs gaped--sharp glass teeth in woodenjaws. Lewis Stillman felt as though they might drop at any moment topierce his body.

  Four more blocks to cover. His destination: a small corner delicatessenfour blocks south of Wilshire, on Western. Tonight he intendedbypassing the larger stores like Safeway or Thriftimart, with theiravailable supplies of exotic foods; a smaller grocery was far morelikely to have what he needed. He was finding it more and more difficultto locate basic food stuffs. In the big supermarkets only the moreexotic and highly spiced canned and bottled goods remained--and he wassick of caviar and oysters!

  Crossing Western, he had almost reached the far curb when he saw some of_them_. He dropped immediately to his knees behind the rusting bulk ofan Olds 88. The rear door on his side was open, and he cautiously easedhimself into the back seat of the deserted car. Releasing the safetycatch on the automatic, he peered through the cracked window at six orseven of them, as they moved toward him along the street. God! Had hebeen seen? He couldn't be sure. Perhaps they were aware of his position!He should have remained on the open street where he'd have a runningchance. Perhaps, if his aim were true, he could kill most of them; but,even with its silencer, the gun would be heard and more of them wouldcome. He dared not fire until he was certain they discovered him.

  They came closer, their small dark bodies crowding the walk, six ofthem, chattering, leaping, cruel mouths open, eyes glittering under themoon. Closer. The shrill pipings increased, rose in volume. Closer. Nowhe could make out their sharp teeth and matted hair. Only a few feetfrom the car ... His hand was moist on the handle of the automatic; hisheart thundered against his chest. Seconds away ...

  Now!

  Lewis Stillman fell heavily back against the dusty seat-cushion, the gunloose in his trembling hand. They had passed by; they had missed him.Their thin pipings diminished, grew faint with distance.

  The tomb silence of late night settled around him.

  * * * * *

  The delicatessen proved a real windfall. The shelves were relativelyuntouched and he had a wide choice of tinned goods. He found an emptycardboard box and hastily began to transfer the cans from the shelfnearest him.

  A noise from behind--a padding, scraping sound.

  Lewis Stillman whirled around, the automatic ready.

  A huge mongrel dog faced him, growling deep in its throat, four legsbraced for assault. The blunt ears were laid flat along the short-hairedskull and a thin trickle of saliva seeped from the killing jaws. Thebeast's powerful chest-muscles were bunched for the spring when Stillmanacted.

  The gun, he knew, was useless; the shots would be heard. Therefore, withthe full strength of his left arm, he hurled a heavy can at the dog'shead. The stunned animal staggered under the blow, legs buckling.Hurriedly, Stillman gathered his supplies and made his way back to thestreet.

  How much longer can my luck hold? Lewis Stillman wondered, as he boltedthe door. He placed the box of tinned goods on a wooden table and litthe tall lamp nearby. Its flickering orange glow illumined the narrow,low-ceilinged room as Stillman seated himself on one of three chairsfacing the table.

  Twice tonight, his mind told him, twice you've escaped them--and theycould have seen you easily on both occasions if they had been watchingfor you. They don't know you're alive. But when they find out ...

  He forced his thoughts away from the scene in his mind away from thehorror; quickly he stood up and began to unload the box, placing thecans on a long shelf along the far side of the room.

  He began to think of women, of a girl named Joan, and of how much he hadloved her ...

  * * * * *

  The world of Lewis Stillman was damp and lightless; it was narrow andits cold stone walls pressed in upon him as he moved. He had beenwalking for several hours; sometimes he would run, because he knew hisleg muscles must be kept strong, but he was walking now, following thethin yellow beam of his hooded lantern. He was searching.

  Tonight, he thought, I might find another like myself. Surely, _someone_is down here; I'll find someone if I keep searching. I _must_ findsomeone!

  But he knew he would not. He knew he would find only chill emptinessahead of him in the tunnels.

  For three long years he had been searching for another man or woman downhere in this world under the city. For three years he had prowled theseven hundred miles of storm drains which threaded their way under theskin of Los Angeles like the veins in a giant's body--and he had foundnothing. _Nothing._

  Even now, after all the days and nights of search, he could not reallyaccept the fact that he was alone, that he was the last man alive in acity of seven million, that all the others were dead.

  He paused, resting his back against the cold stone. Some of them weremoving over the street above his head. He listened to the sharpscuffling sounds on the pavement and swore bitterly.

  "Damn you," said Lewis Stillman levelly. "Damn all of you!"

  * * * * *

  Lewis Stillman was running down the long tunnels. Behind him a tide ofmidget shadows washed from wall to wall; high keening cries, doubled andtripled by echoes, rang in his ears. Claws reached for him; he feltpanting breath, like hot smoke, on the back of his neck; his lungs werebursting, his entire body aflame.

  He looked down at his fast-pumping legs, doing their job with pistonedprecision. He listened to the sharp slap of his heels against the floorof the tunnel--and he thought: I might die at any moment, but my _legs_will escape! They will run on down the endless drains and never becaught. They move so fast while my heavy awkward upper-body rocks andsways above them, slowing them down, tiring them--making them angry. Howmy legs must hate me! I must be clever and humor them, beg them to takeme along to safety. How well they run, how sleek and fine!

  Then he felt himself coming apart. His legs were detaching themselvesfrom his upper-body. He cried out in horror, flailing the air with hisarms, beseeching them not to leave him behind. But the legs cruellycontinued to unfasten themselves. In a cold surge of terror, LewisStillman felt himself tipping, falling toward the damp floor--while hislegs raced on with a wild animal life of their own. He opened his mouth,high above the insane legs, and screamed.

  Ending the nightmare.

  He sat up stiffly in his cot, gasping, drenched in sweat. He drew in along shuddering breath and reached for a cigarette. He lit it with atrembling hand.

  The nightmares were getting worse. He realized that his mind wasrebelling as he slept, spilling forth the bottled-up fears
of the dayduring the night hours.

  He thought once more about the beginning six years ago, about why he wasstill alive, the last of his kind. The alien ships had struck Earthsuddenly, without warning. Their attack had been thorough and deadly. Ina matter of hours the aliens had accomplished their clever mission--andthe men and women of Earth were destroyed. A few survived, he wascertain. He had never met any of them, but he was convinced theyexisted. Los Angeles was not the world, after all, and if _he_ escapedso must have others around the globe. He'd been working alone in thedrains when the alien ships appeared, finishing a special job for theconstruction company on B tunnel. He could still hear the weird sound ofthe mammoth ships and feel the intense heat of their passage.

  Hunger had forced him out and overnight he became a curiosity. The lastman alive. For three years he was not harmed. He worked with them,taught them many things, and tried to win their confidence. But,eventually, certain ones came to hate him, to be jealous of hisrelationship with the others. Luckily he had been able to escape to thedrains. That was three