Empty World by John Christopher Read Free Book Online

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4
    N EIL SAW FEWER PEOPLE EACH day. Those he did encounter in the ghost-like streets of the little town seemed as disinclined for contact, for greeting even, as he was himself. It was funny, he thought: it had been understandable in the beginning, when people were hoping to avoid catching the Plague and shunned possible carriers. But now, surely, they must know there was no way of missing it? They were all victims, or destined soon to be. And yet he himself, knowing he had had the fever, found himself crossing the road if he saw someone coming in the opposite direction.
    On the fourth day following the fever he saw no-one. His supplies were running out, and he went to the shop which had been the first to close. There was no sign of life, but he rapped on the door, loudly and repeatedly. After some time he stood back, and called:
    â€œIs anyone in?”
    His voice echoed. He called again, more loudly, then shouted:
    â€œIs someone alive in there? Or anywhere?”
    The hot weather still held, and a scent of roses mingled with the smell of death. He looked desperately around at the neat white clapboard houses. Surely someone would open a window, lean out, call? It did not matter what—a demand for silence would be enough.
    But nothing came. He waited again; then picked up a stone, smashed the glass of the door, reached in and undid the bolt. It was dim inside the shop and cooler, with a smell of rotting vegetables adding to the other smells. Something moved in the shadows and he checked, startled. It was only a cat: large, tabby, glossy. It came to him, amiable and unafraid, purring and pushing its head against his leg. It didnot look at all starved; either enough food had been left out for it or there was a plentiful supply of mice. Or, more likely, it could get in and out through a cat-door at the back.
    At least the shelves were full of tins of food, and Neil found a cardboard box and methodically filled it. He did not bother to leave money: that was all over, too. As he left the shop, carrying his burden into the heat, the cat followed. He encouraged it, calling “Puss.” He thought it might come with him but at the end of the street, perhaps with memories of traffic snarling along the High Street, it turned back.
    Neil rested his box on top of the churchyard gate; he had filled it rather too full for carrying comfort. The graves stretched out in front, their stones grey among the uncut grass. The church clock had stopped at just after half past seven. He looked at his own watch and realized he had forgotten to wind it: it said a quarter to four. He wondered what time it was—somewhere around mid-day from the position of the sun in the sky. No BBC time signal, but he might find a sun-dial. He shrugged as he lifted the box and went through the gate. It didn’t matter.
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    Several times during the afternoon he thought he heard what sounded like a human voice. He told himself it was probably no more than imagination, and in any case what did it matter? But in the end he went to investigate.
    It was louder as he approached the row of houses called Trojan’s Platt, a whimpering cry. Neil traced it to a particular house and nerved himself to approach, and then to call in at the window:
    â€œWho is it? Are you all right?”
    The whimpering ended. He waited, but nothing happened. Moments ticked by. It had stopped, whatever, whoever it was, and the old urge returned—to go away, avoid contact, crawl back into his hole and wait for death. He was starting to move when the front door opened.
    It had taken him a long time because it had not been easy: he had had to stretch on tiptoe to reach the latch, and strain to pull it back. He looked at Neil from a dirty tear-smeared face. He was about six years old.
    His name, it seemed, was Tommy—Tommy Mitcham, he said, and went on to reel off his address.His parents would have taught him to do that in case he got lost: