The Survivors by Tom Godwin Read Free Book Online

its horn and hurling him thirty feet. One of the riflemen went down under the unicorn’s hooves, his cry ending almost as soon as it began.
    The unicorn ripped the sod in deep furrows as it whirled back to Prentiss and the remaining rifleman; not turning in the manner of four-footed beasts of Earth but rearing and spinning on its hind feet. It towered above them as it whirled, the tip of its horn fifteen feet above the ground and its hooves swinging around like great clubs.
    Prentiss shot again, his sights on what he hoped would be a vital area, and the rifleman shot an instant later.
    The shots went true. The unicorn’s swing brought it on around but it collapsed, falling to the ground with jarring heaviness.
    “We got it!” the rifleman said. “We—”
    It half scrambled to its feet and made a noise; a call that went out through the night like the blast of a mighty trumpet. Then it dropped back to the ground, to die while its call was still echoing from the nearer hills.
    From the east came an answering trumpet blast; a trumpeting that was sounded again from the south and from the north. Then there came a low and muffled drumming, like the pounding of thousands of hooves.
    The rifleman’s face was blue-white in the starlight. “The others are coming—we’ll have to run for it!”
    He turned, and began to run toward the distant bulk of the stockade.
    “No!” Prentiss commanded, quick and harsh. “Not the stockade!”
    The rifleman kept running, seeming not to hear him in his panic. Prentiss called to him once more:
    “Not the stockade—you’ll lead the unicorns into it!”
    Again the rifleman seemed not to hear him.
    The unicorns were coming in sight, converging in from the north and east and south, the rumble of their hooves swelling to a thunder that filled the night. The rifleman would reach the stockade only a little ahead of them and they would go through the wall as though it had been made of paper.
    For a while the area inside the stockade would be filled with dust, with the squealing of the swirling, charging unicorns and the screams of the dying. Those inside the stockade would have no chance whatever of escaping. Within two minutes it would be over, the last child would have been found among the shattered shelters and trampled into lifeless shapelessness in the bloody ground.
    Within two minutes all human life on Ragnarok would be gone.
    There was only one thing for him to do.
    He dropped to one knee so his aim would be steady and the sights of his rifle caught the running man’s back. He pressed the trigger and the rifle cracked viciously as it bucked against his shoulder.
    The man spun and fell hard to the ground. He twisted, to raise himself up a little and look back, his face white and accusing and unbelieving.
    “You shot me!”
    Then he fell forward and lay without moving.
    Prentiss turned back to face the unicorns and to look at the trees in the nearby grove. He saw what he already knew: they were young trees and too small to offer any escape for him. There was no place to run, no place to hide.
    There was nothing he could do but wait; nothing he could do but stand in the blue starlight and watch the devil’s herd pound toward him and think, in the last moments of his life, how swiftly and unexpectedly death could come to man on Ragnarok.
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    The unicorns held the Rejects prisoners in their stockade the rest of the night and all the next day. Lake had seen the shooting of the rifleman and had watched the unicorn herd kill John Prentiss and then trample the dead rifleman.
    He had already given the order to build a quick series of fires around the inside of the stockade walls when the unicorns paused to tear their victims to pieces, grunting and squealing in triumph as bones crushed between their teeth and they flung the pieces to one side. The fires were started and green wood was thrown on them, to make them smolder and smoke for as long as possible. Then the unicorns were coming on