The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nothing but terror This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Nothing but terror Author: Jesse F. Bone Release date: October 24, 2026 [eBook #79850] Language: English Original publication: New York: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1958 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79850 Credits: Tom Trussel - Stories of Futures Past (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTHING BUT TERROR *** Nothing But Terror by J. F. Bone =A haunting story of a man and his girl--but not the kind of girl you might think.= It seemed a long time since the last speeding car had roared past this spot where her man lay, bearing others who fled with mindless terror from the plague that was already gnawing at their vitals. She touched his unresponsive hand disfigured by confluent ulcers and discolored by the purplish cast of capillary hemorrhage. He looked asleep lying there against an angle of the wall, but she knew that it was the long sleep, the sleep from which there is no awakening. He was gone and the closeness, the love, the rapport were all gone with him and in their place was nothing but stark loneliness. The immensity of her loss was beyond words. All she could do was let her grief flow out in a wild paroxysm that echoed down the street with lingering reverberations as the sound reflected from the fronts of the buildings around her. They towered into the air, black against the setting sun, their cold window eyes glowing red with the reflection from the western skies and the uncontrolled fires raging in the suburbs. She shivered as the sun vanished from sight and the cool air swept in from the bay. To the east the moon rose above the jagged hills, a red bulbous moon that shattered the darkness with pallid light limning the tall buildings faintly against the speckled backdrop of a star studded sky. The city was empty of the sound of man. No horns blew. No engines throbbed their notes of muffled power. No voices livened the silent air. No whistles drowned the lapping noise of wavelets along the waterfront. But there were other sounds. A dog howled at the rising moon. An owl hooted mournfully from the upper reaches of one of the buildings. The strengthening wind drove rustling shreds of paper before it through the deserted streets, piling them in grotesque heaps in sheltered corners, plastering them against stranded cars clogging the intersections. The dog howled again and she responded to the pain in that thin voice whose agony was a mirror of her own. And then the air was riven by the clatter of horny feet against the pavement as a band of cattle from the outlying stockyards rushed past, running with fear driven haste, crashing into cars and lampposts, galloping noisily up the street, fleeing from the death that came behind. * * * * * Death came with a yelping rush,--a huge pack of dogs of all breeds and sizes. They ran at the cattle’s heels, nipping at the laggards until one dog tired of the sport and leaped at the throat of the weakest laggard to bring it crashing to the earth. In an instant the steer was smothered under a horde of hairy bodies and slashing jaws. A choked bawl of fear was silenced in the middle of its terror and drowned in a medley of growls and snarls as the pack fed. In an incredibly brief time the steer was gone save for some bits of hide and offal, and the dogs trotted off in little groups with only the faint click of their claws against the pavement to mark their passing. Then from the wrecked fronts of the buildings, from the alleys and sewers came tiny rustlings as rats moved in to probe with quivering noses through the offal the pack had left behind. They came from all sides, creeping blobs of gray hunger lured by the scent of blood. And out of nowhere, stalking them on silken feet came cats, lean flanked predators moving silently in the shadows. The whispering night wind muffled their stealthy approach as they crept upon the swarming rodents who gnawed at the tattered shards of the dogs’ abandoned kill. Squalls of feline rage and triumph,--squeaks of pain and terror, rustlings and scramblings of pursuer and pursued made a faint diminuendo in the darkness, as an antiphony of predator and prey as clouds swept out of the west to hide the moon and rain fell to soak the littered streets, plastering the torn scraps of paper against steel and concrete, swaddling the city in wet wrappings of papier mache. The water trickled forlornly through choked gutters to drip into hollow gurgling storm sewers as the clouds swept past and the moon shone low and pale against the gray light of dawn. The red headlines of a newspaper plastered against an overturned car stood out in stark relief against the growing light. The headline six inches high carried all the news that was important. It contained only three letters and an exclamation point. It read quite simply----WAR! And in the light of the new day, she realized at last that there was no further need nor reason for her to remain. Stiffly she rose to her feet, looked down at her man, and then turned and walked slowly away.... * * * * * The hospital was a charnel house, a grisly monument that poked a long fingered spire toward the sky, a symbol of hope that failed. Men had come here for help and had remained to die. Hundreds of cots filled the wards and halls, each bearing a bloated burden of dissolution. The air was heavy with decay, a fetid miasma rank with the odors of decomposition. But in the midst of this carnival of death there was life. There were the flies. They clustered in black masses upon the walls and ceilings and upon the liquefying flesh of the dead, and the air swirled sluggishly to the beat of their myriad wings. A muffled drone augmenting and diminishing with uncertain rhythm echoed through the corridors of the dead as the flies sought the upper reaches of the halls for a warmer resting place to withstand the chill of approaching night. But there were more than flies and maggots and the corpses upon which they fed in this rat proof tomb of steel and concrete. Close to the ground a light gleamed in the growing darkness, a square of white that brightened as the night fell, a glow that shone from a barred window reflecting answering gleams from the eyes of a semicircle of dogs outside. They watched the man behind the bars, and some remembered dully that here was what had once been their god. But that was no more. Man had deserted them and left them to shift for themselves. They owned this one no allegiance. To them he was merely food, hidden safely behind the iron rods that separated them. Edward Falkland looked out at the ring of glowing eyes and cursed softly and monotonously. He fingered the pistol tucked in the waistband of his trousers as his sunken eyes scanned the room, checking its security for the thousandth time. The room, bright with the light from a Coleman lantern was his refuge,--his cave from which he could look with safety into the jungle outside. He smiled grimly. The dogs were getting bolder, which meant that they were hungrier. One had even thrown itself madly against the bars, foam dripping from its jaws as it tried to chew through the hardened steel and get at the man inside. It was a good sign. Soon hunger would drive most of them from the city, and it would be safe to venture outside again. It wouldn’t be long now. Winter was near and the cold would help. He trimmed the lamp and stroked the pistol in his belt. The light and the gun were his comforts in the grim hours of darkness. For like the dogs, he didn’t sleep at night. Night was a time of wakefulness--of looking forward to the dawn when the dogs would leave and he could sleep. He feared and hated them, these stinking scavengers that fed upon dead and living alike. * * * * * The ghost of a smile touched his lips as he looked at the dogs outside. He was in the strongest position. The supplies in the hospital kitchen would last for years if necessary, and he could afford to wait. They couldn’t. They had to eat, and there was no food here that they could reach. And in a few more weeks the flies and their maggots would remove the lure that brought them clustering to this place. He almost felt grateful to the flies,--although he hadn’t in that horrid moment of awakening when he had regained consciousness to find himself covered with them and surrounded by the dead in one of the upper corridors. The flies had fled in terror as he moved, but their terror was no less than his. He too had fled, a slow crawling flight past the rows of bodies toward the cool green door at the end of the corridor that beckoned to him like a beacon of safety. That hundred foot crawl through corruption still haunted his sleep,--and even awake he could feel the sting of fear sweat upon his face and the gall bitterness of vomit in his throat as he recalled that endless journey. But he had made it. The door had opened into the Superintendent’s office and there had been a water cooler there. Later he managed to find the kitchens with their enormous stores of food, and there he stayed, sleeping in the head dietician’s quarters, gaining strength with nightmare slowness until he had recovered enough to venture outside. That had been foolish. He knew it now, but then he had merely been conscious that he was at last free of the stink and corruption of the hospital. It did not surprise him that the city was dead. He had expected it. After all, biological and nuclear warfare shouldn’t leave too many people alive upon a war wracked earth. It only surprised him that anyone, even the Pan Asians, would be fools enough to start something they knew that they couldn’t finish. But perhaps they were like the dogs,--too hungry for either fear or caution, and perhaps they looked with envy upon the scattered population and fertile lands of the West. Whatever it was, war had come and the first blow was the last. At the time he was certain that there would be some survivors, for no weapon, no matter how deadly it might be would be able to kill everyone. * * * * * At the time he didn’t know about the dogs. He walked nearly a half mile through the empty streets before he found a clothing store. The door was unlocked and he entered to change the stink of his hospital pyjamas for something cleaner and warmer. He took what he wanted, and as he stepped from the store his eyes caught the flicker of movement down the street,--a movement that became four dogs walking toward him along the lines of silent cars parked at the curb. He sighed with relief. Dogs meant companionship if nothing else. He stepped out into plain sight and whistled. And the dogs came running. * * * * * A delighted grin split his lean cheeks. They seemed as glad to see him as he was to see them. A big Doberman led them, running close to the ground like a wolf, fangs bared, ears laid back. It didn’t look glad,--deadly was a better word. Suddenly cautious, he stepped back into the store and closed the door in the dog’s face. The Doberman leaped and slammed through the glass to land scrabbling with blunt claws on the slippery tiled floor. That was the only thing that saved him. The brute was too eager. As it struggled for footing Falkland darted behind the counter looking for a weapon, and there by the grace of God lay a pistol. He picked it up as the dog regained its feet and leaped again. He shot even as the slashing fangs ripped across his left forearm, just as two of the following dogs leaped through the broken door. The bullet slammed the Doberman across the room, dead before it struck the ground. The other dogs stopped, smelled the blood of their leader and paused uncertainly. He fired again. The shot missed, but the noise was too much. Tails tucked between their legs, they fled. They wanted no part of this living man. Too many memories of the Lords of Creation came rushing back to their hunger-crazed minds,--too many things that they had nearly forgotten. For Man was still the living god, and they knew better than to rouse his wrath. Falkland stood gasping, bleeding from a six inch slash in his forearm, looking down at the dog he had killed. His strength was gone and he was weak with reaction. It was fortunate, he reflected wryly, that the other dogs weren’t trained manhunters like their leader. If they had been, he wouldn’t have had a chance. But one thing was certain, he’d never trust another dog.... A grin of animal cunning twisted his lips. The time was coming when he’d teach those feral brutes a lesson they’d never forget. He’d show them who was master. It would take time, but he could afford to wait. He licked his lips with anticipation. He chuckled shrilly, the chuckles blending into maniac laughter. Deliberately he walked to the window and threw it open, laughing as a hunger maddened dog threw itself against the bars. He shot it and the others swarmed over their dead companion in an ecstasy of hunger,--and as they fed he laughed.... * * * * * Winter came and snow drifted in the streets, but somehow she managed to survive. There was still food in the city,--and she found it,--foraging through the looted stores along the waterfront. And with the snow the scavengers departed. Most of the food was gone and what remained was hard to get. Occasionally she killed a dog who invaded the half mile square she considered hers and left its body in the streets to be devoured. But that was poor tactics. Rather than being a deterrent, the dead proved an attraction for their cannibalistic fellows. So she began to search for a new territory constantly widening her travels,--until she reached the hills surrounding the harbor. And then she found a special street. A full dozen frozen carcasses of dogs barred its entrance, but she paid them no attention. She had seen dead dogs before, and they didn’t bother her. The street opened onto a broad avenue, white with snow and oddly clear of stranded cars. She looked down its length,--and stopped short,--shivering! For there, standing beside one of the tall buildings was a man,--living man! A tall man who looked at her with the same astonished wonder that she looked at him.... The dogs kept Falkland sane. His hatred of them was the bright point that focused his reason. And with the onset of winter he began to teach them the promised lesson. The cold had reduced their numbers enough for him to risk taking one of the hospital ambulances on a short reconnaissance through the nearly impassable streets. A mile away he found a sporting goods store with a generous and relatively untouched stock of the supplies he needed. There were rifles, ammunition,--and traps,--strong steel traps that would hold the fiercest dog. And Falkland smiled. It didn’t take long before the starvelings who remained realized that man had returned to claim his own,--man the cunning,--man the God,--man the master of iron. Traps caught them in cruel jaws, poison racked their bellies, bullets drove life from them. The area around the hospital became a death trap. At almost any hour of the day or night unwary dogs entering it died. The lesson was quickly and thoroughly learned,--the grim law of survival that taught them if they would live they must avoid this place where man ruled again in all his power.... Falkland swore softly. He had only gotten one dog today, and that one a gaunt ribbed undersized mongrel shot as he gnawed at the frozen carcass of one of the earlier victims. He sighed. This area was becoming safe,--and dull. * * * * * A faint noise down the street made him look up. There in the middle of the road a big Great Dane looked at him, ears pricked and alert, tail wagging tentatively. He grinned thinly and raised his rifle. It had been a long time since he had seen a dog bold enough to look him in the face. They normally fled from him as though he was the Plague. He brought the telescopic sight to his eye and took up the slack in the trigger. The dog leaped at him in the sight picture. He paused. There was something about this one that was different. There was none of the bright eyed feral look of the others. This one neither ran towards him or away from him,--just stood there cropped ears pricked forward eyeing him with a curious look that held within it surprise more than anything else. And its tail was wagging. On impulse he whistled. The dog took a tentative step forward, and then came on at a sidling trot. He lifted the gun again, half undecided, shocked at the unfamiliar sound his lips had made. With a start of surprise he realized that he hadn’t whistled to a dog since the time he was attacked. He grinned bitterly,--possibly the dogs hadn’t given him a fair shake, but he hadn’t given them any better. He remembered more than one wagging tail and pleading look caught in his traps,--looks that he had callously snuffed out. He sighed and lowered the rifle. He’d see what this one would do. The thin tail wagged briskly as the dog came forward, her whole expression one of apparent unwillingness to believe her eyes. She stopped some ten feet away, and eyed him with cautious friendliness. He smiled an oddly gentle smile,--the poor girl was thin as a rail--even worse than the mongrel he had shot. Acting on impulse he stretched out his hand and called, “Here Lady! Come here girl! Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of, here Lady!” _He knew her name!_ The wonder of it staggered her! She shivered, her muscles suddenly weak as she heard the familiar word. He was a stranger, and she had been taught to distrust strangers, but in his voice she heard a hunger akin to her own.... Whining softly she thrust her scarred muzzle forward, sniffing eagerly as his hand passed over her head to the sensitive spots behind her ears,--and scratched! Her red tongue licked out. Here was the friend,--the god,--the protector she had sought. No longer did she feel alone. He would care for her, and love her, and she,--why she would return that love a thousand fold, as dogs had done since the beginning of time. She looked with bright happy eyes at the man who claimed her. He smiled at her,--and when he turned away she followed, trotting at his heels, head high, tail curved proudly. It was nice to be respectable again.... A vagrant breeze blew dog scent to her nostrils. She growled deep in her throat, staring with jealous eyes into the alleyway from whence the odor came,--her hackles raised in a stiff brush along her back as she halted stiffly, teeth bared in a snarl. The man eyed her suspiciously, his hand going to the pistol at his belt, but she ignored him, watching the alley mouth. There was a smell of carrion about the hidden dog, and she wondered dully why the man beside her couldn’t sense it. A maneater lurked there in the shadow! Falkland noted the cant of her head and realized that the bare toothed snarl was not for him. He whirled to face the alley, his rifle leaping up to be ready--but he was late. The maneater was already in midair, driving for his throat,--a huge Irish Wolfhound, grey and shaggy--larger even than the Dane that followed him. He had barely time to raise an arm to protect his throat before the dog was on him. But that leaping body never struck its mark. A brindle thunderbolt brushed past him, striking the Wolfhound broadside. The bigger dog snarled as the Dane’s weight spoiled its leap. Amazement boiled in the hound’s little mind as it twisted madly in midair to regain its balance, fell heavily to the pavement, slipped, rolled and scrabbled frantically with blunt claws against the snow covered concrete. It was still trying to rise as Falkland raised the rifle and drove a bullet through its brain. Lady cowered at the sound of the gun, and whimpered as the man stood over her with the smoking rifle gripped in white knuckled hands. “Life for a life,” Falkland murmured softly. “It’s balanced.” She was afraid, but the fear became a wild surge of joy as he knelt beside her murmuring soft words into her ears, with tender hands. It was all right. Everything was all right, she had again found the symbiosis she had lost. She was whole again. Falkland felt a tightening of his throat as he looked at her and read the message in her eyes. Here was the companionship, the love and loyalty he needed to make him complete. He laughed--and this time it was a happy sound. Together they could do anything. They would find others,--other men and other dogs that still loved men, and together they would rebuild the civilization that had been so nearly lost. He knew it with a bright certainty. His head lifted with confidence as he rose to his feet. He moved briskly and beside him, already sensitive to his mood, the Dane’s pacing turned to a jaunty cakewalk. =THE END= Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Fantastic, January 1959 (vol. 8, no. 1). Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTHING BUT TERROR *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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