_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 years ago and now they had forgotten him. His later excursions to the upper level of the city had been made undercover of darkness--and he never ventured out unless his food supplydwindled. Water was provided by rain during the wet-months--and bybottled liquids during the dry. He had built his one-room structure directly to the side of an overheadgrating--not close enough to risk their seeing it, but close enough forlight to seep in during the sunlight hours. He missed the warm feel ofopen sun on his body almost as much as he missed the companionship ofothers, but he could not think of risking himself above the drains byday. Sometimes he got insane thoughts. Sometimes, when the loneliness closedin like an immense fist and he could no longer stand the sound of hisown voice, he would think of bringing one of them down with him, intothe drains. One at a time, they could be handled. Then he'd remembertheir sharp savage eyes, their animal ferocity, and he would realizethat the idea was impossible. If one of their kind disappeared, suddenlyand without trace, others would certainly become suspicious, begin tosearch for him--and it would all be over. Lewis Stillman settled back into his pillow, pulling the blankets tightabout his body. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to thedistant screams, pipings and reedy cries filtering down from the streetabove his head. Finally he slept. * * * * * He spent the afternoon with paper women. He lingered over the pages ofsome yellowed fashion magazines, looking at all the beautifullyphotographed models in their fine clothes. All slim and enchanting, these page-women, with their cool enticing eyes and perfect smiles, allgrace and softness and glitter and swirled cloth. He touched theirimages with gentle fingers, stroking the tawny paper hair, as though, bysome magic formula, he might imbue them with life. It was easy toimagine that these women had never really lived at all--that they weresimply painted, in microscopic detail, by sly artists to give theillusion of photos. He didn't like to think about these women and howthey died. That evening Lewis Stillman watched the moon, round and high and yellowin the night sky, and he thought of his father, and of the long hikesthrough the moonlit Maine countryside, of hunting trips and warmcampfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought ofhis father's hopes for his future and the words of that tall, gray-haired figure came back to him. "_You'll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you'llsucceed. I know you will. _" He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father's greatmahogany desk, pouring over medical books and journals, taking notes, sifting and re-sifting facts. He remembered one set of books inparticular--Erickson's monumental three-volume text on surgery, richlybound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books, above allothers. What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow, the dream had faded, thebright goal vanished and was lost. After a year of pre-med at theUniversity of Southern Cal, he had given up medicine; he had becomediscouraged and quit college to take a laborer's job with a constructioncompany. How ironic that this move should have saved his life! He'dwanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labor with the muscles ofhis body. He'd wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then, laterperhaps, he would have returned to finish his courses. It all seemed sofar away now, his reason for quitting, for letting his father down. Now, at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him, a desire topour over Erickson's pages once again, to re-create, even for a briefmoment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood. He'd seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick's book storein Hollywood, in their used book department, and now he knew he must goafter them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was adangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it. Despite therisk of death, he would go after the books tonight. _Tonight. _ * * * * * One corner of Lewis Stillman's room was reserved for weapons. His prize, a Thompson submachine, had been procured from the Los Angeles policearsenal. Supplementing the Thompson were two semi-automatic rifles, aLuger, a Colt . 45 and a . 22-caliber Hornet pistol, equipped with asilencer. He always kept the smallest gun in a spring-clip holsterbeneath his armpit, but it was not his habit to carry any of the largerweapons with him into the city. On this night, however, things weredifferent. The drains ended two miles short of Hollywood--which means he would beforced to cover a long and particularly hazardous stretch of ground inorder to reach the book store. He therefore decided to take alongthe . 30-caliber Savage rifle in addition to the small hand weapon. You're a fool, Lewis, he told himself, as he slid the oiled Savage fromits leather case. Are the books important enough to risk your life? Yes, another part of him replied, they _are_ that important. If you want athing badly enough and the thing is worthwhile, then you must go afterit. If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than acoward; you betray yourself and the civilization you represent. Go outand bring the books back. Running in the chill night wind. Grass, now pavement, now grass, beneathhis feet. Ducking into shadows, moving stealthily past shops andtheatres, rushing under the cold moon. Santa Monica Boulevard, thenHighland, the Hollywood Boulevard, and finally--after an eternity ofheartbeats--the book store. Pickwick's. Lewis Stillman, his rifle over one shoulder, the small automaticgleaming in his hand, edged silently into the store. A paper battleground met his eyes. In the filtered moonlight, a white blanket of broken-backed volumesspilled across the entire lower floor. Stillman shuddered; he couldenvision them, shrieking, scrabbling at the shelves, throwing bookswildly across the room at one another. Screaming, ripping, destroying. What of the other floors? _What of the medical section?_ He crossed to the stairs, spilled pages crackling like a fall of dryleaves under his step, and sprinted up the first short flight to themezzanine. Similar chaos! He hurried up to the second floor, stumbling, terribly afraid of what hemight find. Reaching the top, his heart thudding, he squinted into thedimness. The books were undisturbed. Apparently they had tired of their gamebefore reaching these. He slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs. Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling, as he moveddown the narrow aisles; a damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, anodor of mold and neglect. Lewis Stillman paused before a dim hand-lettered sign: MEDICAL SECTION. It was just as he had remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, hestruck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved italong the rows of faded titles. Carter . .. Davidson . .. Enright . .. _Erickson_. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their goldstamping dust-dulled but readable, stood in tall and perfect order onthe shelf. In the darkness, Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowingit free of dust. At last all three books were clean and solid in hishands. Well, you've done it. You've reached the books and now they belong toyou. He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down atthe table with his treasure, and linger again and again over thewonderous pages. He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the booksinside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began hisdescent to the lower floor. So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding. But as Lewis Stillman's foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out. The entire lower floor was alive with them! Rustling like a mass of great insects, gliding toward him, eyes gleamingin the half-light, they converged upon the stairs. They had been waitingfor him. Now, suddenly, the books no longer mattered. Now only his life matteredand nothing else. He moved back against the hard wood of the stair-rail, the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the footof the stair; they were silent, looking up at him, the hate in theireyes. If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you've stillgot half a chance. That means you've got to get through them to thedoor. All right then, _move_. Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic and three shotsechoed through the silent store. Two of them fell under the bullets asStillman rushed into their midst. He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt and trousers, heard the clothripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic intothem, and three more dropped under the hail of bullets, shrieking inpain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming, from the door. The gun was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy Savage riflefree from his shoulder as he reached the street. The night air, crispand cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope. I can still make it, thought Stillman, as he leaped the curb and plungedacross the pavement. If those shots weren't heard, then I've still gotthe edge. My legs are strong; I can outdistance them. Luck, however, had failed him completely on this night. Near theintersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland, a fresh pack of themswarmed toward him over the street. He dropped to one knee and fired into their ranks, the Savage jerking inhis hands. They scattered to either side. He began to run steadily down the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, usingthe butt of the heavy rifle like a battering ram as they came at him. Ashe neared Highland, three of them darted directly into his path. Stillman fired. One doubled over, lurching crazily into a jaggedplate-glass store front. Another clawed at him as he swept around thecorner to Highland. He managed to shake free. The street ahead of him was clear. Now his superior leg-power wouldcount heavily in his favor. Two miles. Could he make it back beforeothers cut him off? Running, re-loading, firing. Sweat soaking his shirt, rivering down hisface, stinging his eyes. A mile covered. Half way to the drains. Theyhad fallen back. But more of them were coming, drawn by the rifle shots, pouring in fromside streets, stores and houses. His heart jarred in his body, his breath was ragged. How many of themaround him? A hundred? Two hundred? More coming. God! He bit down on his lower lip until the salt taste of blood was on histongue. You can't make it, a voice inside him shouted, they'll have youin another block and you know it! He fitted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusted his aim, and fired. Thelong rolling crack of the big weapon filled the night. Again and againhe fired, the butt jerking into the flesh of his shoulder, the smell ofpowder in his nostrils. It was no use. Too many of them. Lewis Stillman knew that he was going to die. The rifle was empty at last, the final bullet had been fired. He had noplace to run because they were all around him, in a slowly closingcircle. He looked at the ring of small cruel faces and he thought: The aliensdid their job perfectly; they stopped Earth before she could reach theage of the rocket, before she could threaten planets beyond her ownmoon. What an immensely clever plan it had been! To destroy every humanbeing on Earth above the age of six--and then to leave as quickly asthey had come, allowing our civilization to continue on a primitivelevel, knowing that Earth's back had been broken, that her survivorswould revert to savagery as they grew into adulthood. Lewis Stillman dropped the empty rifle at his feet and threw out hishands. "Listen, " he pleaded, "I'm really one of you. You'll _all_ belike me soon. Please, _listen_ to me. " But the circle tightened relentlessly around Lewis Stillman. He wasscreaming when the children closed in. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.