The Axman Cometh Read Online Free PDF Page B

wood fire in their rent- controlled apartment on West End, drinks with Barbara while they cuddle on the sinfully comfortable plush sofa they have recently sprung for at an estate sale in Bedford Hills), even trivial discomforts or inconveniences can magnify the little fears that lie in the subconscious for their moments to come alive, to screech and howl and demoralize the hardiest of souls. And she has been more than two hours by herself in the dark and draughty offices of the Knightsbridge Publishing Company. Thank God for her lamp. Standing in front of the elevator doors, which are steel and of the clamshell type, opening top and bottom instead of from side to side, Petra raises the lamp, light reflecting from the glossily painted brick wall (puce; somebody's idea of decorator chic), as she turns slowly for a look behind her—hears a grunting, snuffling sound—and the fear drains from the roots of her hair in a cold flood, down her backbone and through her bowels, which have been none too secure today; hits the knees with tidal force and weakens them; surges back to the level of her heart, drowning her lungs.
    "Who is that?" But she knows already. It's pigs.
    Petra turns back and strikes at steel with her fist.
    "Is anybody there? Can you hear me?" When there is no reply she presses against the doors at the head-high seam, listening. The sound that eventually comes back to her is faint, as if from the depths of a well: a child's lugubrious weeping.
    "Shan? Is that you? Hey, it's Petra! We're going to be all right, cheri , it's ... it was a power failure. The lights could go back on any—Shannon? Talk to me?"
    No words, only the heartbroken weeping, so faint Petra must strain to discern what she hears.
    "You'll be fine. I forgot to tell you—"
    Petra, panicky for Shannon's sake (but is it Shannon?), takes a couple of deep, gulping breaths that fail to pacify; and she nearly gags on the odor, pig shit and soured garbage, that has filled the floor like fumes from a dump fire.
    "Don called. I'm going to call him back now, and tell him you're okay, just a little scared. Me too. Then I'm going to get hold of the fire department, but no telling how long it'll take them—probably not more than half an hour. They'll get you out of there if the power's not on by then— Shannon, would you answer me!"
    She can't bear, any more, the ceaseless, hopeless weeping: as if Shannon's mind has snapped, or she has, in her terror at being trapped, regressed to her childhood. Poor baby—but Petra has her own expanding terror to deal with. She wants to go back to her office, now. Slam the door. Shut out the abominable pig stench, even if she must soak a handkerchief in the brandy she keeps in a desk drawer. But even with her nose anesthetized, how can she not hear pigs rooting and squealing (all of the child eaten, all but his clothes and skull with its neat rows of baby teeth)?
    First she must deal with her retreat, through the narrow avenues between offices —Accounting, then Editorial, a book-lined maze. She is trying to remember where the nearest fire alarm is located: nothing to it, no phone call required. In emergency break glass pull down handle. The problem is—
    When Petra, holding her lantern high, catches sight of the square red alarm box with a handy little hammer dangling from a chain, she also sees a big brindle sow, weighing upward of two hundred and fifty pounds, standing in the aisle blocking her way.
    "You can't do this! I'm Petra, not Patricia! I'm the managing editor! Get away from me, you putrid hunk of bacon! I know you're not real, you can't be real!"
    The sow grunts, lifting its pink snout slightly to sniff at her, seeing her, but dimly, with its poor eyes.
    Petra retreats, screaming. But there are only four places of sanctuary on the floor: her office and the office of the publisher, side by side, with doors that can be closed and locked; and the bathrooms, also side by side. They are closest to her. She turns a