Zagat / Allam Thunder Tomorrow

Book FOUR in the "TOMORROW" Series
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-969-697-415-4
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, Band 4, 250 Seiten

Reihe: Tomorrow

Thunder Tomorrow by Arthur Leo Zagat is a pulse-pounding thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat. When a series of inexplicable events threatens to unravel the very fabric of society, a determined investigator races against time to uncover a sinister plot that could change the world. With the clock ticking and danger lurking around every corner, the stakes couldn't be higher. As secrets are revealed and alliances shift, will the investigator succeed in thwarting disaster, or will the thunder of tomorrow bring about an unstoppable catastrophe? Dive into this electrifying story where every revelation adds to the suspense and every twist deepens the intrigue.

Arthur Leo Zagat (1896-1949) was an American lawyer, prolific pulp fiction writer, and editor best known for his contributions to the horror, science fiction, and mystery genres. Born in New York City, Zagat served in World War I before pursuing a legal career. However, his passion for storytelling led him to writing, where he found success in the pulp magazine market of the 1920s and 1930s. Zagat authored hundreds of short stories and novellas, often collaborating with fellow writers like Nat Schachner. His most famous works include dystopian science fiction tales, eerie horror stories, and hard-boiled detective fiction. Zagat also contributed to serialized stories, such as the 'Doc Savage' adventures, and became a popular fixture in magazines like Weird Tales, Astounding Stories, and Argosy. His writing style is noted for its vivid, imaginative worlds and engaging plots. Zagat passed away in 1949, leaving behind a lasting legacy in the golden age of pulp fiction.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Zagat, Arthur Leo

Allam, Rafat

Leseproben

I. — BOSS OF THE MOUNTAIN

"'IN some tomorrow we cannot foresee,'" Normanfenton repeated Dikar's recollection of what the Voice said that dreadful night long ago, "'America will live again....'"

For days Normanfenton had lain very sick on a cot in the Boys' House, but now he was better. He and Dikar had walked deep into the woods, while Dikar told how the Bunch came to the Mountain, how they'd lived here, and why he had led the Bunch down from the Mountain.

"The good Lord grant," Normanfenton whispered, "that at last that tomorrow has come."

"I—I'm not sure I really remember the Voice, or if I only dreamed it." Dikar's nearly naked body was sun-browned, his hair and curly, silken beard bright golden in the sun, his eager eyes blue as the sky. "But I am sure that if we just stay here on the Mountain, safe an' happy, while those things are goin' on down there, we will be doin' awful wrong." He stopped talking. Normanfenton wasn't listening to him.

A strange, far-off look was in Normanfenton's deep-sunken eyes. His thin lips were moving, but Dikar could not hear the words they made. The words weren't meant for Dikar. They were meant for Someone neither he nor Normanfenton could see but Whose nearness Dikar sensed in the sun's warmth, in the birds' singing, in the earth-smell of the woods.

They had come into a level part of the woods where there was hardly any brush. The dark trees marched away from them into a dim and enormous space that was filled with a strange, almost frightening hush. The trunks of the trees rose, without branch or leaf, to the rustling roof of the forest. In places, there far above, frost had thinned and painted the leaves so that the sun, striking through, made patches of flaming color, brilliant reds and yellows and glowing purples. One of the light-beams struck full on Normanfenton.

Clumsily built as he was, there was something about him that reminded Dikar of the giant oak in the Clearing, something of the same gnarled strength, of the same enduring patience. He was naked above the waist, and his tight-drawn skin was criss-crossed with scabbed grooves where Asafric whips had cut, the marks of Asafric chains were still raw on his bony wrists; but his great, black-bearded head sat proudly on his bony shoulders and the suffering and sadness lined deep into his face was not suffering nor sadness for himself.

It seemed to Dikar that very long ago he had seen a face like Normanfenton's on a wall—in it this same tender sadness. Words echoed inside Dikar's head: Oh Captain, my Captain, the fearful trip—

A scarlet bird streaked under the forest roof. A white rabbit scampered across the leaf-strewn forest floor. The words slipped from Dikar and the remembrance of that Long-Ago face faded away. Normanfenton stirred, turned to him.

"Yes," Normanfenton said gravely. "If we just stay here on the Mountain, safe and happy, we shall be doing something awful wrong."

"Then let's get started! Let's go down to the Far Land an' start fightin' to take back America."

"Softly, lad, softly." A gentle smile came to Normanfenton's lips. "That's an army they've got, son. Those blacks are the best soldiers the world has ever seen, and the best equipped. Yee Hashamoto, the Viceroy—the Boss of the whole business—is as shrewd and cunning as he is cruel, and the Yellow officers under him are no man's fools."

"But—"

"And so we must plan carefully, very carefully." Normanfenton's shoulders were stooped a little now. "I must—Do you mind, Dikar, leaving me alone for a while?"

"Sure I'll go," Dikar answered. "Sure, Normanfenton. Anyways, I ought to go see how the Boys are gettin' along with the new little houses they're buildin' for you and the four Beastfolk." He started away, his feet making no noise, his bow, an arrow fitted into it, ready in his hands against the chance that he might come upon a deer.

The ground started to slant downward and the brush became thicker, so that Dikar couldn't see very far. It was cool here, where the sun never reached, and the earth-smell was blacker, the forest smells tangy with the spice of berries and of certain leaves his feet crushed—Dikar stopped still, suddenly, not a muscle moving, head canted a little, nostrils flaring.

AHEAD of him, hidden by the netted greenery of the bushes, there was sound of a big body moving. It might be a deer, but the wind was from Dikar, and a deer would have scented him and fled. A human then? But none of the Bunch would make so much noise moving through the woods.

Whatever it was, it was coming toward him. The fingers of Dikar's left hand tightened on the half-round wood of his bow. The right hand drew the shaft of the arrow back.

Close to Dikar the bushes threshed. A shadow darkened the interlaced leaves of the brush. The leaves parted.

"Oh!" A girl screamed tinily, staring at Dikar with big, frightened eyes. "You—" Not a Girl of the Bunch, but Marge, Nat's mate, only her head visible. "You were going to shoot that thing at me."

"Not your fault I didn't," Dikar said gruffly, lowering his bow. "You have no right bein' here. You were told to stay in the Clearin' unless one of the Bunch is with you."

"I know." She pushed through the bush into the little space where Dikar was. "But—but I had ter be alone. I just had ter."

When he'd first seen Marge, in the cave in the Far Land where he'd been trapped, she'd been covered by dirty rags, her hair tangled and dirt-matted, her eyes dull and without hope. Now, dressed only in a skirt of long grasses and leafy breast circlets, she was white-skinned, no tired heaviness any longer in the way she moved but a slow grace. Her hair, short to her shoulders, had been washed and brushed with straw stubble till it was alive and shining, its reddish glow gathered into the single, brilliant spark of the scarlet flower she'd placed in it.

Pale and thin her face was from starving, but it was high cheek-boned, full-lipped. There were grimy streaks on it.

"You've been bawlin'," Dikar observed. "What's the matter?"

A sob swelled in the shadowy hollows of Marge's neck. "Matter?" she gulped. And then, fiercely: "Nat's the matter. That sweet husband of mine. He—he's been bangin' me around again. He kicked me. Look." She put her left foot up on a moss- covered stone beside Dikar, parted the reeds of her skirt with quick, angry fingers. "Look at this."

Dikar bent to see, and her arm lay warm against his chest. On the pale round of her thigh, high up, there was a dark blue mark.

"Kicked me there." Marge's voice was low, husky. "An' why? Just because I was sayin' how wonnerful I think you are."

Her head twisted to look up into Dikar's face, very near, and her lips were a little parted and very red, and her eyes were like deep, green-flecked pools. "That's no lie, Dikar. I do think you're wonnerful." She swayed a little and was leaning against him, her skin hot against his. "I could go for you in a big way, honey."

"Nat shouldn't have kicked you," Dikar said gravely. "I'll have to tell him that's a Must-not of the Old—" He whirled at a sudden crash of the bushes behind him.

It was Nat, his big chest matted with black hair, his little eyes red. "I figured you right, you damn tramp," he rumbled, deep in his throat. "You and your mealy-mouthed boy friend. Sneakin' off—"

"Nat!" Dikar snapped, hearing Marge moan with fright from where she'd fallen when he turned. "I don't understand what you're sayin', but I don't like the way you're sayin' it." The cords in his neck were tight. "Marge didn't sneak anywhere. She came to the woods to be alone an'—"

"Alone!" Nat laughed shortly, but there wasn't any fun in his laugh. "Alone with you, you mean."

"That's silly." Dikar wanted to punch the black-stubbled face that leered at him. "She didn't know where I was and even if she did, why should she want to find me?" He could not punch Nat here. It was a Must that any fighting should be done in the Clearing, before the whole Bunch and according to the Rules. "We met accidental."

"You're a liar," Nat said flatly.

THAT was a Fighting Word and if any Boy of the Bunch had said it to him Dikar would have had to dare him to a fight before the Bunch. But Nat was a stranger on the Mountain. Maybe he didn't know he had said a Fighting Word.

"Marge me met accidental," Dikar explained patiently, "an' she was showin' me the mark you made, kickin her. We do not do that on the Mountain, Nat. We do not hit a Girl.

"What the rule is in the Far Land I do not know, but here on the Mountain you will obey our Rules. You will not kick Marge again. You will not hit her. I tell you not as Dikar but as Boss—"

"Boss, hell!" Nat snarled. "You're not my Boss, mister, and what's more—"

"I am Boss of all who live on the Mountain." It was hard to talk low and calm, but Dikar made himself. "As long as you live on the Mountain I'm Boss of you an' of Marge—"

"An' you can take her any time you've a mind to, huh?" Nat grunted. "If you think you can put that over on me, mister, you've got another guess comin'." His hands were knotted into fists at his sides and the muscles in his arms were bulging. "You yellow-bellied, lyin', sneakin' wife-stealer, if you didn't have...