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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Wonder Stories
- Sprache: Englisch
Set in a distant future where Earth is an apocalyptic wasteland, In 20,000 A.D. thrusts readers into a world where the remnants of humanity are enslaved by a dark regime deep beneath the planet's surface. Amidst the ruins of civilization, a band of rebels dares to defy their overlords, battling both savage mutants and ruthless machines. With heart-pounding action and eerie atmospheres, Arthur Leo Zagat's visionary tale blends adventure and suspense, drawing readers into a dystopian saga where the fight for freedom becomes a desperate bid for survival. A perfect read for fans of classic pulp science fiction.
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Seitenzahl: 67
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
In 20,000 A.D.
I. — THE VANISHING WOOD
II. — THOMAS JENKINS' NARRATIVE
III. — SEEING THINGS
IV. — A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
V. — IN 20,000 A.D.!
VI. — SAVAGE REVENGE
VII. — A NEW CONSPIRATOR
VIII. — SEEDS OF REVOLUTION!
IX. — READY FOR ACTION
X. — REVOLT!
XI. — TENSE MOMENTS
XII. — THE DREAD WORDS OF JED
XIII. — THROUGH 18,000 YEARS
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
In 20,000 A.D.
"I'm sittin' there in that tree, spell-bound, with my mouth hangin' open like any gapin' fool."
I. — THE VANISHING WOOD
NOT all superstitions are devoid of reality. Sometimes old wives' tales come true. And then there is a grand gathering of the long-bearded clans, much arguing pro and con, and finally, perhaps, a triumphant bringing of the old wives' tale under the aegis of science.
Take the case of the "Vanishing Wood" at Blaymont. Just outside that sleepy Long Island town a little grove of scrub pine and tangled underbrush had been shunned for centuries. Peculiarly enough, the taboo seemed to affect not only the human denizens of the countryside, but even the animals. No straying cattle had ever been known to seek the cool recesses of the little copse. No wandering dog of the neighborhood ever investigated the tempting shadows of the little wood. No birds nested in its trees.
When an infrequent visitor to Blaymont, upon being solemnly warned against entering the "Vanishing Wood," made inquiry, he could elicit nothing definite. But when the natives were together, with no outsider present, old tales would be revived in shuddering whispers. Once long ago, a wild calf of old man Jones had dashed into those woods. He had never come out! And sometimes a mother would frighten her erring youngster with the story of little Abby Green. How the two-year old had wandered away one afternoon. How search had been made for her, and her footprints traced to the mysterious wood. How nothing had ever again been seen of her.
Oh, there were plenty of shuddersome incidents told with bated breath about the "Vanishing Wood" of Blaymont! But never such a tale as Tom Jenkins told when at last he unsealed his lips.
Tom was the last man one would pick for a hero of wild adventure. A great, hulking farmer lad, his schooling had barely fulfilled the none too exigent requirements of the law. His most errant thoughts, it seemed, never wandered far from the care of his widowed mother's little farm. His wildest evenings were those spent in drawling conversation round a pot-bellied stove in the general store.
It was one of those nights at the village social club that began Tom's strange adventure. The talk had turned to the "Vanishing Wood." First one, then another had spun his narrative; the tale handed down from some grandfather. As the mounting crescendo of horror had drawn the circle of chairs closer and closer to the glowing stove, Tom had become more and more excited. Some unsuspected streak of skepticism in his dull soul was being irritated by the superstitious talk. At last he could contain himself no longer.
"I don't believe it!" he had suddenly burst out, to the startled surprise of the rustic circle. "I don't believe it! It's all a pack o' lies. For two cents I'll go into that wood any day."
The others looked at him in amazement. This was almost sacrilege. "What's the matter with you, Tom?" the postmaster had questioned. "Been sampling some of Si Perkins' hard cider?"
"No, I'm just as sober as you. And I say again, I don't believe that there's anything queer about that wood. None of you have ever seen anybody disappear there. All these things you've been telling about are supposed to have happened long ago. That's just a bunch of trees, and I'm a'going to prove it. No use going out there now. But tomorrow's Saturday, and I'll be done with my ploughing about noon. After dinner I'm going in there, and I'll come out, too. I dare any of you to come with me!"
There had been long and arduous effort to dissuade Tom from his rash project. But to no avail. He was the going into the wood, and they'd have to tie him up to stop him!
And so, the afternoon of October 10, 1931 had seen a little procession wending its way up the road to the dread precincts. First came Tom, then the half dozen other nightly visitors to the forum at the general store. Then a fringe of tow-headed, barefooted youngsters whose unerring instinct had warned them something exciting was afoot. The postmaster and the village constable were still busily engaged in persuading the young farmer to give up his daring venture. That individual was obdurate however. Not that he was altogether easy about the safety of his intended deed. Perhaps there was some truth in the old tales. But to back out now would make him the laughing stock of the village.
The procession halted at last in a grassy meadow. Ten feet away was the little grove whose menace has so long cast its ominous shadow over these fair fields. A lone figure went on ahead. Tom's knees were shaking, the palpitation of his heart seemed to him to be visibly rocking his massive form. But he managed to turn at the edge of the wood, waved a cheery hand, and called back "See you in ten minutes." Then he plunged into the shadows.
The grey-bearded justice of the peace held his turnip watch so that all might see it. Five minutes, seven, dragged slowly by. Ten minutes; Tom should have been out. But no Tom appeared. With white faces the little group gazed anxiously at the dark trees. A quarter of an hour, thirty minutes passed slowly by. It seemed certain now that the lad had been swallowed up by the mystery of the wood.
All afternoon the little group kept its vigil, hopelessly. They called and called, but no answering hail came from out those dread precincts. There was none so brave as to venture into that copse in attempted rescue. At last, the fall of night sealed the death of hope. Sadly the villagers returned—each reproaching himself that Tom had not been restrained by force.
* * * * *
"Look at this," I said to my chum, pushing a newspaper into his face.
"What is it?" He looked at me indifferently, "another one of your newspaper yarns." Sid was tired, I guess, of having me show him my scoops. Sid was a scientist and took a superior attitude towards newspapers and reporters.
"Read it!" I urged him. And when he took the paper, the Blaymont Courier, and read a marked notice I read with him over his shoulder.
TOM JENKINS RETURNS—REFUSES TO TALK
Thomas Jenkins, whose mysterious disappearance in the "Vanishing Wood" six months ago will be well remembered by our readers, reappeared just as mysteriously yesterday. He was found wandering aimlessly, apparently dazed, in Brown's Meadow east of the wood.
Tom was brought to his mother's home, where he quickly recovered. The entire neighborhood gathered to welcome him, and hear the story of his adventure, but they were sadly disappointed. Jenkins refused to talk.
When the editor interviewed the returned wanderer, he could elicit nothing from him. After much effort, however, Jenkins did make this statement:
"If I told you where I've been and what I've seen I'd land in the lunatic asylum. So I'm not saying a word." And then he shut up like a clam.
"Well?" Sid handed the paper back to me. "What of it?"
"Doing anything tonight? Do you want to exercise yourself on helping me to pump young Mr. Jenkins?"
