Fireball Read Online Free Page A

fringes of Greater London—or anywhere in Great Britain . . . unless they had dropped in a spot where a film or TV company was on location, it was crazy. And there was no sign of cameras or a film crew. Not Britain, then. Not Europe or America, either. Somewhere remote, like Afghanistan? But how, and why?
    It had to be the fireball that had caused it. Not by picking them up and putting them down, like a playful typhoon, but in some quite different way. A gateway? Could they have passed through it and come out in a different place? But a place where you got run down by barbarous-looking horsemen with swords. Place—or time ? A gateway to the past. Or maybe to the future, and a new Dark Age after the world had blown itself up as thoroughly as some people had suggested it might.
    Simon shook his head, unhappy and bewildered. Compared with either of those, the notion of being transported across just a few thousand miles to Afghanistan seemed both more likely andoverwhelmingly attractive. He looked down to the valley. Time had been passing while all this was going on. It was getting towards evening; the sun, though obscured by thick cloud, must be well down in the sky. Dusk and then night were not far off, and there must be a better place than this in which to face them.
    He set off in the direction Brad had chosen earlier—towards the river. He slogged on, becoming aware as he did so of the growing pangs of hunger. Lunch was a long time back—or a thousand years in the future? He closed his mind to that and walked faster.
    The river was further away than he had imagined, but he reached it at last. This was a river untouched by man, swirling and gurgling and lapping against marshy banks. A trout rose to take a late fly under a rapidly darkening sky. Which way? When in doubt, downstream. Not that he felt it was likely to make any difference. He was tired and hungry, and very depressed.
    Dusk thickened. It would be night soon, a night without yellow windows or streetlamps or even the cold beams of car headlights. Without paved roadsand sidewalks, too. He slipped in a patch of mud and recovered himself on one knee. The river, almost invisible, had a melancholy, unfriendly sound.
    He had almost gone past before he saw it—a squat, low building on his right. He hesitated only briefly before turning away from the river to investigate. His fingers found stone, and then a flat roof, within his reach. Not a house, not big enough for a stable even. But there was a kind of window: unglassed, an aperture only. Simon peered inside. A light flickered, a candle he thought at first, then saw it was a primitive form of oil lamp. It stood on a stone slab, and other things stood beside it: rough pottery plates bearing a round loaf, slices of meat, fruit.
    Hunger overcame caution. He whispered: “Anyone there?” No reply, no sound at all from the shadows inside. His stomach growled at him. If he reached in, past the lamp, he could grab the loaf. He had almost done that when his arm brushed the lamp. It skittered off the slab, crashed to the stone floor, and went out.
    Simon stood still, his heart pounding. If there had been anybody inside, that would have rousedhim. Nothing happened; he could hear only the distant noise of the river. That food . . . he could no longer see it, but he knew where it was. The window was just about wide enough to crawl through. He did so, feeling for the stone table and finding it. And the loaf . . . He tore it in half and broke bits off to chew. The bread was coarse and dry, but satisfying for all that. He found the meat, too; it tasted like cold pork. His hand touched something else, an earthenware jug, and when he lifted it, it gurgled. He tried it cautiously. Wine! A bit on the sour side, but it quenched his thirst. After eating an apple, he was quite full. And very tired. There was obviously no point in trying to go on further in the dark; he might as well bed