The Angry Hills Read Online Free Page B

nearly tearing through his chest. He saw the Avenue ahead of him—and stopped in terror.
    “Oh, God, no!”
    The Avenue Vasilissis Sofias was devoid of life. The wide boulevard had not a car—not a sign of a human on it. The houses were dark—no light shone except for a dim street lamp.
    Let me wake up! Let me wake up! he cried to himself. He continued running down the deserted thoroughfare—two blocks—three—four—until everything blurred.
    He stopped. He was facing the square white marble of the Byzantine Museum. He was unable to take another step. A whining sang through his ears....
    There! Down the street—a light. Morrison staggered down the Avenue and edged toward the light. He peered through the window. The saloon was empty except for the barkeep.
    Mike buckled over the bar, panting for breath. The bartender stared at him wide-eyed. “English,” Mike gasped. “You speak Englezos?”
    The bartender began rambling in Greek.
    “Englezos—telephone—ring—ring...”
    Mike fished through his pocket and slapped a bill on the counter. He stumbled back of the bar to the phone. The bartender glanced at the money and kept his confused vigil.
    “Operator—operator—hello...Can you understand me...Englezos? Thank God...American Embassy... No—no—American Embassy... That’s right, that’s right—hurry—please...”
    Mike closed his eyes and whispered under his breath as he heard a ring—then two, three, four. “Answer, dammit, answer! Eight—nine—ten—eleven...”
    He slid the phone back on the hook and leaned against the back of the bar trying to think through the fog. A sob broke through his lips and tears rolled from his eyes....
    “Operator,” he said softly, “operator...Englezos.”
    The operator did not understand. He held the phone a moment.
    “Operator,” he whispered. “Englezos, yes, Englezos... I want Associated Press... Associated Press. American News. Yes, that’s right...”
    Ring—ring.
    “A.P., Watson speaking.”
    “Mister—mister—I’m an American.... I’m in trouble.”
    “You’d better call the Embassy then.”
    “No, wait! Don’t hang up. They didn’t answer.... You’ve got to help me.”
    “Go on.”
    “They’re after me—they’re trying to kill me.”
    “What is this, a gag?”
    “No—no... I tell you they’re trying to kill me.”
    “Go on, Fred. Stop trying to disguise your voice—we’re busy now.”
    “For God’s sake! Listen to me!”
    “Hey, is this on the level?”
    “Yes—yes—on the level...”
    “Say, you sound drunk to me.”
    “I’m drunk.... I can’t help it....They’re after me.... You’ve got to help me.”
    “Who’s after you?”
    “I don’t know...”
    The line went dead. Mike clicked it a dozen times. “Hello... hello...hello...”
    He froze against the back of the bar as he saw the black automobile cruise slowly in front of the saloon.
    Outside, he hugged the shadows praying for his head to clear—praying for a sign of human life. A block away he came to the National Gardens. The trees and shrubbery and blacked-out lanes would give him cover for the moment. The trees dripped moisture under the gentle rustle of a small wind. Each new sound startled him. His brain reeled in confusion.
    Morrison circled about aimlessly, keeping off the paths, clinging to the high hedges. A large building loomed ahead of him. Parliament Building, he thought... Constitution Square was near.
    “There must be someone... There must be people...”
    The Avenue Amalia opened before him and the Square beyond it. The Square was empty—the street deserted. He knelt in the brush for several moments. A taxi stopped before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
    Morrison dashed forward, flung the back door open and fell into the seat.
    “Everyone—where has everyone gone?”
    “The British are withdrawing from Athens. The people stay in their homes.... Where do you wish to go?”
    “Go? Take me—take me—just drive.”
    It was so horribly