Under the Pear Tree

The birds always knew.

They could sense the way the earth changed even before it blackened and curled, and they stayed away. Today they flew west along the tracks of the old farm road, then sharply north over the ancient hill fort. Impressive, this sudden change of tack, all those hundreds of starlings swooping and swirling like a single plume of living black smoke.

No mystery what made them change direction. He hadn’t seen the boundary shift with his own eyes, but there was only one reason they’d refuse to keep flying west, and that was the same reason they refused to fly south. He didn’t know what would actually happen to a living creature that flew or walked over the dead earth, but the birds seemed to think it would be nothing good.

The man tended to agree.

He let the curtain drop and hobbled back to his chair at the old farmhouse table. Not long ago he could have followed those birds north, up and across the Iron Age terraces that formed a steep rise on the landscape. Since the buckshot, all that remained of his left kneecap wasn’t enough to haul his bulk over a tree root, much less a manmade cliff engineered to keep people at the bottom of it. So here he sat, praying he’d get the old truck running before the rot jumped the roadbed and trapped him on this miserable acre of Welsh countryside.

He rubbed his face. The scratch of leathered palms on beard stubble echoed in the room, tiny sounds of life amplified in the silence of a dead world. Chemical warfare? Or was something far more evil than any human at work in the environment, something no scientist had ever studied or imagined? Had it followed him here? Or was it already creeping across the land before he came, unseen over the edge of the horizon? Maybe he’d caused it himself. He’d certainly sown a few wicked seeds on that plot of ground.

Still, there had to be some rhyme or reason to where the rot encroached. He needed to think.

It seemed to respect the old road, which probably dated back centuries like so many boundaries did in Wales. He relied on memory for that assessment, since all the internet and phone lines and even the electricity had quit about the time the ground under the pear tree died. Rattling around in his memory was something about medieval landmarks and map alignments that may or may not exist in the real world, unprovable and maybe even laughable until he watched the earth shrivel to bones right in front of him.

The hill fort--any significance to its placement? He pushed up from the chair, using the table for support he until he got his fingers around the broken mop handle he’d appropriated as a cane. Each step was agony but there was no one around to watch him wince. He winced aplenty on his way to the window at the back of the house. Pride be damned. If the old man had been able to aim, he’d be missing everything from his knee down. Maybe his whole leg, or even his head. Seemed like he owed myself at least a grimace or two for sending that bastard’s aim to the same place he sent the back of his skull.

He stared out the window at the northern landscape, an artificial mountain looming over miles of flat farmland. Something about the hill fort niggled at him. Not the structure itself, but where it sat in relation to the house. No, not even that. In relation to the old road, the straight line that separated dead earth from--

Ley lines. That’s what the damn things were called. Ley lines. And if memory served, they crisscrossed the whole of England like plaid.

What if the farm was sitting on a confluence of multiple ley lines, all intersecting on the hill fort, and there really was something to all that hokum about natural points of energy and yada yada? The birds had flown north that morning. Something awful had jumped the road just beyond his line of sight and made the west route impassable. South was an absolute wasteland. He couldn’t climb the terraces with a bum leg, so that left only one way out of this hellhole—east.

But for how long? And did another ley line cross the grid in that direction? He’d better get moving.

He knew a bit about the house and its contents. He knew the old farmer kept canned goods in the underground cellar and a shotgun by his bed. Oh, yes. He definitely knew that. Now.

He also knew he’d been here for five days, ever since he stumbled upon the place by accident and jimmied the lock. Five days was long enough for blood between the floorboards to stink the place up good. For infection to set up in his knee. For something evil and relentless to start crawling toward him over the ground outside. For the pear tree across the road to drop its leaves and die.

He’d eaten pears off that tree the day he dragged the old bastard far enough from the house to suit him. Blown-out knee be damned, he’d piled enough dirt on him to make sure foxes wouldn’t scavenge his bones and carry them off for discovery on nearby farms. He thought he’d taken care of everything.

Clearly, he had not.

He packed all the canned goods he could carry into a rucksack he’d found at the bottom of the old man's closet. Shotgun shells, too. Bottled water from the well. He hoped it was still safe to drink. The nearest town to the east was a good day’s walk on two legs. It might take ten times that long in his condition.

After a half hour of trying, he’d made it out of the house, down the porch steps, and into the yard. Every time he tried to bear weight on his left leg, something crunched and twisted in the knee joint. Fresh blood oozed through the bandage he’d made for it out of the old farmer’s undershirts. The added pounds of rucksack and shotgun didn’t help. Maybe he should try one more time to get the truck running.

Overhead, a flock of starlings dove low enough that he could hear the air stirred by their wings. He glanced up and watched them, warmth from the setting sun on his back. Somewhere to his right, across the road, the old farmer lay, spreading his rot into the ground.

The birds climbed, their pattern tightening until the spot of sky they occupied became nearly black. Then abruptly, they made a horrifying turn left. North, over the old hill fort.

Hackles rose on the back of his neck. Primitive, primal response--instinctive. The truck wouldn’t do him any good now. He couldn’t yet see the rot creeping toward him beyond the easternmost rise of the land, but he didn’t have to. The birds had told him. They knew. They always knew.

They lofted high on an updraft, gliding along as a dense, dark mass over the terraces that walled him in. They dipped once, a final goodbye, and disappeared over the hill fort in silence. He wished them well. Then he picked a spot on the shady side of the old truck and sat on the ground to wait for whatever it brought him.