Read Online Empty World by John Christopher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Christopher
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adjusted the seat, and attempted todrive it out of the garage. The starter motor whirred, but nothing else happened. He tried several times before it occurred to him to look at the fuel gauge. It showed empty; what little petrol might have been left in the tank had clearly evaporated.
The Miniâs gauge, on the other hand, registered half full. There was no booklet, but he did his best to recall what he had seen his father do. The engine roared into life, the din reverberating from the garage walls, and Neil pushed the gear lever into first and gingerly took his foot off the clutch pedal. The car bounded forward a few inches, and the engine stalled.
This process, of starting and bucking to a halt, happened a few more times and eventually the car was halfway out of the garage. At that point it refused to start at all. He went on twisting the key with no more success, and was feeling like getting out of the car and kicking it when he noticed the choke knob still extended and realized he had probably flooded the carburettor. That, too, was something remembered from his father; along with the knowledge that the only thing to do was wait for it to dry out.
A quarter of an hour later he tried again, and on his second attempt managed to get the car into gear and crawling across the yard. Fortunately it was very large and gave him room to manoeuvre. He drove round, mastering the steering and developing a growing sense of satisfaction which was lost the moment he tried to change up into second gear. The Mini stalled, and went on stalling whenever he attempted the operation.
He was impatient to go, and reflected that even in bottom gear he could travel a good deal faster than on a bicycle, and in more comfort. He collected the few things he wanted, threw them in the back, and set off along the bumpy lane leading to the main road. Smoke still hung over Rye but much less densely: the fire had largely burnt itself out. Anyway, he was not going that way.
He took the Winchelsea bypass rather than go through the town. At the foot of the hill on the far side he felt sufficiently confident to have another go at changing gears, and with a certain amount of grinding actually got into top. He was pleased with himself until he attempted to change down on the approach to Icklesham, and came to an ignoble halt.
Re-starting, he crawled on in low gear. The outskirts of Hastings surrounded him with neat modern houses, stretching away in rows. He had a feeling that there must be someone living, behind all those doors and windowsâthat at any moment the sound of the Miniâs approach would bring a figure out, waving, into the road. But nothing moved; and rounding a bend he came on the scene of an accident, with a big transporter truck pinning down a small saloon car. Skeletons manned both rusting wrecks, shattering the illusion. The wreckage took up most of the road; there was barely room to get the Mini through.
He did not go right into Hastings but took the road north. He had started late in the afternoon and by the time he got to Robertsbridge, at his slow rate of travel, the sun was behind the houses. He noticed that the fuel gauge was now on the quarter mark, and wondered what that indicated in the way of petrol. The road map he had taken from the Rover showed Lamberhurst as the nearest town, quite a long way north. He didnât relish the thought of being stranded for the night by an empty tank, out on the open road.
Self-Service was signposted at a filling station, and he pulled in there and tried to work the pump. There was no result and he realized he had been a fool to think there could be, since the mechanism would be electrical. The solution, he worked out, was to swap the Mini in favour of a car with a fuller tank. There were several in the forecourt, but none with an ignition key. He drove on, and stopped again beside a pub. It would be better to spend the night here, and find a car in the morning.
He had brought some
The Miniâs gauge, on the other hand, registered half full. There was no booklet, but he did his best to recall what he had seen his father do. The engine roared into life, the din reverberating from the garage walls, and Neil pushed the gear lever into first and gingerly took his foot off the clutch pedal. The car bounded forward a few inches, and the engine stalled.
This process, of starting and bucking to a halt, happened a few more times and eventually the car was halfway out of the garage. At that point it refused to start at all. He went on twisting the key with no more success, and was feeling like getting out of the car and kicking it when he noticed the choke knob still extended and realized he had probably flooded the carburettor. That, too, was something remembered from his father; along with the knowledge that the only thing to do was wait for it to dry out.
A quarter of an hour later he tried again, and on his second attempt managed to get the car into gear and crawling across the yard. Fortunately it was very large and gave him room to manoeuvre. He drove round, mastering the steering and developing a growing sense of satisfaction which was lost the moment he tried to change up into second gear. The Mini stalled, and went on stalling whenever he attempted the operation.
He was impatient to go, and reflected that even in bottom gear he could travel a good deal faster than on a bicycle, and in more comfort. He collected the few things he wanted, threw them in the back, and set off along the bumpy lane leading to the main road. Smoke still hung over Rye but much less densely: the fire had largely burnt itself out. Anyway, he was not going that way.
He took the Winchelsea bypass rather than go through the town. At the foot of the hill on the far side he felt sufficiently confident to have another go at changing gears, and with a certain amount of grinding actually got into top. He was pleased with himself until he attempted to change down on the approach to Icklesham, and came to an ignoble halt.
Re-starting, he crawled on in low gear. The outskirts of Hastings surrounded him with neat modern houses, stretching away in rows. He had a feeling that there must be someone living, behind all those doors and windowsâthat at any moment the sound of the Miniâs approach would bring a figure out, waving, into the road. But nothing moved; and rounding a bend he came on the scene of an accident, with a big transporter truck pinning down a small saloon car. Skeletons manned both rusting wrecks, shattering the illusion. The wreckage took up most of the road; there was barely room to get the Mini through.
He did not go right into Hastings but took the road north. He had started late in the afternoon and by the time he got to Robertsbridge, at his slow rate of travel, the sun was behind the houses. He noticed that the fuel gauge was now on the quarter mark, and wondered what that indicated in the way of petrol. The road map he had taken from the Rover showed Lamberhurst as the nearest town, quite a long way north. He didnât relish the thought of being stranded for the night by an empty tank, out on the open road.
Self-Service was signposted at a filling station, and he pulled in there and tried to work the pump. There was no result and he realized he had been a fool to think there could be, since the mechanism would be electrical. The solution, he worked out, was to swap the Mini in favour of a car with a fuller tank. There were several in the forecourt, but none with an ignition key. He drove on, and stopped again beside a pub. It would be better to spend the night here, and find a car in the morning.
He had brought some
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