Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“Look, Sheldon, why don’t you simmer down? Forget it, and I’ll see what I can do about squashing the story.”

Cummins shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do or you would have mentioned it before. A kid drowned in a flood in a big real estate development? That story won’t squash once it gets out. I’m convinced this is the only way. Don’t try holding me up, Sam, I’m warning you. I’ll go four hundred thousand and that’s my limit. Are you going to accept it?”

“No.”

“All right, Sam,” said Cummins softly. “I gave you your chance.” He raised his powerful hands and placed them on Tuttle’s throat. Tuttle tried to jerk back, but the hands tightened. “You’re crazy, Sheldon,” Tuttle yelled and swung his fist against Cummins’ head, but the blow seemed to make no impression.

Cummins began to squeeze, ignoring the man’s struggles, and slowly Tuttle sank to his knees and his back arched, so that Cummins had to bend over him while he squeezed. Cummins went to his own knees to ease the uncomfortable position. After a while he took his hands away and rose to his feet and Tuttle’s body collapsed on the ground.

It was the only solution, Cummins thought. It might be taking a chance, but he had chosen to go all out and he would have to accept the risk. He estimated that the odds were with him. Tuttle was a lone wolf, and since this job was on the shady side it was unlikely that he had discussed it with anyone. He had no car here; he had arrived by plane. It would simply be a case of a man disappearing, a man whose connection with himself would remain private. If ever questioned he would give the proper answers. It would occur to no one to search this property, and in any case, Tuttle’s body would never be found.

Next, the boys. Unfortunately, he had no weapon with him, but if necessary he would take care of them with his bare hands also. However, he seemed to remember something about the surveyors’ supplies. He knitted his brow, trying to visualize. Yes, he remembered. There was an axe.

He decided on his course of action. When he entered the shack he would walk casually to the storeroom and get the axe. They would be unsuspecting, so that he could kill at least one of them without a struggle. After that, the axe would make short work of the other, even if he tried to fight.

Cummins reached the shack, opened the door and stepped in.

The kids were sitting on the floor, backs against the wall. “Hey!” said the skinny one. “Look who’s here.” He rose, grinning sarcastically and sidled over to Cummins. “Where’s the other fellow?”

“He won’t be back,” Cummins said shortly. “Had some business.”

The last thing Cummins saw was the knife the kid pulled...

When the body was still the boy began going through the pockets. “I don’t know if you shudda knocked him off,” the taller boy said doubtfully.

“Why not? Looks well-heeled, don’t he?”

“Yeah, but after all he saved our hides.”

“Because he was a dope. If he wasn’t a dope he wouldn’t have got it now. That’s what I keep tellin’ you, don’t be a dope. He rubbed me the wrong way anyhow.” The boy came up with a fat wallet and cackled. He counted the money and looked up, his flat eyes taking on a glitter. “Two hundred and thirty-eight dollars,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. “It was worth knocking him off. Jeez, for that much money I’d knock off anybody.”

The Alarmist by Donald Tothe

“Let them laugh,” he thought. “Let them laugh now, but they’ll be dead and I’ll be alive.” He dug furiously and each night his bomb shelter became deeper and- more impenetrable.

* * *

Ed Manson, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his tousled, brown hair, listened to the sounds of many excited voices. They were the first voices he’d heard for two days and two nights.

“Ed, listen to me.” It was the irritated voice of Neil Nicholson. “Everything is o.k. Now, come out of there.” The voice was losing its patience, as it pleaded with the man in the dark, cellarlike room.

“Open the door, Mister Manson,” urged the quivering voice of the elderly spinster who lived two houses away.

His eyes formed narrow slits of distrust as he stared at the thin sheet of lead which covered the door leading from the house. There were, in addition to the indestructible-looking hasp and padlock, three formidable bars of steel spanning the door. This was the only entrance to the underground room.

He knew something like this would happen after an attack. They would all change into animals. They would try to break into his shelter — the only one on the block. Probably the only one within miles.

They would kill him for his uncontaminated food and water. That’s why he was ready for them.

“Who’s laughing now?” He demanded, semi-hysterically. “Let’s hear it! Aren’t you folks laughing anymore?”