Free A Handful of Darkness by Philip K. Dick

slope. Around him the forest was silent. A dismal oppression hung over everything. Even the usual rustling of small animals was lacking. Animals, insects, men—all were gone. Most of the runners had moved south. The small things probably had died. And the men?
    He came out among the ruins. This had been a great city once. Then men had probably gone down in air-raid shelters and mines and subways. Later on they had enlarged their underground chambers. For three centuries men—true men—had held on, living below the surface. Wearing lead-lined suits when they came up, growing food in tanks, filtering their water, compressing particle-free air. Shielding their eyes against the glare of the bright sun.
    And now—nothing at all.
    He lifted his transmitter. “Mine,” he snapped. “This is Trent.”
    The transmitter sputtered feebly. It was a long time before it responded. The voice was faint, distant. Almost lost in the static. “Well? Did you find them?”
    “They’re gone.”
    “But…”
    “Nothing. No one. Completely abandoned.” Trent sat down on a broken stump of concrete. His body was dead. Drained of life. “They were here recently. The ruins aren’t covered. They must have left in the last few weeks.”
    “It doesn’t make sense. Mason and Douglas are on their way. Douglas has the tractor car. He should be there in a couple of days. How long will your oxygen last?”
    “Twenty-four hours.”
    “We’ll tell him to make time.”
    “I’m sorry I don’t have more to report. Something better.” Bitterness welled up in his voice. “After all these years. They were here all this time. And now that we’ve finally got to them…”
    “Any clues? Can you tell what became of them?”
    “I’ll look.” Trent got heavily to his feet. “If I find anything I’ll report.”
    “Good luck.” The faint voice faded off into static. “We’ll be waiting.”
    Trent returned the transmitter to his belt. He peered up at the grey sky. Evening—almost night. The forest was bleak and ominous. A faint blanket of snow was falling silently over the brown growth, hiding it under a layer of grimy white. Snow mixed with particles. Lethal dust—still falling, after three hundred years.
    He switched on his helmet-beam. The beam cut a pale swath” ahead of him through the trees, among the ruined columns of concrete, the occasional heaps of rusted slag. He entered the ruins.
    In their centre he found the towers and installations. Great pillars laced with mesh scaffolding—still bright. Open tunnels from underground lay like black pools. Silent deserted tunnels. He peered down one, flashing his helmet beam into it. The tunnel went straight down, deep into the heart of the Earth. But it was empty.
    Where had they gone? What had happened to them? Trent wandered around dully. Human beings had lived here, worked here, survived. They had come up to the surface. He could see the bore-nosed cars parked among the towers, now grey with the night snow. They had come up and then—gone.
    Where?
    He sat down in the shelter of a ruined column and flicked on his heater. His suit warmed up, a slow red glow that made him feel better. He examined his counter. The area was hot. If he intended to eat and drink he’d have to move on.
    He was tired. Too damn tired to move on. He sat resting, hunched over in a heap, his helmet-beam lighting up a circle of grey snow ahead of him. Over him the snow fell silently. Presently he was covered, a grey lump sitting among the ruined concrete. As silent and unmoving as the towers and scaffolding around him. “
    He dozed. His heater hummed gently. Around him a wind came up, swirling the snow, blowing it up against him. He slid forward a little until his metal and plastic helmet came to rest against the concrete.
    Towards midnight he woke up. He straightened, suddenly alert. Something—a noise. He listened.
    Far off, a dull roaring.
    Douglas in the car? No, not yet—not for another two days. He stood up,