Arkady Strugatsky - Roadside Picnic

“Toads,” Redrick said quietly.

He felt the brass knuckles in his pocket, put his fingers through the rings, gripped the cold metal in his fist, and walked back, still shivering and keeping his hands in his pockets. The Jeep was standing between the bushes, tilting slightly. They were in a remote, deserted place; it had probably been a decade since anyone had been there.

When Redrick approached the car, Burbridge sat up and looked at him, mouth agape. Right now, he seemed even older than usual—wrinkled, bald, covered in dirty stubble, rotten toothed. For some time they silently looked at each other, and suddenly Burbridge mumbled, “Give you a map… all the traps, all of them… Find it yourself, won’t be sorry…”

Redrick listened to him, motionless, then he unclenched his fingers, let go of the brass knuckles in his pocket, and said, “Fine. You gotta be unconscious, OK? Moan and don’t let them touch you.”

He got into the car, started the engine, and drove forward.

And everything turned out OK. No one left the trailer when the Jeep, in strict accordance with the road signs and instructions, slowly rolled by and then, quickly picking up speed, flew toward town through the southern outskirts. It was 6 AM, the streets were empty, the pavement was wet and black, and the traffic lights at the intersections kept a lonely and pointless vigil. They passed a bakery with tall, brightly lit windows, and Redrick let the warm, incredibly delicious aroma wash over him.

“I’m starving,” said Redrick and, kneading his muscles, which were stiff from the tension, stretched, pushing his hands into the wheel.

“What?” said Burbridge in alarm.

“I said I’m starving. Where are we going? Your house or straight to the Butcher?”

“To the Butcher, to the Butcher, quick!” Burbridge babbled impatiently, his whole body leaning forward, his hot, feverish breath on Redrick’s neck. “Go straight there! Right now! He still owes me seven hundred. Go, go, quickly, why are you crawling like an injured snail?” And then he suddenly began to curse, impotently and spitefully, using vile, dirty words, showering Redrick with spittle, gasping and coughing in fits.

Redrick didn’t answer. He didn’t have the time or the energy to soothe the raging Vulture. He had to quickly finish with all this and catch at least an hour, a half hour, of sleep before the meeting at the Metropole. He turned onto Sixteenth Street, drove two blocks, and parked the car in front of the gray two-story house.

The Butcher opened the door himself—he probably had just gotten up and was going to the bathroom. He was wearing a splendid robe with gold tassels and holding a glass with dentures in his hand. His hair was tousled and there were dark circles under his dull eyes.

“Oh!” he said, “Red, it’sh you? What ish it?”

“Put in your teeth and let’s go,” said Redrick.

“Uh-huh,” replied the Butcher, nodding invitingly toward the foyer, and then, shuffling his feet in Persian slippers and moving with surprising speed, he headed to the bathroom. “Who?” he asked from within.

“Burbridge,” answered Redrick.

“What?”

“Legs.”

In the bathroom, water started running, he heard snorting and splashing, and then something fell and rolled along the tiled floor. Redrick wearily sat down in an armchair, took out a cigarette, and, looking around, lit up. Yeah, this was quite the foyer. The Butcher must have spent a bundle. He was a very skilled and very fashionable surgeon, renowned in the medical community not only of the city but of the state, and, of course, the reason he got mixed up with stalkers wasn’t the money. Like many others, he profited from the Zone: by receiving swag and then applying it in his practice; by treating crippled stalkers, in the process investigating mysterious new injuries, diseases, and deformities of the human body; and by becoming famous as the first doctor on the planet to specialize in nonhuman illnesses of man. Although, to be honest, he also eagerly took the money.

“What exactly is wrong with his legs?” he asked, emerging from the bathroom with a huge towel draped over his shoulder. He was carefully wiping his long nervous fingers with a corner of the towel.

“Got into the slime,” said Redrick.

The Butcher whistled. “So, that’s the end of Burbridge,” he muttered. “Too bad, he was a famous stalker.”

“Nah,” said Redrick, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll make prostheses for him. He’ll hop through the Zone on prostheses yet.”

“Well, OK,” said the Butcher. His face became completely professional. “Give me a second, I’ll get dressed.”

While he got dressed and talked on the phone, probably instructing his clinic to prepare for the surgery, Redrick lounged motionless in the armchair and smoked. He only moved once, to take out his flask. He drank in small sips, since the flask was almost empty, and tried not to think about anything. He simply waited.

Then they both walked to the car, Redrick got behind the wheel, and the Butcher sat down next to him, immediately leaning over the seat and feeling Burbridge’s legs. Burbridge, hushed and deflated, mumbled something plaintive, promised untold riches, constantly mentioned his children and dead wife, and begged him to at least save his knees. When they drove up to the clinic, the Butcher cursed at not finding the orderlies outside, jumped out of the still-moving car, and disappeared behind the door. Redrick lit another cigarette, and Burbridge suddenly spoke, clearly and distinctly, as if he was completely calm: “You wanted to kill me. I’ll remember that.”

“But I didn’t,” said Redrick indifferently.

“No, you didn’t.” Burbridge was quiet. “I’ll remember that, too.”

“You do that,” said Redrick. “You, of course, wouldn’t have killed me…”

He turned around and looked at Burbridge. The old man was grimacing uncertainly, twisting his parched lips.

“You would have just abandoned me,” said Redrick. “Left me in the Zone, and that would be that. Like Four-Eyes.”

“Four-Eyes died on his own,” Burbridge sullenly disagreed. “I had nothing to do with it. He got stuck.”

“You’re scum,” said Redrick dispassionately, turning away. “A vulture.”

Two disheveled, sleepy orderlies jumped out of the door and, unfolding the stretcher as they ran, rushed up to the car. Redrick, taking occasional drags of his cigarette, watched as they dexterously pulled Burbridge from the backseat, laid him down on the stretcher, and carried him to the door. Burbridge was lying motionless, crossing his arms on his chest and staring remotely into the sky. His huge feet, cruelly damaged by the slime, were strangely and unnaturally bent.

He was the last of the old stalkers, the ones that began the search for alien treasures immediately after the Visit, when the Zone wasn’t yet called the Zone, and there was no Institute, no wall, and no UN police force; when the town was paralyzed by terror, and the world giggled over the latest newspaper hoax. At the time, Redrick was ten years old, and Burbridge was still a strong and agile man—he loved drinking on someone else’s dime, brawling, and chasing girls. Back then, he had absolutely no interest in his children, but he was already a piece of scum: when drunk, he got some vile pleasure out of beating his wife, loudly, so everyone could hear… Eventually, he beat her to death.

Redrick turned the Jeep around and, paying no attention to the traffic lights, cutting corners and honking at the rare pedestrians, sped straight home.

He stopped in front of the garage and, getting out of the car, saw the superintendent walking toward him from the park. As usual, the superintendent was in a foul mood, and his flabby, puffy-eyed face expressed extreme distaste, as if he weren’t walking on solid earth but wading through a field of manure.