Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

“Yes.” For a second, Chris was startled that Willoughby knew her name. Then, he realized, Willoughby had been Helen’s doctor too before they were married.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked the doctor.

“She—fell,” said Chris, “We were out hiking in Latigo Canyon. And she fell.”

“Where is she?” asked Willoughby, quickly.

Chris cleared his throat. “She’s still out there,” he said.

“What?”

Chris felt the waves of dizziness coming over him again, the sense of nightmarish unreality. How could he possibly be standing here lying to this man, attempting to lure him to his possible death? Was he insane?

”She—I couldn’t move her,” Chris heard himself going on despite the horror he felt, “I was afraid to. She had a bad fall.”

Willoughby turned abruptly to the nurse’s desk and grabbed the telephone. He picked up the receiver and started to dial.

“Who are you calling?” asked Chris, unaware of the frightened thinness of his voice.

“Hospital,” said Willoughby. “We’ll get an ambulance out there right away.” He finished dialing and listened. “You should have done this,” he said grimly.

“No, you can’t,” Chris said. Everything was going wrong. Every second brought Helen and Connie closer to death.

Willoughby looked at him in surprise.

“You have to come with me,” said Chris.

“My dear man—”

“I said you—” Chris broke off as there was a clicking on the telephone, a faint voice.

“Emergency, please,” said Willoughby,

“No.” Chris hand shot out and depressed the cradle He held it down frozenly as if he were afraid that, if he released it, the connection would be re-established.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Willoughby stared at him incredulously.

“She doesn’t want an ambulance,” said Chris in a trembling voice. “She wants you. You have to come with me.”

Willoughby looked at the welted, blood-caked bruise on Chris’s temple, then met Chris’s gaze again.

“Come in my office, Mr. Martin,” he said.

“It’s not my head!” Chris snapped.

He glanced up at the wall clock and. saw that, it was almost quarter to one. A sob broke in his chest and, suddenly his right hand was clutching at the doctor’s wrist.

“You’re coming with me,” he said. He tried to sound authoritative but his voice was too ridden with terror.

Willoughby pulled back. “Let go of me, Mr. Martin,” he said.

The nurse caught at Chris’s arm and held him. “You’d better sit down,” she said, sounding coolly, maddeningly unruffled.

“No!” Chris jerked free of her and grabbed at Willoughby’s white jacket. “You’ve got to come with me!” he said.

“Mr. Martin!”

With a violent effort, Chris forced himself quiet. He clenched his teeth and let go of Willoughby’s jacket.

“Please,” he said, “Will you come with me? It’s a matter of life and death.”

Willoughby took his arm with a strength surprising for his age and build.

“Now, sit down,” he said, firmly, “We’ll take care of this. But there’s no time to—”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Your wife will be taken care of,” said Willoughby, “Just sit down and—”

“You’ve got to come with me now!” All the terror billowed up in Chris as he visualized Steve pointing the revolver at Helen, pulling the trigger, pointing it at Connie—

“Give me your gun,” he demanded, “Quickly.”

Willoughby and the nurse gaped at him.

“Oh, God!” With a sobbing cry, Chris whirled and jerked open the door. He lunged across the waiting room without seeing any of the patients. Behind him, Willoughby shouted, “Mr. Martin!” Then Chris was skidding to a halt at the end of the hall, pulling the door open, racing out into the parking lot.

Willoughby came running out and raised his arm.

“Mr. Martin!” he shouted, “Wait!”

Chris gunned the Ford across the parking lot and roared onto the street, only one thought left in his fear-crazed mind. The gun at home.

Steve’s sounds of pain came regularly now. Every few seconds, he would make a throaty noise which was partially a grunt, more an involuntary whine. He slumped tensely in the chair, shoulders forward, eyes staring, apparently sightlessly, across the dim room of the shack. Whenever Adam made any kind of movement, however, the eyes shifted instantly, Steve’s fingers flexed on the revolver stock. Adam leaned against the opposite wall, watching him—waiting.

Helen and Connie were against another wall, sitting on the floor. Connie, her head in Helen’s lap, had fallen into a heavy, emotion-spent sleep. Helen kept stroking gently at her hair, her eyes fixed on Steve. If he lost consciousness, Adam would grab his gun, kill them and leave—probably steal a car or stop one on the road, kill the motorist, then head for Mexico.

She kept telling herself that she should be on her feet, ready to rush for Steve’s revolver in the event he fainted. She felt so tired though, so strengthless. If only she could rest; it seemed as if days had passed without rest. Her eyelids felt weighted.

Worse, it was impossible to retain specific dread any longer. It was so quiet in the shack except for the faint sounds Steve was making, the occasional squeak of the chair. Her mind could not hold on to tension, could not keep her muscles prepared to act in defense of her life and Connie’s. She was exhausted by fear, depleted by the savage pattern of shocks she’d been exposed to since the telephone first rang not even sixteen hours before. The realization of how little time had passed was startling.

Where was Chris now? she wondered almost with a sensation of not caring. Had he reached a doctor yet? Which doctor would he go to? Somehow, she could not believe that what he did was important any more. No matter what it was she felt that nothing could be changed. Finally, it appeared, she had accepted the nightmare. She had given up resisting it.

Then, suddenly, she looked up, her heartbeat jolting, as Steve’s body twitched, his shoes thumping on the floor. She felt her body-go taut, readying itself to jump up. She stared at him intently. He was looking around the room in the manner of a man who has just started from unwanted sleep. The revolver was raised from his lap, the barrel of it wavering uncertainly in his grip.

“You’re going to die if you stay here,” Adam told him. After the long period of silence, his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

“Shut up.” Steve spoke without emphasis, slurring the words together. He swallowed and grimaced, licked his lips. Breath faltered in him. “Damn…” he muttered.

Abruptly, he made a half-angered, half-agonized sound. Helen couldn’t take her eyes off him. She sat woodenly, her gaze unmoving on his pain-twisted features. He looked over at her and her eyes fell, closed momentarily. God, please help us, she thought, the words flaring in her mind without volition.

She knew then that she hadn’t given up, that she couldn’t give up as long as Connie was alive. There had to be a way out. It was too impossibly monstrous that Connie should die in this horrible place, in this horrible way. There were sudden words in Helen’s mind again—terrible, heart-chilling words.

The sins of the fathers, they began.

No! Helen sat rigidly, her lips trembling in the midst of fear, a great outraged fury. Connie would not die. She would not!

She glanced up and saw Steve trying to look at the watch on his wrist. He couldn’t seem to focus his eyes properly. He kept blinking them, his teeth clenched. He was close to the edge now, she realized.