Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

“Do you want me to read it for you?” she asked, almost awed by the brittle presence of her voice.

Steve looked up at her. From the corner of her eye, Helen noticed Adam watching her.

“Do you want me to tell you what time it is?” she asked. This time there was a little bass tremble to her voice. She spoke more consciously now, more aware of what instinct had driven her to speak.

“Do you?” she asked.

“It’s ten minutes to one,” said Adam.

Helen felt a sudden coiling in her stomach, part of it hatred. Adam knew what she’d had in mind—to get beside Steve, try to wrest the revolver from him.

“If we don’t leave now,” Adam said, coldly, “You’re going to die.”

“I said—”

“All right, die!” Adam interrupted, “What the hell do I care?”

”That’s right, you don’t care,” mumbled Steve, “Nobody cares.”

Helen realized, then, that, within the sight of death, what small sensitivity remained in Steve was piercing his shell of brutality. He was frightened, terrified and he had so long repressed these feelings that he was incapable of responding to them, of even recognizing them.

“He’s got ten minutes,” said Adam, scornfully, “Think he’ll make it?”

There was a dry clicking sound in Steve’s throat. “He’ll be back,” he said; but there was more desperate hope in his voice than assurance.

“Wrong,” said Adam, “He won’t. He’s probably out of the county by now.”

Helen started and looked over at Adam’s malign face. It isn’t true, she thought.

“He won’t be back,” said Adam, “Why should he? For them?” he asked, gesturing toward Helen with his head. “Don’t be a fool. He never told her what he’d done. Even after he murdered Cliff, he talked her into not telling the cops. Was he worrying about them then?” Adam snickered contemptuously. “The hell he was,” he said.

“Shut up,” said Steve; but it was closer to a request than a demand.

Helen felt a cold tremor pass through her body. No, she thought but there was no conviction in her. She didn’t know whether Adam was right or not. She really wasn’t sure—and, in a way, it was a more terrible feeling than the fear of death.

“And you gave him the car,” said Adam, “You let him go.” He shook his head slowly. “I always knew I should have left you and Cliff. Well I’ll be rid of you soon.”

“Will ya?” Steve shoved his arm out and pointed the revolver at him.

“Go on!” snapped Adam, “Shoot me! Then you’re all alone. Then you really haven’t got a prayer, you ignorant bastard.”

Steve drew in a harsh, shaking breath. “He’s coming back,” he said.

“Sure, sure, he’s coming back,” said Adam, “He’s bringing Florence Nightingale and your sainted mother and the first girl you ever kissed and a box of candy with a ribbon on it. You—moron. I should—”

He broke off suddenly as Steve pressed back against the chair, his mouth yawning in a sucking gasp of pain, “Oh, God,” he whimpered, “Don’t, don’t…”

In an instant, Adam was alert, his body straightened from the wall, his legs slightly bent as if he were getting ready to rush across the room at Steve who was twisting his head from side to side, tiny noises of fear and agony and disbelief hovering in his throat. Helen’s fingers tensed on Connie, she began to shift her to the side so she could put her on the floor and stand—get ready to rush for the gun.

“Get over here,” said Steve, hoarsely. He looked at Helen with glazed, watering eyes. He said something else but it was too garbled for her to understand. Hastily, she lowered Connie’s head to the floor and stood up.

“You let her over there, she’ll grab your gun!” Adam warned.

“And you won’t?” muttered Steve. There was a glitter in his eyes now. He spoke through teeth continually on edge. Helen moved toward him very slowly.

“Come on!” he snapped.

Bracing herself, she walked over to where he sat. He looked up at her groggily. “You wanna die?” he asked.

Helen bit her lower lip and shook her head.

“No,” she said.

“Then keep me awake.”

Up close, she could see the waxy pallor of his skin, hear the laboring of his breath. The bandage on his shoulder was dripping with blood.

“How?” she murmured.

“I don’t—” He broke off suddenly and pressed his teeth together so hard that she could hear them grinding. The whine in his throat was like the high note of a song. It would have sounded funny under other circumstances.

“Just keep me awake!” he told her, “Your kid’ll be the first one to get it if I feel myself—”

He gritted his teeth and stared at Adam with baleful eyes.

“And if I don’t kill her,” he said, “He will. So you better keep me—”

Steve shut his eyes, his head slumped forward. Helen caught her breath and glanced over at Adam. He wasn’t moving. She looked back at Steve and saw that his head was raised again, his feverish eyes were open. He said something to her.

“What did you—?”

“Don’t try t’ get my gun,” he warned.

“I won’t.” Helen looked down at the revolver with a revulsive fascination. It looked huge. She saw how Steve’s index finger kept twitching against the curved edge of the trigger. Her insides seemed to turn to stone as she watched. She could never get it away from him, she knew. Even if he began to lose consciousness, his hand would still grip the stock. In trying to get it away from him, she would only arouse him.

She shuddered and looked over at Connie. She was lying motionless, still asleep. Adam was leaning against the wall again, motionless. The only thing that moved was time.

“Five minutes,” Adam said.

Five minutes!

Chris twisted the wheel sharply and the Ford spun onto Wilshire Boulevard with a grating of tire rubber. He straightened it and drove to Twelfth Street trying not to think. If he thought, it would be about the hopelessness of getting the gun and returning to Latigo Canyon in five minutes. Resolution would fail him then, nerves would desert him. Steve would wait; he had made up his mind to that. He wouldn’t let himself consider anything else.

Still, braking in front of the house, his eyes moving instinctively to the dashboard clock and seeing that it was one o’clock, he couldn’t check the sob that broke in his chest. All he could do was cut it off and push out of the car. He raced across the lawn and jumped onto the porch.

The door was still open. Chris pushed inside and hurried across the living room, skidded around the corner of the doorway and entered the kitchen. Charging to the drawer, he jerked it open.

The gun was gone.

“No!” A spasm of demented anguish drove through him and he pulled the drawer out all the way, shoved his fingers wildly through its contents. Pads, pencils, tacks, rubber bands, stamps, envelopes, pennies, clips—no gun. A wave of dizziness flooded across him and he fell against the edge of the cupboard, gasping for breath.

Clenching his teeth then, he lunged for the other drawers and pulled them out one by one, plunging his hand into each, clattering berserkly through silverware, pulling out dishtowels, knocking over jars and cups and boxes. “Oh, God—Oh, God—Oh, God.” The horror was back again, he couldn’t stop it. Helen and Connie were going to die.

“No.“ Chris spoke the word softly, as a man speaks just before the end—with one last surge of resisting will. Whirling, he ran out of the kitchen and across the living room rug. Helen could have put in their room, fearing that Connie might come across it in the kitchen drawer.