Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

Skidding into their room, Chris ran to the bureau and hauled out the top drawer. He rummaged frantically through Helen’s things, a shearing pain in his heart as he touched the smoothness of her lingerie, the crackling sheerness of her stockings. The gun wasn’t there.

On an impulse. Chris dropped to one knee and pulled out the bottom drawer. He drove his hand beneath the neat pile of skins and sweaters. At first, his fingers only rubbed along the lining of the drawer. Then, abruptly, they were bumping against the barrel of the gun. He jerked it out and stood, breaking into a run for the door. As he rushed across the living room, he shoved the pistol into his jacket. He pulled open the front door.

“Oh!” Helen’s mother twitched back, startled, on the porch.

Chris couldn’t speak. He stood, petrified in the doorway, staring at her, feeling as if his body were rocking with the violence of his heartbeats.

“Chris, where have you been?” asked Mrs. Shaw, “I’ve been phoning you all morning. Where are Helen and Connie?”

Chris shivered. “I’m going to them now,” he said.

“I thought she was coming to the house. I’ve been frantic, Chris! Why didn’t you phone?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I have to go now. I’ll—I’ll be back in a while.”

“Where are they?”

“In… downtown.”

“Downtown?”

“She had to go shopping. I’m going to get her now.”

“But you said she was going to—”

“I know!” He couldn’t keep the sharpness from his voice. “I’ll get her, I’ll bring her over. Now—” He started past her.

“Chris, what’s wrong?”

He had to press his lips together they shook so badly. “Nothing,” he muttered.

Mrs. Shaw looked at him, frightened. “Chris, don’t lie to me!” she said, She gasped and caught at his sleeve. “Has something happened to them? Are they hurt?”

“No, Mom. I—”

“Your head…”

“Mom, I have to go!” He started across the porch but she held on.

“There’s been an accident.” she said in a forcibly calm voice. “You can tell me, Chris. Are they—?”

“They’re all right!” Chris tried to jerk free and the movement jarred the pistol from his pocket. He caught it as it fell.

Helen’s mother shrank away from him. “Chris,“ she whispered.

“Mom… Mom, please,” he begged. “They’re all right. Just let me go. Wait here. I’ll bring them back.”

“Where are they?” Mrs. Shaw’s voice was barely audible.

“Mom, they’re all right! Just stay here!” Abruptly, Chris jumped off the porch and sprinted for the car. Steve would wait. He was badly hurt, he had to take the chance that Chris would return with a doctor. Chris pulled open the car door and slid onto the seat, glancing toward the porch. Helen’s mother had gone inside. With a quick movement, Chris turned the ignition key and started the motor.

He was just pulling away from the curb when it struck him. Jamming in the brake pedal, he slapped the gear shift into neutral and pushed out of the car. He ran around the front of it and across the lawn. The door flew open before the impact of his body.

In the hallway, he heard Helen’s mother gasp; then suddenly, cry out, “Give me the police! Quickly!”

Chris ran across the room and into the hall. Helen’s mother caught her breath and pressed back against the wall, the telephone reviver clenched in her hand. Without a word, Chris grabbed it.

“No!” Mrs. Shaw raised her arm as if he were about to strike her.

“Mom, for—!” Chris pulled the receiver from her and slammed it back on the cradle.

“Don’t…” she pleaded.

“Mom…“ Chris stared at her in anguish, trying to decide what to do. If he left her, she’d only call police again. “Come with me,” he said.

“No.”

“I’ll take you to them, for God’s sake!”

“Chris, what have you done with them?”

I haven’t done anything! Come on!” He grabbed her wrist. “Please, Mom!”

“You killed them!”

“Oh, God… “ Chris pulled her toward the living room. “They’re all right,” he heard himself telling her, “They’re all right, Mom. Just come with me. I’ll take you to them.”

She stopped and pulled free.

“Chris, we’ve got to tell the police,” she said in trembling voice.

Rage billowed up in Chris. Even though he sensed that it was only subverted guilt, he couldn’t stop it. With a gasp, he pulled the gun out of his pocket.

”You’re coming with me,” he ordered.

Helen’s mother stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Then, without a word, she turned and walked through the doorway

“Mom, I…” He couldn’t finish. He followed her across the lawn and opened the door of the car for her. He hurried around it and got in beside her, gunned the engine. He made a quick U turn and headed back toward Wilshire Boulevard.

As he drove, he began to tell her exactly what had happened.

“Look out!”

Steve’s head jerked up, the revolver bucked explodingly in his hand. Across the room, Adam dove to one side as a jagged hole appeared in the wall beside him. Helen stood frozen, her ears ringing. Steve looked around as if trying to remember where he was. His gaze fell on Adam, who was scrambling to his feet.

Then they were all looking over at Connie as she sat up with a shrill cry. The sound seemed to free Helen. Ignoring the gun, she ran across the room and knelt by her daughter, embraced her tightly.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” she heard Adam raging. “It’s quarter after one! You gave him till one!”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Steve.

“All right, listen, damn it!” Adam said, hastily, “We can still get out of here. We’ll flag a car, get started for Mexico. On the way, we’ll stop at a doctor’s. What do you say? Let’s get out of here! We’re pushing our luck. He could have called the cops a dozen times over since he left.”

“Bastard,” mumbled Steve,

“For Christ’s sake, use your head! Do you want to die?”

Steve didn’t speak. He looked at Adam with glazed, unblinking eyes. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

Adam stared at him. “Steve?” he said.

Steve coughed. He made a gagging sound and tried to speak. The saliva rolled across his chin. “Bastard,“ he said under his breath as if it weren’t even a word. He raised the pistol shakily and rubbed the barrel end across his chin. Adam kept staring at him. Helen glanced cross her shoulder and saw how Steve was weaving on the chair, his head wobbling as if imperfectly attached. He’s going, she thought. She started to get up but Connie clung to her desperately.

Steve muttered something. Helen didn’t hear him. She held on to Connie. It’s all right, baby, prompted her mind but she couldn’t peak the words aloud.

“Coffee, damn you!” snarled Steve, hoarsely.

Helen looked around. He was staring at her vacantly, his mouth hanging open. “Coffee,” he muttered.

Helen swallowed. “Wh-where?” she asked.

His head hitched around slowly and he looked across the room toward a small alcove. Helen followed his gaze and saw a rusty kerosene stove standing on a shelf, a coffee pot on top of it.

“All right,” she said. She straightened up, pulling Connie with her.

“Come with Mommy,” she said.

Connie walked beside her shakily, silent except for the gasping sobs that shook her body. They moved between the two men and entered the alcove. Helen glanced back. Now she was twice as far from the wounded man as Adam was. If Steve fell there was no possible way she could reach the gun in time.