Richard Matheson: Ride the Nightmare

“Mommy—” It was a weak, breathless plea.

“Little further!” Helen gasped, looking back.

In the distance, Adam was scuffing down the wall of the draw, raising a cloud of dust. Helen turned back with a faint sob. They had to go on!

Ahead, the open slope was closing in again to form another draw. Helen headed for the entrance to it, lips pressed together bloodlessly as she fought the burning pains in her ankle. She looked back once more. Adam was just emerging from the draw, running hard, the revolver lowered in his hand. He wouldn’t fire until he caught them, Helen realized. He’d already used three of six bullets. He wouldn’t waste the three remaining.

“You’ve got to run!” she cried frantically.

“I can’t.”

Impulsively, Helen snatched her daughter up and kept on running, almost blindly now, as if she ran on some fantastic treadmill in limbo, unable to stop, her body afire with pain, wanting to collapse, unable to collapse. She had to save Connie!

What if she stopped, the thought burst wildly in her mind— stopped, put Connie down and ran back? Could she force him to use all three bullets on her?

No! She sobbed and bit her lip, unable to meet Connie’s panic-dazed look. Even if she made him use the three bullets, Connie still wasn’t safe. Adam could kill her with his hands. He could—

She was so involved in terrified thought that she almost ran into the canyon wall in front of her. She staggered to a halt, put Connie down and looked with stark, uncomprehending eyes at the steep walls rising on three sides.

The only exit was in back of them.

Helen turned on shaking legs. A hundred and twenty yards away, Burrik was coming at them. She stood trembling, watching him approach. No, her mind protested; No, it can’t be. She stumbled back slowly, against the canyon wall, Connie half-behind, little arms clamped desperately around Helen’s thigh.

“It’s all right, baby,” she whispered hoarsely, “Mommy’s with you.”

Suddenly, Helen was conscious of something hard and thin pressing against the pain of her thigh where the small hands clutched. Instinctively, she reached down. In her pocket was the book of matches, thrust there by habit, and forgotten.

She pushed the child away and, ignoring her cries, knelt on the grass. Fingers trembling, she pulled open the cover and struck a match, held it to the grass. For a moment, nothing happened. It’s too wet! she thought in horror. Then there was a faint crackle and, abruptly, the grass was burning, the bright flame rising, smoking whitely. Helen lurched back from it and looked up.

Adam was less than seventy yards away.

Desperately, Helen lunged to the right, fell to one knee and struck another match. More grass ignited, crackling. She pulled away from it. ran to the left and set fire to more. This time when she straightened up and looked toward Adam, she could barely see him through the mounting barrier of flame. She set fire to another patch, another—then ran to Connie and pulled her to the canyon wall. She stood there numbly, waiting, expecting to see Adam come charging through the fire. There were open patches in it wide enough to pass a running man. She held Connie to herself and waited, staring.

Seconds passed, a minute finally and Helen realized that Adam wasn’t going to come through. She glanced up. He might climb the walls and fire down at them but there wasn’t too much chance of hitting them from such a height. They were—

Helen froze. Safe? She shrank back, flinching, against the hard, rocky face of the canyon wall and almost stupidly, watched the bright flames moving at them.

Chris jerked out the hand brake and straightened up.

“Take the car back to the canyon road,” he said quickly, “If we’re not back in ten minutes, drive to the nearest phone and call the police.”

“Chris—!”

Without waiting to hear what she was going to say, Chris pushed out of the car and started running down the dirt lane, blanking his mind to the fact that he was thirty minutes late. He sprinted around the curve, drawing the gun from his pocket. There was a broken window on the west side of the shack, he remembered. He’d fire through it at Steve, then at Adam if he had to.

He left the lane and clambered up the slope as quietly as he could, eyes on the doorway to the shack. It was so still. It’s over, his mind persisted but Chris wouldn’t listen. He gritted his teeth and edged over to the window, looked in.

Steve was lying on the floor, his face in a pool of blood. Chris’s startled gaze fled around the shadowy interior. There was no one else.

He whirled from the window and looked around. Where were they? Had Adam taken them with him? Were they in some stolen car, headed for Mexico? It had a frightening logic.

He was just turning back toward the road when he heard the screaming. Twisting around, he looked up at the hill behind the shack, It was up there! Abruptly, he broke into a run, plunging into the clump of bushes that barred his way, tearing through it, then lurching up the steep rise. The screaming was closer now, so highly pitched that it was impossible for him to tell whether it was a man or woman. Chris lunged the rest of the way to the top of the hill and looked around.

He gasped.

Running across the hilltop, a torch on legs, was Adam Burrik. Chris felt his muscles clamping in as he stared at the burning man. Adam’s shrill, brainless screaming pierced the air. He saw Chris and started rushing toward him, the flames whipping backward from his clothes like bright pennants. Chris stood impotently a moment longer, then, with a shudder, dashed forward to help Adam put out the flames, to find out where Helen and Connie were.

Before he could reach the burning man, however, Adam had tripped and fallen, he was rolling down the hillside, screaming with agony. Chris started after him as he bounced and slithered down the slope but, at the bottom, Adam plunged into a thick patch of grass which, immediately, caught fire. In a second, he was swallowed by the rising flames. The last Chris saw of him was a waving arm, the last he heard was one long shriek of horror. Then there was only the spreading fire.

Chris whirled and headed for the top of the hill again, escaping the flames. There was no time to try and put out the fire. He had to find Helen and Connie. Where were they? How had they escaped Adam? How had he caught fire? Questions pounded through his mind as he ran.

Then he saw the scaling pall of smoke in the distance and started running toward it, throwing down the heavy gun. It was of no use any longer.

Seconds later, he heard Connie’s scream.

With a frightened grunt, he jolted forward, running as fast as he could. Below, the fire was contained within an open draw, Chris’s gaze leaped around the blazing hollow of it. searching for them.

“Helen!” he shouted.

There was no answer. He rushed along the edge, looking downward but the smoke was too thick to see through. He stopped near the foot of the draw and squinted down, the smoke burning his eyes, making them water. He moved again, edging restlessly along the cliff-like drop. He shouted, “Helen!”

There was another scream—almost directly below, it seemed, “Helen!” he called.

“Chris!”

He fell to his knees and looked down into the smoke-obscured draw.

“Where are you?” he cried. “Here! Help us!”

Sucking in breath, Chris looked around and saw a narrow ledge about four feet below. Hastily, he lowered himself across the edge and slid down onto it. For a second, losing balance, he almost pitched backward into the smoke, only at the last second catching hold of a bush that grew on the ledge. Turning around, he looked down, brushing the tears out of his eyes, blinking hard.