Backteria and Other Improbable Tales (7 page)

Read Backteria and Other Improbable Tales Online

Authors: Richard Matheson

“What’s the matter with
you
?” he snarled.

The prisoner stared back. His mouth fell open. Saliva ran across his chin and dripped onto the floor.

“Well, well, well,” said the man, with an ugly smile. “So it got to you at last, haah?”

He threw back his thick head and laughed. He laughed at the prisoner.

“Hey, Mac,” he called. “Come ‘ere. This you gotta see.”

More footsteps. The prisoner pushed up. He ran to the door.

“What am I doing here?” he asked. “Why am I here?”

The man laughed louder.

“Ha!” he cried. “Boy, did you crack.”

“Shut up, will ya?” growled a voice down the corridor.

“Knock it off!” the guard yelled back.

Mac came up to the cell. He was an older man with graying hair. He looked in curiously. He saw the white-faced prisoner clutching the bars and staring out. He saw how white the prisoner’s knuckles were.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Big boy has cracked,” said Charlie. “Big boy has cracked wide open.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the prisoner, his eyes flitting from one guard’s face to the other. “Where am I? For God’s sake, where am I?”

Charlie roared with laughter. Mac didn’t laugh. He looked closely at the prisoner. His eyes narrowed.

“You know where you are, son,” he said quietly. “Stop laughing, Charlie.”

Charlie sputtered down.

“Man I can’t help it. This bastard was so sure he wouldn’t crack. Not
me
boy,” he mimicked. “I’ll sit in that goddamn chair with a smile on my face.”

The prisoner’s grayish lips parted.

“What?” he muttered. “What did you say?”

Charlie turned away. He stretched and grimaced, pushed a hand into his paunch.

“Woke me up,” he said.

“What chair?” cried the prisoner. “What are you talking about?”

Charlie’s stomach shook with laughter again.

“Oh, Christ, this is rich,” he chuckled. “Richer than a Christmas cake.”

Mac went up to the bars. He looked into the prisoner’s face. He said, “Don’t try to fool us, John Riley.”

“Fool you?”

The prisoner’s voice was incredulous. “What are you talking about? My name isn’t John Riley.”

The two men looked at each other. They heard Charlie plodding down the corridor talking to himself in amusement.

Mac turned aside.

“No,” said the prisoner. “Don’t go away.”

Mac turned back.

“What are you trying to pull?” he asked, “You don’t think you’ll fool us, do you?”

The prisoner stared.

“Will you tell me where I am?” he asked. “For God’s sake, tell me.”

“You know where you are.”

“I tell you…”

“Cut it, Riley!” commanded Mac. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not Riley!” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake, I’m not Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”

Mac shook his head slowly.

“And you was going to be so brave,” he said.

The prisoner choked up. He looked as though he had a hundred things to say and they were all jumbled together in his throat.

“You want to see the priest again?” asked Mac.

“Again?” asked the prisoner.

Mac stepped closer and looked into the cell.

“Are you sick?” he asked.

The prisoner didn’t answer. Mac looked at the tray.

“You didn’t eat the food we brought,” he said. “You asked for it and we went to all that trouble and you didn’t eat it. Why not?”

The prisoner looked at the tray, at Mac, then at the tray again. A sob broke in his chest.

“What am I doing here?” he begged. “I’m not a criminal, I’m…”

“Shut up for chrissake!” roared another prisoner.

“All right, all right, pipe down,” Mac called down the corridor.

“Whassa matter?” someone sneered. “Did big boy wet his pants?” Laughter. The prisoner looked at Mac.

“Look, will you listen?” he said, the words trembling in his throat.

Mac looked at him and shook his head slowly.

“Never figured on this did you, Riley?” he said.

“I’m not Riley!” cried the man. “My name is Johnson.”

He pressed against the door, painful eagerness on his features. He licked his dry lips.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m a scientist.”

Mac smiled bitterly and shook his head again.

“Can’t take it like a man, can you?” he said. “You’re like all the rest for all your braggin’ and struttin’.”

The prisoner looked helpless.

“Listen,” he muttered hoarsely.

“You listen to
me
,” said Mac. “You have two hours, Riley.”

“I told you I’m not…”

“Cut it! You have two hours. See if you can be a man in those two hours instead of a whining dog.”

The prisoner’s face was blank.

“You want to see the priest again?” Mac asked.

“No, I…” started the prisoner. He stopped. His throat tightened.

“Yes,” he said, “I want to see the priest. Call him, will you?”

Mac nodded.

“I’ll call him,” he said, “In the meantime, keep your mouth shut.”

The prisoner turned and shuffled back to the bunk. He sank down on it and stared at the floor.

Mac looked at him for a moment and then started down the hall.

“Whassa matter?” called one of the prisoners mockingly. “Did big boy wet his pants?”

The other prisoners laughed. Their laughter broke in waves over the slumped prisoner.

He got up and started to pace. He looked at the sky through the window. He stepped up to the cell door and looked up and down the hall.

Suddenly he smiled nervously.

“All right,” he called out. “All right. It’s very funny. I appreciate it. Now let me out of this rat trap.”

Someone groaned. “Shut up, Riley!” someone else yelled.

His brow contracted.

“A joke’s a joke,” he said loudly. “But now I have to…”

He stopped, hearing fast footsteps on the corridor floor. Charlie’s ungainly body hurried up and stopped before the cell.

“Are you gonna shut up?” he threatened, his pudgy lips outthrust. “Or do we give you a shot?”

The prisoner tried to smile.

“All right,” he said. “All right, I’m properly subdued. Now come on,” his voice rose. “Let me out.”

“Any more crap outta you and it’s the hypo,” Charlie warned. He turned away.

“Always knew you was yellow,” he said.

“
Listen
to me, will you?” said the prisoner. “I’m Phillip Johnson. I’m a nuclear physicist.”

Charlie’s head snapped back and a wild laugh tore through his thick lips. His body shook.

“A nu-nucleeeee…” His voice died away in wheezing laughter.

“I tell you it’s true,” the prisoner shouted after him.

A mock groan rumbled in Charlie’s throat. He hit himself on the forehead with his fleshy palm.

“What won’t they think of next?” he said. His voice rang out down the corridor.

“You shut up too!” yelled another prisoner.

“Knock it off!” ordered Charlie, the smile gone, his face a chubby mask of belligerence.

“Is the priest coming?” he heard the prisoner call.

“Is the priest coming? Is the priest coming?” he mimicked. He pounded on his desk elatedly. He sank back in the revolving chair. It squeaked loudly as he leaned back. He groaned.

“Wake me up once more and you’ll get the hypo!” he yelled down the corridor.

“Shut up!” yelled one of the other prisoners.

“Knock it off!” retorted Charlie.

The prisoner stood on the stool. He was looking out through the window. He watched the rain falling.

“Where am I?” he said.

Mac and the priest stopped in front of the cell. Mac motioned to Charlie and Charlie pushed a button on the control board. The door slid open.

“Okay, Father,” said Mac.

The priest went into the cell. He was short and stout. His face was red. It had a kind smile on it.

“Say, wantta hand me that tray, Father?” Mac asked.

The priest nodded silently. He picked up the tray and handed it to Mac.

“Thank you kindly, Father.”

“Certainly.”

The door shut behind the guard. He paused.

“Call out if he gets tough,” he said.

“I’m sure he won’t,” said Father Shane, smiling at the prisoner who was standing by the wall, waiting for Mac to go.

Mac stood there a moment.

“Watch your step, Riley,” he warned.

He moved out of sight. His footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Father Shane flinched as the prisoner hurried to his side.

“Now, my son…” he started.

“I’m not going to hit you, for God’s sake,” the prisoner said. “Listen to me, Father…”

“Suppose we sit down and relax,” said the priest.

“What? Oh, all right. All right.”

The prisoner sat down on the bunk. The priest went over and picked up the stool. Slowly he carried it to the side of the bunk. He placed it down softly in front of the prisoner.

“Listen to me,” started the prisoner.

Father Shane lifted a restraining finger. He took out his broad white handkerchief and studiously polished the stool surface. The prisoner’s hands twitched impatiently.

“For God’s sake,” he entreated.

“Yes,” smiled the priest. “For His sake.”

He settled his portly form on the stool. The periphery of his frame ran over the edges.

“Now,” he said comfortingly.

The prisoner bit his lower lip.

“Listen to me,” he said.

“Yes, John.”

“My name isn’t John,” snapped the prisoner.

The priest looked confused.

“Not…” he started.

“My name is Phillip Johnson.”

The priest looked blank a moment. Then he smiled sadly.

“Why do you struggle, my son? Why can’t you…”

“I tell you my name is Phillip Johnson. Will you listen?”

“But my son”

“Will you!”

Father Shane drew back in alarm.

“Will you shut that bastard up!” a voice said slowly and loudly in another cell.

Footsteps.

“Please don’t go,” begged the prisoner. “Please stay.”

“If you promise to speak quietly and not disturb these other poor souls.

Mac appeared at the door.

“I promise, I promise,” whispered the prisoner.

“What’s the matter now?” Mac asked. He looked inquisitively at the priest.

“You wanna leave, Father?” he asked.

“No, no,” said Father Shane. “We’ll be all right. Riley has promised to…”

“I told you I’m not…”

The prisoner’s voice broke off.

“What’s that?” asked the priest.

“Nothing, nothing,” muttered the prisoner, “Will you ask the guard to go away?”

The priest looked toward Mac. He nodded once, a smile shooting dimples into his red cheeks.

Mac left. The prisoner raised his head.

“Now, my son,” said Father Shane. “Why is your soul troubled? Is it penitence you seek?”

The prisoner twisted his shoulders impatiently.

“Listen,” he said. “Will you listen to me. Without speaking? Just listen and don’t say anything.”

“Of course, my son,” the priest said. “That’s why I’m here. However…”

“All right,” said the prisoner. He shifted on the bunk. He leaned forward, his face drawn tight.

“Listen to me,” he said, “My name isn’t John Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”

The priest looked pained.

“”My son,” he started.

“You said you’d listen,” said the prisoner.

The priest lowered his eyelids. A martyred print stamped itself on his face.

“Speak then,” he said.

“I’m a nuclear physicist. I…”

He stopped.

“What year is this?” he asked suddenly.

The priest looked at him. He smiled thinly.

“But surely you…”

“Please.
Please
. Tell me.”

The priest looked mildly upset. He shrugged his sloping shoulders.

“1954,” he said.

“What?” asked the prisoner. “Are you sure?” He stared at the priest. “Are you sure?” he repeated.

“My son, this is of no purpose.”

“1954?”

The priest held back his irritation. He nodded.

“Yes, my son,” he said.

“Then it’s true,” said the man.

“What, my son.”

“Listen,” said the prisoner. “Try to believe me. I’m a nuclear physicist. At least, I was in 1944.”

“I don’t understand,” said the priest.

“I worked in a secret fission plant deep in the Rocky Mountains.”

“In the Rocky Mountains?”

“No one ever heard of it,” said the prisoner. “It was never publicized. It was built in 1943 for experiments on nuclear fission.”

“But Oak Ridge…”

“That was another one. It was strictly a limited venture. Mostly guesswork. Only a few people outside of the plant knew anything about it.”

“But…”

“Listen. We were working with U-238.”

The priest started to speak.

“That’s an isotope of uranium. Constitutes the bulk of it; more than 99 percent. But there was no way to make it undergo fission. We were trying to make it do that. Do you understand…”

The priest’s face reflected his confusion.

“Never mind,” said the prisoner hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there was an explosion.”

“An…”

“An explosion, an explosion.”

“Oh. But…” faltered the priest.

“This was in 1944,” said the prisoner. “That’s…ten years ago. Now I wake up and I’m here in…where are we?”

“State Penitentiary,” prompted the priest without thinking.

“Colorado?”

The priest shook his head.

“This is New York,” he said.

The prisoner’s left hand rose to his forehead. He ran nervous fingers through his hair.

“Two thousand miles,” he muttered. “Ten years.”