Authors: Richard Matheson
Grunting with satisfaction, he pushed the dead weight of the second stone back to the step. There, teeth clamped, body shaking with taut-muscled exertion, he managed to lift it to the top of the first stone, something giving in his back as he did it. Straightening up, he felt a flare of pain in his back muscles. You’re coming apart, Carey, he told himself. It was amusing.
The second stone teetered a little on the first, he discovered. He had to cram pieces of torn cardboard into the gaps between the two facing surfaces. That done, he climbed up on top of it and jumped up and down. So far, his little platform was secure.
Worriedly he looked over at the giant, still working on the water heater—but for how long? He jumped down off the top stone, gasping at the pain in his back, and limped back to the hill. Sore throat, aching back, twitching arms. What next? A cold wind blew over him and he sneezed. Pneumonia next, he thought. It was—well, almost—amusing.
The scrap of bark was easier to transport. He carried the thin end of it on his shoulder and walked, bent over, dragging the bark behind him. It was getting colder. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what he was going to do when he got out in the yard. If it was so cold, wouldn’t he freeze to death? He pushed the thought aside.
He slid the bark over the top of the two stones, then stood leaning against his structure, looking at it.
No, now that they were close together, he could see that the straw end was too thick to fit into the groove in the bark. He blew out a breath through gritted teeth. Troubles, troubles. Another anxious glance at the giant. How could he tell how much time there was? What if he got up two steps and the giant finished and went back up? If he weren’t crushed to death by those monstrous shoes, he would be, at the very least, stranded on the high, darkened step, unable to see well enough to get down again.
But he wasn’t going to think of that. That was it, the end, the finale. He got out now or—No, there was no
or
. He wouldn’t let there be one.
Picking up a tiny scrap of rock, he climbed to the top of his platform and scraped at the groove, tearing away stringy fibers until the slot was wide enough to accommodate the end of the straw. He threw down the piece of rock and, lifting the hem of his robe, mopped his sweaty face dry.
He stood there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, letting his muscles unknot. There’s no
time
for rest, his brain scolded. But he answered it, I’m sorry, I’ve got to rest or I’ll never make the top. He’d have to take a chance on the length of time the giant would be working. He’d never make the summit in one all-out effort, that was clear.
That was when the thought occurred to him. What am I doing all this for?
For a moment it stopped him cold. What
was
he doing it for? In a matter of days it would all be over. He would be gone. Why all this exertion, then? Why this pretense at continuing an existence that was already doomed?
He shook his head. It was dangerous to think like that. Dwelling on it could end him. For in the final analysis, everything he had done and was doing was illogical. Yet he couldn’t stop. Was it that he didn’t believe that everything would be over on Sunday? How could he doubt it? Had the process faltered once—
once
—since it had begun? It had not. A seventh of an inch a day, as precise as clockwork. He could have devised a mathematical system on the absolute constancy of his descent into inevitable nothingness.
He shuddered. Strange, thinking about it was debilitating. Already he felt weaker, more exhausted, less confident. If he pursued it long enough he would be finished.
He blinked his eyes and, deliberately ignoring his rise of hopeless weariness, moved to the straw. He wouldn’t let it happen to him. He’d lose himself in work.
Lifting the straw to the top of the bark proved extremely difficult. It was one thing to lift an end of it, using the floor as a fulcrum. It was one thing to slide the straw to a leaning position against the step. It was another entirely to lift the whole weight of it from the floor and prop it on the base he had erected.
The first time he lifted the straw, it slipped from his grasp and banged down on the cement, crushing one edge of a sandal. He remained pinned until he lifted the straw again and pulled his foot away.
He leaned against the platform, chest throbbing with agitated breath. If the straw had landed on his foot…
He closed his eyes. Don’t think about it, he warned himself. Please. Don’t think about the things that
could
have happened.
The second time he tried, he managed to get the straw propped on the edge of the first stone. But while he was resting the straw fell over and almost knocked him down. Cursing with desperate anger, he dragged the straw to a leaning position, then, with a surge of energy, lifted it once more, this time making sure it was secure before letting go.
The next lift was harder yet. Leverage would be bad because he’d have to start raising the straw at waist level, and then up to the top of the second stone, which was at the level of his shoulders. His legs would be of no service. All the strength would have to come from his back, shoulders, and arms.
Drawing in breath through his mouth, he waited till his chest was swollen taut, then cut off air abruptly and lifted the heavy straw, setting it down on the second stone. It wasn’t until he let go that he realized how much of a lift it had been. There was a painful tension through his back and groin that loosened very slowly, as if the muscles had been twisted like wrung-out cloths and were unraveling now. He pressed a palm against the soft area on his back.
A few moments later he climbed to the top of the platform. With one more short lift, he slid the end of the straw into the groove. He
shook the straw until it was in the most advantageous position, then sat down to gather strength for the climb. The giant was still working. There would be time. Of course there would.
Then he stood and tested the straw. Good, he thought. He inhaled quickly. Now to get out of there. He felt at the coil of thread over his right shoulder. Good. He was ready.
He began inching up the straw, shinnying along it carefully to keep it from sliding over. It sagged even more under his weight. Once it began to slip a little to the side, and he had to stop and, with body jerks, shake it back into position.
After a pause, he started climbing again, legs wrapped around the straw, lips drawn back from clenched teeth, eyes looking straight ahead at the dead gray of the cement face. When he got to the top of the step, he’d lower a thread loop and pull up the straw. There would be no stones to prop it on up there, but he’d manage something. Now he was twenty feet up, now twenty-five, now thirty, now…
A gigantic shape slid over him, blotting the sun from view.
He almost fell off the straw. Losing his grip, he spun around to the underside of the straw, arms hugging wildly at its smooth surface. He jerked himself to a halt, and found himself looking into the green lantern eyes of the cat.
Shock drained breath from him. He felt even more helplessly petrified than when the giant had come down the steps. He clung to the straw, staring at the cat as if hypnotized.
The spearlike whiskers twitched. The huge cat edged forward in wary curiosity, belly near the floor, front legs flattened, back slightly arched. Scott felt the warm wind of its breath misting over him, and he almost retched.
Unconsciously he let himself slide down a few inches. There was a liquid rumbling in the cat’s throat and he stopped abruptly, hanging there motionless. The cat’s whiskers twitched again. Its breath was sickening. Turning his head from side to side, he saw its protruding side teeth like giant, yellow-edged daggers that could pierce his body in an instant.
An electric shuddering ran down his back. He slid down the straw a little more. The cat hunched forward. No! his mind screamed. He froze to the quivering straw, heartbeat like a fist pounding at his chest.
If he tried to descend, the cat would attack. If he jumped, he’d
break a leg and be eaten. Yet he couldn’t stay there. His throat contracted with a dry clicking. He hung there impotently under the bland surveillance of the huge cat.
When it raised its right paw twitchingly, his breath stopped.
In a fascination of absolute horror, he watched the huge, gray, scythe-clawed paw rise up slowly, coming closer and closer to him. He couldn’t move. Unblinking, stark-eyed he hung there waiting.
Just before the paw was going to touch him, everything shook loose at once.
“Get out!” he screamed into the cat’s face. It jumped back, startled. With a lurch, he flung the straw to the side, and it began sliding raspingly along the cement face, faster and faster. Not looking at the cat, he hung on till the toppling straw was about five feet from the floor. Then he leaped.
Landing, he twisted himself in a somersault. Behind him the cat glided forward, growling. Get
up!
his mind shrieked. He found his feet again and lurched forward, falling.
As he skidded to his knees, the cat jumped, great paws banging down on each side of him, claw ends raking sparks from the cement. The mouth yawned open, a cave of scimitars and hot winds.
Twitching back against the step, Scott felt the thread coil slip off his shoulder. Grabbing it, he flung it deep into the cat’s mouth and it jumped back, spitting and gagging. Pushing off from the step, Scott raced to the hole of stones and dived into a cave.
A second after, the cat’s paw raked across the spot where he had entered. A cuffed stone rattled away. Scott crawled to the back of the cave and down a side tunnel as the cat scratched wildly at the rocks.
“Hey, Puss.”
Scott stopped abruptly, head cocked, as the deep voice thundered.
“Hey, what’re you after?” asked the voice. Scott heard chuckling like a threat of distant thunder. “Got yourself a mouse in there?”
The floor shook as the giant’s shoes thudded across it. With an indrawn cry, Scott ran down the sloping tunnel, off into another one, again into yet another, until he skidded to a halt before a blank wall.
There he crouched shivering and waiting.
“Got yourself a mouse, have you?” the voice asked. It made Scott’s head hurt. He covered up his ears. He still heard the fierce meowing of the cat.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t find ’im, puss,” the giant said.
“No,” Scott didn’t even know he spoke. He shrank against the wall hearing the boulders being shoved aside by the giant’s hands, the sound a grating, screeching rasp that plunged like a knife into his brain. He pressed both palms against his ears as hard as he could.
Suddenly, light speared across him. With a cry, he dived headlong into a newly opened tunnel. Clawing wildly at the air, he fell seven feet to a hard rock shelf, landing on his side and raking skin off his right arm. In the darkness, a boulder slammed down beside him, tearing skin from the heel of his right hand. He cried out in terror.
The giant said, “We’ll find ’im, puss, we’ll find ’im.”
Light again. With a rasping sob, Scott lurched up and dived into the darkness again. A stone bounced off the floor and knocked him down. He rolled over and up again, running across the floor of the collapsing cavern, mute with panic. Another bouncing rock sent him flailing across the floor to smash head-on into a rock wall.
As deeper blackness blotted out his mind, he felt blood trickling warmly down his cheek. His legs went limp, his hands uncurled like flowers dying, and falling rocks reared up a tomb around him.
At last he stumbled into light.
He stood at the mouth of the cave, looking around the cellar with dull, unwitting eyes.
The giant was gone. And the cat. The side of the water heater was fastened back in place. Everything was as it had been; the vast, piled objects, the heavy silence, the imprisoning remoteness of it all. His gaze moved slowly to the steps and up them. The door was shut.
He stared at it, feeling empty with desire. He had struggled in vain once more. All the pushing of boulders, the endless crawlings and climbings through inky tunnel twists had been in vain.
His eyes closed. He swayed weakly on the hill of rocks, one throbbing length of pain. It seemed to well over him; his arms, his hands and legs and trunk. Inside, too, in his throat and chest and stomach. He had a dull, eating headache. He didn’t know if he were starving or nauseous. His hands shook fitfully.
He shuffled back to the heater.
The thimble had been knocked on its side. The few drops remaining in it he drank like a thirsty animal, sucking them up from the cuplike indentations. It hurt to swallow.
When he had finished the water, he climbed with slow, exhausted movements to the top of the cement block. His sleeping place was completely barren, the sponge, handkerchief, cracker bundle, the box top all gone. He stumbled to the edge of the block and saw the box top across the floor. He hadn’t the strength to lift it.
He remained in the shadowy warmth for a long while, just standing, weaving a little, staring out at the darkening cellar. Another day ending. Wednesday. Three days left.
His stomach gurgled hungrily. Slowly he tilted his head back and looked up to where he put the few soggy cracker crumbs. They were still there. With a groan he moved to the leg of the water heater and climbed up to the shelf.
He sat there, legs dangling, eating the cracker pieces. They were still damp, but edible. His jaws moved with rhythmless lethargy, his eyes staring straight ahead. He was so tired he could hardly eat. He knew he should go down and get the box top to sleep under in case the spider came. It came almost every night. But he was too weary. He’d sleep up here on the shelf. If the spider came… Well, what did it matter? It reminded him of a time, long before, when he had been with the Infantry in Germany. He’d been so tired that he’d gone to sleep without digging a foxhole, knowing it might mean his death.
He plodded along the shelf until he came to a walled-in area, then climbed over the wall and sank down in the darkness, his head resting on a screw head.