Duel: Terror Stories

by Richard Matheson

  “No, did you?”

  “A little,” he said. “Not much.”

  She was silent for a few seconds. He heard her throat contract. She shivered. He knew what she was going to say.

  “We’re still going?” she asked.

  He twisted his shoulders on the bed and took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” he said, and he felt her fingers tighten on his arm.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “About five.”

  “We’d better get ready.”

  “Yes, we’d better.”

  They made no move.

  “You’re sure we can get on the ship without anyone noticing?” she asked.

  “They think it’s just another test flight. Nobody will be checking.”

  She didn’t say anything. She moved a little closer to him. He felt how cold her skin was.

  “I’m afraid,” she said.

  He took her hand and held it in a tight grip. “Don’t be,” he said. “We’ll be safe.”

  “It’s the children I’m worried about.”

  “We’ll be safe,” he repeated.

  She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently.

  “All right,” she said.

  They both sat up in the darkness. He heard her stand. Her night garment rustled to the floor. She didn’t pick it up. She stood still, shivering in the cold morning air.

  “You’re sure we don’t need anything else with us?” she asked.

  “No, nothing. I have all the supplies we need in the ship. Anyway …”

  “What?”

  “We can’t carry anything past the guard,” he said. “He has to think you and the kids are just coming to see me off.”

  She began dressing. He threw off the covering and got up. He went across the cold floor to the closet and dressed.

  “I’ll get the children up,” she said.

  He grunted, pulling clothes over his head. At the door she stopped. “Are you sure …” she began.

  “What?”

  “Won’t the guard think it’s funny that … that our neighbors are coming down to see you off, too?”

  He sank down on the bed and fumbled for the clasps on his shoes.

  “We’ll have to take that chance,” he said. “We need them with us.”

  She sighed. “It seems so cold. So calculating.”

  He straightened up and saw her silhouette in the doorway.

  “What else can we do?” he asked intensely. “We can’t interbreed our own children.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just …”

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing, darling. I’m sorry.”

  She closed the door. Her footsteps disappeared down the hall. The door to the children’s room opened. He heard their two voices. A cheerless smile raised his lips. You’d think it was a holiday, he thought.

  He pulled on his shoes. At least the kids didn’t know what was happening. They thought they were going to take him down to the field. They thought they’d come back and tell all their schoolmates about it. They didn’t know they’d never come back.

  He finished clasping his shoes and stood up. He shuffled over to the bureau and turned on the light. It was odd, such an undistinguished looking man planning this.

  Cold. Calculating. Her words filled his mind again. Well, there was no other way. In a few years, probably less, the whole planet would go up with a blinding flash. This was the only way out. Escaping, starting all over again with a few people on a new planet.

  He stared at the reflection.

  “There’s no other way,” he said.

  He glanced around the bedroom. Goodbye, this part of my life. Turning off the lamp was like turning off a light in his mind. He closed the door gently behind him and slid his fingers off the worn handle.

  His son and daughter were going down the ramp. They were talking in mysterious whispers. He shook his head in slight amusement.

  His wife waited for him. They went down together, holding hands.

  “I’m not afraid, darling,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure it will.”

  They all went in to eat. He sat down with his children. His wife poured out juice for them. Then she went to get the food.

  “Help your mother, doll,” he told his daughter. She got up.

  “Pretty soon, haah, pop?” his son said. “Pretty soon, haah?”

  “Take it easy,” he cautioned. “Remember what I told you. If you say a word of it to anybody I’ll have to leave you behind.”

  A dish shattered on the floor. He darted a glance at his wife. She was staring at him, her lips trembling.

  She averted her eyes and bent down. She fumbled at the pieces, picked up a few. Then she dropped them all, stood up and pushed them against the wall with her shoe.

  “As if it mattered,” she said nervously. “As if it mattered whether the place is clean or not.”

  The children were watching her in surprise.

  “What is it?” asked the daughter.

  “Nothing, darling, nothing,” she said. “I’m just nervous. Go back to the table. Drink your juice. We have to eat quickly. The neighbors will be here soon.”

  “Pop, why are the neighbors coming with us?” asked his son.

  “Because,” he said vaguely, “they want to. Now forget it. Don’t talk about it so much.”

  The room was quiet. His wife brought their food and set it down. Only her footsteps broke the silence. The children kept glancing at each other, at their father. He kept his eyes on the plate. The food tasted flat and thick in his mouth and he felt his heart thudding against the wall of his chest. Last day. This is the last day.

  “You’d better eat,” he told his wife.

  She sat down to eat. As she lifted the eating utensil the door buzzer sounded. The utensil skidded out of her nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor. He reached out quickly and put his hand on hers.

  “All right, darling,” he said. “It’s all right.” He turned to the children. “Go answer the door,” he told them.

  “Both of us?” his daughter asked.

  “Both of you.”

  “But …”

  “Do as I say.”

  They slid off their chairs and left the room, glancing back at their parents.

  When the sliding door shut off their view, he turned back to his wife. Her face was pale and tight; she had her lips pressed together.

  “Darling, please,” he said. “Please. You know I wouldn’t take you if I wasn’t sure it was safe. You know how many times I’ve flown the ship before. And I know just where we’re going. It’s safe. Believe me it’s safe.”

  She pressed his hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes and large tears ran out under her lids and down her cheeks.

  “It’s not that so m-much,” she said. “It’s just … leaving, never coming back. We’ve been here all our lives. It isn’t like … like moving. We can’t come back. Ever.”

  “Listen, darling,” his voice was tense and hurried. “You know as well as I do. In a matter of years, maybe less, there’s going to be another war, a terrible one. There won’t be a thing left. We have to leave. For our children, for ourselves …”

  He paused, testing the words in his mind.

  “For the future of life itself,” he finished weakly. He was sorry he said it. Early in the morning, over prosaic food, that kind of talk didn’t sound right. Even if it was true.

  “Just don’t be afraid,” he said. “We’ll be all right.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I know.”

  There were footsteps coming toward them. He pulled out a tissue and gave it to her. She hastily dabbed at her face.

  The door slid open. The neighbors and their son and daughter came in. The children were excited. They had trouble keeping it down.

  “Good morning,” the neighbor said.

  The neighbor’s wife went
to his wife and the two of them went over to the window and talked in low voices. The children stood around, fidgeted and looked nervously at each other.

  “You’ve eaten?” he asked his neighbor.

  “Yes,” his neighbor said. “Don’t you think we’d better be going?”

  “I suppose so,” he said.

  They left all the dishes on the table. His wife went upstairs and got garments for the family.

  He and his wife stayed on the porch a moment while the rest went out to the ground car.

  “Should we lock the door?” he asked.

  She smiled helplessly and ran a hand through her hair. She shrugged. “Does it matter?” she said and turned away.

  He locked the door and followed her down the walk. She turned as he came up to her.

  “It’s a nice house,” she murmured.

  “Don’t think about it,” he said.

  They turned their backs on their home and got in the ground car.

  “Did you lock it?” asked the neighbor.

  “Yes.”

  The neighbor smiled wryly. “So did we,” he said. “I tried not to, but then I had to go back.”

  They moved through the quiet streets. The edges of the sky were beginning to redden. The neighbor’s wife and the four children were in back. His wife and the neighbor were in front with him.

  “Going to be a nice day,” said the neighbor.

  “I suppose so,” he said.

  “Have you told your children?” the neighbor asked softly.

  “Of course not.”

  “I haven’t, I haven’t,” insisted his neighbor. “I was just asking.”

  “Oh.”

  They rode in silence a while.

  “Do you ever get the feeling that we’re … running out?” asked the neighbor.

  He tightened. “No,” he said. His lips pressed together. “No.”

  “I guess it’s better not to talk about it,” his neighbor said hastily.

  “Much better,” he said.

  As they drove up to the guardhouse at the gate, he turned to the back.

  “Remember,” he said. “Not a word from any of you.”

  The guard was sleepy and didn’t care. The guard recognized him right away as the chief test pilot for the new ship. That was enough. The family was coming down to watch him off, he told the guard. That was all right. The guard let them drive to the ship’s platform.

  The car stopped under the huge columns. They all got out and stared up.

  Far above them, its nose pointed toward the sky, the great metal ship was beginning to reflect the early morning glow.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Quickly.”

  As they hurried toward the ship’s elevator, he stopped for a moment to look back. The guardhouse looked deserted. He looked around at everything and tried to fix it all in his memory.

  He bent over and picked up some dirt. He put it in his pocket.

  “Goodbye,” he whispered.

  He ran to the elevator.

  The doors shut in front of them. There was no sound in the rising cubicle but the hum of the motor and a few self-conscious coughs from the children. He looked at them. To be taken so young, he thought, without a chance to help.

  He closed his eyes. His wife’s arm rested on his arm. He looked at her. Their eyes met and she smiled at him.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered.

  The elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors slid open and they went out. It was getting lighter. He hurried them along the enclosed platform.

  They all climbed through the narrow doorway in the ship’s side. He hesitated before following them. He wanted to say something fitting the moment. It burned in him to say something fitting the moment.

  He couldn’t. He swung in and grunted as he pulled the door shut and turned the wheel tight.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Come on, everybody.”

  Their footsteps echoed on the metal decks and ladders as they went up to the control room.

  The children ran to the ports and looked out. They gasped when they saw how high they were. Their mothers stood behind them, looking down at the ground with frightened eyes.

  He went up to them.

  “So high,” said his daughter.

  He patted her head gently. “So high,” he repeated.

  Then he turned abruptly and went over to the instrument panel. He stood there hesitantly. He heard someone come up behind him.

  “Shouldn’t we tell the children?” asked his wife. “Shouldn’t we let them know it’s their last look?”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell them.”

  He waited to hear her footsteps. There were none. He turned. She kissed him on the cheek. Then she went to tell the children.

  He threw over the switch. Deep in the belly of the ship, a spark ignited the fuel. A concentrated rush of gas flooded from the vents. The bulkheads began to shake.

  He heard his daughter crying. He tried not to listen. He extended a trembling hand toward the lever, then glanced back suddenly. They were all staring at him. He put his hand on the lever and threw it over.

  The ship quivered a brief second and then they felt it rush along the smooth incline. It flashed up into the air, faster and faster. They all heard the wind rushing past.

  He watched the children turn to the ports and look out again.

  “Goodbye,” they said. “Goodbye.”

  He sank down wearily at the control panel. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw his neighbor sit down next to him.

  “You know just where were going?” his neighbor asked.

  “On that chart there.”

  His neighbor looked at the chart. His eyebrows raised.

  “In another solar system,” he said.

  “That’s right. It has an atmosphere like ours. We’ll be safe there.”

  “The race will be safe,” said his neighbor.

  He nodded once and looked back at his and his neighbor’s family. They were still looking out the ports.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I said,” the neighbor repeated, “which one of these planets is it?”

  He leaned over the chart, pointed.

  “That small one over there,” he said. “Near that moon.”

  “This one, third from the sun?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “That one. Third from the sun.”

  WHEN THE WAKER SLEEPS

  IF ONE FLEW OVER THE CITY AT THIS TIME OF THIS day, which was like any other day in the year 3850, one would think all life had disappeared.

  Sweeping over the rustless spires, one would search in vain for the sight of human activity. One’s gaze would scan the great ribboned highways that swept over and under each other like the weave of some tremendous loom. But there would be no autocars to see; nothing but the empty lanes and the colored traffic lights clicking out their mindless progressions.

  Dipping low and weaving in and out among the glittering towers, one might see the moving walks, the studied revolution of the giant street ventilators, hot in the winter and cool in summer, the tiny doors opening and closing, the park fountains shooting their methodical columns of water into the air.

  Farther along, one would flit across the great open field on which the glossy spaceships stood lined before their hangars. Farther yet, one would catch sight of the river, the metal ships resting along shore, delicate froth streaming from their sterns caused by the never-ending operation of their vents.

  Again, one would glide over the city proper, seeking some sign of life in the broad avenues, the network of streets, the painstaking pattern of dwellings in the living area, the metal fastness of the commercial section.

  The search would be fruitless.

  All movement below would be seen to be mechanical. And, knowing what city this was, one’s eyes would stop the search for citizens and seek out those squat metal structures which stood a half mile apart. These circular buildings housed the never-resting machines, the humming geared ser
vants of the city’s people.

  These were the machines that did all: cleared the air of impurities, moved the walks and opened the doors, sent their synchronized impulses into the traffic lights, operated the fountains and the spaceships, the river vessels and the ventilators.

  These were the machines in whose flawless efficacy the people of the city placed their casual faith.

  At the moment, these people were resting on their pneumatic couches in rooms. And the music that seeped from their wall speakers, the cool breezes that flowed from their wall ventilators, the very air they breathed—all these were of and from the machines, the unfailing, the trusted, the infallible machines.

  Now there was a buzzing in ears. Now the city came alive.

  There was a buzzing, buzzing.

  From the black swirl of slumber, you heard it. You wrinkled up your classic nose and twitched the twenty neural rods that led to the highways of your extremities.

  The sound bore deeper, cut through swaths of snooze and poked an impatient finger in the throbbing matter of your brain. You twisted your head on the pillow and grimaced.

  There was no cessation. With stupored hand, you reached out and picked up the receiver. One eye propped open by dint of will, you breathed a weary mutter into the mouthpiece.

  “Captain Rackley!” The knifing voice put your teeth on edge.

  “Yes,” you said.

  “You will report to your company headquarters immediately!”

  That swept away sleep and annoyance as a petulant old man brushes chessmen from his board. Stomach muscles drew into play and you were sitting. Inside your noble chest, that throbbing meat ball, source of blood velocity, saw fit to swell and depress with marked emphasis. Your sweat glands engaged in proper activity, ready for action, danger, heroism.

  “Is it … ?” you started.

  “Report immediately!” the voice crackled, and there was a severe click in your ear.

  You, Justin Rackley, dropped the receiver—plunko—in its cradle and leaped from bed in a shower of fluttering bedclothes.

  You raced to your wardrobe door and flung it open. Plunging into the depths, you soon emerged with your skintight pants, the tunic for your forty-two chest. You donned said trousers and tunic, flopped upon a nearby seat and plunged your arches into black military boots.

  And your face reflected oh-so-grim thoughts. Combing out your thick blond hair, you were sure you knew what the emergency was.