Backteria and Other Improbable Tales

by Richard Matheson

  “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.”

  “My son…”

  He looked at the priest.

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  The priest smiled sadly. The prisoner gestured helplessly with his hands.

  “What can I do to prove it? I know it sounds fantastic. Blown through time and space.”

  He knitted his brow.

  “Maybe I didn’t get blown through spac
e and time. Maybe I was blown out of my mind. Maybe I became someone else. Maybe…”

  “Listen to me, Riley.”

  The prisoner’s face contorted angrily.

  “I told you. I’m not Riley.”

  The priest lowered his head.

  “Must you do this thing?” he asked. “Must you try so hard to escape justice?”

  “Justice?” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake is this justice? I’m no criminal. I’m not even the man you say I am.”

  “Maybe we’d better pray together,” said the priest.

  The prisoner looked around desperately. He leaned forward and grasped the priest’s shoulders.

  “Don’t…” started Father Shane.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said the prisoner impatiently. “Just tell me about this Riley. Who is he? All right, all right,” he went on as the priest gave him an imploring look. “Who am I supposed to be? What’s my background?”

  “My son, why must you…”

  “Will you tell me. For God’s sake I’m to be exec—…that’s it isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  The priest nodded involuntarily.

  “In less than two hours. Won’t you do what I ask?”

  The priest sighed.

  “What’s my education?” asked the prisoner.

  “I don’t know,” said Father Shane. “I don’t know your education, your background, your family, or…”

  “But it’s not likely that John Riley would know nuclear physics is it?” inquired the prisoner anxiously. “Not likely is it?”

  The priest shrugged slightly.

  “I suppose not,” he said.

  “What did he…what did I do?”

  The priest closed his eyes.

  “Please,” he said.

  “What did I do?”

  The priest clenched his teeth.

  “You stole,” he said. “You murdered.”

  The prisoner looked at him in astonishment. His throat contracted. Without realizing it, he clasped his hands together until the blood drained from them.

  “Well,” he mumbled, “if I…if he did these things, it’s not likely he’s an educated nuclear physicist is it?”

  “Riley, I…”

  “Is it!”

  “No, no, I suppose not. What’s the purpose of asking?”

  “I told you. I can give you facts about nuclear physics. I can tell you things that you admit this Riley could never tell you.”

  The priest took a troubled breath.

  “Look,” the prisoner hurriedly explained. “Our trouble stemmed from the disparity between theory and fact. In theory the U-238 would capture a neutron and form a new isotope U-239 since the neutron would merely add to the mass of…”

  “My son, this is useless.”

  “Useless!” cried the prisoner. “Why? Why? You tell me Riley couldn’t know these things. Well, I know them. Can’t you see that it means I’m not Riley. And if I became Riley, it was because of loss of memory. It was due to an explosion ten years ago that I had no control over.”

  Father Shane looked grim. He shook his head.

  “That’s right isn’t it?” pleaded the prisoner.

  “You may have read these things somewhere,” said the priest. “You may have just remembered them in this time of stress. Believe me I’m not accusing you of…”

  “I’ve told the truth!”

  “You must struggle against this unmanly cowardice,” said Father Shane. “Do you think I can’t understand your fear of death? It is universal. It is…”

  “Oh God, is it possible,” moaned the prisoner, “Is it possible?”

  The priest lowered his head.

  “They can’t execute me!” the prisoner said, clutching at the priest’s dark coat. “I tell you I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”

  The priest said nothing. He made no resistance. His body jerked in the prisoner’s grip. He prayed.

  The prisoner let go and fell back against the wall with a thud.

  “My God,” he muttered, “Oh, my God, is there no one?”

  The priest looked up at him.

  “There is God,” he said. “Let Him take you to His bosom. Pray for forgiveness.”

  The prisoner stared blankly at him.

  “You don’t understand,” he said in a flat voice, “You just don’t understand. I’m going to be executed.”

  His lips began to tremble.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said, “You think I’m lying. Everyone thinks I’m lying.”

  Suddenly he looked up. He sat up.

  “Mary!” he cried. “My wife. What about my wife?”

  “You have no wife, Riley.”

  “No wife? Are you telling me I have no wife?”

  “There’s no point in continuing this, my son.”

  The prisoner reached up despairing hands and drove them against his temples.

  “My God, isn’t there anyone to listen?”

  “Yes,” murmured the priest.

  Footsteps again. There was loud grumbling from the other prisoners.

  Charlie appeared.

  “You better go, Father,” he said, “It’s no use. He don’t want your help.”

  “I hate to leave the poor soul in this condition.”

  The prisoner jumped up and ran to the barred door. Charlie stepped back.

  “Watch out,” he threatened.

  “Listen, will you call my wife?” begged the prisoner. “Will you? Our home is in Missouri, in St. Louis. The number is…

  “Knock it off.”

  “You don’t understand. My wife can explain everything. She can tell you who I really am.”

  Charlie grinned.

  “By God, this is the best I ever seen,” he said appreciatively.

  “Will you call her?” said the prisoner.

  “Go on. Get back in your cell.”

  The prisoner backed away. Charlie signaled and the door slid open. Father Shane went out, head lowered.

  “I’ll come back,” he said.

  “Won’t you call my wife?” begged the prisoner.

  The priest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stopped and took out a pad and pencil.

  “What’s the number?” he asked wearily.

  The prisoner scuttled to the door.

  “Don’t waste your good time, Father,” Charlie said.

  The prisoner hurriedly told Father Shane the number.

  “Are you sure you have it right?” he asked the priest. “Are you positive?” He repeated the number. The priest nodded.

  “Tell her I…tell her I’m all right. Tell her I’m well and I’ll be home as soon as…hurry! There isn’t time. Get word to the governor or somebody.”

  The priest put his hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.

  “If there’s no answer when I call,” he said. “If no one is there, then will you stop this talk?”

  “There will be. She’ll be there. I know she’ll be there.”

  “If she isn’t.”

  “She will be.”

  The priest drew back his hand and walked down the corridor slowly, nodding at the other prisoners as he passed them. The prisoner watched him as long as he could.

  Then he turned back. Charlie was grinning at him.

  “You’re the best one yet, all right,” said Charlie.

  The prisoner looked at him.

  “Once there was a guy,” recalled Charlie. “Said he ate a bomb. Said he’d blow the place sky high if we electrocuted him.”

  He chuckled at the recollection.

  “We X-rayed him. He didn’t swallow nothing. Except electricity later.”

  The prisoner turned away and went back to his bunk. He sank down on it.

  “There was another one,” said Charlie, raising his voice so the others could hear him. “Said he was Christ. Said he couldn’t be killed. Said he’d get up in three days and come walkin’, through the wall.”

  He rubbed his nose with a bunched fist.

  “A
in’t heard from him since,” he snickered. “But I always keep an eye on the wall just in case.”

  His chest throbbed with rumbling laughter.

  “Now there was another one,” he started. The prisoner looked at him with hate burning in his eyes. Charlie shrugged his shoulders and started back up the corridor. Then he turned and went back.

  “We’ll be giving you a haircut soon,” he called in. “Any special way you’d like it?”

  “Go away.”

  “Sideburns, maybe?” Charlie said, his fat face wrinkling in amusement. The prisoner turned his head and looked at the window.

  “How about bangs?” asked Charlie. He laughed and turned back down the wall.

  “Hey Mac, how about we give big boy some bangs?”

  The prisoner bent over and pressed shaking palms over his eyes.

  The door was opening.

  The prisoner shuddered and his head snapped up from the bunk. He stared dumbly at Mac and Charlie and the third man. The third man was carrying something in his hand.

  “What do you want?” he asked thickly. Charlie snickered.

  “Man, this is rich,” he said. “What do we want?”

  His face shifted into a cruel leer. “We come to give you a haircut big boy.”

  “Where’s the priest?”

  “Out priesting,” said Charlie.

  “Shut up,” Mac said irritably.

  “I hope you’re going to take this easy son,” said the third man.

  The skin tightened on the prisoner’s skull. He backed against the wall.

  “Wait a minute,” he said fearfully. “You have the wrong man.”

  Charlie sputtered with laughter and reached down to grab him. The prisoner pulled back.

  “No!” he cried, “Where’s the priest?”

  “Come on,” snapped Charlie angrily.

  The prisoner’s eyes flew from Mac to the third man.

  “You don’t understand,” he said hysterically. “The priest is calling my wife in St. Louis. She’ll tell you all who I am. I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”

  “Come on, Riley,” said Mac.

  “Johnson, Johnson!”

  “Johnson, Johnson come and get your hair cut Johnson, Johnson,” chanted Charlie, grabbing the prisoner’s arm.

  “Let go of me!”

  Charlie jerked him to his feet and twisted his arm around. His face was taut with vicious anger.

  “Grab him,” he snapped to Mac. Mac took hold of the prisoner’s other arm.

  “For God’s sake, what do I have to do!” screamed the prisoner, writhing in their grip, “I’m not Johnson. I mean I’m not Riley.”