Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (10 page)

 
          
Once
upon a time people shuddered when they heard the wind about the house, once
people raised crucifixes and wolfbane, and believed in walking dead and bats
and loping white wolves. And as long as they believed, then so long did the
dead, the bats, the loping wolves exist. The mind gave birth and reality to
them.

 
          
But
…

 
          
He
looked at the white sheeted bodies.

 
          
These
people did not believe.

 
          
They
had never believed. They would never believe. They had never imagined that the
dead might walk. The dead went up flues in flame. They had never heard
superstition, never trembled or shuddered or doubted in the dark. Walking dead
people could not exist, they were illogical. This was the year 2349, man, after
all!

 
          
Therefore,
these people could not rise, could not walk again. They were dead and flat and
cold. Nothing, chalk, imprecation, superstition, could wind them up and set
them walking. They were dead and
knew
they were dead!

 
          
He
was alone.

 
          
There
were live people in the world who moved and drove beetles and drank quiet
drinks in little dimly illumined bars by country roads, and kissed women and
talked much good talk all day and every day.

 
          
But
he was not alive.

 
          
Friction
gave him what little warmth he possessed.

 
          
There
were two hundred dead people here in this warehouse now, cold upon the floor.
The first dead people in a hundred years who were allowed to be corpses for an
extra hour or more. The first not to be immediately trundled to the Incinerator
and lit like so much phosphorus.

 
          
He
should be happy with them, among them.

 
          
He
was not.

 
          
They
were completely dead. They did not know nor believe in walking once the heart
had paused and stilled itself. They were deader than dead ever was.

 
          
He
was indeed alone, more alone than any man had ever been. He felt the chill of
his aloneness moving up into his chest, strangling him quietly.

 
          
William
Lantry turned suddenly and gasped.

 
          
While
he had stood there, someone had entered the warehouse. A tall man with white
hair, wearing a light weight tan overcoat and no hat. How long the man had been
nearby there was no telling.

 
          
There
was no reason to stay here. Lantry turned and started to walk slowly out. He
looked hastily at the man as he passed and the man with the white hair looked
back at him, curiously. Had he heard? The imprecations, the pleadings, the
shoutings? Did he suspect? Lantry slowed his walk. Had this man seen him make
the blue chalk marks? But then, would he interpret them as symbols of an ancient
superstition? Probably not.

 
          
Reaching
the door, Lantry paused. For a moment he did not want to do anything but lie
down and be coldly, really dead again and be carried silently down the street
to some distant burning flue and there dispatched in ash and whispering fire.
If he was indeed alone and there was no chance to collect an army to his cause,
what, then, existed as a reason for going on? Killing? Yes, he’d kill a few
thousand more. But that wasn’t enough. You can only do so much of that before they
drag you down.

 
          
He
looked at the cold sky.

 
          
A
rocket went across the black heaven, trailing fire.

 
          
Mars
burned red among a million stars.

 
          
Mars.
The library. The librarian. Talk. Returning rocket men. Tombs.

 
          
Lantry
almost gave a shout. He restrained his hand, which wanted so much to reach up
into the sky and touch Mars. Lovely red star on the sky. Good star that gave
him sudden new hope. If he had a living heart now it would be thrashing wildly,
and sweat would be breaking out of him and his pulses would be stammering, and
tears would be in his eyes!

 
          
He
would go down to wherever the rockets sprang up into space. He would go to
Mars, one way or another. He would go to the Martian tombs. There, there were
bodies, he would bet his last hatred on it, that would rise and walk and work
with him! Theirs was an ancient culture, much different from that of Earth,
patterned on the Egyptian, if what the librarian had said was true. And the
Egyptian—what a crucible of dark superstition and midnight terror that culture
had been. Mars it
was
, then.
Beautiful Mars!

 
          
But
he must not attract attention to himself. He must move carefully. He wanted to
run, yes, to get away, but that would be the worst possible move he could make.
The man with the white hair was glancing at Lantry from time to time, in the
entranceway. There were too many people about. If anything happened he would be
outnumbered. So far he had taken on only
one
man at a time.

 
          
Lantry
forced himself to stop and stand on the steps before the warehouse. The man
with the white hair came on onto the steps also and stood, looking at the sky.
He looked as if he was going to speak at any moment. He fumbled in his pockets
and took out a packet of cigarettes.

 
          
V

 
          
They
stood outside the morgue together, the tall, pink, white-haired man, and
Lantry, hands in their pockets. It was a cool night with a white shell of a
moon that washed a house here, a road there, and farther on, parts of a river.

 
          
“Cigarette?”
The man offered Lantry one.

 
          
“Thanks.”

 
          
They
lit up together. The man glanced at Lantry’s mouth. “Cool night.”

 
          
“Cool.”

 
          
They
shifted their feet. “Terrible accident.”

 
          
“Terrible.”

 
          
“So
many dead.”

 
          
“So
many.”

 
          
Lantry
felt himself some sort of delicate weight upon a scale. The other man did not
seem to be looking at him, but rather listening and feeling toward him. There
was a feathery balance here that made for vast discomfort. He wanted to move
away and get out from under this balancing, weighing. The tall white-haired man
said, “My name’s McClure.”

 
          
“Did
you have any friends inside?” asked Lantry.

 
          
“No.
A casual acquaintance. Awful accident.”

 
          
“Awful.”

 
          
They
balanced each other. A beetle hissed by on the road with its seventeen tires
whirling quietly. The moon showed a little town farther over in the black
hills.

 
          
“I
say,” said the man McClure.

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Could
you answer me a question?”

 
          
“Be
glad to.” He loosened the knife in his coat pocket, ready.

 
          
“Is
your name Lantry?” asked the man at last.

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“
William
Lantry?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Then
you’re the man who came out of the Salem graveyard day before yesterday, aren’t
you?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Good
Lord, I’m glad to meet you, Lantry! We’ve been trying to find you for the past
twenty-four hours!”

 
          
The
man seized his hand, pumped it, slapped him on the back.

 
          
“What,
what?” said Lantry.

 
          
“Good
Lord, man, why did you run off? Do you realize what an instance this is? We
want to talk to you!”

 
          
McClure
was smiling, glowing. Another handshake, another slap. “I
thought
it was you!”

 
          
The
man is mad, thought Lantry. Absolutely mad. Here I’ve toppled his incinerators,
killed people, and he’s shaking my hand. Mad, mad!

 
          
“Will
you come along to the Hall?” said the man, taking his elbow.

 
          
“Wh-what
hall?” Lantry stepped back.

 
          
“The
Science Hall, of course. It isn’t every year we get a real case of suspended
animation. In small animals, yes, but in a man, hardly! Will you come?”

 
          
“What’s
the act!” demanded Lantry, glaring. “What’s all this talk.”

 
          
“My
dear fellow, what do you mean?” the man was stunned.

 
          
“Never
mind. Is that the only reason you want to see me?”

 
          
“What
other reason would there be, Mr. Lantry? You don’t know how glad I am to see
you!” He almost did a little dance. “I suspected. When we were in there
together. You being so pale and all. And then the way you smoked your
cigarette, something about it, and a lot of other things, all subliminal. But
it is you, isn’t it, it
is
you!”

 
          
“It
is I. William Lantry.” Dryly.

 
          
“Good
fellow! Come along!”

 
          
The
beetle moved swiftly through the dawn streets. McClure talked rapidly.

 
          
Lantry
sat, listening, astounded. Here was this fool, McClure, playing his cards for
him! Here was this stupid scientist, or whatever, accepting him not as a
suspicious baggage, a murderous item. Oh no! Quite the contrary! Only as a
suspended animation case was he considered! Not as a dangerous man at all. Far
from it!

 
          
“Of
course,” cried McClure, grinning. “You didn’t know where to go, whom to turn
to. It was all quite incredible to you.”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“I
had a feeling you’d be there at the morgue tonight,” said McClure, happily.

 
          
“Oh?”
Lantry stiffened.

 
          
“Yes.
Can’t explain it. But you, how shall I put it? Ancient Americans? You had funny
ideas on death. And you were among the dead so long, I felt you’d be drawn back
by the accident, by the morgue and all. It’s not very logical. Silly, in fact.
It’s just a feeling. I hate feelings but there it was. I came on a, I guess
you’d call it a hunch, wouldn’t you?”

 
          
“You
might call it that.”

 
          
“And
there you were!”

 
          
“There
I was,” said Lantry.

 
          
“Are
you hungry?”

 
          
“I’ve
eaten.”