Roadside Picnic Page 7

  “The Golden Ball,” said Burbridge. “I found it. There were so many tales about it. I spun a few myself. That it would grant your every wish. Any wish, hah! If that were true, I sure wouldn’t be here. I’d be living high on the hog in Europe. Swimming in dough.”

  Redrick looked down at him. In the flickering blue light Burbridge’s upturned face looked dead. But his glassy eyes were fixed on Redrick.

  “Eternal youth—like hell I got it. Money—the hell with that, too. But I got health. And good children. And I’m alive. You can only dream about the places I’ve been. And I’m still alive.” He licked his lips. “I only ask for one thing. Let me live. And give me health. And the children.”

  “Will you shut up?” Red finally said. “You sound like a dame. If I can, I’ll get you out. I’m sorry for your Dina. She’ll have to hit the streets.”

  “Dina,” the old man whispered hoarsely. “My little girl. My beauty. They’re spoiled, Red. I’ve never refused them anything. They’ll be lost. Arthur. My Artie. You know him, Red. Have you ever seen anything like him?”

  “I told you: if I can I’ll save you.”

  “No,” Burbridge said stubbornly. “You’ll get me out no matter what. The Golden Ball. Do you want me to tell you where it is?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Burbridge moaned and stirred.

  “My legs… Feel how they are.”

  Redrick reached out and moved his hand down his leg below the knee.

  “The bones…” He moaned. “Are the bones still there?”

  “They’re there. Stop fussing.”

  “You’re lying. Why lie? You think I don’t know, I’ve never seen it happen?”

  Actually all he could feel was the kneecap. Below, all the way to the ankle, the leg was like a rubber stick. You could tie knots in it.

  “The knees are whole,” Red said.

  “You’re probably lying,” Burbridge said sadly. “Well, all right. Just get me out. I’ll give you everything. The Golden Ball. I’ll draw you a map. Show you all the traps. I’ll tell you everything.”

  He promised other things, too, but Redrick wasn’t listening. He was looking at the highway. The spotlights weren’t racing across the shrubbery any more. They were frozen. They converged on that obelisk. In the bright blue fog Redrick could see the bent black figure wandering among the crosses. The figure seemed to be moving blindly, straight into the lights. Redrick saw it bump into a huge cross, stumble, bump into the cross again, walk around it, and continue on, its arms outstretched before it, fingers spread wide. Then it suddenly disappeared, as though it fell underground; it surfaced a few seconds later, to the right and farther away, stepping with a bizarre, inhuman stubbornness, like a wind-up toy.

  Suddenly the lights went out. The transmission squealed, the engine roared, and the blue and red signal lights showed through the shrubs. The patrol car tore away, accelerated wildly, and raced toward town. It disappeared behind the wall. Redrick gulped and unzipped his jump suit.

  “They’ve gone away.” Burbridge muttered feverishly. “Red, let’s go. Hurry!” He shifted around, felt for and found his bag, and tried to get up. “Let’s go, what are you waiting for?”

  Redrick was still looking toward the road. It was dark now, and nothing could be seen, but somewhere out there he was stalking, like an automaton, stumbling, falling, bumping into crosses, getting tangled in the shrubs.

  “All right,” Red said out loud. “Let’s go.” He lifted Burbridge. The old man clamped onto his neck with his left hand. Redrick, unable to straighten up, crawled with him on all fours through the hole in the wall, grabbing the wet grass.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Burbridge whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the swag, I won’t let go. Come on!”

  The path was familiar, but the wet grass was slippery, the ash branches whipped him in the face, the bulky old man was unbearably heavy, like a corpse, and the bag with the booty, clinking and clanging, kept getting caught, and he was afraid of running into him, who could be anywhere in the dark.

  When they got out onto the highway, it was still dark, but you could tell that dawn was coming. In the little wood across the road, birds were making sleepy and uncertain noises, and the night gloom was turning blue over the black houses in the distant suburbs. There was a chilly damp breeze coming from there. Redrick put Burbridge on the shoulder of the road and like a big black spider scuttled across the road. He quickly found the jeep, swept off the branches from the hood and fenders, and drove out onto the asphalt without turning on the headlights. Burbridge was there, holding the bag in one hand and feeling his legs with the other.

  “Hurry up! Hurry. My knees, I still have my knees. If only we could save my knees!”

  Redrick picked him up, and gritting his teeth from the strain, shoved him over the side. Burbridge landed on the back seat and groaned. He hadn’t dropped the bag. Redrick picked up the lead-lined raincoat and covered him with it. Burbridge had even managed to get the coat out.

  Redrick took out a flashlight and checked the shoulder for tracks. There weren’t too many traces. The jeep had flattened some of the tall grasses as it came onto the road, but the grass would stand up in a couple of hours. There were an enormous number of butts around the spot where the patrol car had parked. That reminded Redrick that he wanted a smoke. He lit one up, even though what he wanted more was to get the hell out of there and drive as fast as he could. But he couldn’t do that yet. Everything had to be done slowly and consciously.

  “What’s the matter?” Burbridge whined from the car. “You haven’t spilled the water, and the fishing gear is dry. What are you waiting for? Come on, hide the swag!”

  “Shut up! Don’t bug me! We’ll head for the southern suburbs.”

  “What surburbs? Are you crazy? You’ll ruin my knees, you bastard! My knees!”

  Redrick took a last drag and put the butt in his matchbox.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Buzzard. We can’t go straight through town. There are three roadblocks. We’ll get stopped once for sure.”

  “So what?”

  “They’ll take one look at your feet and it’s curtains.”

  “What about my legs? We were fishing, I hurt my legs, and that’s that.”

  “And what if they feel your legs?”

  “Feel them. I’ll yell so loud that they’ll never try feeling a leg again.”

  But Redrick had already decided. He lifted the driver’s seat, flashing his light, opened a secret compartment, and said:

  “Let me have the stuff.”

  The gas tank under the seat was a dummy. Redrick took the bag and stuffed it inside, listening to the clinking and clanging in the bag.

  “I can’t take any risks,” he muttered. “I don’t have the right.”

  He put the cover back on, covered it up with rubbish and rags, and replaced the seat. Burbridge was moaning and groaning, begging him to hurry, and promising him the Golden Ball again. He twisted and shifted in his seat, staring anxiously into the growing light. Redrick paid no attention to him. He tore open the plastic bag of water with the fish in it, poured out the water over the fishing gear, and put the flopping fish into the basket. He folded up the plastic bag and put it in his pocket. Now everything was in order. Two fishermen coming back from a not very successful trip. He got behind the wheel and started the car.

  He drove all the way to the turn without putting on the lights. The vast ten-foot wall stretched to the left of them, hemming in the Zone, and on their right there were occasional abandoned cottages, with boarded windows and peeling paint. Redrick could see well in the dark, and it wasn’t that dark any more anyway, and besides, he knew that it was coming. So when the bent figure, striding rhythmically, appeared before the car, he didn’t even slow down. He hunched over the wheel. He was walking in the middle of the road—like all of them, he was headed for town. Redrick passed him from the left and speeded up.

  “Mother of God!” Burbridge muttered in the back
seat. “Red, did you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “God! That’s all we need!” Suddenly Burbridge broke into a loud prayer.

  “Shut up!” Redrick shouted at him.

  The turn should have been right around there somewhere. Redrick slowed down, staring at the row of sinking houses and fences on the right. The old transformer hut, the pole with the supports, the rotting bridge over the culvert. Redrick turned the wheel. The car tossed and turned.

  “Where are you going?” Burbridge wailed. “You’ll ruin my legs, you bastard!”

  Redrick turned around for a second and slapped the old man’s face, feeling his prickly stubbled cheek. Burbridge sputtered and fell silent. The car was bouncing and the wheels slipped in the fresh mud from last night’s rain. Redrick turned on the lights. The white bouncing light illuminated overgrown old ruts, huge puddles, and rotten, leaning fences. Burbridge was crying, sobbing, and snuffling. He wasn’t promising anything any more. He was complaining and threatening, but in a very quiet and indistinct voice, so that Redrick heard only isolated words. Something about legs, knees, and his darling Archie. Then he shut up.

  The village stretched along the western edge of the city. There once had been summer houses, gardens, orchards, and the summer villas of the city fathers and plant directors. Green, pleasant places with small lakes and clean sandy beaches, translucent birch groves, and ponds stocked with carp. The stink and pollution from the plant never reached this verdant glade—nor did the city plumbing system.

  But now everything here was abandoned and they passed only one inhabited house—the window shone yellow through the drawn blinds, the wash on the line was wet from the rain, and a huge dog rushed out at them furiously and chased the car through the mud thrown up by the wheels.

  Redrick carefully drove over an old rickety bridge. When he could see the turnoff to Western Highway, he stopped the car and turned off the motor. Then he got out and went on the road without looking back at Burbridge, his hands stuffed into the damp pockets of his jumpsuit. It was light. Everything around them was wet, still, and sleepy. He walked over to the highway and peered from the bushes. The police checkpoint was easily visible from his vantage point: a little trailer house, with three lighted windows. The patrol car was parked next to it. It was empty. Redrick stood watching for some time. There was no action at the checkpoint; the guards must have gotten cold and wornout during the night and were warming up in the trailer. Dreaming over cigarettes stuck to their lower lips. “The toads,” Redrick said softly. He found the brass knuckles in his pocket, slipped his fingers into the oval holes, pressed the cold metal into his fist, and still hunched up against the chill and with his hands still in his pockets, he went back. The jeep, listing slightly to one side, was parked among the bushes. It was a lost, quiet spot. Probably nobody had looked at it in the last ten years.

  When Redrick reached the car, Burbridge sat up and looked at him, his mouth open. He looked even older than usual, wrinkled, bald, unshaven, and with rotten teeth. They stared at each other silently, and then Burbridge said distinctly:

  “The map… all the traps, everything… You’ll find it and you won’t be sorry.”

  Redrick listened to him without moving; then he loosened his fingers and let the brass knuckles fall into his pocket.

  “All right. All you have to do is lie there in a faint. Understand? Moan and don’t let anyone touch you.”

  He got behind the wheel and started the car.

  Everything went well. No one got out of the trailer when the jeep drove slowly past, obeying all the signs and making all the correct signals. It accelerated and sped into town through the southern end. It was six A.M. The streets were empty, the pavement wet and shiny black, and the traffic lights winked lonely and unneeded at the intersections. They drove past the bakery with its high, brightly lit windows, and Redrick was engulfed in a wave of the warm, incredibly delicious smell of baking bread.

  “I’m starved,” Redrick said and stretched his stiffened muscles by pushing his hands into the wheel.

  “What?” Burbridge asked frightenedly.

  “I’m starved, I said. Where to? Home or straight to the Butcher?”

  “To the Butcher, and hurry.” Burbridge was ranting, leaning forward and breathing hotly on Redrick’s neck. “Straight to his house. Come on! He still owes me seven hundred. Will you drive faster? You’re crawling like a louse in a puddle.” He started cursing impotently and angrily, sputtering, panting. It ended in a coughing fit.

  Redrick did not answer. He had neither the time nor the energy to pacify Buzzard when he was going at full speed. He wanted to finish up as soon as possible and get an hour or so of sleep before his appointment at the Métropole. He turned onto Sixteenth Street, drove two blocks, and parked in front of a gray, two-story private house.

  The Butcher came to the door himself. He had just gotten up and was on his way to the bathroom. He was wearing a luxurious robe with gold tassels and was carrying a glass with his false teeth. His hair was disheveled and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Oh, itsh Red? Sho how are you?”

  “Put in your teeth and let’s go.”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded him into the waiting room and hurried off to the bathroom, scuffing along in his Persian slippers.

  “Who is it?” he asked from there.

  “Burbridge.”

  “What?”

  “His legs.”

  Redrick could hear running water, snorting, splashing, and something fall and roll along the tile floor in the bathroom. Redrick sank exhaustedly into an armchair and lit a cigarette. The waiting room was nice. The Butcher didn’t skimp. He was a highly competent and very fashionable surgeon, influential in both city and state medical circles. He had gotten mixed up with the stalkers not for the money, of course. He collected from the Zone: he took various types of swag, which he used for research in his practice; he took knowledge, since he studied stricken stalkers and the various diseases, mutilations, and traumas of the human body that had never been known before; and he took glory, becoming famous as the first doctor on the planet to be a specialist in nonhuman diseases of man. He was also not averse to taking money, and in great amounts.

  “What specifically is wrong with his legs?” he asked, appearing from the bathroom with a huge towel around his neck. He was carefully drying his sensitive fingers with the corner of the towel.

  “Landed in the jelly,” Redrick said.

  The Butcher whistled.

  “Well, that’s the end of Burbridge. Too bad, he was a famous stalker.”

  “It’s all right,” Redrick said, leaning back in the chair. “You’ll make artificial legs for him. He’ll hobble around the Zone on them.”

  “All right.” The Butcher’s face became completely businesslike. “Wait a minute, I’ll get dressed.”

  While he dressed and made a call—probably to his clinic to prepare things for the operation—Redrick lounged immobile in the armchair and smoked. He moved only once to get his flask. He drank in small sips because there was only a little on the bottom, and he tried to think about nothing. He simply waited.

  They both walked out to the car. Redrick got in the driver’s seat, the Butcher next to him. He immediately bent over the back seat to palpate Burbridge’s legs. Burbridge, subdued and withdrawn, muttered pathetically, promising to shower him with gold, mentioning his deceased wife and his children repeatedly, and begging him to save at least his knees. When they got to the clinic, the Butcher cursed at not finding the orderlies waiting at the driveway and jumped out of the moving car to run inside. Redrick lit another cigarette. Burbridge suddenly spoke, clearly and calmly, apparently completely calm at last:

  “You tried to kill me. I won’t forget.”

  “I didn’t kill you, though,” Redrick said.

  “No, you didn’t…” He was silent. “I’ll remember that, too.”

  “You do that. Of course, you wouldn’t have tried to kill me.�
� He turned and looked at Burbridge. The old man was nervously moving his lips. “You would have abandoned me just like that,” said Redrick.

  “You would have left me in the Zone and thrown me in the water. Like Four-eyes.”

  “Four-eyes died on his own,” Burbridge said gloomily. “I had nothing to do with it. It got him.”

  “You bastard,” Redrick said dispassionately, turning away. “You son of a bitch.”

  The sleepy rumpled attendants ran out onto the driveway, unfurling the stretcher as they came to the car. Redrick, stretching and yawning, watched them extricate Burbridge from the back seat and trundle him off on the stretcher. Burbridge lay immobile, hands folded on chest, staring resignedly at the sky. His huge feet, cruelly eaten away by the jelly, were turned out unnaturally. He was the last of the old stalkers who had started hunting for treasure right after the Visitation, when the Zone wasn’t called the Zone, when there were no institutes, or walls, or UN forces, when the city was paralyzed with fear and the world was snickering over the new newspaper hoax. Redrick was ten years old then and Burbridge was still a strong and agile man—he loved to drink when others paid, to brawl, to catch some unwary girl in a corner. His own children didn’t interest him in the least, and he was a petty bastard even then; when he was drunk he used to beat his wife with a repulsive pleasure, noisily, so that everyone could hear. He beat her until she died.

  Redrick turned the jeep and, disregarding the lights, sped home, honking at the few pedestrians on the streets and cornering sharply.

  He parked in front of the garage, and when he got out he saw the superintendent coming toward him from across the little park. As usual, the super was out of sorts, and his crumpled face with its swollen eyes mirrored extreme distaste, as though he were walking on liquid manure instead of the ground.

  “Good morning,” Redrick said politely.

  The super stopped two feet in front of him and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Is that your handiwork?” he asked. You could tell that those were his first words of the day.