Read Online 7 Steps to Midnight by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Matheson
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struggled to rise. Chris glanced down at the man’s shirt. The left side of it was soaked with blood.
It took Nelson three minutes to get on his feet, shifting the .45 to his left hand and pushing the right one under his jacket to press against the wound; he cried out softly as he did. How badly was the agent hurt? Chris wondered. Would he make it to Tucson? He visualized himself driving up to a hospital with a dead man in his car and a fantastic explanation no one could verify.
“Car,” Nelson mumbled.
Chris turned and, leaning forward, clambered up the arroyo wall, shoes crunching on the hard soil. Standing up, he looked back at Nelson. The agent was trying to climb from the arroyo, head down. He could kick Nelson’s head, make a run for the car, escape.
He couldn’t make himself do it. The agent was badly hurt. He couldn’t just leave him here to die. He had to take him to a hospital. Once again, he felt a kind of barren relief knowing that he had to do it. At least he’d find out what was going on.
And how far could he run anyway before they caught him?
Nelson was having trouble getting up to the surface. Chris hesitated, then asked, “Do you want a hand?” Nelson made an impotent, growling sound and Chris looked down at him almost angrily.
I should leave you here
, he thought.
You deserve to be left, you son of a bitch.
With a final groaning hitch, Nelson got out of the arroyo and pushed himself on his knees, wavering from side to side, his eyes looking as though they were going in and out of focus. Chris felt himself tensing involuntarily. He could kick the gun from Nelson’s hand, make a run for the car.
He waited too long. Nelson had struggled to his feet now and was making a feeble gesture toward the Pontiac.
Chris turned and walked to the car, got in and closed the door. He sat motionless, staring out through the windshield as Nelson followed him; he heard the erratic crunching of the agent’s shoes as he stumbled to the car. Then he tightened as the passenger door was opened and Nelson dropped down, grunting, on the seat beside him.
Chris looked at him. The agent’s expression was frightening, teeth bared, animal-like, dark eyes glaring at Chris. He made a twitching gesture with the .45 which Chris took to mean he wanted to be driven to Tucson now.
“You’d better close the door,” he said.
With a moan of pain, Nelson reached out and pulled in the door. It clicked in its frame, barely closing. Chris was going to tell him that it wasn’t properly shut, but said nothing as the agent pushed his right hand under his coat again to apply pressure against his wound. “
Go
,” Nelson muttered.
“I have to turn around,” Chris said.
“Well,
turn
then,” the agent snapped.
“I’m afraid the wheels might get caught in the sand.”
“Then look for a
pullout
,” Nelson said through clenched teeth, twisting on the seat in agony.
“All right.” Chris started the engine and pulled back onto the dirt road, looking for a place ahead where he could turn around. There was nothing in sight, the narrow road flanked by sand as far as he could see. Was he going to have to drive all the way into the desert with the wounded man? Sooner or later, he’d have to try a turn regardless, or time would run out on Nelson.
“All right, dammit, all right,” Nelson said in a pain-thickened voice and Chris looked at him quickly. The agent’s breathing was thin and labored. It was like the panting of a dying dog. His eyeshad a glaze to them that frightened Chris. “If
I’m
going,” he muttered, barely able to speak, “you’re going too.”
Chris stared at him in shock.
No!
he thought. He looked blankly at the barrel of the .45 as the agent shakily raised it to point at Chris’s head.
***
His body moved before his mind did.
His right foot jumped from the gas pedal to the brake and jammed it down. The car jolted to a yawing stop and, with a cry of agony, Nelson was flung against the
It took Nelson three minutes to get on his feet, shifting the .45 to his left hand and pushing the right one under his jacket to press against the wound; he cried out softly as he did. How badly was the agent hurt? Chris wondered. Would he make it to Tucson? He visualized himself driving up to a hospital with a dead man in his car and a fantastic explanation no one could verify.
“Car,” Nelson mumbled.
Chris turned and, leaning forward, clambered up the arroyo wall, shoes crunching on the hard soil. Standing up, he looked back at Nelson. The agent was trying to climb from the arroyo, head down. He could kick Nelson’s head, make a run for the car, escape.
He couldn’t make himself do it. The agent was badly hurt. He couldn’t just leave him here to die. He had to take him to a hospital. Once again, he felt a kind of barren relief knowing that he had to do it. At least he’d find out what was going on.
And how far could he run anyway before they caught him?
Nelson was having trouble getting up to the surface. Chris hesitated, then asked, “Do you want a hand?” Nelson made an impotent, growling sound and Chris looked down at him almost angrily.
I should leave you here
, he thought.
You deserve to be left, you son of a bitch.
With a final groaning hitch, Nelson got out of the arroyo and pushed himself on his knees, wavering from side to side, his eyes looking as though they were going in and out of focus. Chris felt himself tensing involuntarily. He could kick the gun from Nelson’s hand, make a run for the car.
He waited too long. Nelson had struggled to his feet now and was making a feeble gesture toward the Pontiac.
Chris turned and walked to the car, got in and closed the door. He sat motionless, staring out through the windshield as Nelson followed him; he heard the erratic crunching of the agent’s shoes as he stumbled to the car. Then he tightened as the passenger door was opened and Nelson dropped down, grunting, on the seat beside him.
Chris looked at him. The agent’s expression was frightening, teeth bared, animal-like, dark eyes glaring at Chris. He made a twitching gesture with the .45 which Chris took to mean he wanted to be driven to Tucson now.
“You’d better close the door,” he said.
With a moan of pain, Nelson reached out and pulled in the door. It clicked in its frame, barely closing. Chris was going to tell him that it wasn’t properly shut, but said nothing as the agent pushed his right hand under his coat again to apply pressure against his wound. “
Go
,” Nelson muttered.
“I have to turn around,” Chris said.
“Well,
turn
then,” the agent snapped.
“I’m afraid the wheels might get caught in the sand.”
“Then look for a
pullout
,” Nelson said through clenched teeth, twisting on the seat in agony.
“All right.” Chris started the engine and pulled back onto the dirt road, looking for a place ahead where he could turn around. There was nothing in sight, the narrow road flanked by sand as far as he could see. Was he going to have to drive all the way into the desert with the wounded man? Sooner or later, he’d have to try a turn regardless, or time would run out on Nelson.
“All right, dammit, all right,” Nelson said in a pain-thickened voice and Chris looked at him quickly. The agent’s breathing was thin and labored. It was like the panting of a dying dog. His eyeshad a glaze to them that frightened Chris. “If
I’m
going,” he muttered, barely able to speak, “you’re going too.”
Chris stared at him in shock.
No!
he thought. He looked blankly at the barrel of the .45 as the agent shakily raised it to point at Chris’s head.
***
His body moved before his mind did.
His right foot jumped from the gas pedal to the brake and jammed it down. The car jolted to a yawing stop and, with a cry of agony, Nelson was flung against the
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