Read Online The Fireman by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Science-Fiction
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told himself. But he lay there. Get up, get up! But he cried like a child. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone, not even Leahy. Killing did nothing but kill something of yourself when you did it, and suddenly he saw Leahy again, a torch, screaming, and he shut his hand over his wet face, gagging. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Everything at once. In twenty-four hours the burning of a woman, the burning of books, the trip to the Professor's, Leahy, the Bible, memorizing, the sieve, and the sand, the bank money, the printing press, the plan, the rage, the alarm, Mildred's departure, the fire, Leahy into a torch — too much for any one day in any one life.
At last he was able to get to his feet, but the books seemed impossibly heavy. He fumbled along the alley and the voices and sirens faded behind him. He moved in darkness, panting.
"You must remember," he said, "that you've got to burn them or they'll burn you. Burn them or they'll burn you."
He searched his pockets. The money was there. In his shirt pocket he found the Seashell radio and slapped it to his ear.
"Attention! Attention, all police alert. Special alarm. Wanted: Leonard Montag, fugitive, for murder and crimes against the State. Description..."
Six blocks away the alley opened out onto a wide empty thoroughfare. It looked like a clean stage, so bored, so quiet, so well lit, and him alone, running across it, easily seen, easily shot down.
"Beware of the pedestrian, watch for the pedestrian!" The Seashell stung his ear.
Montag hid back in the shadows. He must use only the alleys. There was a gas station nearby. It might give him the slightest extra margin of safety if he were clean and presentable. He must get to the station rest room and wash up, comb his hair, then, with books under arm, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard to get where he was going.
"Where am I going?"
NOWHERE. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to. Faber couldn't take him in; it would be murder to even try; but he had to see Faber for a minute or two, to give him this money. Whatever happened, he wanted the money to go on after him. Perhaps he could make it to open country, live on the rivers and near highways, in the meadows and hills, the sort of life he had often thought about but never tried.
Something caught at one corner of his vision and he turned to look at the sky.
The police helicopters were rising, far away, like a flight of gray moths, spreading out, six of them. He saw them wavering, indecisive, a half mile off, like butterflies puzzled by autumn, dying with winter, and then they were landing, one by one, dropping softly to the streets where, turned into cars, they would shriek along the boulevards or, just as suddenly, hop back into the air, continuing their search.
And here was the gas station. Approaching from the rear, Mr. Montag entered the men's wash room.
Through the tin wall he heard a radio voice crying, "War has been declared! Repeat — war has been declared! Ten minutes ago — " But the sound of washing his hands and rinsing his face and toweling himself dry cut the announcer's voice away. Emerging from the wash-room a cleaner, newer man, less suspect, Mr. Montag walked as casually as a man looking for a bus, to the edge of the empty boulevard.
There it lay, a game for him to win, a vast bowling alley in the dark morning. The boulevard was as clean as a pinball machine, but underneath, somewhere, one could feel the electrical energy, the readiness to dart lights, flash red and blue, and out of nowhere, rolling like a silver ball, might thunder the searchers!
Three blocks away, there were a few headlights. Montag drew a deep breath. His lungs were like burning brooms in his chest; his mouth was sucked dry from running. All of the iron in the world lay in his dragging feet.
He began to walk across the empty avenue.
A hundred yards across. He estimated. A hundred yards in the open,
Everything at once. In twenty-four hours the burning of a woman, the burning of books, the trip to the Professor's, Leahy, the Bible, memorizing, the sieve, and the sand, the bank money, the printing press, the plan, the rage, the alarm, Mildred's departure, the fire, Leahy into a torch — too much for any one day in any one life.
At last he was able to get to his feet, but the books seemed impossibly heavy. He fumbled along the alley and the voices and sirens faded behind him. He moved in darkness, panting.
"You must remember," he said, "that you've got to burn them or they'll burn you. Burn them or they'll burn you."
He searched his pockets. The money was there. In his shirt pocket he found the Seashell radio and slapped it to his ear.
"Attention! Attention, all police alert. Special alarm. Wanted: Leonard Montag, fugitive, for murder and crimes against the State. Description..."
Six blocks away the alley opened out onto a wide empty thoroughfare. It looked like a clean stage, so bored, so quiet, so well lit, and him alone, running across it, easily seen, easily shot down.
"Beware of the pedestrian, watch for the pedestrian!" The Seashell stung his ear.
Montag hid back in the shadows. He must use only the alleys. There was a gas station nearby. It might give him the slightest extra margin of safety if he were clean and presentable. He must get to the station rest room and wash up, comb his hair, then, with books under arm, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard to get where he was going.
"Where am I going?"
NOWHERE. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to. Faber couldn't take him in; it would be murder to even try; but he had to see Faber for a minute or two, to give him this money. Whatever happened, he wanted the money to go on after him. Perhaps he could make it to open country, live on the rivers and near highways, in the meadows and hills, the sort of life he had often thought about but never tried.
Something caught at one corner of his vision and he turned to look at the sky.
The police helicopters were rising, far away, like a flight of gray moths, spreading out, six of them. He saw them wavering, indecisive, a half mile off, like butterflies puzzled by autumn, dying with winter, and then they were landing, one by one, dropping softly to the streets where, turned into cars, they would shriek along the boulevards or, just as suddenly, hop back into the air, continuing their search.
And here was the gas station. Approaching from the rear, Mr. Montag entered the men's wash room.
Through the tin wall he heard a radio voice crying, "War has been declared! Repeat — war has been declared! Ten minutes ago — " But the sound of washing his hands and rinsing his face and toweling himself dry cut the announcer's voice away. Emerging from the wash-room a cleaner, newer man, less suspect, Mr. Montag walked as casually as a man looking for a bus, to the edge of the empty boulevard.
There it lay, a game for him to win, a vast bowling alley in the dark morning. The boulevard was as clean as a pinball machine, but underneath, somewhere, one could feel the electrical energy, the readiness to dart lights, flash red and blue, and out of nowhere, rolling like a silver ball, might thunder the searchers!
Three blocks away, there were a few headlights. Montag drew a deep breath. His lungs were like burning brooms in his chest; his mouth was sucked dry from running. All of the iron in the world lay in his dragging feet.
He began to walk across the empty avenue.
A hundred yards across. He estimated. A hundred yards in the open,
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