Backteria and Other Improbable Tales by Richard Matheson Page A

hand brake isn’t even out) and press the pedal mightily. The car leaps off with gas-fed growlings. The silence is undone.
    A thought! Hunching forward, you finger prod a silvery radio button, then, leaning back, await.
    A moment.
    “, lo-ve,” sings a woman, “
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,” in eerie oscillating weariness, “
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,”
    Somewhere, a diamond needle, groove-imprisoned, pendulums the word, untouched because unheard. A city station too. Does that mean the city is tenantless? What about—
    —the world? Yes, that too, (To you) dun, albescent, pale as witches thing.
    “,
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,
lo-
” You cut her off, poking in another button. Silence. Another button. Ditto. Another, the same. Another. “,
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve,
lo-
ve” You’re back again. Eyes frozen grapes, you snap the radio off. Nothing but nerve impalings there.
    Drive on. Drive on. Drive on and on
.
    Main Street’s intersection. You signal for a turn, abash, draw in your arm. You turn—
    —and, horror-tossed, slam on the brakes, stalling the motor. Breath hisses in and chills.
    “
Gudgawd
!” (Literal translation)
    “Til now there was a chamber in your brain that still housed disbelief. A chamber of contention with the facts.
Q:
So what was it?
A:
Everyone in town, by some strange rule of mob, was gone to view a movie star, the President, a fire, an accident, some incredible attraction. That was why the streets were empty, the houses extempore exited.
    But no. The length of Main Street is a humanless alley strewn with unmoving, engine-purring cars. You stare at this, candescence. You gape upon a people-reft world. You are struck dumb with cognizance.
    “No,” you mutter. (Yes) “Oh, no.” (Oh, yes) “
No
!” (Ah, but yes)
    Oozing, mindless, from the car, you stumble forth, stricken as a zombie. Legged on wooden struts you clump across the gutter, goggle-eyed. No, you insist, despite the obvious; No, it can’t be true. Denial breeds traction though. And gestation nears completion. In cob-webbed wombs stirs lunacy.
    “Hey!” you howl. “
Hey-ey
!”
    Snarling, you leap the curb and elephant your way along the sidewalk.
    First National Bank
. You fling your jangled self into the pie-slice opening of its revolving door and, spinning a desperate arc, plunge inside. Yelling. “
Hey-ey
! HEY!”
    Silence.
    “HEY-EY!”
    The aberration of your voice handballs off marble walls, ricochets from polished v.p. desk and wriggles, troublous, between the bars of empty teller cages.
    Unnerving you. Whirling, hissing, shaking, you exit
à pas de géant
(Running like hell) too distraught to concentrate on stealing money.
    The street again. You rush into a woman’s shop, clods thumping on the rug. You race by rows of dress racks.
    “Hey!” you call. “Anyone here!” No one. You exit.
    An appliance store—row on row of stoves and sinks and washing machines—snowy headstones in a linoleum churchyard.
    “Hello!” you shout. “Hel-
LO
!” No reply. (You’ll crack soon)
    Turning, you find the street again, ice cubes dancing in your stomach. A candy store. You dash against its newsstand and headlines leap at you.
STARLET WEDGED IN CRUSE; TORSO OF ACTRESS FOUND IN TUN; STARLET BODY IN DEMIJOHN
. And, on one, in tiny letters, near the bottom.
Strange Sighting
.
    (Ain’t it the way?—wan, wishy-washy thing?)
    Where was I?
    Oh. You tear your gaze away and stare into the candy store. Empty; silent. Cups and dishes strew the counter, unattended. And
hark:
behind the counter, a malted mixer buzzes like an outboard motor n the distance.
    “No,” you mutter. (Thirty-forty seconds at the outside) “No. Hello!
Dammit, Hel-LOOOOOO
!” fury adds its rabid spine to fear.
    They can’t do this to
you
!
    “
HEY-EY-EY-EY
!”
    You stagger-swoop along the middle of Main Street, bypassing cars like raging tide around islands. “
HEY-EY
!” You cry havoc. “WHERE’N’TH’HELL
IS
EVERYBODY!”
    Breath gives out. A stitch (in time) pokes