One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury

Stupid. No!
    He stared back into the parlor.
    The phone was silent.
    Good! he thought.
    But he had heard something .
    Something that brought a dampness to his face? No!
    He lay awake until …
    Three in the long dark morning. The soul’s midnight. When the dying shed their ghosts …
    Hell!
    He got out of bed and stalked in to stand over that damned Smith-inspired thing.
    The mantel clock chimed three-fifteen. He raised the phone and heard it hum. He sat with the phone in his lap, and at last, slowly, dialed that number.
    He had expected to hear a woman’s voice, Smith’s accomplice, yes, a woman. But only whispers.
    And then a blur of voices, as if many calls had fused into a cloud of static. He hung up.
    Then, flinching, he redialed and got the same sounds. An electric surf, neither men’s nor women’s voices, riding each other, protesting, some demanding, some pleading, some …
    Breathing .
    Breathing? He stifled the phone. Breathing? In, out. Phones, he thought, do not inhale, exhale.
    Smith, he thought, you bastard.
    Why?
    Because of the strange quality of this breathing.
    Strange?
    Slowly he brought it up to his ear.
    The voices moved apart, and all …
    Breathing heavily, as if they had run a long way. Running in place . In place? How could these voices, male, female, old, young, jog, race, run in place, hold still but rise, fall, up, down?
    Then all gave cries, shrieked, gasped, sucked in, blew out.
    His cheeks burned. Sweat rained from his chin. Jesus! Dear Jesus God!
    The phone fell.
    The bedroom door slammed.
    Â 
    At four-thirty A.M. Norma Conway let her arm fall near his face. She touched his chin and brow.
    â€œMy God,” she said. “You’re sick.”
    He stared at the ceiling. “I’m all right,” he said. “Go to sleep.”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œI’m fine,” he said. “Unless …”
    â€œUnless?”
    â€œI can come over on your side of the bed.”
    â€œWith that fever?”
    â€œNo, I guess not.”
    â€œCan I get you anything?”
    â€œNothing. Something.”
    He turned, his breath a furnace.
    Everything , he thought, but did not say.
    Â 
    He ate a large breakfast. Norma stroked his brow and exhaled. “Thank God, it’s gone.”
    â€œGone?” He shoveled in the bacon and eggs.
    â€œYour fever. I felt it across the bed. You’re ravenous. How come? ”
    He stared at his empty plate.
    â€œI’ll be damned, yes,” he said. “Sorry about last night.”
    â€œOh, that .” Norma laughed gently. “I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself. Better move. It’s nine. What about the phone?”
    On his way out, he stopped.
    â€œPhone?”
    â€œThe wall socket looks broken. Shall I call the phone company?”
    He stared at the phone on the floor.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    Â 
    At the office, at noon, he took the crumpled note from his pocket.
    â€œStupid,” he said.
    And dialed the number.
    The phone rang twice and a voice came on. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
    â€œNo longer in service!”
    Almost instantly, a single line of type jumped up on the fax machine.
    PL4-4559.
    No signature, no address.
    He dialed through to Smith.
    â€œSmith, you bastard, what’re you up to?”
    â€œNo good,” Smith said triumphantly. “The old number’s out of commission. Good for just one night. Try the new one. See you, drinks and dumb-talk, yes?”
    â€œBastard!” Conway yelled and hung up.
    And went to the drinking, dumb-talk lunch.
    Â 
    â€œSay it,” said Smith. “‘Smith, you s.o.b.’ Sit. Your martini awaits. Put a straw in it.”
    Conway swayed over the luncheon table, making fists.
    â€œSit,” said Smith.
    Conway downed the martini.
    â€œMy, my, you’re thirsty. Well,” Smith leaned forward. “Tell Papa. Upchuck.