Short Fiction - Ray Bradbury (short story to read .TXT) 📗

scream, Shep. I said I was sorry, didn’t I?

“Get out there, you men, and bury that beast immediately.”

I glare at the captain. Don’t talk that way about Shep.

The captain stares at my ankle.

“Sorry, Halloway. I meant, bury that ‘dog,’ you men. Give him full honors. You were lucky, son, another second and those knife-teeth’d bored through your ankle-cuff metal.”

I don’t know what he means. I’m wearing sneakers, sir.

“Oh, yeah, so you are. Yeah. Well, I’m sorry, Halloway. I know how you must feel about⁠—Shep. He was a fine dog.”

I think about it a moment and my eyes fill up, wet.

There’ll be a picnic and a hike; the captain says. Three hours now the boys have carried luggage from the metal house. The way they talk, this’ll be some picnic. Some seem afraid, but who worries about copperheads and water-moccasins and crawfish? Not me. No, sir. Not me.

Gus Bartz, sweating beside me on some apparatus, squints at me.

“What’s eatin’ you, Halloway?”

I smile. Me? Nothing. Why?

“You and that act with that Martian worm.”

What’re you talking about? What worm?

The captain interrupts, nervously.

“Bartz, lay off Halloway. The doctor’ll explain why. Ask him.”

Bartz goes away, scratching his head.

The captain pats my shoulder.

“You’re our strong-arm man, Halloway. You’ve got muscles from working on the rocket engines. So keep alert today, eh, on your hike to look over the territory? Keep your⁠—BB gun⁠—ready.”

Beavers, do you think, sir?

The captain swallows hard and blinks.

“Unh⁠—oh, beavers, yeah, beavers. Sure. Beavers! Maybe. Mountain lions and Indians, too, I hear. Never can tell. Be careful.”

Mountain lions and Indians in New York in this day and age? Aw, sir.

“Let it go. Keep alert, anyhow. Smoke?”

I don’t smoke, sir. A strong mind in a healthy body, you know the old rule.

“The old rule. Oh, yes. The old rule. Only joking. I don’t want a smoke anyway. Like hell.”

What was that last, sir?

“Nothing, Halloway, carry on, carry on.”

I help the others work, now. Are we taking the yellow streetcar to the edge of town, Gus?

“We’re using propulsion belts, skimming low over the dead seas.”

How’s that again, Gus?

“I said, we’re takin’ the yellow streetcar to the end of the line, yeah.”

We’re ready. Everyone’s packed, spreading out. We’re going in groups of four. Down Main Street past the pie factory, over the bridge, through the tunnel, past the circus grounds and we’ll rendezvous, says the captain, at a place he points to on a queer, disjointed map.

Whoosh! We’re off! I forgot to pay my fare.

“That’s okay, I paid it.”

Thanks, captain. We’re really traveling. The cypresses and the maples flash by. Kaawhoom! I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but you, sir, but momentarily, there, I didn’t see this streetcar. Suddenly we moved in empty space, nothing supporting us, and I didn’t see any car. But now I see it, sir.

The captain gazes at me as at a nine-day miracle.

“You do, eh?”

Yes, sir. I clutch upward. Here’s the strap. I’m holding it.

“You look pretty funny sliding through the air with your hand up like that, Halloway.”

How’s that, sir?

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Why are the others laughing at me, sir?

“Nothing, son, nothing. Just happy, that’s all.”

Ding Ding. Ding Ding. Canal Street and Washington. Ding Ding. Whoosh. This is real traveling. Funny, though, the captain and his men keep moving, changing seats, never stay seated. It’s a long streetcar. I’m way in back now. They’re up front.

By the large brown house on the next corner stands a popcorn wagon, yellow and red and blue. I can taste the popcorn in my mind. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten some⁠ ⁠… if I ask the captain’s permission to stop and buy a bag, he’ll refuse. I’ll just sneak off the car at the next stop. I can get back on the next car and catch up with the gang later.

How do you stop this car? My fingers fumble with my baseball outfit, doing something I don’t want to know about. The car is stopping! Why’s that. Popcorn is more important.

I’m off the car, walking. Here’s the popcorn machine with a man behind it, fussing with little silver metal knobs.

“—murr⁠—lokk⁠—loc⁠—cor⁠—iz⁠—”

Tony! Tony, bambino! What are you doing here?

“Click.”

It can’t be, but it is. Tony, who died ten long years ago, when I was a freckled kid! Alive and selling popcorn again. Oh, Tony, it’s good to see you. His black moustache’s so waxed, so shining, his dark hair like burnt oily shavings, his dark shining happy eyes, his smiling red cheeks! He shimmers in my eyes like in a cold rain. Tony! Let me shake your hand! Gimme a bag of popcorn, señor!

“Click-click-click⁠—sput-click⁠—reeeeeeeeeeeeee⁠—”

The captain didn’t see you, Tony, you were hidden so well, only I saw you. Just a moment while I search for my nickel.

“Reeeeeee.”

Whew, I’m dizzy. It’s very hot. My heads spins like a leaf on a storm wind. Let me hold onto your wagon, Tony, quick, I’m shivering and I’ve got sharp needle head pains.⁠ ⁠…

“Reeeeeeee.”

I’m running a temperature. I feel as if I have a torch hung flaming in my head.

Hotter. Pardon me for criticizing you, Tony, but I think its your popper turned up too high. Your face looks afraid, contorted, and your hands move so rapidly, why? Can’t you shut it off? I’m hot. Everything melts. My knees sag.

Warmer still. He’d better turn that thing off, I can’t take any more. I can’t find my nickel anyhow. Please, snap it off, Tony, I’m sick. My uniform glows orange. I’ll take fire!

Here, I’ll turn it off for you, Tony.

You hit me!

Stop hitting me, stop clicking those knobs! It’s hot, I tell you. Stop, or I’ll⁠—

Tony. Where are you? Gone.

Where did that purple flame shoot from? That loud blast, what was it? The flame seemed to stream from my hand, out of my scout flashlight. Purple flame⁠—eating!

I smell a sharp bitter odor.

Like hamburger fried overlong.

I feel better now. Cool as winter. But⁠—

Like a fly buzzing in my ears, a voice comes, faint, far off,

“Halloway, damn it, Halloway, where are you?”

Captain! It’s his voice, sizzling. I don’t see you, sir!

“Halloway, we’re on the