Free Backteria and Other Improbable Tales by Richard Matheson Page A

He pushed up quickly and clutched at Mac’s arm.
    “You’re intelligent,” he said. “Look at my legs. Can’t you see that they’re flash burns?”
    Mac picked the prisoner’s fingers off his arm.
    “Take it easy,” he said.
    The prisoner moved toward the third man.
    “You saw them,” he pleaded. “Don’t you know a flash burn? Look. L-look. Take my word for it. It’s a flash burn. No other kind of heat could make such scars.
Look at it
!”
    “Sure, sure, sure,” said Charlie moving into the corridor. “We’ll take your word for it. We’ll get your clothes and you can go right home to your wife in Saint Louis.”
    “I’m telling you they’re flash burns!”
    The three men were out of the cell. They slid the door shut. The prisoner reached through the bars and tried to stop them. Charlie punched his arm and shoved him back. The prisoner sprawled onto the bunk.
    “For God’s sake,” he sobbed, his face twisted with childish frenzy. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you listen to me?”
    He heard the men talking as they went down the corridor. He wept in the silence of his cell.
    After a while the priest came back. The prisoner looked up and saw him standing at the door. He stood up and ran to the door. He clutched at the priest’s arm.
    “You reached her? You reached her?”
    The priest didn’t say anything.
    “You did, didn’t you?”
    “There was no one there by that name.”
    “What?”
    “There was no wife of Phillip Johnson there. Now will you listen to me?”
    “Then she moved. Of course! She left the city after I…after the explosion. You have to find her.”
    “There’s no such person.”
    The prisoner stared at him in disbelief.
    “But I told you…”
    “I’m speaking truth. You’re making it all up in a vain hope to cheat…”
    “I’m not making it up! For God’s sake listen to me. Can’t you…wait, wait.”
    He held his right leg up.
    “Look,” he said eagerly. “These are flash burns. From an atomic explosion. Don’t you see what that means?”
    “Listen to me, my son.”
    “Don’t you understand?”
    “Will you listen to me?”
    “Yes but…”
    “Even if what you say is true…” “It
is
true.”
    “Even if it is. You still committed the crimes you’re here to pay for.”
    “
But it wasn’t me
!”
    “Can you prove it?” asked the priest.
    “I…I…” faltered the prisoner. “These legs…”
    “They’re no proof.”
    “My wife…”
    “Where is she?”
    “I don’t know. But you can find her. She’ll tell you. She can save me.”
    “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.”
    “But there has to be! Can’t you look for my wife? Can’t you get a stay of execution while you look for her? Look, I have friends, a lot of them. I’ll give you all their addresses. I’ll give you names of people who work for the government who…”
    “What would I say, Riley?” interrupted the priest sharply.
    “Johnson!”
    “Whatever you wish to be called. What would I say to these people? I’m calling about a man who was in an explosion ten years ago? But he didn’t die? He was blown into…” He stopped.
    “Can’t you see?” he entreated. “You must face this. You’re only making it more difficult for yourself.” “But…”
    “Shall I come in and pray for you?”
    The prisoner stared at him. Then the tautness sapped from his face and stance. He slumped visibly. He turned and staggered back to his bunk and fell down on it. He leaned against the wall and clutched his shirtfront with dead curled fingers.
    “No hope,” he said. “There’s no hope. No one will believe me. No one.”
    He was lying down on his bunk when the other two guards came. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at the wall. The priest was sitting on the stool and praying.
    The prisoner didn’t speak as they led him down the corridor, only once he raised his head and looked around as though all the world was a strange incomprehensible cruelty.
    Then he