Free 7 Steps to Midnight by Richard Matheson

dashboard.
    Again, Chris moved without thinking, lunging to his right and shouldering the red-haired man as hard as he could, throwing him against the door. Barely shut, the door popped open and Nelson was thrown out onto the sandy shoulder.
    Instantly, Chris straightened up and threw the transmission into reverse, pressing down on the accelerator. He saw the agent briefly through the open door, raising his automatic. Chris floored the pedal, panicked eyes looking across his shoulder at the road. He jerked his head down as a pair of shots rang out. He looked to the front and saw the agent falling back into a twisted heap. Oh, God, he
is
dead now, he thought.
    So what?!
raged his mind.
He tried to kill you
twice
, are you
sorry
for him?!
    He looked back at the road again, slowing down so he could steer more easily. The anger of his reaction had already faded. He felt sick to be driving away from Nelson, leaving him dead or dying. Still, what else could he do? He groaned in frustration and suddenly twisted the steering wheel to the right. He couldn’t just drive
backward
all the way to the highway.
    The car bumped across the rutted ground, then stopped as its rear wheels sank into the sand. “Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t do this.”
    Face set into a mask of pleading, he put the transmission into drive and pressed down slowly on the gas pedal. The back wheels spun in the sand. “No!” Chris shouted. Goddamn it, was this nightmare ever going to end?!
    Easy, easy, he told himself. He felt a trickle of perspiration on his right cheek.
Just control yourself.
    Swallowing, he inched his foot down on the accelerator until the Pontiac began to move. He let it rock back and forth a few times, then pressed down harder on the gas pedal, groaning with relief as the car jumped forward. He turned back onto the dirt road, braked, then put the transmission into neutral and twisted around.
    About a hundred yards away, he saw the agent’s body still lying in the same twisted posture. He had to be dead now, had to be— Chris swallowed dryly; his throat felt parched. Well, he’d stop at a phone booth anyway and call the nearest hospital. Maybe there was still a chance of saving Nelson’s life.
    Why bother?
his mind demanded cruelly.
The bastard tried to murder you twice.
    “Oh, shut up; just shut up,” he told it angrily.
    Putting the transmission into drive again, he started for the highway.

9
    When he reached the highway six minutes later, he turned left without thinking. Then he began to wonder why he had. Was he going back to Tucson? His sigh was one of weary defeat. What difference did it make which way he went? They’d find him regardless.
    Not yet though, he thought. He wasn’t ready to give himself up right now. He had to stop somewhere, rest, try to think. “
Use your skills
,” he remembered his mother’s words. Analysis was one of them. He had to get off the road, lie down and rest, then
think
.
    A few miles down the highway, he came to a rest stop and pulled in. He stopped and got out, checking the contents of his right trouser pocket. Eighty cents. Enough for one call? Tucson wasn’t that far.
    First he went into the men’s bathroom and relieved himself, then washed off his face. There were no paper towels so he unrolled a handful of toilet paper to dry his face and hands.
    He went outside and walked toward the telephones, feeling a little dizzy in the bright sun. Should he just call the police and wait here for them to pick him up?
    No, his mind responded instantly. The way things were? The CIA after him? Nelson probably dead? Heroes didn’t surrender themselves anyway. They kept on going until—
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he muttered.
How many times do I have to tell you?
he demanded of his mind.
This isn’t a story, it’s reality!
    Reality
, he thought as he reached the telephones. Forget that, he thought. He didn’t want to get re-entangled in that web of thinking right now.
    Should he tell his mother?