Roadside Picnic

“No,” Burbridge said stubbornly. “You’ll get me out no matter what. The Golden Ball. Do you want me to tell you where it is?”

“Go ahead.”

Burbridge moaned and stirred.

“My legs… Feel how they are.”

Redrick reached out and moved his hand down his leg below the knee.

“The bones…” He moaned. “Are the bones still there?”

“They’re there. Stop fussing.”

“You’re lying. Why lie? You think I don’t know, I’ve never seen it happen?”

Actually all he could feel was the kneecap. Below, all the way to the ankle, the leg was like a rubber stick. You could tie knots in it.

“The knees are whole,” Red said.

“You’re probably lying,” Burbridge said sadly. “Well, all right. Just get me out. I’ll give you everything. The Golden Ball. I’ll draw you a map. Show you all the traps. I’ll tell you everything.”

He promised other things, too, but Redrick wasn’t listening. He was looking at the highway. The spotlights weren’t racing across the shrubbery any more. They were frozen. They converged on that obelisk. In the bright blue fog Redrick could see the bent black figure wandering among the crosses. The figure seemed to be moving blindly, straight into the lights. Redrick saw it bump into a huge cross, stumble, bump into the cross again, walk around it, and continue on, its arms outstretched before it, fingers spread wide. Then it suddenly disappeared, as though it fell underground; it surfaced a few seconds later, to the right and farther away, stepping with a bizarre, inhuman stubbornness, like a wind-up toy.

Suddenly the lights went out. The transmission squealed, the engine roared, and the blue and red signal lights showed through the shrubs. The patrol car tore away, accelerated wildly, and raced toward town. It disappeared behind the wall. Redrick gulped and unzipped his jump suit.

“They’ve gone away.” Burbridge muttered feverishly. “Red, let’s go. Hurry!” He shifted around, felt for and found his bag, and tried to get up. “Let’s go, what are you waiting for?”

Redrick was still looking toward the road. It was dark now, and nothing could be seen, but somewhere out there he was stalking, like an automaton, stumbling, falling, bumping into crosses, getting tangled in the shrubs.

“All right,” Red said out loud. “Let’s go.” He lifted Burbridge. The old man clamped onto his neck with his left hand. Redrick, unable to straighten up, crawled with him on all fours through the hole in the wall, grabbing the wet grass.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Burbridge whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the swag, I won’t let go. Come on!”

The path was familiar, but the wet grass was slippery, the ash branches whipped him in the face, the bulky old man was unbearably heavy, like a corpse, and the bag with the booty, clinking and clanging, kept getting caught, and he was afraid of running into him, who could be anywhere in the dark.

When they got out onto the highway, it was still dark, but you could tell that dawn was coming. In the little wood across the road, birds were making sleepy and uncertain noises, and the night gloom was turning blue over the black houses in the distant suburbs. There was a chilly damp breeze coming from there. Redrick put Burbridge on the shoulder of the road and like a big black spider scuttled across the road. He quickly found the jeep, swept off the branches from the hood and fenders, and drove out onto the asphalt without turning on the headlights. Burbridge was there, holding the bag in one hand and feeling his legs with the other.

“Hurry up! Hurry. My knees, I still have my knees. If only we could save my knees!”

Redrick picked him up, and gritting his teeth from the strain, shoved him over the side. Burbridge landed on the back seat and groaned. He hadn’t dropped the bag. Redrick picked up the lead-lined raincoat and covered him with it. Burbridge had even managed to get the coat out.

Redrick took out a flashlight and checked the shoulder for tracks. There weren’t too many traces. The jeep had flattened some of the tall grasses as it came onto the road, but the grass would stand up in a couple of hours. There were an enormous number of butts around the spot where the patrol car had parked. That reminded Redrick that he wanted a smoke. He lit one up, even though what he wanted more was to get the hell out of there and drive as fast as he could. But he couldn’t do that yet. Everything had to be done slowly and consciously.

“What’s the matter?” Burbridge whined from the car. “You haven’t spilled the water, and the fishing gear is dry. What are you waiting for? Come on, hide the swag!”

“Shut up! Don’t bug me! We’ll head for the southern suburbs.”

“What surburbs? Are you crazy? You’ll ruin my knees, you bastard! My knees!”

Redrick took a last drag and put the butt in his matchbox.

“Don’t be a jerk, Buzzard. We can’t go straight through town. There are three roadblocks. We’ll get stopped once for sure.”

“So what?”

“They’ll take one look at your feet and it’s curtains.”

“What about my legs? We were fishing, I hurt my legs, and that’s that.”

“And what if they feel your legs?”

“Feel them. I’ll yell so loud that they’ll never try feeling a leg again.”

But Redrick had already decided. He lifted the driver’s seat, flashing his light, opened a secret compartment, and said:

“Let me have the stuff.”

The gas tank under the seat was a dummy. Redrick took the bag and stuffed it inside, listening to the clinking and clanging in the bag.

“I can’t take any risks,” he muttered. “I don’t have the right.”

He put the cover back on, covered it up with rubbish and rags, and replaced the seat. Burbridge was moaning and groaning, begging him to hurry, and promising him the Golden Ball again. He twisted and shifted in his seat, staring anxiously into the growing light. Redrick paid no attention to him. He tore open the plastic bag of water with the fish in it, poured out the water over the fishing gear, and put the flopping fish into the basket. He folded up the plastic bag and put it in his pocket. Now everything was in order. Two fishermen coming back from a not very successful trip. He got behind the wheel and started the car.

He drove all the way to the turn without putting on the lights. The vast ten-foot wall stretched to the left of them, hemming in the Zone, and on their right there were occasional abandoned cottages, with boarded windows and peeling paint. Redrick could see well in the dark, and it wasn’t that dark any more anyway, and besides, he knew that it was coming. So when the bent figure, striding rhythmically, appeared before the car, he didn’t even slow down. He hunched over the wheel. He was walking in the middle of the road—like all of them, he was headed for town. Redrick passed him from the left and speeded up.

“Mother of God!” Burbridge muttered in the back seat. “Red, did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“God! That’s all we need!” Suddenly Burbridge broke into a loud prayer.

“Shut up!” Redrick shouted at him.

The turn should have been right around there somewhere. Redrick slowed down, staring at the row of sinking houses and fences on the right. The old transformer hut, the pole with the supports, the rotting bridge over the culvert. Redrick turned the wheel. The car tossed and turned.

“Where are you going?” Burbridge wailed. “You’ll ruin my legs, you bastard!”

Redrick turned around for a second and slapped the old man’s face, feeling his prickly stubbled cheek. Burbridge sputtered and fell silent. The car was bouncing and the wheels slipped in the fresh mud from last night’s rain. Redrick turned on the lights. The white bouncing light illuminated overgrown old ruts, huge puddles, and rotten, leaning fences. Burbridge was crying, sobbing, and snuffling. He wasn’t promising anything any more. He was complaining and threatening, but in a very quiet and indistinct voice, so that Redrick heard only isolated words. Something about legs, knees, and his darling Archie. Then he shut up.

The village stretched along the western edge of the city. There once had been summer houses, gardens, orchards, and the summer villas of the city fathers and plant directors. Green, pleasant places with small lakes and