Backteria and Other Improbable Tales by Richard Matheson Page A

mouth fell open. Saliva ran across his chin and dripped onto the floor.
    “Well, well, well,” said the man, with an ugly smile. “So it got to you at last, haah?”
    He threw back his thick head and laughed. He laughed at the prisoner.
    “Hey, Mac,” he called. “Come ‘ere. This you gotta see.”
    More footsteps. The prisoner pushed up. He ran to the door.
    “What am I doing here?” he asked. “Why am I here?”
    The man laughed louder.
    “Ha!” he cried. “Boy, did you crack.”
    “Shut up, will ya?” growled a voice down the corridor.
    “Knock it off!” the guard yelled back.
    Mac came up to the cell. He was an older man with graying hair. He looked in curiously. He saw the white-faced prisoner clutching the bars and staring out. He saw how white the prisoner’s knuckles were.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Big boy has cracked,” said Charlie. “Big boy has cracked wide open.”
    “What are you talking about?” asked the prisoner, his eyes flitting from one guard’s face to the other. “Where am I? For God’s sake, where am I?”
    Charlie roared with laughter. Mac didn’t laugh. He looked closely at the prisoner. His eyes narrowed.
    “You know where you are, son,” he said quietly. “Stop laughing, Charlie.”
    Charlie sputtered down.
    “Man I can’t help it. This bastard was so sure he wouldn’t crack. Not
me
boy,” he mimicked. “I’ll sit in that goddamn chair with a smile on my face.”
    The prisoner’s grayish lips parted.
    “What?” he muttered. “What did you say?”
    Charlie turned away. He stretched and grimaced, pushed a hand into his paunch.
    “Woke me up,” he said.
    “What chair?” cried the prisoner. “What are you talking about?”
    Charlie’s stomach shook with laughter again.
    “Oh, Christ, this is rich,” he chuckled. “Richer than a Christmas cake.”
    Mac went up to the bars. He looked into the prisoner’s face. He said, “Don’t try to fool us, John Riley.”
    “Fool you?”
    The prisoner’s voice was incredulous. “What are you talking about? My name isn’t John Riley.”
    The two men looked at each other. They heard Charlie plodding down the corridor talking to himself in amusement.
    Mac turned aside.
    “No,” said the prisoner. “Don’t go away.”
    Mac turned back.
    “What are you trying to pull?” he asked, “You don’t think you’ll fool us, do you?”
    The prisoner stared.
    “Will you tell me where I am?” he asked. “For God’s sake, tell me.”
    “You know where you are.”
    “I tell you…”
    “Cut it, Riley!” commanded Mac. “You’re wasting your time.”
    “I’m not Riley!” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake, I’m not Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”
    Mac shook his head slowly.
    “And you was going to be so brave,” he said.
    The prisoner choked up. He looked as though he had a hundred things to say and they were all jumbled together in his throat.
    “You want to see the priest again?” asked Mac.
    “Again?” asked the prisoner.
    Mac stepped closer and looked into the cell.
    “Are you sick?” he asked.
    The prisoner didn’t answer. Mac looked at the tray.
    “You didn’t eat the food we brought,” he said. “You asked for it and we went to all that trouble and you didn’t eat it. Why not?”
    The prisoner looked at the tray, at Mac, then at the tray again. A sob broke in his chest.
    “What am I doing here?” he begged. “I’m not a criminal, I’m…”
    “Shut up for chrissake!” roared another prisoner.
    “All right, all right, pipe down,” Mac called down the corridor.
    “Whassa matter?” someone sneered. “Did big boy wet his pants?” Laughter. The prisoner looked at Mac.
    “Look, will you listen?” he said, the words trembling in his throat.
    Mac looked at him and shook his head slowly.
    “Never figured on this did you, Riley?” he said.
    “I’m not Riley!” cried the man. “My name is Johnson.”
    He pressed against the door, painful eagerness on his features.