Roadside Picnic

I ran across the backyard. I could hear my itcher working full blast. First all the dogs in the neighborhood started howling and barking—they sense the itcher before humans do. Then someone in the bar started yelling so loud that my ears clogged even at that distance. I could just see the crowd going wild in there—some fall into deep depression, others freak out, and some panic with fear. The itcher is a terrifying thing. Ernest will have a long wait before he can get a full house in his place again. The bastard will guess of course that it was me, but I don't give a damn. It's over. There is no more stalker named Red. I've had enough. Enough of risking my own life and teaching other fools how to risk theirs. You were wrong, Kirill, my old buddy. I'm sorry, but you were wrong and Gutalin was right. This was no place for humans. The Zone was evil.

I climbed over the fence and headed home. I was biting my lip. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. All I saw was emptiness and sadness. Kirill, my buddy, my only friend, how could it have happened? How will I get on without you? You painted vistas for me, about a new world, a changed world. And now what? Someone in far-off Russia will cry for you, but I can't. And it was all my fault. No one else but me, a good-for-nothing. How could I take him into the garage when his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark? I'd lived my whole life like a wolf, caring only about myself. And suddenly I decided to be a benefactor and give him a little present. Why the hell did I ever mention that empty to him? When I thought about it, I felt a pain in my throat and I wanted to howl. Maybe I did. People were avoiding me on the street. And then things got easier: I saw Guta coming.

She was coming toward me, my beauty, my darling girl, walking with her pretty little feet, her skirt swaying over her knees. Eyes followed her from every doorway. But she was walking a straight line, looking at no one, and I realized that she was looking for me.

"Hello,” I said. “Guta, where are you going?"

She took me in in one glance—my bashed-in face, my wet jacket, my scraped hands—but she didn't say a thing.

"Hello, Red. I was just coming to see you."

"I know. Let's go to my place."

She turned away and said nothing. Her head is so pretty on her long neck, like a young mare's, proud but submissive to her master.

"I don't know, Red. You may not want to see me any more."

My heart contracted. What now? But I spoke calmly.

"I don't understand what you're getting at, Guta. Forgive me, I'm a little drunk today, so I'm not thinking straight. Why wouldn't I want to see you any more?"

I took her hand and we walked slowly toward my place. Everybody who had been eyeing her before was hurrying to hide his mug now. I've lived on this street all my life and everybody knows Red very well. And anyone who doesn't will get to know me fast enough, and he can sense that.

"Mother wants me to have an abortion,” she said suddenly. “I don't want to."

I had walked several steps before I understood what she was saying.

"I don't want an abortion. I want to have your child. You can do what you want, go off to the four corners of the world. I won't keep you."

I listened to her and watched her get heated up. And I was feeling more and more stunned. I just couldn't make head or tail of it. There was this nonsensical thought buzzing in my head: one man less, one man more.

"She keeps telling me that a baby by a stalker will be a freak, that you're a wanderer, that we'll have no real family. Today you're free, tomorrow you're in jail. But I don't care, I'm ready for anything. I can do it alone. I'll have him alone, I'll raise him alone, and make him into a man alone. I can manage without you, too. But don't you come around to me any more. I won't let you through the door."

"Guta, my darling girl,” I said. “Wait a minute … ” I couldn't go on talking. A nervous, idiotic laugh was welling and breaking me up. “My honeypie, why are you chasing me away then?"

I was laughing like a village idiot, and she was bawling on my chest.

"What will happen to us now, Red?” she asked through her tears. “What will happen to us now?"

2. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 28, MARRIED, NO PERMANENT OCCUPATION

Redrick Schuhart lay behind a gravestone and looked at the road through a branch of the ash tree. The searchlights of the patrol car were combing the cemetery and once in a while one caught him in the eyes. Then he would squint and hold his breath.