Roadside Picnic

Two hours had passed and things were still the same on the road. The car was still parked, its motor throbbing evenly, and kept scanning with its three searchlights the rundown graves, the lopsided, rusty crosses and headstones, the overgrown bushy ash trees, and the crest of the ten-foot-thick wall that broke off on the left. The border patrol guards were afraid of the Zone. They didn't even get out of the car. Near the cemetery, they were even too scared to shoot. Redrick could hear their lowered voices once in a while, and once in a while he could see the light of a cigarette butt fly out of the car window and roll down the highway, skipping along and scattering weak red sparks. It was very damp, it had just rained, and Redrick could feel the dank cold through his waterproof jumpsuit.

He carefully released the branch, turned his head, and listened. Somewhere to the right, not too far, but not too close either, there was someone else in the cemetery. The leaves rustled there once more and soil crumbled, and then there was the soft thud of something hard and heavy falling. Redrick started crawling backward, carefully and without turning around, hugging the wet grass. The beam of light swung over his head. He froze, following its silent movement, and he thought he saw a man in black sitting motionless on a grave between the crosses. He was sitting there openly, leaning against a marble obelisk, turning his white face with its black sunken holes toward Redrick. Actually Redrick did not see him clearly, nor was it possible in the split second he had, but he filled in the details with his imagination. He crawled away a few more steps and felt for his flask inside his jacket. He pulled it out and lay with its warm metal against his cheek for a while. Then still holding onto the flask, he crawled on. He stopped listening and looking around.

There was a break in the wall and Burbridge was lying there in a lead-lined raincoat with a bullet hole in it. He was still on his back, pulling at the collar of his sweater with both hands and moaning painfully. Redrick sat next to him and unscrewed the flask's cap. He carefully held Burbridge's head, feeling the hot, sticky, sweaty bald spot with his palm, and brought the flask to the old man's lips. It was dark, but in the weak reflections of the searchlights Redrick could see Burbridge's wide-open, glassy eyes and the dark stubble that covered his cheeks. Burbridge greedily took several gulps and then nervously felt for his sack with the swag.

"You came back … Good fellow … Red. You won't leave an old man to die."

Redrick threw back his head and took a deep swallow.

"It's still there. Like it was nailed to the highway."

"It's no accident,” Burbridge said. He spoke in spurts, on the exhale. “Someone must have squealed. They're waiting for us."

"Maybe,” said Redrick. “Want another swallow?"

"No. That's enough for now. Don't abandon me. If you don't leave me, I won't die. You won't be sorry. You won't leave me, will you? Red?"

Redrick did not answer. He was looking over at the highway and the flashes of light. He could see the marble obelisk, but he couldn't tell if he was sitting there or not.

"Listen, Red. I'm not fooling. You won't be sorry. Do you know why old Burbridge is still alive? Do you know? Bob the Gorilla blew it. Pharaoh the Banker kicked the bucket. And what a stalker he was! And he was killed. Slimy, too. And Norman Four-Eyes. Culligan. Pete the Scab. All of them. I'm the only who's survived. Why? Do you know?"

"You were always a rat,” said Red, never taking his eyes off the road. “A son of a bitch."

"A rat. That's true. You can't get by without being one. But all of them were. Pharaoh. Slimy. But I'm the only one left. Do you know why?"

"I know,” said Red to end the conversation.

"You're lying. You don't know. Have you heard about the Golden Ball?"

"Yes."

"You think it's a fairy tale?"

"You'd better keep quiet. Save your strength."

"It's all right. You'll carry me out. We've gone to the Zone so many times. Could you abandon me? I knew you when. You were so small. Your father … "

Redrick said nothing. He wanted a cigarette badly. He took one out, crumpled the tobacco in his hand, and sniffed it. It didn't help. “You have to get me out. I got burned because of you. You're the one who wouldn't take the Maltese."

The Maltese was itching to go with them. He had treated them all evening, offering a good percentage, swore that he would get a special suit, and Burbridge, who was sitting next to him, kept winking to Red behind his leathery hand. Let's take him, we won't go wrong. Maybe that was why Red said no.

"You got it because you were greedy,” Red said coldly. “I had nothing to do with it. You'd better be quiet."

For a while, Burbridge moaned. He had his fingers in his collar again and his head was thrown back.

"You can have all the swag,” he gasped. “Just don't leave me."