Roadside Picnic

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 clean sandy beaches, translucent birch groves, and ponds stocked with carp. The stink and pollution from the plant never reached this verdant glade—nor did the city plumbing system.

But now everything here was abandoned and they passed only one inhabited house—the window shone yellow through the drawn blinds, the wash on the line was wet from the rain, and a huge dog rushed out at them furiously and chased the car through the mud thrown up by the wheels.