Backteria and Other Improbable Tales

  Backteria

  And Other Improbable Tales

  Richard Matheson

  Copyright

  Backteria and Other Improbable Tales

  Copyright © 2011 by RXR, Inc.

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  “He Wanted to Live”, “Life Size”, “Man with a Club”, “Professor Fritz and the Runaway House”, “Purge Among Peanuts”, “The Prisoner”, “The Last Blah in the ETC”, “Counterfeit Bills”, “1984 ½” © 2008 by RXR, Inc. First published in Matheson Uncollected Volume One, Gauntlet Press.

  “Pride” © 2003 by Richard Matheson. First published in Pride, Gauntlet Press. “Now Die in It” © 1958 by Richard Matheson. First published in Mystery Tales “Leo Rising” © 1972 by Richard Matheson. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Where There’s a Will” © 1980 by Richard Matheson. First published in Dark Forces edited by Kirby McCauley, Viking Press. Written with Richard Christian Matheson

  “Getting Together” © 1986 by Richard Matheson. First published in Rod Serling’s The Twilight Magazine

  “Person to Person” © 1989 by Richard Matheson. First published in Rod Serling’s The Twilight Magazine

  “CU: Mannix” © 1991 by Richard Matheson. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Haircut” © 2006 by Richard Matheson. First published in Masques V, edited by J.N. Williamson & Gary Braunbeck, Gauntlet Press.

  “An Element Never Forgets” © 2010 by RXR, Inc. First published in Matheson Uncollected, Volume Two, Gauntlet Press

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher or the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Electronic editions published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795315824

  Contents

  Backteria

  He Wanted to Live

  Life Size

  Man with a Club

  Professor Fritz and the Runaway House

  Purge Among Peanuts

  The Prisoner

  The Last Blah in the ETC

  Counterfeit Bills

  1984 ½

  Pride

  Now Die In It

  Leo Rising

  Where There’s a Will (written with Richard Christian Matheson)

  Getting Together

  Person to Person

  CU: Mannix

  Haircut

  An Element Never Forgets

  BACKTERIA

  My name is Emery Wilson, PhD. I work for The Svennington Laboratory. What we do is locate, isolate and investigate exotic viruses and bacteria. Such as MY-7, a virus which causes night sweats, cramps and loss of memory. A portion of this extends unhappily to loss of identity.

  In the unhappy case of Arthur Bland this identity loss grew so severe that he not only forgot who he was but what he was. This resulted in a total lapse of human traits. Mr. Bland became convinced that he had become simian and insisted on living in a tree, sustaining his bodily well-being on a diet of bananas and leaves. This condition persisted until, during sleep one night, he fell from the tree and broke his neck, dying instantly. The autopsy revealed no more than the presence of MY-7 in his system.

  But that is not my account so I will not dwell on it. All I intended to transmit was the information regarding my profession. Such as the investigation of such bacteria as X9-1, which caused such an excessive loss of balance that most victims of its invasion kept falling on their heads, which resulted in a noticeable percentage of concussions. But, that too, is a different story albeit a sad one. What I mean to tell you is another one. A grim and dreadful one.

  Stanley Barenbaum, M.D. was rotund and worried. The rotund part was easy to see, visible to the eye. The worried part was more difficult. I had to surmise it. I was able to do this. Dr. Barenbaum had the expression of a man married to a sex-obsessed woman who, arriving home early one afternoon, sees his handsome brother-in-law’s red BMW convertible parked in the driveway of his home. Definitely apprehensive.

  “Good afternoon,” he muttered.

  I waved him to the chair opposite my desk. He sat down, tentatively, I thought, as though he was prepared to leap to his feet at a moments notice. His smile looked frozen to me.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer at first but drew in a deep draught of air through his nose. Then he said, “This virus. If that’s what it is. We aren’t certain what it is. We only know it exists. No, we don’t even know that for sure. We only know what we think it is and we’re not even certain of that. But we do believe it exists and we’re anxious to know –”

  At which point he ran out of breath and was compelled to inhale, wheezingly.

  “You have a specimen with you?” I asked, speaking quickly lest he interrupt me with another rant.

  “We sent it in several days ago,” he said, now sounding almost like a rational human being.

  “I haven’t seen it yet, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Have any of my associates given your office an analysis yet?”

  “No,” said Dr. Barenbaum. Whether in irritation or despair – or both – I couldn’t tell. Part was certainly despair. “We must ascertain what it is,” he said. Definitely despair.

  “What is it about this virus – if, indeed, it is a virus – that concerns you so?” I inquired.

  He didn’t answer. I sensed that he was loathe to do so.

  “Doctor?” I said.

  I hadn’t taken notice of his Adam’s apple. I did now as it dipped abruptly and the sound of his nervous swallow was clearly audible. “Please,” I said. By now my curiosity was piqued.

  “We refer to it as VD-1,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “I beg your pardon?” I responded; not sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “VD-1,” he told me again.

  “Oh,” I hesitated, then added, “Does that – stand for anything?”

  “It does,” he said. His voice was now thin and strengthless.

  “Which is?” I had to prompt him.

  He sucked in air.

  “Virtual Disappearance,” he said.

  Dead silence in my office. Was the man serious? Or was I the butt of some inner-office prank? How could I tell?

  I decided to pursue the matter. Barenbaum was a doctor wasn’t he? He seemed sincere enough. No point in dismissing the situation pro bonum. My mind doesn’t work that way.

  His rumination changed my mind in the silence.

  “I know this sounds improbable,” said Dr. Barenbaum. (I chose to leave his title unchallenged for the moment.)

  “Let me understand this,” I said, “You refer to disappearance. Do you mean that literally?”

  “I do,” said Barenbaum.

  “In what way?” I asked, I winced at the notion. “The dissolving of organs? Partial or total dissolution?”

  “No,” he said.

  “All right,” I went on. “What were the symptoms then? Sweats, dizziness, drowsiness, diarrhea, what?”

  “No,” he said.

  “For God’s sake, Dr. Barenbaum,” I protested, “What were the symptoms?”

  “I told you.” Now he sounded impatient.

  “You said –” I began.

  “I said disappearance,” he interrupted, “I mean total, absolute, complete disapp
earance.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re saying – !”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” He was furious now. “Don’t you comprehend English? Israel Kenshaw disappeared! Physically! Absolutely! In toto!”

  I comprehend English. I could not comprehend what he was talking about.

  “How did this occur?” I inquired. Quietly. Devoid of rancor. My way.

  “He went in the bathroom,” said Dr. Barenbaum. He actually gulped. “And vanished.”

  “You mean –?” I started.

  “I mean he vanished!” raged Dr. Barenbaum. “The bathroom door was opened after a while and he was gone! Disappeared!”

  I couldn’t accept his account: Not yet. There had to be some logic to it.

  “What about the window?” I queried. Surely that was an explanation.

  “It was locked,” he answered. He was getting tired of speaking to me now. “Anyway, it was too small. Mr. Kenshaw was, to be blunt, obese.”

  He leaned forward in the chair and spoke slowly and distinctly. For the last time, I sensed. “Mr. Kenshaw –”

  “Your patient,” I said.

  “My patient.” His voice was tight, almost threatening. “He went into the bathroom on the evening of the twenty-fifth…”

  “The twenty-fifth,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth. “He went in with a smile on his face.”

  Ah, I thought. A smile. Was that significant? I didn’t see how it could be but I was grasping at straws. How could we be talking about a virus now? Or for that matter, a bacteria?

  “I didn’t hear the rest of that, “I said. I hadn’t. “Would you repeat –?”

  “I said,” he declared, “– that Mr. Kenshaw had entered the bathroom –”

  “With a smile on his face,” I amended.

  “Yes!” he cried, “Which is hardly the point!”

  “Which is –?” I probed. I felt a need to challenge his account.

  “Which is,” he held on. “Mr. Kenshaw went into the bathroom – with a smile on his face –” he added tensely, “He locked the door. His wife heard him lock the door.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  He shuddered. With aggravation I believe. “An hour later, his wife, receiving no reply to her questions, had the door unlocked. Mr. Kenshaw was not in the bathroom. The bathroom was empty.”

  “And –?” I asked.

  “And?” he demanded.

  I was really grasping at straws by then. “Was there by any chance –” I suggested totally straw grasping now. “– any… well – ashes on the floor?” It was the only thing I could come up with as farfetched as it was. Spontaneous Combustion. I’d read about it. Somewhere.

  “What?” Barenbaum snapped.

  “No… smell of burning flesh in the air?” I asked.

  Teeth gritted again. He shook his head slowly. Very slowly.

  “And you – believe that – all this –” I didn’t know how else to put it. “Had some connection to the virus? The bacteria? whatever?”

  “I do,” he said. “What else –?”

  “You know, for a fact, that he’d been infected?” I broke in.

  “Of course I know! All my colleagues know! The blood test confirmed it!”

  “I see,” I nodded. Haplessly. “And you don’t think –” I broke off. I’d been about to ask him if he thought Mr. Kenshaw’s smile had anything to do with – no. That was ridiculous.

  “Well, it only remains for us to examine the specimen,” I told him. “See if there are any answers there.”

  “I would hope so,” said Barenbaum stiffly.

  “One more question,” I said. “Did Mr. Kenshaw display any peculiarities of behavior prior to his –?” Disappearance, I thought. I hadn’t the heart to say it aloud.

  “No, nothing,” Barenbaum answered.

  “Nothing at all?” I probed. “It might be evidential.”

  “Nothing.” he emphasized. “The usual.”

  “Such as –?” I re-probed. Wondering, to myself, why I didn’t just let go of the whole thing and concentrate on examination of the submitted specimen. Surely –

  “His job, his health, his childhood, his car –”

  “His childhood,” I thought. “Anything there?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Now will you –?”

  “Immediately,” I cut him off. “We’ll start the examination right away.”

  And start it we did. And discovered nothing pertinent. Unless establishing that it was definitely a bacteria bore any significance. We suspected that before we began the examination.

  But VD-1? Not scientifically acceptable a label. How were we supposed to identify it? The Smiling Germ? Suggested one of our jokester assistants. The Vanishing Cream? The Houdini Effecter? Each suggestion was more absurd then the previous one. Accordingly, we merely assigned it the name BU-1. Bacteria Unknown – one.

  Only one oddity emerged during the course of our study. One afternoon a thunderstorm caused a twenty minute discontinuation of our electric service. Much to our amazement, the bacteria sample on our electroscope glowed for a number of seconds, then disappeared from view. When the electricity was renewed, the electroscope plate was blank.

  By a distressing turn of events, BU-1, as we called it, began to spread in an alarming fashion, very soon taking on the threat of, first, an epidemic, then a pandemic. Newspaper and magazines were inundated with articles about the dire situation, most of them filled with conjecturing – most of it ridiculous – as to the possible meaning of the disappearance aspect.

  One particularly mystifying element to the entire enigma was the remarkable fact that many of the BU-1 victims – approximately thirty-five percent did not disappear at all but suffered a few days of elevated temperature and, on occasion, a minor attack of mental disorientation before eliminating the bacteria from their system.

  The remaining sixty-five percent vanished without a trace.

  Explanations failed to elucidate, in any way, the uncanny vanishments. (An ungrammatical labeling of the vanishings by the press.)

  The answer – such as it was – came to my attention, seven weeks from the outset of The Goodbye Plague as it was now called. This in the guise of Colonel Ula Vanderloop. Commandant of The Royal Dutch Retreat Corps. Colonel Vanderloop, in addition to his military status was a well-known medium and faith healer, having achieved his spiritual eminence mainly through his well-known psychic communications with Jack the Ripper who denied all culpability with the White Chapel atrocities, claiming that on all those occasions he was attending Christian Science lectures in Dover.

  Herewith, the details of my meeting with said Colonel Vanderloop. take it or leave it.

  “Doctor Wilson,” he began in a stentorian voice. Actually, he referred to me as “Docta Vilson” but we’ll let that go. Any attempt to literalize his speech would be counter-productive.

  He introduced himself as per my words, presenting his varied qualifications, both military and spiritual, in a high resonant manner.

  I waited for some cessation in his discourse, then asked him, politely of course, the reason for his visit. I wanted to ask why he was intruding on my busy afternoon but, again, politesse prevailed.

  At which, the Colonel imparted to me the reason for his visit. An impartation (if there is such a word; if not, there should be) which gave me a literal shock. To be truthful, it jolted me in my chair.

  “I have been in contact with Mr. Israel Kenshaw,” was what he told me.

  “You have –” I muttered incompletely. It was all I could say.

  “– been in contact with him, yes,” the Colonel completed. “You know about the man?”

  My lips stirred without sound. Then I managed, “I do.”

  “For how long?” he asked.

  “Long?” I said. I mumbled. “I never knew the man at all, only about him from Dr. Barenbaum.”

  “What I mean,” continued Vanderloop, “what period o
f time were you acquainted with this man before he passed?”

  “Passed,” I said. Sounding like a numbskull kindergartener. I felt like one.

  Obviously, the Colonel’s regard for me was equally low. “Yes, passes,” he said. “Passed on.” He waited for some sign of comprehension in my face. Not forthcoming. His porcine features stiffened. “Died,” he stated, obviously using a word anathema to him.

  My mouth positively fell open. “I didn’t know he had,” I told him. This was casting an entirely new light on the BU-1 mystery. The first evidence of fatality.

  Now Vanderloop’s look became one of amusement. “How droll,” he said. “Your Mr. Kenshaw was of an equal mind.”

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “He insisted that he didn’t know either.”

  “Know?” I said.

  “That he’d passed on, man!” The Colonel cried.

  “What did he think happened to him?” I asked. I really wondered.

  Vanderloop sighed audibly. I could sense that he was not accustomed to this variety of Q and A exchange. He was the sort of man who was used to holding forth, to explaining measuredly, in a word, pontificating.

  No point in my noting the bulk of our lengthy conversation. It went in circles, frustrating both of us.

  What finally did become established was that we had no idea whatever about the spiritual status of Israel Kenshaw. Was he a surviving disincarnate communicating with the living? Or was he living himself, intent on explaining what had ensued following his unforeseen disappearance?

  According to Kenshaw, he had traveled back in time to the year when he was ten years old, a particularly rewarding time of his life. His father was a forest ranger in Sequoia National Park and Kenshaw had been his dedicated “helper.” The home he lived in was forest enclosed. He was an only child. He had never been more content.

  Imagine his reaction then when, infected by BU-1, he vanished from his bathroom and found himself returned to that idyllic period of his childhood. Naturally there was the complication of his ten-year-old duplicate and his parents.

  Understandable consternation. But these drawbacks seemed of little import to Kenshaw. He seemed overwhelmed with joy, asked to be remembered to Bianca, his wife of nine years and his few friends, extending his wish that they, too, become infected with BU-1 and return to some longed-for time of their lives.