Matheson, Richard - The Incredible Shrinking Man by Matheson Richard

Author:Matheson, Richard [Matheson, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction, Adventure, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, American, Horror tales, American Horror Fiction, Fiction - Horror, Family Life, Horror fiction, Horror - General
ISBN: 9780765361165
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

When he saw the spider walking on the wall across from him, he reared up suddenly and fired the rock at it with all his might. Fantastically the rock had pinned one of the spider's black legs to the wall and it had fled, leaving the leg behind. Scott had stood in front of the wall watching the leg twitch like a living hair. And, blank-faced, he'd thought, Someday my leg will be that small.

It had been impossible to believe.

But now his leg was that small, and the insane descent of his existence was bearing down toward inevitable conclusion.

He wondered what would happen if he died now. Would his body keep shrinking? Or would the process cease? Surely it could not go on if he were dead.

Far across the floor, the oil burner began its hurricane roar again, shaking the air with deafening vibrations. With a moan he pressed his hands over his ears and lay there shivering without control, feeling as if he were in a buried coffin while an earthquake shook the cemetery.

"Leave me alone," he muttered feebly. "Leave me alone." He drew in a whining breath. His eyes closed.

He twitched, woke.

The oil burner still roared. Was it the same roaring on which he had closed his eyes? Had seconds passed, or hours?

He sat up slowly, lightheaded and shaking. He lifted a trembling hand and touched his forehead. It was still hot. He rubbed the hand across his face, groaning deeply. Oh, God, I'm sick.

Weakly he pushed himself to the rim of the sponge and slid over the edge. His grip was so weak that it broke instantly and he thudded down on his feet, sitting down heavily with a startled grunt.

He sat on the cold cement a long moment, blinking, his torso weaving. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He tried to stand up. He had to lean against the sponge. Breath came from his nostrils in short, hot bursts. He swallowed. I need water. Tears ran down his cheeks. There was no water he could get. He hit the sponge with an impotent fist.

After a few minutes he stopped crying and, turning slowly, stumbled through the darkness until he collided with the box-top wall. It knocked him down. Muttering, he crawled to the box-top side again and, lifting it first with his hands and then with his back, he squeezed out from under.

It was like crawling into a refrigerator. A shudder rippled down his back. He stood up and leaned back against the box top.

It was afternoon; he had slept. Rays of sunlight were visible through the window over the log pile, the window that faced south. Two, three o'clock, he estimated. Another day was half gone; more than half.

He spun around and drove a strength less punch into the cardboard wall. Pain stung his knuckles. He hit again. Damn you! He leaned his head against the side and rained in enervated blows, feeling the impact of each one leap up his arms, across his shoulders, down his back.

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