Hunger and Thirst by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page B

No, it was out of the question. He tried to force the thought aside as one did when a thought seemed to have no weak point but must be shunted aside in its entirety lest it displace everything else.
    He pushed it aside. Scoffed at it. “Absurd”, he muttered defensively.
    Never mind, he argued, hadn’t he felt imperiled by death when he was in combat? It was a natural and predictable concomitant of frightening moments. But he hadn’t died in combat had he?
    How do you know? asked his inner mind. He pushed it aside weary of its roguish insertions.
    No, he hadn’t died than and he wasn’t going to die now either. Everyone was afraid of death, it didn’t mean a thing to be afraid of it. The thing that mattered was not bowing to the fear. He flung it aside. There’s nothing in
that
, he told himself and decided the issue was closed.
    There were other things. Admitted things. He
was
hungry and he
was
thirsty. Something had to be done about…
    His eyes turned as if on activated swivels.
    Well, of course.
    How could he have been so stupid? There was a glass almost three quarters filled with water. That was the answer right there. Nothing could be more obvious. Oh, it might not taste like water from a sparkling stream but what did that matter? He wasn’t sleeping at the Waldorf Astoria either. It was water, that was the essential point.
    And-of course!
    The candy bar. There it was all placed before him like the simple plan it was. What was there to fuss over? In the world of possibilities, one had come forward with simple tread.
    He had water, he had food.
    Now then.
    This condition couldn’t last indefinitely. He was convinced of it. It just didn’t make sense that it should. The body was a wonderful agency for self healing.
    All right, say it would last half a day. All right. Give it twenty-four hours at the outside.
    One day then. By then the shock would have worn off, nerve centers would have re-knit and he would get up and wash his face, enjoy his long-deferred washed face. That was all. No point in hysterics. Life was not a hysterical thing. Only the weaker minds made it so.
    But first he had to move his hand, his right hand. That was necessary at least. So he could get at the water and the candy.
    He tried to lift it.
    His eyes were fastened to the quivering arm. He watched the fingers tremble. He poured all the energy of his will into that arm. In ordinary circumstances, recited his mind, you could climb a tree or run a mile with all the energy you are piling into the lone flaccid arm.
    As he drove spurts of energy into it, he tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his back.
    Lift up!
    He closed his eyes as if conserving that effort required to hold up the lids might be just the added increment needed to raise his arm. He pulled and fought at it savagely, his mouth sagging open unheeded and breaths pulsing through the tooth cavity.
    Effort. More severe. His lips drew back from coated teeth. “Come
on
, come
on
!” He heard the voice grating in his mind. His legs were taut, so taut that he thought they would shatter like glass if struck with a hammer. He felt his bowels and glands like twisted balloons with hands dragging over them, squeaking the tight rubber, threatening to burst them. He saw with a glance that his penis was hardening again, completely without his voluntary effort. And he knew that strength was going and threw in every last reserve of power.
    His hand lifted from the bed.
    Up. Up. Slowly. Slowly now. He jerked open his eyes and watched it eagerly as if it were some separate creature, some fantastic Sandor performing an unbelievable feat of strength for him, sitting in the grandstand, enthralled. His face was tight and expectant, twisting and quivering emphatically with the performer.
    Get it up! That’s it, that’s it, you’ve got it, you’ve
got
it!
    He felt his mouth trembling violently, his eyes wide open and staring. There.
There!
His mind shrieked. You’re doing it!
You’re doing