7 Steps to Midnight by Richard Matheson

bus, eyes closed. Scotty Tensdale’s car was parked by the terminal in Yuma. Hopefully, Scotty would get it back in a few days; by the time Chris was in London.
    London, he thought. For God’s sake,
London
. He’d thought of flying there a hundred times but never under these circumstances.
    He’d tried to settle down his brain and take a nap. It didn’t work. The sleep ritual at home was too entrenched in his system—a long, hot shower, a good, brain-relaxing read and, presently, unconsciousness for several hours.
    The back seat of a bus just didn’t make it.
    He opened his eyes and looked out at the passing desert.
Déjà vu
, he thought. It was the same view he’d seen from Scotty Tensdale’s car early this morning—the silver-cast sand, the dark forms of cactus and desert trees.
    Was he really going to get on that plane and fly to London?
    He couldn’t make up his mind just yet. He was en route to Los Angeles. That was enough for now. Maybe by the time he arrived in Inglewood, he’d have made his decision.
    Not that he had a hell of a lot of options. Hand himself in?—that seemed a really bad idea now. Go into hiding—how long would that last if the CIA was onto him?
    It had to be the project, he realized.
    He found himself nodding. Had to be. It was the only thing that made him special enough to warrant all this attention.
    The project was important, there was no doubt of that. To the Pentagon. To national security. If he could solve the problem, God only knows what international ramifications would take place. He’d never really thought about the significance of what he did at Palladian. It had been just a tedious job.
    But it was obviously a lot more than that and he was thinking about it now.
    Small wonder he’d dreamed about directing numbers in a play. A play whose set had a clock on the wall. Time was running out, Wilson had been clear enough on that.
Chris, we need that answer.
He sighed and closed his eyes again.
Well, you weren’t getting that answer from my flagging brain
, he thought.
And God knows you’re not going to get it now.
    He opened his eyes as the bus began to slow down.
    For a few moments, he stared blankly at the flashing red light ahead.
    Then a hand, invisible and cold, slid in between his ribs and got a good hold on his heart. He felt it starting to squeeze, felt his heart straining to beat against the pressure. Dear God, he thought. All his thoughts and plans were pointless now.
    He couldn’t seem to fill his lungs with air as the bus drew closer to the highway patrol car blocking the lane.
They’ve got me
, he thought.
It’s done.
    He looked around in sudden desperation. No way out. He felt sick with fear. Where would they take him? To highway patrol headquarters? CIA headquarters?
    Or were they working in league with Meehan? Would they simply drive him into the desert and put a bullet in his brain?
    He flinched and stiffened as the bus braked and the front door opened with a hydraulic hiss.

11
    A pair of highway patrolmen came on board and spoke softly to the driver. Chris saw the driver start to look back into the bus. One of the patrolmen said something quickly to him and he turned to the front again.
    Chris felt himself pressing back against the seat. There was a throbbing sensation in his right temple that felt like the ticking of a clock. Is all of this really happening? he thought. It seemed unreal and dreamlike.
    The two patrolmen started moving up the aisle, checking the seats on either side. There were seventeen passengers; Chris’s eyes counted them in a glance. How long would it take them to reach him? What would they say?
You’re under arrest?
Would they draw their pistols? He stiffened.
    Would they shoot him?
    A shiver made his shoulders jerk. They could if they chose to, if they had orders to do it.
He killed a government agent in Tucson this morning
, he heard one of them report.
We had no choice.
    He closed his eyes and waited. He was trapped.
    A sudden