have overturned. Goddamn it, what was wrong with that
son of a bitch? Mann honked his hom in frightened rage.
Cranking down the window suddenly, he shoved his left
arm out to wave the truck back. “Back!" he yelled. He
honked the hom again. “Get back, you crazy bastard!”
The truck was almost on him now. He’s going to kill
me! Mann thought, horrified. He honked the hom repeatedly, then had to use both hands to grip the steering wheel as he swept around another curve. He flashed a
look at the rearview mirror. He could see only the
bottom portion of the truck’s radiator grille. He was
going to lose control! He felt the rear wheels start to drift
and let up on the pedal quickly. The tire treads bit in, the
car leaped on, regaining its momentum.
Mann saw the bottom of the grade ahead, and in the
distance there was a building with a sign that read c h u c k ’s
c a f e . The truck was gaining ground again. This is insane!
he thought, enraged and terrified at once. The highway
straightened out. He floored the pedal: 74 now— 75.
Mann braced himself, trying to ease the car as far to the
right as possible.
Abruptly, he began to brake, then swerved to the right,
raking his car into the open area in front of the cafe. He
208
Richard Matheson
cried out as the car began to fishtail, then careened into a
skid. Steer with it! screamed a voice in his mind. The rear
of the car was lashing from side to side, tires spewing dirt
and raising clouds of dust. Mann pressed harder on the
brake pedal, turning further into the skid. The car began
to straighten out and he braked harder yet, conscious, on
the sides of his vision, of the truck and trailer roaring by
on the highway. He nearly sideswiped one of the cars
parked in front of the cafe, bounced and skidded by it,
going almost straight now. He jammed in the brake pedal
as hard as he could. The rear end broke to the right and
the car spun half around, sheering sideways to a neck-
wrenching halt thirty yards beyond the cafe.
Mann sat in pulsing silence, eyes closed. His heartbeats felt like club blows in his chest. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. If he were ever going to have a heart
attack, it would be now. After a while, he opened his eyes
and pressed his right palm against his chest. His heart
was still throbbing laboredly. No wonder, he thought. It
isn’t every day I’m almost murdered by a truck.
He raised the handle and pushed out the door, then
started forward, grunting in surprise as the safety belt
held him in place. Reaching down with shaking fingers,
he depressed the release button and pulled the ends of
the belt apart. He glanced at the cafe. What had its
patrons thought of his breakneck appearance? he wondered.
He stumbled as he walked to the front door of the cafe.
t r u c k e r s w e l c o m e , read a sign in the window. It gave
Mann a queasy feeling to see it. Shivering, he pulled
open the door and went inside, avoiding the sight of its
customers. He felt certain they were watching him, but
he didn’t have the strength to face their looks. Keeping
his gaze fixed straight ahead, he moved to the rear of the
cafe and opened the door marked g e n t s .
Moving to the sink, he twisted the right-hand faucet
and leaned over to cup cold water in his palms and
Duel
209
splash it on his face. There was a fluttering of his
stomach muscles he could not control.
Straightening up, he tugged down several towels from
their dispenser and patted them against his face, grimacing at the smell of the paper. Dropping the soggy towels into a wastebasket beside the sink, he regarded himself
in the wall mirror. Still with us, Mann, he thought. He
nodded, swallowing. Drawing out his metal comb, he
neatened his hair. You never know, he thought. You just
never know. You drift along, year after year, presuming
certain values to be fixed; like being able to drive on a
public thoroughfare without somebody trying to murder
you. You come to depend on that sort of thing. Then
something occurs and all bets are off. One shocking
incident and all the years of logic and acceptance are
displaced and, suddenly, the jungle is in front of you
again. Man, part animal, part angel. Where had he come
across that phrase? He shivered.
It was entirely an animal in that truck out there.
His breath was almost back to normal now. Mann
forced a smile at his reflection. All right, boy, he told
himself. It’s over now. It was a goddamned nightmare,
but it’s over. You are on your way to San Francisco.
You’ll get yourself a nice hotel room, order a bottle of
expensive Scotch, soak your body in a hot bath and
forget. Damn right, he thought. He turned and walked
out of the washroom.
He jolted to a halt, his breath cut off. Standing rooted,
heartbeat hammering at his chest, he gaped through the
front window of the cafe.
The truck and trailer were parked outside.
Mann stared at them in unbelieving shock. It wasn’t
possible. He’d seen them roaring by at top speed. The
driver had won; he’d won! He’d had the whole damn
highway to himself! Why had he turned back?
Mann looked around with sudden dread. There were
five men eating, three along the counter, two in booths.
210
Richard Matheson
He cursed himself for having failed to look at faces when
he’d entered. Now there was no way of knowing who it
was. Mann felt his legs begin to shake.
Abruptly, he walked to the nearest booth and slid in
clumsily behind the table. Now wait, he told himself; just
wait. Surely, he could tell which one it was. Masking his
face with the menu, he glanced across its top. Was it that
one in the khaki work shirt? Mann tried to see the man’s
hands but couldn’t. His gaze flicked nervously across the
room. Not that one in the suit, of course. Three remaining. That one in the front booth, square-faced, blackhaired? If only he could see the man’s hands, it might help. One of the two others at the counter? Mann studied
them uneasily. Why hadn’t he looked at faces when he’d
come in?
Now wait, he thought. Goddamn it, wait! All right, the
truck driver was in here. That didn’t automatically
signify that he meant to continue the insane duel.
Chuck’s Cafe might be the only place to eat for miles
around. It was lunchtime, wasn’t it? The truck driver had
probably intended to eat here all the time. He’d just been
moving too fast to pull into the parking lot before. So
he’d slowed down, turned around and driven back, that
was all. Mann forced himself to read the menu. Right, he
thought. No point in getting so rattled. Perhaps a beer
would help relax him.
The woman behind the counter came over and Mann
ordered a ham sandwich on rye toast and a bottle of
Coors.
As the woman turned away, he wondered, with a
sudden twinge of self-reproach, why he hadn’t simply left
the cafe, jumped into his car and sped away. He would
have known immediately, then, if the truck driver was
still out to get him. As it was, he’d have to suffer through
an entire meal to find out. He almost groaned at his
stupidity.
Still, what if the truck driver had followed him out and
started after him again? He’d have been right back where
he’d started. Even if he’d managed to get a good lead, the
Duel
211
truck driver would have overtaken him eventually. It just
wasn’t in him to drive at 80 and 90 miles an hour in
order to stay ahead. True, he might have been intercepted by a California Highway Patrol car. What if he weren’t though?
Mann repressed the plaguing thoughts. He tried to
calm himself. He looked deliberately at the four men.
Either of two seemed a likely possibility as the driver of
the truck: the square-faced one in the front booth and the
chunky one in the jumpsuit sitting at the counter. Mann
had an impulse to walk over to them and ask which one
it was, tell the man he was sorry he’d irritated him, tell
him anything to calm him, since, obviously, he wasn’t
rational, was a manic-depressive, probably. Maybe buy
the man a beer and sit with him awhile to try to settle
things.
He couldn’t move. What if the truck driver were
letting the whole thing drop? Mightn’t his approach rile
the man all over again? Mann felt drained by indecision.
He nodded weakly as the waitress set the sandwich and
the bottle in front of him. He took a swallow of the beer,
which made him cough. Was the truck driver amused by
the sound? Mann felt a stirring of resentment deep
inside himself. What right did that bastard have to
impose this torment on another human being? It was a
free country, wasn’t it? Damn it, he had every right to
pass the son of a bitch on a highway if he wanted to!
“Oh, hell,” he mumbled. He tried to feel amused. He
was making entirely too much of this. Wasn’t he? He
glanced at the pay telephone on the front wall. What was
to prevent him from calling the local police and telling
them the situation? But, then, he’d have to stay here, lose
time, make Forbes angry, probably lose the sale. And
what if the truck driver stayed to face them? Naturally,
he’d deny the whole thing. What if the police believed
him and didn’t do anything about it? After they’d gone,
the truck driver would undoubtedly take it out on him
again, only worse. God! Mann thought in agony.
212
Richard Matheson
The sandwich tasted flat, the beer unpleasantly sour.
Mann stared at the table as he ate. For God’s sake, why
was he just sitting here like this? He was a grown man,
wasn’t he? Why didn’t he settle this damn thing once and
for all?
His left hand twitched so unexpectedly, he spilled beer
on his trousers. The man in the jumpsuit had risen from
the counter and was strolling toward the front of the
cafe. Mann felt his heartbeat thumping as the man gave
money to the waitress, took his change and a toothpick
from the dispenser and went outside. Mann watched in
anxious silence.
The man did not get into the cab of the tanker truck.
It had to be the one in the front booth, then. His face
took form in Mann’s remembrance: square, with dark
eyes, dark hair, the man who’d tried to kill him.
Mann stood abruptly, letting impulse conquer fear.
Eyes fixed ahead, he started toward the entrance. Anything was preferable to sitting in that booth. He stopped by the cash register, conscious of the hitching of his chest
as he gulped in air. Was the man observing him? he
wondered. He swallowed, pulling out the clip of dollar
bills in his right-hand trouser pocket. He glanced toward
the waitress. Come on, he thought. He looked at his
check and, seeing the amount, reached shakily into his
trouser pocket for change. He heard a coin fall onto the
floor and roll away. Ignoring it, he dropped a dollar and a
quarter onto the counter and thrust the clip of bills into
his trouser pocket.
As he did, he heard the man in the front booth get up.
An icy shudder spasmed up his back. Turning quickly to
the door, he shoved it open, seeing, on the edges of his
vision, the square-faced man approach the cash register.
Lurching from the cafe, he started toward his car with
long strides. His mouth was dry again. The pounding of
his heart was painful in his chest.
Suddenly, he started running. He heard the cafe door
bang shut and fought away the urge to look across his
Duel
213
shoulder. Was that a sound of other running footsteps
now? Reaching his car, Mann yanked open the door and
jarred in awkwardly behind the steering wheel. He
reached into his trouser pocket for the keys and snatched
them out, almost dropping them. His hand was shaking
so badly he couldn’t get the ignition key into its slot. He
whined with mounting dread. Come on! he thought.
The key slid in, he twisted it convulsively. The motor
started and he raced it momentarily before jerking the
transmission shift to drive. Depressing the accelerator
pedal quickly, he raked the car around and steered it
toward the highway. From the corners of his eyes, he saw
the truck and trailer being backed away from the cafe.
Reaction burst inside him. “No!” he raged and
slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. This was
idiotic! Why the hell should he run away? His car slid
sideways to a rocking halt and, shouldering out the door,
he lurched to his feet and started toward the truck with
angry strides. All right, Jack, he thought. He glared at the
man inside the truck. You want to punch my nose, okay,
but no more goddamn tournament on the highway.
The truck began to pick up speed. Mann raised his
right arm. “Hey!” he yelled. He knew the driver saw him.
“Hey!” He started running as the truck kept moving,
engine grinding loudly. It was on the highway now. He
sprinted toward it with a sense of martyred outrage. The
driver shifted gears, the truck moved faster. “Stop!”
Mann shouted. “Damn it, stop!"
He thudded to a panting halt, staring at the truck as it
receded down the highway, moved around a hill and
disappeared. “You son of a bitch,” he muttered. “You
goddamn, miserable son of a bitch.”
He trudged back slowly to his car, trying to believe
that the truck driver had fled the hazard of a fistfight. It
was possible, of course, but, somehow, he could not
believe it.
He got into his car and was about to drive onto the
highway when he changed his mind and switched the
214
Richard M atheson
motor
off. That crazy bastard might just be tooling along
at 15 miles an hour, waiting for him to catch up. Nuts to
that, he thought. So he blew his schedule; screw it.
Forbes would have to wait, that was all. And if Forbes
didn’t care to wait, that was all right, too. He’d sit here
for a while and let the nut get out of range, let him think
he’d won the day. He grinned. You’re the bloody Red
Baron, Jack; you’ve shot me down. Now go to hell with
my sincerest compliments. He shook his head. Beyond
belief, he thought.
He really should have done this earlier, pulled over,
waited. Then the truck driver would have had to let it
pass. Or picked on someone else, the startling thought
occurred to him. Jesus, maybe that was how the crazy
bastard whiled away his work hours! Jesus Christ Almighty! was it possible?
He looked at the dashboard clock. It was just past
12:30. Wow, he thought. All that in less than an hour. He
shifted on the seat and stretched his legs out. Leaning
back against the door, he closed his eyes and mentally
perused the things he had to do tomorrow and the
following day. Today was shot to hell, as far as he could
see.
When he opened his eyes, afraid of drifting into sleep
and losing too much time, almost eleven minutes had
passed. The nut must be an ample distance off by now,
he thought; at least 11 miles and likely more, the way he
drove. Good enough. He wasn’t going to try to make San
Francisco on schedule now, anyway. He’d take it real
easy.
Mann adjusted his safety belt, switched on the motor,
tapped the transmission pointer into drive position and
pulled onto the highway, glancing back across his shoulder. Not a car in sight. Great day for driving. Everybody was staying at home. That nut must have a reputation
around here. When Crazy Jack is on the highway, lock
your car in the garage. Mann chuckled at the notion as
his car began to turn the curve ahead.
Duel
215
Mindless reflex drove his right foot down against the
brake pedal. Suddenly, his car had skidded to a halt and
he was staring down the highway. The truck and trailer
were parked on the shoulder less than 90 yards away.
Mann couldn’t seem to function. He knew his car was
blocking the westbound lane, knew that he should either
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 26
