Hunger and Thirst by Richard Matheson

his stinger. The bee kept on flying, its whirring wings carrying it into him until it had buried not only its stinger in his back but its entire hot, buzzing body.
    He staggered as he turned the window corner and started up Third Avenue. At the corner he turned again and his long shaking legs carried him up the dark street. Wild excitement shook his heart and his limbs.
    His shoulder felt numb for half a block, he was too excited to feel anything. But then, as he kept running, it began to burn and he felt his body twitch with a sudden knifing of pain.
    He kept running. No one chased him and there were no shouts behind him. He couldn’t understand that. He kept running, his hands still in his coat pockets clutching the bills and the knife.
    The night swept by him, dark wavering buildings rearing up and jumping past, the black sky rolling overhead like a stage backdrop on rollers. The pain in his back flared up once more, getting worse and his left leg almost buckled. A streak of red-hot pain gouged the flesh all the way down to the ankle. It felt as if someone had pressed the end of a redhot branding iron against his leg and drawn it down quickly.
    It was like running in a dream. The city moved by him and yet seemed to bring him no closer to his room. He felt the air scorching down his throat as he sucked it in. His hat almost flew off and when he threw up his right arm to catch it, he almost screamed at the nerve-searing pain. He felt a stitch in his right side.
    People watched him run. He paid no attention to them. It was only when he saw a policeman at one corner that he slowed down and, gasping for breath, walked slowly by him. He wondered if there were any blood on the back of his coat. His heart throbbed like a bat struggling to free itself, as he walked past the policeman.
    Oh God, if he should stop me, he thought. And his legs trembled and he thought he was going to fall down. He tried not to grimace at the awful white pain in his shoulder that was like a ripple slowly spreading and encompassing his entire body. He tried not to whimper as he walked. He tried to force himself to think of the money he had now and the freedom.
    I’ll get this thing fixed tomorrow, he planned. It’s just a flesh wound as the hero always says. There are doctors who will fix it. There are plenty of them who’ll do anything for money. Then he wondered if it were true or if he had imagined it because he’d seen it in a movie. And he worried that he wouldn’t have enough money to get the wound fixed much less have enough to get out of town.
    Sure you will, he told himself, you have plenty of money. I saw twenties in that pile you got. He wanted to take the money out and see. But he didn’t dare.
    Then the pain drove away all thoughts. He bit his lower lip to keep from screaming out. I’ll get it fixed and I’ll get out of here, he insisted to himself. I’ll do it, I’ll do it, Oh God!
    The house.
    It seemed to have sprung up from the dark earth. He groaned, suddenly thinking about the three long, slanted flights of stairs he had to climb.
    He stood at the bottom looking up in terror. Suppose he couldn’t make it? Suppose he fainted and they found him unconscious on the stairs and took his money?
    No!
He hadn’t gone through all this just to give up now. He’d get up those stairs. There wasn’t a power on Earth that could stop him.
    He started up.
    Every step was an agony that shot twisting bolts of pain through him. With every step, he felt certain that he was about to collapse and roll back down the stairs. He gripped the bannister frenziedly and held on until his palms hurt. Then, after hesitating a moment, he started up again.
    He reached the second floor and stumbled around the landing and started up again.
    The stairs creaked and groaned and whispered under his awkward, unsteady feet. Oh God, don’t let anyone see me, he begged without knowing who he was begging. He pulled himself up, using his arms and wrists more than his