One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury Page B

wonder why I came?” said Clayton at last.
    Gomez shrugged. “I slept well last night.”
    â€œI like lonely places. They tell you more about life than cities. You can lift things and look under and no one watching so you feel self-conscious.”
    â€œWe have a saying,” said Gomez. “Where all is emptiness, there is room to move. Let us move.”
    And before Clayton could speak, Gomez strode quietly with his long thick legs and his great body out to the Jeep, where he stared down at the great litter of bags and their labels.
    His lips spelled out the words:
    â€œLife.” He glanced at Clayton. “Even I have heard of that. In town I do not look left or right or listen to those radios in shops or the bar I know before my trip back with supplies. But I have seen that name on the big magazine. Life? ”
    Clayton nodded sheepishly.
    Gomez scowled as he stared hard down at many black shiny metal objects.
    â€œCameras?”
    Clayton nodded.
    â€œJust lying there, open. You did not drive with them so, surely?”
    â€œI opened them outside town,” said Clayton. “To take pictures.”
    â€œOf what?” said Gomez. “Why would a young man leave all things to come where there is nothing, nada , to take pictures of a graveyard? You’re here to see more than this place,” said Gomez.
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œThe way you slap at flies that are not there. You cannot stand quietly. You watch the sky. Señor, the sun will go down without your help. Do you have an appointment? You have a camera but have not used it. Are you waiting for something better than my tequila?”
    â€œI …” said Clayton
    And then it happened.
    Gomez froze. He listened and turned his head toward the hills. “What’s that?”
    Clayton said nothing.
    â€œDo you hear? Something?” said Gomez, and leaped to the bottom of an outside staircase that rose to the top of a low building, where he scowled off at the hills, shielding his eyes.
    â€œOn the road, there, where no cars have been in years. What?”
    Clayton’s face colored. He hesitated.
    Gomez yelled down at him. “Your friends?”
    Clayton shook his head.
    â€œYour enemies?” said Gomez.
    Clayton nodded.
    â€œWith cameras?” Gomez exclaimed.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSpeak up!”
    â€œYes!” Clayton said.
    â€œComing for the same reason you have come, yet have not told me why?” Gomez cried, staring at the hills and hearing the sound of motors that rose and fell in the wind.
    â€œI got a head start on them,” said Clayton. “I—”
    At which moment with a great razor of sound that cut the sky in half, a squadron of jets shrieked over Santo Domingo. From them, great clouds of white paper fell in blizzards. Gomez, with a maniac stare, swayed at the bottom of the steps.
    â€œWait!” he cried. “What the hell!”
    Like a white dove, one of the pamphlets fell into his hands, which he dropped, repelled. Clayton stared at the litter at his feet.
    â€œRead!” said Gomez.
    Clayton hesitated. “It’s in both languages,” he said.
    â€œRead!” Gomez ordered.
    Clayton retrieved one of the pamphlets. And the words were these:
    SECOND NOTICE
    THE TOWN OF SANTO DOMINGO WILL BE PHOTO-
ATTACKED SHORTLY AFTER NOON JULY 13TH. WE
HAVE GOVERNMENT ASSURANCE THAT THE TOWN IS
EVACUATED. THAT BEING SO, AT ONE FORTY-FIVE
PROMPTLY, THE FILMING OF PANCHO! BEGINS.
    STERLING HUNT
    DIRECTOR
    Â 
    â€œAttacked?” said Gomez, stunned. “ Pancho? A director of films? California, a Hispanic state, dares bomb Santo Domingo? Gah!” Gomez ripped the pamphlet in half and then quarters. “There will be no attack! Manuel Ortiz Gonzales Gomez tells you this. Come back and see.”
    Gomez shook long after the thunders left the sky. Then he struck a glare at Clayton and lurched into action. He lumbered across the plaza