I Saw a Pedestrian by Ray Bradbury

At eight o'clock in the evening on a foggy November night, Mr. Leonard Mead loved nothing more than to step out into the city's silence, walk along the uneven concrete path, step over grassy patches, and make his way through the silences with his hands in his pockets. He would stand at the corner of an intersection and look down long, moonlit avenues of pavement in all four directions, trying to decide which way to go. But it didn't matter; he was alone in the world of 2053, or almost alone. Once he made up his mind, he would walk off, leaving behind him patterns of frosty air that looked like cigar smoke. He would sometimes walk for hours and miles and not get back to his house until after midnight. Along the way, he would see houses and homes with dark windows. It was a bit like going through a graveyard where the only light coming from fireflies was in flickering patterns behind the windows. There were sudden grey ghosts that seemed to appear on the walls of rooms where the curtains were still open at night, or there were murmurings and whispers where a window in a building that looked like a tomb was still open. Without making a sound, Mr. Leonard Mead would stop, tilt his head, listen, look, and then walk on. He had wisely switched to trainers a long time ago when going for a walk at night because the dogs would bark at him in groups if he wore heels. Also, lights might flash and faces might appear, and the passing of a single figure in the early November evening would scare the whole street. His trip began that evening in a westerly direction, towards the hidden sea. A good crystal frost filled the air, which cut the nose and made the lungs burn like a Christmas tree inside. You could feel the cold light going on and off, and all the branches were covered in snow that you couldn't see. He enjoyed hearing the soft stomping of his shoes on the fall leaves and whistled a cold, quiet tune between his teeth. As he walked, he picked up a leaf every once in a while, to look at its skeletal pattern in the dim lamplight and smell its rusty smell. "Hello, in there," he said in a low voice to each house as he moved. "What's on Channel 4, Channel 7, or Channel 9 tonight?" Where are the cowboys running? Can I see the US Cavalry coming over the next hill to help?" The street was long, quiet, and empty. His shadow moved across it like a hawk's shadow in the middle of the country. Imagine being in the middle of a plain in the middle of a winter, windless Arizona desert with no houses for a thousand miles and only dry river beds, or streets, for company. He could close his eyes and imagine himself there. He looked at his watch and asked the houses, "What time is it now?" "8:30 p.m.? Is it time for a dozen different murders? Tests? A review? A comic getting knocked off?" Was that laughter coming from inside a moon-white house? He thought for a moment and then went on when nothing else happened. He tripped over a particularly rough patch of pavement. The asphalt was going away because of the grass and flowers. He walked thousands of miles every day for ten years and had never met another walker. He got to a cloverleaf crossroads where two major motorways crossed the town. It was quiet there. The petrol stations were open during the day, and there was a loud roar of cars. There was also a lot of rustle and shoving for position as the scarab-beetles drove home to the faraway directions, sending a slight scent of incense. But now these roads were like streams when it's dry outside; they were all stone, bed, and light. He turned around on a side street and went back to his house. A single car suddenly hit a comer and flashed a bright white light at him. He was only a block away from his location. Like a night moth, he stood there entranced, stunned by the light and then pulled towards it. He was told to "stand still" by a metal voice. Don't move! Do not move!" He stopped. "Put up your hands!" "But-" he began. "Raise your hands!" If not, we'll shoot!" The cops, of course, but what an amazing and rare sight! In a city of three million people, there was only one police car left, right? The force has been cut from three cars to one since 2052, which was an election year. Crime was going down, so the cops weren't needed anymore. The only thing that was missing was one car that was driving around aimlessly in the empty streets. "Your name?" the police car asked in a low, metal voice. Because his eyes were so bright, he couldn't see the guys in it. "Leonard Mead," he replied. "Speak up!" "Leonard Mead!" "Business or profession?" "I guess you'd call me a writer." "No profession," the police car said, as if it were speaking to itself. The light held him still, like a corpse in a museum with a needle stuck through its chest. Mr. Mead said, "You could say that." He hadn't written in a long time. Books and magazines were no longer selling. Everything happened in the tomb-like homes at night now, he thought, his fancy still going strong. The TV lights made the tombs dark, and the people who sat there looked like the dead. The grey or multicoloured lights touched their faces but never really touched them. It hissed, "No profession," the gramophone voice said. "What are you doing out?" "Walking," Leonard Mead said. "Walking!" He just said, "Just walking," but his face was cold. "Walking, just walking, walking?" "Yes, sir." "Walking where? For what?" "Walking to get air. Taking a walk to see. "Your address!" "Eleven South Saint James Street." "And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?" "Yes." "And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?" "No." "No?" It was so quiet that it was an experience in and of itself. "Are you married, Mr. Mead?" "No." "Not married," the cop voice behind the laser said. The moon was high and clear among the stars, and it was grey and quiet inside the house. "Nobody wanted me," Leonard Mead said with a grin. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to!" Leonard Mead stood outside in the cold night. Are you just walking, Mr. Mead?" "Yes." That being said, you haven't said why. "I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk." "Have you done this often?" "Every night for years." The police car was in the middle of the street and the radio was almost whistling. It said, "Well, Mr. Mead." Kindly, he asked, "Is that all?" "Yes," the voice replied. "Here." A sigh and a pop were heard. The police car's back door opened all the way. "Get in." "Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!" "Get in." "I protest!" "Mr. Mead." In an instant, he walked like he was drunk. He looked in the car's front window as he walked by. As he had thought, there was no one in the front seat or the car at all. "Get in." He put his hand on the door and looked into the back seat. There was a small cell with bars of black metal. It had a steely smell to it. It smelt like strong detergent; it was too clean, crisp, and metal. There was nothing soft there. "Now if you had a wife to help you out," the harsh voice said. "But-" "Where are you taking me?" The car paused or rather made a slight buzzing sound, as if information were falling across the electric eyes one punch-slotted card at a time. "To the Psychiatric Centre for Research on Regressive Tendencies." He got in. It was a soft thud as the door shut. The police car drove through the dark streets, flashing its dim lights in front of it. Soon after, they came across a house on a street. It was one of many dark houses in the city, but all of its electric lights were on, giving each window a bright yellow glow that made the square, warm light stand out in the cool darkness. Leonard Mead said, "That's my house." Not one answer The car drove down the empty streets that ran along the riverbed and off into the distance. The streets and pavements were left empty, and there was no sound or movement for the rest of the cold night. November night.