THE HIBERNATION OF

BERTRAM BUGGER

FRED SHROYER

From FANTASY DIGEST Summer 1940

When Bertram Bugger, who was a drunkard, and as is often the case, a poet and philosopher, also, picked up his morning paper and read in the large headlines "US TO MOBILIZE" he promptly resorted to philosophy. As he read further and learned that he, along with others of his age group be be drafted in the near future he threw the paper to the oak floor of his untidy, bottle-strewn apartment, and decided quite definitely that he was NOT going to fight.

Realizing that he must think this situation thru in the philosophical manner, he decided not to report at the office of the Zenith Advertising Agency, where he was employed as a caption writer, but to remain at home, and devote the day to thinking, aided, of course, by a bottle of Scotch.

Some hours later, having consumed the better part of a bottle of the beloved liquor, he arrived at a definite sloution of his problem. He had started with the axiom: I will NOT fight. Having established this point, he had spent the rest of the time in alternate drinking and thinking of means whereby he might evade the inevitable governmental pressure that would be used to force his enlistment. The solution had come in a flash of inspiration. Later he remembered that it had undoubtedly been inspired by the calendar picture of a bear that hung on the wall.

When bears are faced with an uncomfortable situation like winter, he asked himself, what do they do?

They hibernate, of course, he triumphantly answered. It was all quite simple. He would hibernate too!

By the time he had gone to the bank and withdrawn his savings-------a few thousand dollars inherited from his aunt he had arrived at a plan of hibernation which he felt would be eminently satisfactory for an individual of his temperament. Several hundred miles from the city, on a plot of land which, like his money, had been inherited from his aunt, he began preparations for his project. First, a 100 foot shaft was sunk in the midst of a small grove of trees. He told the workmen, mostly farmers from the surrounding countryside, he intended to study the habits of the Talpidae, or ground moles and that a thorough study of these interesting creatures necessitated an underground room connected with the surface by a connecting shaft. After this explanation, they asked no more questions, tho at times when his back was turned, they indulged in a certain circular motion with their forefinger. It was all quite clear to them. Mr. Bugger was nuts, but, what the hell, if he was willing to spend good cash to indulge his madness, they wouldn't complain.

After the passing of several weeks, the project neared completion. Bertram stood in the underground room and surveyed it with satisfaction. The noon sun which hovered almost directly over the shaft, illuminated the cell with a disc of light and that, augmented by the flashlight he carried, gave him sufficient light for his inspection. It gave him a sense of security to know that the walls were backed by three feet of brick and that the ceiling, six feet from the concrete floor, was heavily braced by iron girders.

That afternoon, Bugger went to the city to purchase the necessary furnishings for his cave. He hired a truck and a driver, and , following Bertram's instructions, the man drove to the city's largest liquor store. Bertram entered and almost immediately the establishment hummed with confusion.

"Did you say 300 cases of Scotch?" screamed the little proprietor. "I said 300 cases." repeated Bertram.

It was in the early hours of the morning that the loaded truck bumped across the field and into the grove where the black mouth of Bertram's shaft loomed like a huge blot of ink, in the yellow glow of the headlights. It was evening when they had finally finished the unloading of the truck and the lowering of the cases of Scotch, the cot, blankets, and the other items that Bertram deemed necessary for his hibernation, into the little room beneath the earth.

When the bewildered truck driver had gone and Bertram was alone, he looked for a long time at the descending sun; to the east the sky was stained with night. Then Bertram climbed down the shaft and entered his subterranean retreat. He broke open all the liquor cases and arranged the bottles in tiers about his cot. He placed the timepiece that a jeweler had made for him near to his bed. He knew that in four years it would awaken him, he hoped.

The last war lasted four years, he said to himself, so this one can't last much longer. He uncorked only a few of the bottles, knowing that the opening of bottles had become a reflex action with him and that he would automatically open more of them as they were needed, even in his stupor.

A metal cover which he had screwed into the threaded terminus of the shaft effectively sealed it. As he pulled a cord that dangled against the wall, he heard the roar of the dirt caving into the shaft. Now only a tiny air tube connected him with the surface. He felt his way to the cot and, lying down, covered himself with a blanket and fumbled for a bottle. He raised it to his lips and drank deeply..........


At times, in the long night that followed, he heard, faintly, through his sleep, dull, booming sounds above him and muted earth tremors would cause the empty bottles to tinkle.


Bertram Bugger awoke violently as the shrill clang of the alarm bounced back and forth in the small room. He staggered to his feet, stumbling over mounds of empty bottles in the process. He breathed deeply, flexed his numbed arms, and stood awkwardly on his tingling legs. His stomach seemed to be tied in a leather knot. Had four years really passed? He shrugged his shoulders --- he could go up and look around --- if anything had gone wrong, he could always return.

He set off the charge that would clear the shaft.

It was a silent world that he found when he reached the surface. It was evening and nowhere was there a sign of life. He wondered why it was so absolutely still and then he realized that even the insects and birds were silent.

As he walked toward the road that led to the city, he found his path blocked by a huge crater that he was forced to skirt. To his nostrils came a musty odor of decay. There had been a war. It was only when he reached the city and found it in shambles and unpeopled save for thousands of queer sprawling masses that had once been humans, that he began to suspect the truth.

In old and yellowed newspapers he read of the unbelievable years of the war. He read of the gas which had been used with deadly effect by the Putzies, and then, duplicated by the other side, used in turn against it's creators. And last of all, he read the warning that the gas was out of control and approaching the city. The paper was dated two years back. Two years!

He was the only man alive on earth! He, Bertram Bugger, drunkard, poet, and philosopher, alone, by some freak of chance, had survived man's last brutality.

But Bertram Bugger was, above all, a philosopher and so he shrugged his shoulders and began an Odyssey of the world. He lived content and happy, for the warehouses of the world were full of rare old liquors and there was no-one to forbid his enjoyment of them. As the years passed and he had, by means of foot, auto, and boat wandered over the greater portion of the globe, Bertram began to have great gnawing pains in his stomach and he knew that he undoubtedly had ulcers. But, Bertram Bugger was above regret and fear and besides, as he said aloud to no-one in particular (which was not strange as there was no one in the world to hear him) "It is not exactly satisfactory, this living alone and not completely liking it. So I might as well die." And being a poet and still having a slight fondness for the now perished human race, despite the stupidity and brutality that it had exhibited throughout it's mad career, he felt that before he died he should erect some fitting monument to the memory of man.

After much philosophical thought, he built a circular, aquarium-like structure on the summit of a grassy hill that stood in the midst of a broad rolling plain. He constructed it of thick glass and, when it was finished, he filled it with gallons and gallons of Scotch. With great toil and effort, driven on to greater speed by the increasing violence of the pains in his stomach, he made a huge metal lid and, with infinite labor, placed it over the aquarium, leaving a small aperture which could easily be closed by a slight pressure from the interior.

There was only the epitaph to be engraved upon the broad slab of platinum which he had carried here for that purpose and, when Bertram Bugger had finished the engraving of it and had placed the slab against the monument, it read:


IN MEMORY OF MAN

THE MOST IRRATIONAL OF ALL

BEASTS

who, for lack of some-
thing better to do,
destroyed himself.


For several hours Bertram stood and looked at the broad bowl of the earth that brimmed about him. It was evening, again, and the frightened sun was retreating into it's burrow before the menace of the night that crept over the sky. A few brave and lonely stars signalled to each other in monotonous Morse. Bertram crawled painfully up the ladder that leaned against the monument and, lowering himself slowly into the liquid, sank. His last gesture was made when his hand appeared above the surface and closed the small opening in the cover.

A few large bubbles, like amber beads in the last red rays of the sun, floated leisurely upward and broke.


(Data entered by Judy Bemis)