The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (50 page)

A big, burly man who lived on the corner started up the steps to Stockton’s porch. Jerry Harlowe stood in his way.

“Don’t waste your time,” Harlowe said. “He won’t let anyone in.”

The man turned helplessly toward his wife, who stood at the foot of the steps.

“What’ll we do?” the woman asked, panic building in her voice. “What are we going to do?”

“Maybe we ought to pick out just one basement,” Many Weiss said, “and go to work on it. Pool all our stuff. Food, water—everything.”

“It isn’t fair,” Martha Harlowe said. She pointed toward the Stockton porch. “He’s down there in a bomb shelter—completely safe. And
our
kids have to just wait around for a bomb to drop!”

Her nine-year-old daughter began to cry, and Martha knelt down to hold her tightly to her.

The big man, on the porch steps, turned to survey the group. “I think we’d better just go down into his basement—break down the door!”

In the sudden silence the siren wailed shrilly across the night, and the ten or twelve people seemed to draw closer to one another.

Another man took a step out from the group. “Henderson’s right,” he said. “There isn’t any time to argue or anything else. We’ve just got to go down there and get in!”

A chorus of voices agreed with him.

The big man walked down the steps and started around the yard toward the garage.

Harlowe shouted at him. “Wait a minute!” He raced down the steps. “Goddamnit—wait a minute! We all wouldn’t fit in there. It’d be crazy to even try!”

Marty Weiss’s voice called out plaintively, “Why don’t we draw lots? Pick out
one
family.”

“What difference would it make?” Harlowe said. “He won’t let us in.”

Henderson, the big man, looked unsure for a moment. “We could all march down there,” he said, “and tell him he’s got the whole street against him. We could do that.”

Again, voices agreed with him.

Harlowe pushed his way through the group to stand near Henderson. “What the hell good would that do?” he asked. “I keep telling you. Even if we were to break down the door, it couldn’t accommodate all of us. We’d just be killing everybody, and for no reason!”

Mrs. Henderson’s voice broke in. “If it saves even one of these kids out here—I’d call that a reason.”

Again, a murmur of assent came.

“Jerry,” Marty Weiss said, you know him better than any of us. You’re his best friend. Why don’t you go down again? Try to talk to him. Plead with him. Tell him to pick out one family—draw lots or something—’’

Henderson took a long stride over to Marty. “One family—meaning yours, Weiss, huh?”

Marty whirled around toward him. “Well, why not? Why the hell not? I’ve got a four-month-old baby—”

“What difference does that make?” the big man’s wife said. Is your baby’s life any more precious than our kids’?”

Marty Weiss turned to her. “I never said that. If you’re going to start trying to argue about who deserves to live more than the next one—”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth, Weiss!” Henderson shouted at him. In wild, illogical anger he turned to the others. “That’s the way it is when the foreigners come over here. Pushy, grabby, semi-Americans!”

Marty’s face went white. “Why, you garbage-brained idiot, you— There’s always one person—one rotten, unthinking crumb, who suddenly has to become the number-one big straw boss and decide what ancestry is acceptable that season—”

A man at the back shouted out: “It still goes, Weiss. If we’ve got to start hunting around for some people to disqualify—you and yours can go to the top of the list!”

“Oh, Marty!” Rebecca sobbed, feeling a surge of a different fear.

Weiss threw off her restraining arm, and started to push his way through the crowd to the man who had spoken. Jerry Harlowe had to step between them.

“Keep it up—both of you,” he said, tautly. Just keep it up we won’t need a bomb. We can slaughter each other.”

“Marty!” Rebecca Weiss’s voice came from the darkness near the porch. “Please. Go down to Bill’s shelter again. Ask him—”

Marty turned to her. “I’ve already asked him. It won’t do any good!”

There was the sound of the siren again—this time closer. And far off in the distance, a stabbing searchlight probed the night sky.

The Conelrad announcer’s voice came up again, and they heard him repeating the same Yellow Alert announcement as before.

“Mommy, Mommy!” a little girl’s voice quavered. “I don’t want to die, Mommy! I don’t want to die!”

Henderson looked at the child, then started to walk toward the garage. Gradually, in little groups, the neighbors followed him.

“I’m going down there,” he announced as he walked, “and get him to open that door. I don’t care what the rest of you think—that’s the only thing left to do.”

Another man called out: “He’s right. Come on, let’s do it!”

They were no longer walking. Now they were a running, jostling group, linked by positive action. And Jerry Harlowe, watching them run past him, suddenly noticed that in the moonlight all their faces looked the same—wild eyes; taut, grim, set mouths—an aura of pushing, driving ferocity.

They slammed their way through the garage, and Henderson kicked open the door leading to the basement. Like a mob of fanatics, they shouted their way into the basement.

Henderson pounded his fist on the shelter door. “Bill? Bill Stockton! You’ve got a bunch of your neighbors out here who want to stay alive. Now you can open that door and talk to us and figure out with us how many can come in there—or else you can just keep doing what you’re doing—and we’ll bust our way in!”

They all shouted in agreement.

On the other side of the door, Grace Stockton grabbed her son and held him tight. Stockton stood close to the door, for the first time unsure and frightened. Again he heard the pounding this time by many fists.

“Come on, Stockton!” a voice called from the other side. “Open up!”

Then there was the familiar voice of Jerry Harlowe.

“Bill, this is Jerry. They mean business out here.”

Stockton wet his lips. “And I mean business in here,” he said. “I’ve already told you, Jerry—you’re wasting your time. You’re wasting precious time that could be used for something else...like figuring out how you’re going to survive.”

Again Henderson smashed at the door with a heavy fist, and felt the unyielding metal. He turned to look at his neighbors. “Why don’t we get some kind of a battering ram?” he suggested.

“That’s right,” another man said. “We could go over to Bennett Avenue. Phil Kline has a bunch of two-by-fours in his basement. I’ve seen them.”

A woman’s protesting voice, somehow petulant and ugly, broke in. “That would get him into the act,” her voice said. “And who cares about saving
him
! The minute we do that, then we’ll let all those people know that there’s a shelter on this street. We’d have a whole mob to contend with. A whole bunch of outsiders.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Henderson agreed. “And what right do they have to come over here? This isn’t
their
street. This isn’t
their
shelter.”

Jerry Harlowe stared from one silhouette to another and wondered what insane logic possessed them all.

“This is our shelter, huh?” he cried fiercely. “And on the next street—that’s a different country. Patronize home industries! You idiots! You Goddamn fools! You’re insane now—all of you.”

“Maybe you don’t want to live,” Rebecca Weiss’s voice cried out. “Maybe you don’t care, Jerry.”

“I care,” Harlowe said to her. “Believe me, I care. I’d like to see the morning come, too. But you’ve become a mob. And a mob doesn’t have any brains, and that’s what you’re proving. That’s what you’re proving right at this moment—that you don’t have any brains.”

Henderson’s voice spoke—harsh, loud. “I say let’s get a battering ram!” he shouted, like a cheerleader. “And we’ll just tell Kline to keep his mouth shut as to why we want it.”

“I agree with Jerry.” Marty Weiss’s voice was tentative and diffident. “Let’s get hold of ourselves. Let’s stop and think for a minute—”

Henderson turned to face Weiss’s small dark form. “Nobody cares what you think!” He spit it out. “You or your kind. I thought I made it clear upstairs. I think the first order of business is to get you out of here.”

He moved in on Marty and lashed out with the force of two hundred pounds. His fist smashed against Marty Weiss’s cheek and Marty fell backward, landing first against a woman, then stumbling against a child, and finally winding up on his back. His wife screamed and started running toward him—and the whole dark basement echoed and re-echoed with the sound of angry shouts and frightened cries, sparked by the wail of a terror-stricken child.

“Come on!” Henderson’s bull voice carried over the noise. “Let’s go get something to smash this door down.”

They were a mob, and they moved like a mob. Fear had become fury. Panic had become resolve. They stormed out of the basement onto the street. Each was willing to follow his neighbor. Each was content to let someone else lead. And while they marched wildly down the street, the voice of the Conelrad announcer darted like a thin menacing needle in and out of their consciousnesses.

“We have been asked to remind the population once again,” the announcer’s voice said, “that they are to remain calm. Stay off the streets. This is urgent. Please remain off the streets. Everything possible is being done in the way of protection, but the military cannot move, and important Civil Defense vehicles must have the streets clear. So you’re once again reminded to stay off the streets.
Remain off the streets
”

But the crowd continued down the block. They were not listening to the words that the radio said. There was an emergency, and the radio made it official.

Less than five minutes later, they were back in front of Stockton’s house. They had found a long board and six men were carrying it. They took it into the garage, breaking a window in the door as they entered. Then they used it to smash the door into the basement. They carried it through the basement over to the shelter door and began to pound against it. The shelter door was thick—but not thick enough. The weight of the board, with six big men at it, first dented and then punctured the metal. And once the first rip appeared, others followed it, until, within moments, the top hinge had been smashed away and the door began to buckle.

Inside, Bill Stockton tried to pile cots, a chair, other furniture, and finally the generator, against it. But with each smashing, resounding blow, the barricade was pushed back.

The door finally gave—and crashed into the shelter. The impetus of the final blow carried board and men into the room, and the side of the board grazed Stockton’s head, tearing out a chunk of flesh.

Suddenly everyone was silent, and over this sudden silence came the sound of the siren—a long, piercing blast which gradually died away—and then the voice of the radio announcer came on again.

“This is Conelrad,” the announcer’s voice said. “This is Conelrad. Remain tuned for an important message. Remain tuned for an important message.”

There was a silence for a moment, and then the voice continued. “The President of the United States has just announced that the previously unidentified objects have now been definitely identified as being satellites. Repeat. There are no enemy missiles approaching. Repeat. There are no enemy missiles approaching. The objects have been identified as satellites. They are harmless, and we are in no danger. Repeat. We are in no danger. The state of Yellow Alert has been cancelled. The state of Yellow Alert has been cancelled. We are in no danger. Repeat. There is no enemy attack. There is no enemy attack.”

His voice continued, the words at first having no sense to the listeners, then gradually taking on form and meaning.

And then men turned to look at their wives and slowly took them in their arms. Small children buried their faces against trousered and skirted legs. There were some sobs, some murmured prayers. The lights came on again in the streets and houses and the men and women stared at one another.

“Thank God.” Rebecca Weiss’s voice was a prayer for them all. “Oh, thank God.” She leaned against Marty, only vaguely aware that his lip was tom and bleeding.

“Amen,” said Marty. “Amen”

Henderson kept staring at his big hands as if they were something he had never seen. Then he swallowed and turned to Weiss.

“Hey, Marty,” he said, softly, with a thin smile. “Marty . . .I went off my rocker. You understand that, don’t you? I just went off my rocker. I didn’t mean all the things I said.” His voice shook. “We were all of us...we were so scared. We were so confused.”

He waved his hands helplessly. “Well, it’s no wonder really, is it? I mean...well...you can understand why we blew our tops a little.”

There was a murmur of voices, a few perfunctory nods, but the state of shock was still on them.

Jerry Harlowe left the basement steps and walked to the center of the cellar. “I don’t think Marty’s gonna hold it against you.” He turned toward Stockton, who stood motionless at the entrance to the shelter. “Just as I hope Bill won’t hold this against us,” Harlowe continued, pointing to the wreckage and rubble around him. “We’ll pay for the damage, Bill. We’ll take up a collection right away.”

Marty Weiss wiped the blood off his mouth. “Why don’t we have some kind of a block party or something tomorrow night?” he said. “A big celebration! How about that? Just like old times.”

The people stared at him.

“So we can all of us get back to normal,” he continued. “How about it, Bill?”

Every eye turned to Stockton, who stood there silently looking at them.

Harlowe dredged up a laugh. “Hey, Bill...I told you we’d pay for the damages. I’ll put that in writing if you want.”

The silence persisted as Stockton stepped over the broken door and walked into the basement area. He looked around him as if trying to find someone in particular. He felt the throbbing at the side of his head as he walked past the faces of neighbors. Their eyes followed him as he went on over to the cellar steps.

“Bill,” Harlowe whispered. “Hey, Bill—”