NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD - ACT TWO: "The House Fear Built"

Last time. One Night of the Living Dead, Johnny thought
he was being cute in the cemetery. The dead had
other plans. Barbara ran headfirst into apocalypse and stumbled into Ben,
the one man in Pennsylvania who knew panic was a
death sentence. While she cracked, he built walls. While fear spread.
He grabbed a crowbar and dared the knight to come.
But boards don't hold forever. And those gulls outside they're
not the head lying, they're the warning shot BacT two.
Ben spins. Suddenly the girl stands inside the kitchen door.
His face is a fury of sweat and quivering anger.
His eyes meet the girls. She stepped slowly back into
the room. The big man, in great strides, re enters
the kitchen and slams the door, bolting it again. His breathing,
still loud, is even more rapid than before. His eyes
dart quickly about the room in search of something. He
rushes to the cabinets and throws them open, begins rummaging
through them standard kitchen utensils and supplies. He does not speak,
just frantically ransacks the room.
See if you can find the light switch.
Barbara falls back against a wall, and her hand gropes
to a switch. The light from an overhead fixture comes on,
providing dim illumination. The big man continues to clatter about frantically.
The light coming on makes the girl blink. She remains
against the wall, her hand still touching the switch. It
is as though she dare not move. She watches silently.
The man flings open doors and spills contents onto the
shelving onto the floor. His hands fall to the silverware
dwar still open from when Barbara first discovered it. He
pulls it out until it stoops itself with hut. It
stoops itself, It stops, thank you. It stoops itself off
with a crash. He pulls it out until it stuffs
itself with a crash. He roots through it, pulls out
a large knife, and, sucking his breath in, stuffs it
under his belt. Then he reaches into the drawer again
and produces another knife, taking Barbara by surprise, he strides
toward her. He shoves the knife at her hand or first,
but she falls back slightly. Her action stays his franticness.
Breathing heavily through his words, he.
Speaks to her, now you hang on to this.
She hesitates, but she takes the knife. She seems weak,
almost apathetic, as though she is losing control of herself.
She stares at the woman in her hand, then her
eyes come up to meet the man's intense face. All right,
He pulls away from her and continues to rummage. But
he speaks periodically, now between great breaths and between the
brief times when his interest is wrapped in something he
finds in his rummaging. His search is not without control.
It has a coordinated purpose. It is selective, although frantic
and desperate. He looks for nails and strips of wood
or planks that he might nail around the doors and windows.
His actions are hurried and intent after these defensive ends.
At first, his search has his full attention. Gradually, as
he moves about and begins to come up with several
key items that he needs, his efforts paced down into
a more deliberate flow. He starts putting up boards and
tables against the vulnerable parts of the old house. The
mood relaxes in intensity, becomes calmer, more analytical. The barricading
instills a feeling of greater security, and the knowledge of
some security begins to overtake the girl, bringing her out
of her shock and passivity. The scene proceeds as follows.
The girl looks at her knife recedes against the wall.
The noise of the search is ever present. The man
mutters occasionally and spills his findings about the room. At first,
as new cabinets and drawers fail to turn up what
he's looking for, he grows impatient and more violent. Spools
of thread, buttons, manicure, implements, shoeshine materials another drawer. Immediately,
as the drawer is flung open with a clatter, the
big man sees what he needs. He almost leaps into
the drawer.
Tell me, oh, tell me you ain't the sweetest thing.
His big hand comes out of the drawer with an
old pipe tobacco tin, and in one gesture he spills
its contents onto a shelf. Nails and screws, and washers
and tacks spill out onto the wooden shelf. A few
roll too far and clatter onto the floor. His fingers
scoop them up. He fumbles through the little pile of
things and selects the longest nails. He stuffs them into
the breast pocket of his work shirt. Even as he
stuffs the nails into his pocket. He's already moving his
eye seeking for his next need.
Hey see if there's any wood around the fireplace? Out there?
His hands explore the shelf surface. The girl does not respond. Immediately,
his impetus carries him toward another shelf, but in turning,
he notices the girl still motionless. Look are you angry?
At first? He stops himself, then speaks, still frantically, but
with less harshness.
Keep scared, I'm scared. I'm scared too, just like you. No,
we ain't gonna be worth a plug nickel if we
don't do something. Now, I'm on board of these doors
and windows, But you got to pitch you. We gotta
help ourselves because ain't nobody coming around to help us.
And we're gonna be all right.
Okay, Nah, Now I want you to scamper out there.
See if the does any wood in that fireplace?
Okay.
He stops, still breathing hard. The girl just looks at him.
She starts to move very slowly away from the wall.
Okay.
The girl is still for a long moment, then nods
her head weakly.
Okay.
The girl leaves the room, and he continues his search.
She moves quickly into the living room area. The darkness
stops her for an instant, slowing her pace. From the
kitchen comes the clattering sounds of the man's search. She
looks ahead. The white curtains on the windows seem to glow,
and every shadow seems suspect. Barber shutters a shot of
the foreboding room closer shot on her face. On a
table is a bowl of large rounded flowers. A breeze
causes them to stir and sink with a sound from
the kitchen. The effect startles the girl. She dives for
a table lamp, clicks it on, and dull illumination fills
the room. The room is empty. She starts slowly toward
the fireplace. Near it is a stack of logwood and
a few planks that might be large enough to nail
across the windows. Still clutching her knife, she bends over
the pile and gathers up the planking. She stands with
her awkward blowed, and the foreboding room faces her again,
stopping her. She bolts and hurries toward the kitchen. Bursting
through the door, she finds the big man pounding with
his crowbar and the hinges on a tall broom closet door.
One final swipe and a great yank frees the wooden door,
and the man stands it against the wall next to
the broom closet. In the recesses of the closet, the
man spots other useful items and pulls them out, an
ironing board, three center boards from a dining table, and
some old scrap lumber. He motions for Barbara to follow
as he grabs the closet door and moves to the
back door of the house, which he had previously bolted
against the beings outside. He slaps the closet door up
against the pane portion of the kitchen door and finds
that with the same piece he can cover the kitchen window.
He leans the piece against the wood and gropes in
his pocket for nails. The door starts to slip slightly.
It does not completely cover the adjoining window, but it
leaves slots of glass at the top and bottom. However,
does cover the glass part of the entrance door. Barbara
drops her burden and moves swiftly, helping the man by
holding an end of the barrier and position. The truck
driver accepts her help automatically without recognition, and gives the
barricade a cursory inspection as he determines where to sink
the nails. Pulling several nails from his pocket, he places
them and drives them in with his crowbar. He drives
two through the door and molding until they grab then
moves to her side and drives in two more. When
four are in, he wax at them with crowbar until
they are completely sunken, then begins to add more. Now
he starts to talk. The first decisive steps are taken.
Quite a lot of relief comes with it. Most of
the house is still vulnerable, but the measures taken in
still confidence. While he talks, though, he keeps working rapidly,
his pace as intense as ever there.
Oh my god, this ought to hand their cripper. They
ain't that strong.
Two more nails in position, driven to the molding. He
tests the barricading wood with two good yanks. It holds.
Nah ain't coming through that.
He drives the last two nails all the way.
We got to figure out how many nails we got.
He sees the parts of the windows that remain uncovered.
I'll go lead that for now. We'll fix the rest.
He turns quickly from the barricade and looks around the room.
No other doors or windows except the door that leads
to the living room.
Oh well, his place is fairly secure.
He examines planks and table extensions.
Now, if we have.
To, the girl just stands and watches him.
If we have to, we just run in here, and
no dragon now or fussing with your makeup.
I'll leave you out there. Just run in here and
we board up his door.
The door between the kitchen and living room has been
opened all the time. The big man closes it, tests it,
It shuts tight. He opens it again. He quickly chooses
several of the lumber strips and stands them against the doorframe.
He gropes in his pocket and notices that his supply
of nails is dwindling. He checks the piles sprinkled from
the can. He envies the can completely and fingers the
contents for all the longest nails, and tosses just these
back into the can. He hands the.
Can to the girl him take these.
This time. She reacts quickly and takes the little tobacco
tin from his big hand. As she does so, the
man gathers as much of the lumber as he can
into his arms. He starts out of the room. Barbara follows.
They are in the living room.
We ain't got too lost. They will be trying to
hammer the way in here. Afraid now.
He drops his load of wood in the middle of
the floor and walks over to the largest front windows,
talking as he moves. His speech is rapid.
Now he's scared.
Afar too, I found that out.
His eye measures the sight of the big windows. He
looks all around the room, finally, his eyes fixing the
large dining table, and he moves quickly toward it, talking
as he moves, resuming his train of thought.
Hushware, it must have been fifty one hundred of them
down a cameria when a news broke.
Barbara watches, almost transfixed at as mention of the number
of the things. Her eyes reflect amazement and frightened curiosity.
The man reaches the table, walks around it, studying its size,
then hoists one end and turns it onto its side,
racing it against himself. He heaves on one of the
legs and tries to break it free with a great
ripping sound. Her table leg is torn off too, and
the man drops it onto the rug. He continues talking,
punctuating his remarks with vengeance on the table as he
rips all the legs off.
This big old gasoline truck.
You know, down Beatma's Beatona's donner, and I.
Heard the radio. I got radio truck.
He wrenches at the second table leg. It cracks loudly
but does not come free. He moves to where his
crowbar lies on the floor.
Is a case line, cast line, do we know? I
don't know. I take casleen, casiline, gasoline. I'm gonna call
it gasline.
It is gasoline, that's what he says in there. Fel's gasolading.
That's Bunny says gasoline.
In the film, This gasoline truck come screaming out the
diner onto the road. Must been ten fifteen of them
things chasing it. It looked funny to me, but I
don't see the things running behind it right away.
He picks up the crowbar and hammers up the table leg.
The second powerful swamp freeze the leg. He moves on
to the third.
I've just seen this big truck and it looked funny,
you know, like how slow trucks will roll in the start,
and it's pulling out on the road and weaving, and
then then I see them days and the truck moving so.
Slow to catching up and grabbing and jumping.
On another table left falls loose to the rug.
And the truck just cut cut right across the road
through the guardrail. You know, I'm I'm starting throwing on
my brakes in the truck Masters and his big sign
and the pumps and the ESSO station down there. How
I heard the crash and that big thing started burning,
and it was.
Burning, but it was still moving right through the pump,
standing into the station, and I'm stopped stock still, and
I see them things and they start to back off right,
some of them running, or at least it looked like
they running, but they move kind of like they cripple.
But they keep backing off, and it's like it's like
they gotta get away from the fire. And this guy,
he's driving the truck, he can't get out, nohow. He
got the cab of the truck just plot halfway into
the wall of the station, and that thing, the thing
was frying him in there, and he's screaming.
He's screaming like hell.
Barbara Seines deepened on their face wrinkles in anxiety. Continuing
nightmare grows more and complex. The man swamps the last
leg from the the tabletop starts to drop. He regains
control of it and struggles trying to move it into
the next room. Barbara automatically moves to his assistance as
they walk together, eats burdened by the heavy table.
I don't know what's gonna happen, you know, I'm happy.
I don't know what the whole place is going to
explode or just fly to pieces. Oh well, what's gonna happen?
I start driving for the gas station, and that poor
cat in the truck is screaming.
It's screaming, and after a while.
He just The man sets down his end of the
table and wipes beans of sweat from his forehead. His
breathing is still heavy from his previous exertion, wipes his
hand on his shirt. His eyes are wide and angry.
It almost seems as though he might weep.
And there's didn't thing.
He's standing back across the road, just standing looking like
looking like they just came from the from the grave
or something. And they over by the diner and it's
cars busting in the dining.
A lot of loss. Of the windows smashed, and it's
for sure. So some of them things done, the people
in the diner, and more is outside just all over
the place.
Just it's weirds, just biding it time for the chance
to move in.
So I started my truck covering and I barreled it through,
right right through some of them things.
I'm steaming down right on them, and I get a
good look at him, see I seen them for the
first time in my lights.
And then I just run them down. I just I
just grind them down hard as I can.
I knock a couple of fifty feet, I swear, I
just flailing into the air, and I just I just
want to smash them, crush them.
He just standing.
A crush them, crush them.
They don't run, they don't they don't even try to
get out the road.
Some of them meet him, just just reaching out like
they're trying to grab me. They're just standing there in
the truck is just running them down like they're like
they bogs. This hum.
Barbara is wide eyed, staring in disgust, her hands still
clutched to the tabletop. She says nothing. The man sees
her fear and stops himself.
Ah.
He refocuses his attention on the tabletop and starts to
lift it again. Barbara is practically motionless as he tugs
the table. Her hands fall away and she slowly pulls
them against herself. He drags the table away from her,
and she walks numbly behind, having forgotten to assist. She
just watches the man's face.
Just you know, I got kids, you know, And I
guess they do all right, they can take care of themselves.
But the only kids, and I'm being away and all I.
Just perspiring heavily. He tugs the twists at the tabletop,
trying to fit it through the doorframe and into the
living roomma.
I'm gonna do what I can. I'm gonna get back.
I'm gonna see my people. Thanks, gonna be all right, Yeah, yeah, yeah,
I'm gonna get back.
He has started to almost babble. He sees the girl
intently watching him. He stops. He composes himself with some
effort and starts to speak a little more slowly. His
voice is almost a monotone, with enforced calm, but he does,
beneath his anger, seem as confident as could be expected
of anyone under the circumstances.
Listen, you and me gonna be all right too. We
won't head them things off you. You could just smash him.
All you got to do is just keep your head
and don't be afraid. He look, we move faster than
they can, and in they awful weak if you, if
you don't want it, you just keep swinging. You could
smash him. We smarter than nay a high half stronger
than they were. Gonna stop this, okay, the girl stares.
All we got to do is keep all his.
They look at each other for a moment until the
big man turns and picks up the table again. As
he starts away with it, the girl speaks, quietly and weakly,
Who are they? The man stops in his tracks, still
supporting the heavy tabletop, and looks with amazement at Barbara's
anxious face. Slowly it dawns in him. The girl has
never really been aware of the thing that has been happening.
She had not heard the radio announcements, the bulletins. She
had been existing in a state of uninformed shock. You
ain't hurt nothing, she stares blankly, silently, her eyes fastening
in his. Her reply is her silence.
Wait you mean you ain't got no idea? What was
going on here?
Barbara starts to nod her answer. She begins to tremble
ii hi. Her trembling increases, She begins to shake violently,
and suddenly she flings up her arms and flails them about,
sobbing wildly. She begins to walk in panic, wildly and
aimlessly encircles about the room.
Why no, no.
I can't.
To us?
Why tell me?
The man grabs her, thanks her spring her out of it,
and her sobbing jerks to a halt, but she remains
staring right through him, her eyes seemingly focused beyond him.
At some far distant point, her speech, still nearly hysterical,
becomes a little more coherent.
We were in the cemetery, mean, and Johnny, my brother John.
He bought flowers for this man hat after me and
John he.
Fought for now, all right, all right.
He tightens his grip. She wrenches against him, Your hands
on me. She flings herself away from him, beating him
across the chest, taking him by surprise, put in her momentum.
She stumbles over an end table, barely regains her balance,
and stands facing the front door, poised as if to
run out into the night.
We've got to help him, got to get Johnny. We've
got to go out and find him. Bring it.
She comes toward the man, pleading with tears, the desperate
tears of a frightened child.
Here, we'll be safe, you can help you.
The man steps toward her. She backs away, holding one
hand toward him defensively and the other toward her mouth.
No, no, please, we've got to Louie.
He takes one deliberate stride for her.
Now, now you calm down, okay, you you are safe here.
Now, we can't take no chances.
We've got to get Johnny.
Come on now, just settle down, all right. You don't
know what these things are. It ain't I know Sunday
school out there? Oh please, please, no, no, no.
She is sobbing fun her words become screen. She is
verging towards complete hysteria. Her moon struggles to calm her.
She wrenches from her, but his grip remains so that
her arms jerk her whole body. In the act of
wrenching away. She stares at the man, Her eyes meet
in an instant of calm, but only an instant before
she squeezes and she kicks him again and again as
he struggles to pin her on for her songs and
shove her against a wall at the same time, he
does not want to hurt her with brute force. He
shoves her backwards, propelling her into a somn chair, but
she is up again, screaming and slapping at her face.
He is forced to grab her again and propages slam
her into a corner. He brings up one powerful fist
and punches the girl, but her head recoils and the
blow is misplaced. It does not put her out of commission,
but it shocks her into a dumb, wounded silence. He
hits her again squarely. Her eyes falls sorrowfully on his,
and she begins to crumple. She falls limp against him.
He supports her weight, easing her into his arms. Holding her.
He looks dumbly about the room. His eyes fall on
the sofa. He does not carry, but almost walks her
to The sofa, permits her dead weight to fold onto it,
and eases her head onto a cushion. Next to the
couch is a cabinet radio. The man stabs at a button,
clicking it on. While the radio warms up He looks
around for the tin of nails, finds it where barber
had dropped it. Takes nails and slides them into his pocket.
The radio hisses and crackles with static. He returns to
it and searches with a tuning dial. At first just static,
then it spins past what sounds like a voice. As
he adjusts carefully trying to find the spot, the tuner
finds a metallic monotone voice.
The radio network, the normal broadcast facilities have been temporarily discontinued.
To stay tuned too this wavelike for emergency information, your
law enforcements easier to.
Remain in your homes.
Keep all doors and windows locked toward boardage shot, use
all food and water, and minimal supplies sparingly. Civil defense
forces are attempting to gain control of the situation. Stay
near your radio and remain tuned to this frequency. Do
not use your automobile. Remain in your homes, keep all doors.
And windows locked.
A long pause, a crackle, The message repeats, it is
obviously we're recording.
Our live broadcasters will convey information as received from Civil
Defense headquarters. This is your Civil.
Defense emergency radio.
Network normal broadcast facilities have been temporarily discontinued. Stay tuned.
The big man waves his hand in disgust at the
repetition of the radio and moves away as it continues
its announcement. He resumes his efforts with a heavy wooden tabletop.
This time he drags it to the living room window.
He leans it against the wall and pulls back the
curtain to peer outside. There are now four figures standing
in the yard. The voice of the distant radio recording continues.
The figures stand very still, their arms dangling, aspects of
their silhouettes revealing tattered clothing or shaggy hair. They are cold,
dead things. Something in the distance suddenly startles the truck driver.
From across the road, a figure is moving toward the house.
The man spins himself away from the door and rushes
to the fireplace. He reaches for his matches. In the
little stand of the couch where Barbera lies unconscious. There
are old magazines. The man grabs them, rips pages loose,
and crumples them into the fireplace. He piles kindlingwood in
larger logs, then touches the paper with a lighted match,
and a small fire takes hold. There is charcoal light
on the mantel. He sprays the glowing fire and it
MUSHes into a larger blaze, almost singing the big man's face.
As he works, the larger logs begin to burn. He
returns to the window. The recorded message repeats itself continuously.
The man hoists the tabletop to the window sill and
braces it there while he places a nail in position.
He pounds with a crowbar, driven by desperation, another nail
and another with a table secure, he checks it hastily
and leaps to another window where he can peer out
between its nailed up boards. The new figure is just
reaching the place where the other stands silently. The man
rushes to the fire, where the biggest lugs have now
begun to blaze. He seizes the discarded table legs and
saturates them with a charcoal light, then holds the largest
ends into the fire until he has two good flaming torches.
Then a torch in each hand, he moves toward the
door again. He nudges a big padded armchair ahead of
him to the door, and taking both torches in one hand,
pulls the curtain aside for another look at the yard,
the figure still stand silently with charcoal light. He drenches
the padded armchair and touches it with the torch. It
catches instantly and flames lick climb, casting flickering light throughout
the house. The heat on the man is severe, but
he has to fight it. He lunges for the door
and unbolting it and flinging it wide open from the yard.
At the door bangs open, the flaming chair is visible.
It throws eerie, irregular illumination onto the lawn. The waiting
figures step back slightly. The man shoves the chair through
the doorway. It slides across the front porch. It topples
over the edge, and the flaming bulk tumbles down the
steps onto the front lawn. In the rolling motion, flames
lick and flying, and small particles of the chair stuff
in leap and glow in the night wind. The bonfire
rages in the tall grass. The waiting figures back further
away inside the house. The front door bands shut and
the man fastens the bolt. He hurries again to the window,
puts more nails into the tabletop, fastening it securely, then
surveys his surroundings seeking out possible vulnerability. The camera moves
with him, seeing the task that lies ahead. There is
a side window in the living room, a window in
the dining room at the other side of the house,
the front door, and the flanking glass panels. He turns,
still inspecting, and his eyes reflect surprise. The girl is
sitting up on the couch. Her demeanor is startling. We
cut to her. Her face is bruised and she sits
in silence, staring at the floor. The radio drones on
the fire plays on her face and reflects in her eyes.
The man takes off his jacket and moves toward her.
He fixes his jacket over her shoulders and looks sympathetically
onto her face. She just stares at the floor. The
man feels dumb and helpless. Forlornly, he moves to the
pile of lumber, chooses a table board, and goes to
the side window. The radio voice continues. The truck driver
boards up the two side windows, then moves to the
front door. He gets an ironing board and places it
across the door horizontally. It extends over the flanking glass panels,
leaving cracks at the top and bottom, but they are
too small for anything to get through. He drives nails
through the board into the molding and tests the barricade
for strength. Finding it sufficient, he leaves it and goes
on to the next In the dining room, there are
two closed doors. He tries one, finds it locked, examines
it and finds no latch. It has been apparently locked
with a skeleton key. The other door is unlocked and
leads into a den which contains several windows. The man
is disappointed at the added vulnerability. He thinks for a moment,
then leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. It
is clear that he is decided to board up the
door rather than try to secure the bay windows. He
checks his remaining lumber. The supplies dwindling, but he selects
the best piece for boarding the den door. He is
about to start hammering when an idea strikes him. He
opens the door again and enters the room. There are chairs,
a desk, and bureau. He steps to the desk and
starts to rummage through the drawers. He pulls out paper,
a stack of pencils and pens, a compass, a hundred
little odds, and ends another drawer a hundred more things.
He leaves it open. The bureau contains mostly clothing. He
rips out the big drawers and hurls them through the
doorway and into the dining area, one drawer, two, their
contents spilling onto the floor. He looks back at the bureau.
A final idea hits him. He shoves the great piece
of furniture through the door, walking it through the tight
opening until it clears the doorway, then the desk, which
warrants another struggle as the man attempts to secure all
things of possible value before he finally nails the door shut.
In the closet there is a lot of old clothing.
The man finds a good warm coat and jacket and
flings them over his shoulder. High on the shelves or
piles of old boxes, suit cases, hat boxes, an old umbrella,
he looks for an instant, debating their worth, or the
possible worth of what they might contain. At his feet
he sees still more clutter boxes, umbrellas, dust shoes, and slippers.
He picks up a pair of ladies flats and examines them,
thinking of the barefoot girl out on the couch, and
tucks them under his arm as he pulls away Something
catches his eye within the dark recesses of the closet,
something shiny, the sheen of a finished piece of wood,
A familiar shape lying under a pile of dirty clothing.
He reaches eagerly, and his hand finds what he had
hoped for, a rifle. He sets everything down and rummages
even more eagerly, all over the floor of the closet,
through shoe boxes, under things, items coming flying out of
the closet. A shoe box contains old letters and postcards,
But in a cigar box, clattering around with pipe cleaners
and cleaning fluid, there is a maintenance manual and a
box of ammunition. He flips open the box and finds
it half full. He shoves manuel and cartridges into his pocket,
then decides to take the whole cigar box full of material.
He tucks it under his arm, gathers jackets and shoes,
and leaves the room. In the dining room, he drops
the load of supplies in the bureau, and the sight
of the girl in the living room stops him short.
She is sitting as before, not moving.
But we're all right now.
His place is good and solid, and I found us
a gun, a gun is some bullets.
He looks at Barbara from across the room. She doesn't
seem to take any note of his talking. He turns
to his work but continues to speak.
So we got us a radio, and it looks sooner
or later somebody's gonna come get us out of here.
We got food in there, and I got you some
shoes we'll see in a minute if they fit, and
some warm clothes for you.
He pounds at the nails. The pounding and the repetition
of the radio message are the only sounds the last
nail in the check for sturdiness. The big man turns
toward the girl again, to.
Stay in your homes, keep all doors and windows locked.
Other than her upright position, the girl shows no signs
of life. Her wide eyes just stare through the floor
at some point.
Beyond preferably bordered shut.
Well, that's us, we're doing all right.
He can't smile, and, with the girl not looking at him,
his attempt to have hearted. He takes up the rifle,
the cigar box, a coat in her shoes in one
clumsy armful. As he leaves the frame, the camera lingers
for an instant the alcove in the dining room is
cluttered with things from the den, the large pieces of
furniture obscuring the door that had been tried and found locked.
The camera lingers long enough to make this door significant.
The man kneels with his bundle in front of the girl,
then drops the armful of materials at her feet. He
holds the shoes that he found in the closet.
Now, let's see how big your feet is.
Looking up at her, is unable to cope with her catatonia,
her stillness, making him as gentle as he can be.
But he converses with her, still expecting her to reply
and react. She does not come on. He holds one
of the shoes near her foot, waiting for her to
lift her leg and slip into the shoe. She is still. Finally,
the man takes one of her ankles and fumbles to
put the shoe on her foot. It does not go
on easily, partly because it is too small, but mostly
because of her limpness, but he gets it on, sets
her foot down, and takes up the other one. He
succeeds in getting the second shoe on and leans back
on his haunches, looking up at her. She is staring
at her feet.
Well that's a that's a real Cinderella story, ain't it.
No response. The man reaches and reflects for his jacket pocket,
but he has given Barbara his jacket.
Ayerh, you know who? You got my cigarettes?
He tries to smile again, Still no reaction. He reaches
toward her and his hand enters the pocket of the
jacket he has draped over her shoulders. His action makes
the girl look directly at him, and her stare makes
him uncomfortable.
You uh, you got my cigarettes?
He tries a gentler tone, as one would try to
explain some complex concept to a child. He pulls the
cigarettes from the pocket and settles back from her again.
He fumbles for a cigarette, puts it into his mouth,
and lights it, trying not to look at the girl.
Her gaze is still fixed on his face.
Okay, now, maybe maybe you ought to lie down you
you smoke.
He holds up the burning cigarette. Her stare drops from
him back to the floor. He takes another drag and
blows the smoke out quickly.
Another idea, Well maybe you uh huh Okay.
His okay is more definite than his other talk, and
he scoops up the rifle and ammunition. He examines the gun,
dumps the shells onto the floor, and methodically loads them
one at a time.
I don't know if you hear me or not, or
you're out or something, but I'm going upstairs now. Okay,
we safe down here. Nothing getting in down here at
least not easy. I mean, they might be able to
bust through that, but it's gonna be some sweat and
I can hear him and I think I could get
him out later. I'ma fix things good so they can't
get in nohow, but it's good for the time being.
Listen, you are okay here.
He continues to load the rifle as he speaks, his
cigarette dangling from his lip, causing him to squint from
the smoke that curls around his eyes.
Not upstairs the only other way someone could get in here,
So I'm gonna go up and fix that.
He snaps the clip after the last shell. It's about
to stand when his glance falls in the girl again.
He tries to get through one last time.
Okay, you're gonna be all right.
She remains silent. The man stands, the rifle under his arm,
grabs as much lumber as he can carry and starts
for the stairs. The girl looks up at him, and
he is aware of it, but he keeps moving, and
her stare follows.
I'll be right here, You're all right now, I'm right here,
I'm right upstairs.
He starts up the stairs. At the top of the landing,
he is confronted once again with the body that lies there,
torn and defaced. He sets down his supplies and the
sight of the corpse is repulsive. He tries not to
look at it. The body is lying half across a
blood soaked throw rug. A few feet away is another
throw rug with oriental patterns and a fringe sewn around
its edge. The man grabs the second rug and rips
away one edge of the fringe. Once the initial tear
is made, the rest of the fringe peels away easily.
He frees it, and taking the rifle, ties on one
end of the fringe around the barrel and the other
around the narrow part of the stock. This done, he
slings the rifle over his shoulder. Then he leans over
the corpse and takes a hold of one end of
the rug on which it lies, and begins dragging it
across the floor. On the landing is a long corridor
with several closed doors. He deposits the ugly load at
one of the doorways and throws open the door. Inside
is a bedroom. He tries the other doors and finds
two more bedrooms, one a child's room. He begins to
remove furniture into the hallway. His plan is to afterwards
board out the doors. The noise of his work fills
the old house downstairs. Barber still sits dazed on the couch.
The fire flickers on her face, and the burning wood
pops loudly. Now again. Objects in the room are silhouetted,
and the atmosphere is stark. The camera moves slowly into
her face.
Facilities have been instructed to discontinue browari see who it is.
There is a sudden buzzing sound and crackling static, then
a hodgepodge of newsroom sounds, as heard earlier by John
on the car radio, typewriters, ticker tape machines, low voices
talking in the back. The sound holds for a long while.
The girl does not seem to notice.
Er ladies and gentlemen, what yeah, yeah, what yeah, I
got that one? What another one put through up to
the men. It reports in Foremous that the siege, first
documented in the midwestern section of the country, is indeed
spread across the nation and is in fact worldwide. Medical
and scientific advisors have been summoned to the White House
and reporters on the scene in Washington, and forem us
that the President is planning to make public the results
of that conference and an address to the nation over
your Civil Defense Emergency Network.
A long pause by the announcer, the camera studies Barber's face.
She is inert.
The strange beings that have appeared in most parts of
the nation seem to have certain predictable patterns of behavior.
In the few hours following initial reports of violence and
death and apparently deranged attacks on the lives of people
taking completely off guard, it has been established that the
alien beings are human in many physical and behavioral aspects.
Hypotheses as to their origin and their aims have to
this point been so varied and so diverse that we
must only report these factors to be unknown. Teams of
scientists and physicians presently have the corpses of several of
the aggressors, and these corpses are being studied for clues
that might negate or confirm existing theories. The most overwhelming
fact is that these beings are infiltrating through urban and
rural areas throughout the nation and forces of varying number.
And if they have not as yet evidenced themselves in
your area, please take every available precaution. Attack may come
at any time, in any place without warning. Repeating the
important facts from our previous reports, there is an aggressive
force army of unexplained, unidentified humanoid beings that has appeared
in world wide proportions, and these beings are totally aggressive,
irrational in their violence. Civil defense efforts are underway and
investigations as to the origin and purpose of the aggressors
are being conducted. All citizens are urged to take up
most precautionary measures to defend against the insidious alien force.
These beings are weak in physical strength, are easily distinguishable
from humans by their deformed appearance. They are usually unarmed,
but appear capable of handling weapons. They have appeared not led,
not an organized army, not with any apparent reason or plan. Indeed,
they seem to be driven with the urges of entranced
or obsessed minds. They appear totally unthinking. They can I repeat,
they can be stopped by immobilization, that is, by blinding
or dismembering. They are on the average weaker in strength
than an adult human, but their strength is in numbers,
in surprise, and in the sheer fact that they are
beyond our normal realm of understanding. They appear to be irrational,
noncommunicative beams, and they are definitely to be considered our enemies.
And what we must call a At this Barbara volts
from the couch in wild screaming. She runs rounding toward
the front door. The truck driver appears at the top
of the stairs. Startled on slinging the dup, he leaps
down the stairs. The girl is clawing at the barrel,
trying to break out of the house. She is sobbed
and wild as fish. The man is almost upon her,
but she writhes out of his reach, runs across the
room toward the maze of apple archer. Suddenly, from within
the maze, strong woons grab she screams.
Into The.
Truck driver rushes toward her, and he is startled by
the sight of the other man, who is trying to
contain the stir behind him. An older man stands holding
a length of pipe aside. They have come through the
door that the truck driver has tried and found lot.
The man holding Barbara is dressed and he is probably
a farmer. He is big and powerful looking.
It's all right, we're from the gas station. We're not.
Barbara SAgs against him and sobs sporadically in shock and
semi relief. She is still nearly catatonic. The older man
rushes to the radio. The truck driver just stares dumbly
as Tom calms the girl and leads her to a chair,
where she sits very still numb with expended emotion. The
radio voice continues with its information about the emergency. The
older man, Harry Tinsdale, crouches close to the radio, still
holding his length of pipe.
With periodic reports as information reaches this newsroom, as well
as survival information and a listing of Red Cross rescue
points where pickups will be made as often as possible
with the equipment and staff presently available.
The big truck driver stands staring at the two new men.
He exudes an air of resentment, as though the strangers
have intruded on his private little fortress.
Why men, man, I.
It' say you got things pretty well locked in, man,
I could use some help.
How long you guys been in there?
That's the cellar, it's the safest place.
Now you mean you didn't hear the racket we was
making up here?
How are we supposed to know what was going on
up here? It could have been more of those things,
for all we know?
That girl was screaming. Now you know what a girl
sound like? Them things don't make no noise. Anybody got
to know that somebody up here? Could you some help?
I can't really tell what's going on from down there.
Yeah, we thought we could hear screams. What that might
have meant? Those things were in the house after and
you wouldn't come up in help.
Well, if there was more of us.
Yeah, that that recort sound like the place was being
ripped apart. How were we supposed to You just said
it was hard to hear down there. Now you're saying
it sounded like the place of being ripped apart.
But get your store straighten, mister.
All right, now, you tell me, I'm not gonna take
those kinds of chances. When we got a safe place,
we look into a safe place, and you're telling us
to risk our lives just because somebody needs help something
like that.
Yeah, all right, why don't we just suck mister?
All right, we came up. Okay, we're here.
Now, I suggest we all go back downstairs before one
of those things fight out.
We're in here. They can't get in here.
You got the whole place boarded up, most of them
all but upstairs.
He's weak in places. But it won't be hard to
fix it up good.
But you're insane. The sailors are the safest place in
the house.
I'm telling you they can't get in here, and I'm
telling you those things turned over our car.
We're damn lucky to get away at all.
Now you're tell me they can't get the ropile.
Of what his wife and kids downstairs, that the kids
pretty badly tore up.
This statement takes the truck driver completely by surprise. His
face softens, he exhales a deep breath. Nobody says anything
for a long moment. Finally, the truck driver swallows and
makes his point again.
Well, well, I think we're better off up here.
Could strengthen all these up, mister Tinsdale.
Man, with all us working, we could fix this up
so nothing could get in here. And we got food
and fire, and we got the radio.
We can bring all those things downstairs with us.
Man, you're you're crazy.
You you got a million windows up here, all these
windows you're gonna make strong enough to keep them out.
Them things ain't got no strength. Man. I smashed three
of them and push one another out the door.
I'm telling you.
They turned our car onto its roof.
Oh hell, any good five men could do.
That's my point. Only there's not going to be five.
There's going to be ten, twenty thirty, one hundred. Maybe
you know, once they know we're in here, the place
will be crawling with them.
Well, if there's that many, they gonna get us wherever
we aret look in the cellar, there's only one door,
all right, only one.
That's the only place we have to protect.
And Tom and I fixed it so on locks and
boards from the inside. But all these doors and windows. Wait,
we never know where they were going to hit us next.
Oh okay, you got a point, mister Tinsdale. But down
in the cellar there's no place to run. I mean,
if they do get in, there's no back exit.
We'd be done for this stops Harry for an instant.
We could get out of here if we had to,
and we could see what's going on outside down there.
There ain't no windows, so if a rescue party does come,
we never know it windows.
Bus the cellar is the strongest place.
The upstairs is just as much a trap as the cellar.
There's three rooms up there, and it got to be
boarded up like this stuff down here. Then if they
do get in the windows, they can't get past the
doors and the weak we could just keep them out.
And I got this gun now, and I didn't have
it before, and I still beat three of them off.
Now we might have to try and get out of
here ourselves, because it ain't no guarantee that anybody's gonna
stand help.
Suppose them things come in here. We can't bust out
of the cellar because we got to open that one
door and they got us.
I don't know. I think he's right. You know how
many he's out there?
I figured maybe six seven?
You too, can do whatever you like.
I'm going back down to the cellar and you better decide,
because I'm going to board up that door and I'm
not going to be crazy enough to unlock it again.
No matter what happens.
Yeah, wait a minute, mister Tannsdowne, Now let's think about
this for a minute.
Nope, I made my decision, You make yours, and you
can stew in your own juice.
Now wait a minute, damn it, Let's let's think about
this for a while. We can make it into the
cellar if we have to, and if we do decide
to stay down there, we'll need some things from up here. Now,
let's at least consider this for a while.
Man, if you box yourself into that cellar, and if
there's a lot of them things that get into this house,
you had it at least up here you can outrun them.
Tom has gone to one of the windows and is
peering out through an opening in the barricade.
Here looks like six or about eight.
His hand goes to his temple and he rubs nervously,
his demeanor a little shaken. The truck driver joins him
at the window as.
More than it was his butch out back too, unless
they're the same ones it was back here.
He bursts into the kitchen. As the fringed rifle slang
snaps and the weapon starts to fall, he twists to
keep it on his back and tries to grab it,
reaching behind his attention on the gun, He does not
see the door as he moves toward it. He regains
control of the gun and looks up and stops. Cold
hands are reaching through the broken glass behind the barrica.
Oh gray rotten hands scratching, reaching, trying to grab and
through aspects of the glass. The inhuman face is behind
the hands. The barrier is being strained, no doubt about that,
but it is holding well enough. The man smashes with
the rifle butt against the ugly extremities, pounding once twice.
One of the grabbing hands is driven back with the
shattering of the already broken glass it was reaching through.
The rifle butt smashes one of the hands against the door,
molding solidly, but the hand, unfeeling of pain, continues to
claw after a hole. The man slides his finger to
the trigger and turns the rifle, smashing the barrel through
another of the little broken glass areas, and two of
the gray hands sees the protruding metal. A dead face
appears behind the hands, ugly expressionless. The man's face looks
directly through the opening into the dead eyes beyond the
man struggling desperately to control the weapon and the zombie
thing outside trying to pull it away by the barrel.
A brief instant when the muzzle points directly of the
hideous face flam the report shatters the air. The lifeless
thing is thrown back, propelled by the blast, its head
torn partially away, its still outstretched hands falling back with
the crumbling body. The other hands continue to clutch and grab.
Tom has rushed into the kitchen and Harry is standing
cautiously a few feet from the doorway ill in the
dining area. A distant voice, that of Harry's wife suddenly
begins to cry out from the cellar.
Harry, Harry, Harry, are you all right?
It's all right, Hard, We're We're all right.
Tom immediately rushes to the door. The truck driver is
pounding at a hand that is trying to work at
the barricade from the bottom. The blow seems ineffectual as
the hand, oblivious except for the physical jouncing about from impact,
continues to grab. Tom leaps against the door and grabs
the rotting wrist with both of his hands and tries
to bend the wrist back in an effort to break it,
but it seems limp and almost pliable. Distress sweeps over
the young man's face. He tries to strap the cold
finger against the edge of the broken glass, and the
absence of blood is immediately evident as the sharp edge
rips into what looks like rotting flesh. Another hand grabs
at Tom's wrist and tries to pull it through the glass.
Tom yells. The truck driver tries to swing the barrel
of the gun through the thing. Struggling with Tom, another
hand clutches at him. Even as he's trying to help
the younger man. A hand is clawing and ripping his shirt,
but he focuses his attention on aiming the gun. Another
loud lass and the hands Tom was fighting jerk back
sill into darkness. Foot against the wall, the big man
forces himself away from the door, out of the grass,
with the hand still clutching his shirt. The shirt tears
away and the thing backs off, still with a fragment
in its hand. Badly shaken, Tom just stares through another
opening in the door. The truck driver takes careful aim
and pulls the trigger again. The blast rips through the
thing's chest, leaving a gaping hole in its back, but
it remains on its feet, backing slowly away.
Good God.
Panicked at the failure of the weapon, the big man
levels off again another loud report. This time the shell
rips through the thing's thigh, just below the pelvis. The
thing still backs away, but as it tries to put
weight on its right leg, it falls to a heap.
Men just stare in disbelief. The thing is still moving away,
dragging itself with its arms and pushing against the ground
with its remaining leg.
Mother of God, what I'll give me more of that?
This is not a pensive, light inner moment.
This is fucking full on just you're terrified.
Sex here, God.
Give me a favorite, Mother of God, what are these things?
The truck driver wets his lips, takes a deep breath,
and holds it carefully. Sights down the barrel of the
rifle again, he pulls the trigger. The shell seems to
blow open the skull of the crawling form, and it
falls backwards, damping from hell outside. The thing that has
fallen limply without the use of its eyes, moves its
arms and groping clutching motions, seemingly still trying to drag
itself away.
Hey, Harry.
After a moment of silence, the truck driver turns from
the door.
We gotta fix these bores.
He starts to move together supplies. When Harry speaks.
You're crazy.
Those things are gonna be in at every door window
in the place, so we got to get it in
the cellar.
The big truck driver turns to Harry with absolute fury
in his eyes. His voice is deeper in its rage
and more commanding.
Go ahead, and your dear cellar get out here.
The shouting stops Harry for an instant, then his adamancy returns.
He has decided that he will go into the cellar
without the others if need be, and is now prepared
to gather his supplies.
I'm taking the girl with me.
He moves toward the refrigerator in the kitchen, but the
big man steps in front of him.
Your hands off her. She's staying here with me.
Harry has stopped again for a moment, then he moves
toward the refrigerator again.
Hey, don't you touch none of that food now. If
I stay up here, I'm gonna be fighting for what's
up here, and that food and that radio and.
All this is what I'm fighting for. You are stone
dead wrong.
You just wrong.
You understand now if you make it to the cellar,
you get your worse moving. Get down downstairs, Get out
of here. Man mess with me no more. The man
is crazy, he's crazy. We gotta have food down there.
We have a right.
This is your house, We have our right. You you
going down there with him?
Oh?
Well, no beating around the bush?
You going?
Or ain't you? Just show last chance?
There is a long moment of silence. Tom then turns
to the older man.
Eh, Harry, I think he's right.
You're crazy.
I really think we're better off up here.
You're crazy. I got a kid down there. She can't
take all the racket and those things reaching through the glass.
We'll be lucky if she lives as it is. Now okay,
now you're her father. If you're dumb enough to go
die down in that trap, that's your business. But I
ain't dumb enough to go with you. It's just bad
luck for the kid that her old man is so stupid.
Now get the hell down the cellar. You can be
boss down there. I'm boss up here, and you ain't
taking none of this food. You ain't taking nothing, Harry.
We can get food to you if you want to
stay down there, and you start, Harry, Hey.
Harry looks toward the cellar door, looks back at the
two men, then quickly moves toward the door.
You know I won't open the door again. I mean it.
We can fix this up here with your help.
We could.
Yeah, yeah, well I think you're both knots with my help.
Let him go, man, he's mine and made off. Just
let him go.
Harry looks for a moment, then lunges for the cellar door,
opens it and slams it behind him. Sounds of his
footsteps going down the steps.
Harry, Harry, we need be better off up here.
The truck driver ties the broken fringe back onto the rifle,
then begins to reload the gun, replacing the spence shuttles Harry.
If we stick together, man, we can fix it up
real good.
There are places we can runch you up here.
We hear sounds of Harry boarding up the door. The
truck driver straps the gun to his shoulder again, then
turns and moves toward the upstairs. In passing, his glance
falls on Barbara. He steps backward off the stairs and
looks at her. The radio has taken up again with
a monotonous recorded message.
Harry, we would better off if all three of us
was working together. Well, we'll let you have food when
you need it, and if we knock those things might
be chasing us, and you can let us in.
Barricading sounds stop. Footsteps can be heard as Harry walks
down the cellar steps. Tom listens awhile then retreats, disappointed
and worried about the lack of Harry's efforts and the
defensive measures that must lie ahead. The truck driver is
with Barbara, stooping beside her chair. She stares into an
unseeing void. The big man softens at seeing her, Hey, hey, honey.
He brushes her hair back from her eyes. Tears well up,
and it almost seems as though she might acknowledge his tenderness,
but she does not. The man feels very sorrowful, almost
as if he would feel for his child when was sick.
He massages his forehead and his eyes, tired from fear
and exertion of the past hours. He bends to cover
the girl with a coat that he had brought from
the den, then steps away and feeds the fire and
stirs it to keep the blaze good and warm. The
primary concern in this effort is for the girl behind him.
Tom walks up. Truck driver senses his presence. He's wrong, man,
Thom is silent.
I ain't boxing myself in down here, nohow. We might
be here several days. We'll get it fixed up, and
he'll come up.
He ain't gonna stay down there very long. He'll want
to see what's going on. Or maybe if we get
a chance to get out, he'll come up.
He turns and goes up the stairs. The cellar, with
its stark gray walls and dusty clutter, seems cold and damp.
Cardboard cartons tied with cord, and a hanging grid of
pipework all look dirty in the subdued light of bare
light bulbs. The cartons take up most of the space.
They vary in size, from grocery boxes with faded brand
names to large packing crates that might have contained furniture.
The washing machine, an old roller type, sits off in
a corner of the cellar, near to makeshift shower stall.
Lines for drying clothes are strung over the pipework so
low that Harry is to duck under them as he
walks from the stairs to the other side of the
confining quarters. There are stationary tubs and an old metallic
cabinet against one of the walls. Harry's wife, Helen, is
up the faucet over the tubs, wetting a cloth with
cold water. She looks up as Harry enters, but is
more interested in what she is doing at the moment.
She rings out the cloth and takes it to where
a young girl, their daughter, lies motionlessly atop a home
made work table on a peg board. Above the table
are hanging tools and cables, and built into the table
itself are drawers. It probably contains smaller tools, screws, bolts, washers,
et cetera. The woman moves a little stiffly in the
coolness of the cellar. She is wearing a dress and sweater,
while a warmer coat is spread on the table under
the girl, its sides flopped up and over her, covering
her legs and chest. The woman bends over her daughter
and wipes her head with the cool cloth. Harry quietly
walks up behind her. She concentrates on caring for the
girl and pulls the coat more securely around her.
She has a bad fever.
There's two more people upstairs.
Two.
Yeah, I wasn't about to take any unnecessary chances.
Helen is silent.
How do we know what was going on in there?
Harry nervously reaches into his breast pocket for a cigarette.
He produces an empty pack, and, seeing that it is empty,
crumples it in his hand and pitches it to the floor.
He steps over to the work table, where there is
another pack, snatches it up, and it too is empty.
With the same crumpling action, he discards this pack violently,
this time the action spinning him in a position facing
his wife and daughter. She continues to quietly swab the
girl's forehead. Harry stares at them for a moment.
Does she seem to be all right?
Helen is silent. The girl is motionless. She is sweating
to the point where beads of sweat are forming all
over her face. Harry waits, and, seeing no answer forthcoming,
changes the subject.
They're all stand upstairs, idiots. We should stick together. It's
the safest down here.
He goes to his wife's purse and rummages through its contents.
He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, rips the pack
open and fumbles for a cigarette. He lights it and
drags in the first puff deeply. It makes them cough slightly.
Yeah, they do stand a chance up there. They can't
hold those things off forever. There's too many ways they
can get into the house.
Up there, Helen remains silent. On the floor next to
the workbench is a small transistor radio. Harry's glance falls
on it and he stabs at it, scoops it up,
and clicks it on.
They had a radio on upstairs. Must have civil defenser.
I think it's not just us. This thing is happening
all over.
The radio picks up nothing but static. Harry plays with
a tuning dial, listening anxiously, but across the receiving band.
The transistor just hisses. Harry holds the radio up and
turns it into various positions, trying it for reception, spinning
the tuner as he goes. Still nothing but his. He
walks around the room with still no results. Chase damn thing,
Still just static. Helen stops wiping the girl's forehead and
neatly folds the cloth and drapes it over her daughter's brow.
She gently places her hand on the girl's chest and
looks over toward her husband. He moves impatiently around the cellar,
his cigarette dangling from his lip, waving the little radio
around in the air. The radio just amids static at
varying levels. Harry, he continues as fidgeting with the radio.
He goes near the walls and stares, holding it high,
still spinning the die gerry.
That thing can't pick up anything in this stinking dungeon.
Her rising tone of voice stops him. He turns and
looks at her, about to cry. She brings her hands
to her face. She bites her lip and just stares
at the floor, looking at her. Harry lets his anger
take a hold of him, but he cannot think of words.
His face twitches, his emotions, searching for some vehicle over
our expression, until he pivots vibently and flings the radio
across the room.
I hate you, right, I hate the kid. I want
to see you die here right in the sticking place.
My god, Helen, do you realize what's happening?
Those things are all over the place.
They'll kill us all I enjoy watching my.
Kids summer like this. I enjoy seeing all this happen.
Helen's head jerks toward him. She looks at him with
what is almost vengeance.
She needs help, she needs this actor.
She's gonna die here. Maybe we have to get out
of here, Harry, we.
Have to go.
Yeah, let's just walk out.
We can pack up right now and get ready to go,
and I'll just say to those things, excuse me. My
wife and kid are uncomfortable here. We're going into town
for God's sake. There's maybe twenty of those things out there,
and there's more every minute.
There's people upstairs.
We should stick together, you said, are we fighting with
them upstairs?
Downstairs?
What's the difference.
Maybe they can help us.
Let's get out of here.
Let's go upstairs.
Let's do something.
Let's get out of here.
A pounding sound interrupts her. They listen. The sound is
coming from the door at the top of the stairs.
Harry.
More pounding. Harry just stares up at the door, does
not answer the call. Tears well in Helen's eyes, more pounding.
Helen looks at Harry. When he does not respond, she
gets up and goes for the stairs.
Yes, yes, Tom.
Harry, running after her, grabs her shoulders from behind and
stops her.
Harry Harry, it's Tom Ryan, Harry.
We got food and some medicine and things from up here.
Harry stares up at the door speechlessly.
There's there's gonna be a thing on the radio in
ten minutes, Harry, a civil defense thing to tell us
what's doue.
We're coming up.
We'll be up in a minute.
You're out of here, mind, Helen. All it takes is
a minute.
Those things get in up there, and it's too late
to change your mind. Don't you see that? Can't you
see that we're safe as long as we keep the
door sealed up.
I don't give a damn. I don't care, Harry. I
don't care anymore.
I want to get.
Out of here.
Go upstairs, see if someone will help us.
Maybe Karen will be okay.
She takes control of herself. She steps toward Harry and
speaks in a carton, almost pleading.
Harry, please, for just a minute, we'll go up and
see what's up there.
We'll hear the radio.
Maybe we can figure some way to get out of here.
Maybe with all of us we can make it.
Harry.
Harry, his adamancy weakening somewhat, takes a cigarette from his mouth,
exhaling the last puff and drops it to the floor.
He rubs it out with his foot. The smoke comes
in a long stream through his pursed lips, startling me.
Tom's voice penetrates again.
Harry, Hey, Harry, I've been found of television upstairs. Come
on up. We'll see the Civil Defense broadcast on TV.
Come on, let's go up. There will be something on
that TV that tells us what to do. You can
tell them I wanted to come up.
All right, this is your decision.
We'll go up, but don't blame me if we all
get killed.
Her eyes fall away from his, and she leads as
they go up the stairs and act too nice.
You guys, you have a lunch of nothing but mushrooms and.
Break lunch.
Doing great,