The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (68 page)

There was a pause and the voice took on a different tone. “And now today’s weather report from the Director of Meteorology. The temperature at eleven o’clock Eastern Standard Time was one hundred and seventeen degrees. Humidity ninety-seven percent. Barometer steady. Forecast for tomorrow...” Another pause, and the tone changed again. “Forecast for tomorrow...” There was a long silence as Norma and Mrs. Bronson stared toward the radio. Then the announcer’s voice came on once more. “Hot. More of the same, only hotter.”

The sound of whispered voices came from the radio. “I don’t care,” the announcer said clearly. “Who the hell do they think they’re kidding with this weather report crap?...Ladies and gentlemen,” he went on, a strange kind of laughter in his voice, “tomorrow you can fry eggs on sidewalks, heat up soup in the ocean, and get yourselves the sunburn of your lives just by standing in the Goddamn shade!” This time the whispered voices were more urgent and intense, and the announcer was obviously reacting to them. “What do you mean, panic?” he blurted out. “Who the hell is there left to panic?” There came the sound of grim laughter.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice continued, “I’m told that my departing from the script might panic you. It happens to be my contention that there aren’t a dozen of you left in this city who are listening to me. I’m starting a special contest now. Anyone within sound of my voice can tear off the top of their thermometer and send it to me. I’ll send them my own specially devised booklet on how to stay warm when the sun is out at midnight. Now maybe I can find a couple of real pizazz commercials for you. How about a nice cold beer? Wouldn’t that taste just great?” The voice faded off slightly. “Lemme alone,” it said, “do you hear me? Goddamn it, lemme alone! Let go of me!” More frantic whisperings followed, and then a dead silence, finally replaced by the sound of a needle scratching on a record and then the sound of dance music.

Norma and Mrs. Bronson exchanged a look.

“You see?” Norma said, as she started to open up the can of grapefruit juice. “You’re not the only frightened one.”

She unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, then took two glasses down from a shelf and poured the juice into them. She handed one of the glasses to Mrs. Bronson, who looked at it but didn’t drink.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Bronson,” Norma said softly, “it’s grapefruit juice.”

The older woman looked down at the floor, and very slowly put the glass down on the counter. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t just live off you, Norma. You’ll need this yourself…”

Norma moved over to her swiftly and held her tightly by her shoulders. “We’re going to have to start living off of each other, Mrs. Bronson.” She picked up the glass and handed it to the landlady, then winked at her and held up her own glass. “Here’s looking at you.”

Mrs. Bronson made a valiant attempt at a smile and a wink of her own, but as she put the glass to her lips she had to stifle a sob, and almost gagged as she swallowed.

The music on the radio went off abruptly, and a small electric fan at the end of the room stopped its desultory movement to left and right, the blades coming to a halt like some tired, aged airplane.

“The current’s off again,” Norma said quietly.

Mrs. Bronson nodded. “Every day it stays on for a shorter time. What if...” she began, and she turned away. “What?” Norma asked softly. “What if it shuts off and doesn’t come back on again? It would be like an oven in here—as hot as it is now, as unbearable, it would be so much worse.” She put her hands to her mouth. “Norma, it would be so much worse.”

Norma didn’t answer her. Mrs. Bronson drank a little more of the grapefruit juice and put the glass down. She walked around the room aimlessly, looking at the paintings that lined the room. And there was something so hopeless in the round, perspiring face, the eyes so terribly frightened, that Norma wanted to take her into her arms.

“Norma,” Mrs. Bronson said, staring at one of the paintings.

Norma moved closer to her.

“Paint something different today. Paint something like a scene with a waterfall and trees bending in the wind. Paint something... paint something cool.”

Suddenly her tired face became a mask of anger. She seized the painting, lifted it up, and then threw it down on the floor. “Damn it, Norma!” she screamed. “
Don’t paint the sun anymore!
” She knelt down and began to cry.

Norma looked at the ripped canvas lying in front of her. It was the painting she’d been working on—a partially finished oil of the street outside, with the hot white sun hovering overhead. The jagged tear across the picture gave it a strangely surrealistic look—something Dali might have done.

The old woman’s sobs finally subsided but she stayed on her knees, her head down.

Norma gently touched her shoulder. “Tomorrow,” she said softly, “tomorrow I’ll try to paint a waterfall.”

Mrs. Bronson reached up to take Norma’s hand and held on to it tightly. She shook her head; her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Oh, Norma, I’m sorry. My dear child, I’m so sorry. It would be so much better if—”

“If what?”

“If I were to just die.” She looked up into Norma’s face. It’d be so much better for
you
.”

Norma knelt down, cupping the old face in her hands. “Don’t ever say that again to me, Mrs. Bronson. For God’s sake, don’t ever say that again! We need each other now. We need each other desperately.”

Mrs. Bronson let her cheek rest on Norma’s hand and then slowly got to her feet.

A policeman came up the stairs and appeared at the open door. His shirt was unbuttoned. His sleeves had been cut off and were ragged and uneven at the elbows. He looked from Norma to Mrs. Bronson and wiped the sweat off his sunburned face. “You the only ones in the building?” he asked.

“Just me and Miss Smith,” Mrs. Bronson answered.

“You had your radio on lately?” the policeman asked.

“It’s on all the time,” Mrs. Bronson said, and turned to Norma. “Norma, honey, what station did we—”

The policeman interrupted. “It doesn’t make any difference. There’re only two or three on the air now and they figure by tomorrow there won’t be any. The point is—we’ve been trying to get a public announcement through for everyone left in the city.” He looked from one face to the other and then around the room, obviously reluctant to go on. “There isn’t going to be a police force tomorrow. We’re disbanding. Over half of us have gone already. A few volunteered to stay back and tell everyone we could that—”

He saw the fear creep into Mrs. Bronson’s face and he tried to make his voice steady. “Best thing would be to keep your doors locked from now on. Every wild man, every crank and maniac around will be roaming the streets. It’s not going to be safe, ladies, so keep your doors locked.” He looked at them and made a mental note that Norma was the stronger of the two and the more reliable. “You got any weapons in here, miss?” he asked, directing the question to her.

“No,” Norma answered, “no, I haven’t.”

The policeman looked thoughtful for a moment and then unbuckled his holster, removing a police .45. He handed it to Norma. “You better hang onto this. It’s loaded.” He forced a smile toward the landlady. “Good luck to you.”

He turned and started down the steps, Mrs. Bronson following him out. “Officer,” she said, her voice shaking, “Officer, what’s going to happen to us?”

The policeman turned to her from halfway down the steps. His face was tired, drained out. “Don’t you know?” he asked quietly. “It’s just going to get hotter and hotter, then maybe a couple of days from now”—he shrugged—“four or five at the most, it’ll be too hot to stand it.” He looked over Mrs. Bronson’s shoulder at Norma standing in the door, still holding onto the gun. His mouth was a grim straight line. “Then you use your own judgment, ladies.” He turned and continued down the steps.

It was the following day or night. The current had gone off, and with it the clocks, so that the normal measurement of time was no longer operative. A sick white light bathed the streets and chronology had warped with the heat.

Norma lay on the couch in her slip, feeling the waves of heat, like massive woolen blankets piled on top of her. It was as if someone were pushing her into a vat of boiling mud, forcing the stuff into her mouth, her nose, her eyes, gradually immersing her in it. Between the nightmare of sleep and the nightmare of reality, she groaned. After a moment she opened her eyes, feeling a dull, throbbing ache in her temples.

She forced herself to rise from the couch, feeling the same ponderous heaviness as she walked across the room to the refrigerator. She opened the door, took out the milk bottle full of water, and poured herself a quarter of a glass. This she sipped slowly as she retraced her steps across the room to the window. She gasped as her hands touched the sill. It was like touching hot steel. Her fingers went to her mouth and she stood there licking them, and finally she poured a few drops of water from the glass onto them. She listened for sounds, but there was absolute stillness. At last she turned and crossed the room, opened the door, and went out into the hall. She knocked on the door of Mrs. Bronson’s apartment.

“Mrs. Bronson?” she called. There was no answer. “Mrs. Bronson?”

There were slow footsteps behind the door and then the sound of a door chain. The door opened a few inches and Mrs. Bronson peered out.

“Are you all right?” Norma asked.

The landlady unhooked the chain and opened the door. Her face looked pinched and ill, her eyes watery and too bright. “I’m all right,” she said. “It’s been so quiet. I haven’t heard a sound.” She moved out into the hall and looked over the landing toward the steps. “What time is it?”

Norma glanced at her watch and shook her wrist. “It’s stopped. I’m not sure what time it is. I’m not even sure whether it’s morning or night.”

“I think it’s about three o’clock in the afternoon,” Mrs. Bronson said. “It feels about three in the afternoon.” She shook her head. “I think that’s what time it is.”

She closed her eyes very tightly. “I lay down for a while,” she went on. “I tried shutting the curtains to keep the light out, but it gets so stifling when the curtains are shut.” She smiled wanly. “I guess that’s psychological, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t think there’s much difference between out there and in here.”

From up on the roof came the sound of glass breaking, and then a loud thump.

Mrs. Bronson’s hand shot out and grabbed Norma. “What was that?” she whispered.

“Something... something fell.”

“Oh, no... it was
someone.
”

Norma looked up the steps leading to the top floor. “Didn’t you lock the roof door?” she whispered, feeling a nightmare moving in on her.

“Yes,” Mrs. Bronson said hurriedly, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “No,” she corrected herself, and shook her head wildly. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I thought I did.”

A door above them squeaked open and Norma didn’t wait to hear anymore. She took Mrs. Bronson by the arm and pulled her into her apartment, slamming the door and locking it. The two women barely breathed as the sound of footsteps came down the stairs. They stopped outside.

Mrs. Bronson turned to Norma. Her mouth opened as if ready to say something, but Norma damped her hand over it and warned her with her eyes to be silent.

There was the sound of movement in the hall, and footsteps came to the door. “Hey!” a man’s voice called out. “Who’s in there? Somebody in there?”

Norma felt all the muscles in her body constrict. Neither of them made a sound.

“Come on out,” the voice said. “I know you’re in there. Come on out and be friendly.” The voice sounded impatient. “Come on—I ain’t got all day. You come out or I’m gonna come in!”

Norma, her hand still on Mrs. Bronson’s mouth, looked desperately around the room. She saw the policeman’s gun on the coffee table, moved over, and picked it up. She went to the door and held the gun close to the keyhole. She cocked it and then put her face against the door. “Did you hear that?” she asked in a loud voice. “That was a gun. Now get out of here. Go down the steps and go out the front door. Leave us alone.”