Twilight Zone The Movie (2 page)

Bill grabbed her again. “Come on, honey—”

The waitress jerked free of his grasp, eyes blazing.
“Take your hands off me!”

As she flounced off, Larry started to laugh. “I think she likes you, Bill. You sure got a way with the women.”

Ray didn’t share his mirth. “Too bad about the job,” he said.

Bill’s scowl returned.
“I’m better than Goldman. I’ve been there seventeen years.”

Larry fumbled for his glass and raised it tipsily. “Come on, Bill, relax!”

“Relax, nuts! Goldman takes my promotion and I should relax? That’s six grand a year more than I’m earning now.”

Ray shook his head. “Easy, Bill—”

“Easy for him, you mean. The Jews always get more money.”

“How long has Goldman been there?” Ray asked quietly.

Bill shrugged. “So he’s been there longer than me! What of it? I’ve sold more units in the last six weeks than he has moved all year.” As he spoke, he felt the anger rising within him, spilling out. “You know me. I’m a hard worker. I work hard and some smart Jew gets my job! Bunch of smart operators—no wonder they own everything!”

“Come off it, Bill.” Ray leaned forward. “You know better than that. The Jews do not own everything.”

“That’s right,” Larry chuckled, nodding. “The Arabs won’t let ’em!”

“Never mind that,” Bill muttered. “Arabs are just blacks wrapped in sheets.”

Ray glanced at Larry and sighed in weary resignation. “Oh, no—he’s on a roll now!”

Larry snickered, but Bill ignored the reaction. “Life in this country is getting harder and harder.” He thumped his fist down on the tabletop. “And you know why? It’s the Jews and the blacks and orientals, that’s why.”

“You’re raving, Bill.” There was a note of caution in Ray’s reply, a note that Bill ignored as his own voice rose loudly.

“Raving? My house is owned by some oriental bank! I’ve got blacks living just six blocks from my home.”

He broke off abruptly at the sound of another voice rising from behind him.

“Excuse me, mister. You got a problem?”

Bill glanced up into the face of a tall man standing beside the booth. The face was black.

Across the table, Larry muttered under his breath. “Oh-oh!”

Bill stared up defiantly. “Yeah, I do, buddy. I got a lot of problems.”

The black face was impassive. “Look,” he said slowly, “I really don’t care what you gentlemen think, as long as we don’t have to listen to it.”

Before Bill could reply, Ray broke in quickly. “It’s okay, no sweat. Our friend’s a little upset. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill caught his warning glance and forced himself to turn, nodding toward the formidable figure standing beside him. “Sure, sure,” he said. “Everything’s under control.”

For a moment the black patron hesitated, his eyes fixed on Bill’s face. Then he turned and moved back to his table. Bill reached for one of the glasses in front of him and downed its contents at a single gulp.

As he reached for the other glass, Ray frowned. “Maybe we ought to cut out,” he said.

Bill shook his head. “You do what you please! I’m not gonna leave until I’m good and ready. If that guy doesn’t like what I got to say, let
him
get out.”

“Keep your voice down!” Ray set an example with his worried whisper. “You want to get us killed?”

An inner censor modulated the sound of Bill’s voice but not the message it conveyed. “Hitler had the right idea. You just kill all of them.”

He raised his glass and drank as Larry nodded in alcoholic agreement. “That’s where we screwed up, in Vietnam, right there.”

“What?” Ray blinked as Larry nodded again.

“If we just killed them all off, we would’ve won.”

Ray’s gesture mingled disgust with dismissal. “You’re drunk, Larry.”

Larry ignored the observation, waggling a forefinger to emphasize his words of wisdom. “You see, if they were dead, then they wouldn’t be Communists.”

“Oh no? Why couldn’t someone be a dead Communist?”

“Hey, I never thought of that! Those Communists sure are tricky.”

His loud laughter was infectious; Ray’s chuckle responded, but Bill sat stony-faced, immune to the contagion.

Larry glanced at him, concerned. “Come on, Bill. Lighten up!”

Bill downed the contents of his second glass, then banged it down on the table. “You think this is funny?” he said. “Some friends you are! That Jew gets my job, some black threatens me when I speak up, and all you can do is laugh about it. I’m sure one lucky guy to have friends like you.”

Ray reached out and put his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Let’s split,” he said. “You’re getting loud again.”

Bill pushed his arm away and rose. He was ready to leave, but not before he made his point. “Just remember one thing. While you two guys were fooling around, I was in the war. We were paid to kill Vietnamese.”

“Hey,” Ray said. “Just cool it—”

Bill wasn’t listening. “I thought we won that war but now those same orientals own my house! And then this Jew comes along and grabs my promotion. I could use that extra money. I was counting on it. Instead I get myself shafted by some rich Jew—”

“Now wait a minute.” Ray shook his head reprovingly. “I know Goldman and you can’t exactly call him rich. Judging by the kind of clothes he wears and that old car of his, you’re probably in better financial shape than he is.”

“What difference does that make?” Bill made no effort to control his voice now; as far as he was concerned everybody could get the message, loud and clear. “Don’t you understand? I’m better than a Jew. I’m better than an African. I’m better than an Oriental. I’m an American! That’s supposed to mean something!”

Turning, he started along the row of booths, heading for the door.

Ray’s voice rose behind him. “Bill— Wait a minute—”

But there was no time to wait. Yanking the door open, he strode out into the twilit street. Somewhere behind him the door banged shut.

Bill didn’t hear it. He was too busy staring; staring into the street before him, where everything was—

Wrong.

The traffic had vanished. So had half the parked cars lining the curb opposite him. And those that remained were—different. Something about their sizes and shapes reminded him vaguely of the old jalopies he’d used when he was a kid; that’s what they looked like, but even so he couldn’t recognize the models. Behind them, a row of storefronts remained, but even these looked strange and unfamiliar. All of the fronts were dark, closed for the night. Directly across the way was a shop with a broken display window; half of the glass had been shattered and knocked out of its frame. Across the wooden door were two words, their letters scrawled in splotches of yellow paint.

Bill squinted through the dusk, trying to make them out.

Juden,
and
Juif.

One word was German and the other French, but both had the same meaning—Jews.

What had happened here?
Glancing around, he noticed other changes—banners dangling from poles before the shops, each emblazoned with a design that also reminded him of something seen in the distant past: a squiggle of angling inter-locking black lines forming the shape of a swastika.

What gives here?
Blinking, Bill turned away to confront a brick wall beside the bar entrance. It was plastered with posters bearing boldfaced lettering in German and French. Once again Bill realized, startled, that he could read and understand the wording.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Was he drunk? No way—not on just two beers. And even if he’d had a dozen, that still wouldn’t explain why he was able to understand foreign languages. And it wouldn’t explain why he didn’t recognize this street.

What had happened to it? And what had happened to
him?

Bill closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the strangeness. He was uptight, that was it. He shouldn’t have let himself get carried away like that back there in the bar. All he had to do now was to get control of himself again. He stood quietly, taking deep breaths, forcing in fresh air to clear his lungs and his head. That should do the trick.

But when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.

Nothing—and everything. He was still standing on a strange street, staring at the strange storefronts, the ancient, unfamiliar automobiles, the peculiar posters with their foreign lettering.

Now as he glanced up, he saw a moving vehicle rounding the corner at his left. It too was of ancient vintage, and its side door bore the emblem of a swastika against a circular background. The car screeched to a halt at the curb before him. The rear door swung open and two men emerged quickly. Both were wearing uniforms—uniforms that Bill had seen many times before, but only in old news-photos and movies of World War Two.

Bill stared at them as they approached, stunned by the sudden shock of recognition.
These guys were Nazi officers!

“Ou allez-vous?”
The first man’s eyes were cold, his voice curt. “Who are you?”

“Qui êtes-vous?”
Bill turned to face the second officer as he extended his hand.

“Ihre Papiern.”

Bill stood silent, suddenly realizing that both officers were addressing him in a foreign tongue; the first in French and the second in German, and yet he understood what they were saying. How could that be?

The first officer was speaking again. Once more the language was French, but Bill understood the words of command all too clearly. “Your papers! Now!”

Bill started to back away.
“Vos papiers! Maintenant.”

The first officer grabbed his arm, then reached into Bill’s coat pocket for his wallet.

Bill shook his head. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing—”

The second officer slapped his face.
“Sei still!”
he shouted.

The stinging blow brought tears to Bill’s eyes, and before he could speak again, the first officer had grabbed his wallet; now he was rifling its plastic pockets and examining their contents. He peered down at Bill’s Master Charge card.

“Qu’ est-ce que c’est que ça?”
he snapped.

Bill frowned in bewilderment, then recoiled as the second man slapped his face again.

“Antworten Sie!”
the Nazi shouted.
“Was meint das?”

Bill forced his voice. “It’s a credit card for goodness sake!”

“Sind Sie Englischer?”
the second officer demanded.
“Was tun Sie hier?”

Bill groped for an answer. What
was
he doing here? And just where was he? He stared past his two interrogators, stared at the signs identifying the storefront across the street. The signs were in French, but these men were German. Vaguely he remembered his history lessons when he was still a kid in school. The Nazis had occupied France during World War Two. But that was in 1940, a lifetime ago. How could they be here now?

The first officer held up Bill’s driver’s license.
“Vous êtes American? Répondez-moi!”

“Was tun sie hier?”
the second officer repeated. Stepping behind Bill, he grabbed his arms, holding him fast.

“Let go of me!” Bill shouted.

The first officer shook his head.
“Venez avec nous!”
He closed the wallet and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned and started across the walk to the waiting car. His companion began to propel Bill forward. As they reached the open car door, Bill yanked himself free and turned quickly, lunging at his captor and pushing him back against the other officer.

The two men collided forcefully, and for a moment they stumbled off-balance. Bill turned and ran down the street.

Shouts rose behind him:
“Halt!” “Arrêtez!”

Bill did not look back. He ran forward blindly with a speed born of panic.

Again the shouts sounded:
“Halt! Ich werde schie Ben!”

Bill opened his eyes just in time to see the entrance to an alleyway yawning to his left. As he swerved into it, he heard the echo of two shots from behind. He raced up the alley, weaving his way amidst a litter of garbage and broken pieces of furniture. In the darkness he stumbled and fell.

For a moment he lay there, trying to catch his breath. Panting, he raised his head and glanced back just in time to see his pursuers appear at the end of the alleyway behind him. Both men were holding pistols now, and as their eyes scanned the darkness they raised the weapons, firing blindly.

Pain lanced Bill’s left arm just below the shoulder. He glanced down, shocked at the sight of the bleeding wound. From the darkness beyond came the sound of running feet pounding against the cobblestones.

Glancing around frantically, Bill saw a pile of rubble projecting from the wall directly beside him. Soundlessly, he slid behind it and crouched down, breathing a silent prayer that his hiding place was secure.

Afraid to lift his head, he could only lie silently as the sound and tempo of running feet increased, then diminished in darkness beyond. Only then did he dare to lift his head and peer forward to the other end of the alley. In the light from the street beyond, he saw that the officers had halted, glancing about in confusion.

For a moment Bill felt safe—but only for a moment. Now the air resounded with a shrill shriek of a whistle, summoning aid.

Bill’s throbbing arm was warm with blood, his forehead cold with sweat. Peering out from behind the rubble, he saw a wooden door set in the brick wall of the alley directly across from him. Gasping, he rose and dashed toward it. He tugged at the door handle, hoping against hope that he’d find it unlocked. To his relief, the door gave way, opening inward.

He entered, closing the door behind him. Slowly his eyes penetrated the gloom. Directly before him loomed a flight of stairs. He moved toward it quietly, then began to climb.

Halfway between the foot of the stairs and the landing above him he paused, startled by a sudden sound of footsteps overhead.

Again, the cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Someone was coming but there was no place to hide. He stood there, trapped.

Then footsteps faded and he heard the creak of a door opening and closing somewhere above.