by Robert Bloch
Frowning, he started around the semicircle, pausing to peer through each doorway in turn, finding nothing but a duplication of the first hut’s contents. Stove and sleeping-mats . . . and in a few cases, bowls and cooking utensils, plus a few blankets and bundles of clothing. Behind him the lights still blazed and in several of the huts he noted the presence of cooking pots atop the stoves.
He stepped inside to examine one of them, starring down at the bubbling broth and sniffing its aroma.
There must have been someone here quite recently, that much was certain. And it looked as though they’d left in a hurry; that much was obvious, too, but where had they gone? And why had they left in such a hurry?
Bill stumbled out of the hut, staring around the deserted village and shaking his head. No sense trying to figure out what had happened here; all he knew was that he was still alone, alone and tired. Tired of thinking, tired of running. All he wanted now was sleep; yet deep within him, a warning sounded. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep, not here, not now. But he had to get some rest.
Moving around to the side of the hut, Bill lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against the outer wall, surrendering to the wave of weariness that rose within him. Involuntarily his eyes closed. Now the wave crested, drowning him in darkness.
Drowning, that’s what he was doing now.
He had to be drowning, going down for the third time because his whole life passed in review. The inner visions flashed before him: Ray and Larry needling him in the bar—the Nazi officers shooting as he raced across the rooftops—his fall to the pavement below. Now the Klansmen were dangling the noose before his neck—again he forced one of his hooded captors against the fiery cross, hearing him scream in agony. Suddenly the scream was transformed into the baying of the bloodhounds pursuing him through the night—then their howling was lost in the stutter of the machine gun and the rumbling roar of the exploding grenade. Once more he blundered blindly through the jungle, swam the river, searched the silent huts—
Bill’s eyes blinked open.
For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but as his vision cleared, he stared up at the dangling lights and into the darkness beyond.
He realized that he must have fallen asleep in spite of himself; he’d been dreaming, but now he was fully awake, fully aware.
Bill turned, glancing toward the river. The black bulk of a catamaran loomed from the center of the stream, its unfurled sails offering ample explanation of how it achieved its silent approach.
In the dimness Bill could discern the movement of shadowy shapes at the stern of the craft.
Bill rose, racing toward the shelter of the undergrowth beyond the far end of the compound.
Up ahead, just past the end of the hut farthest to his right, he caught a glimpse of a narrow path half-hidden by overhanging shrubbery. He ran for it quickly, disappearing beneath the shelter of its branches. Panting, he paused, staring back toward the river.
Now the catamaran was dark no longer; sweeping forward from its back, the beam of a powerful spotlight fanned across the huddle of huts in search of the fugitive.
He started up along the narrow pathway that snaked through the underbrush covering the steeply slanted cliffside.
Panting, Bill clambered forward. The path was steep; he toiled upward, puffing and sweating with the intensity of his efforts.
Now a shell whistled behind him and burst against the side of the path below.
Turning, Bill glanced down past the flying chunks of debris and dirt. A large bush burst into flames. The river was red in the reflection of the flames and on its crimson surface a small boat bobbed, pulling away from the catamaran and moving toward the shore. Bill scowled, watching it approach the beach below.
They were sending a landing party!
Frantically, he labored up the path to the shelter of the trees surmounting the cliff top.
Now, from far below, Bill heard shouts rising over the roar of the flames.
He started forward again, eyes alert, seeking an opening through the trees ahead.
Then he saw it—the small wooden shed standing unobtrusively in the deeper shadows at his left.
He ran toward the entrance, his hand moving quickly toward the door.
To his relief it swung inward. He stumbled across the threshold. Then he halted, staring through the shadows of the shed’s interior. Piles of kindling surrounded him on three sides, leaving only a narrow space between as he closed the door. In the darkness he groped forward, reaching out to dislodge a length of cordwood at the right. Blindly he began to pile logs against the door, working feverishly to raise an improvised barrier.
Then, he huddled down in the darkness. There was nothing else he could do now except pray that somehow his hiding place would pass unnoticed once the landing party reached the top of the cliff.
For a long moment Bill crouched there, listening intently for a sound from beyond the barricaded door. The shelling had ceased and the distant crackle of flames diminished. Bill waited now for the sound of voices and footsteps to signal the landing party’s approach.
Nothing stirred in the silence of the night beyond.
Bill felt a sudden surge of relief. Perhaps his escape route hadn’t been discovered. Once the landing party searched the hillside and found nothing, it would return to the boat, leaving him here in safety.
Bill prayed silently. Let them go—go away and leave me in peace—
But now, suddenly, he heard the howling.
Rising through the night came the baying of hounds, and over it the shouts sounding directly before the door.
To his horror, he recognized familiar voices, whooping in triumph.
“We got him now!”
“Yippee! Let’s burn him out!”
“No way—I want him alive. Hang on to them dogs until we get that door down!”
The Ku Klux Klan again!
But how could they be here?
Numb with bewilderment, frozen with fear, Bill listened as the door of the shed began to splinter beneath the blows of an axe blade.
He rose, reaching for a piece of cord wood from the pile at his right. But before his hand closed around it, the door crashed inward.
The Nazi soldiers grabbed Bill by the shoulder, knocking the wood from his hand, and pulled him out of the shed.
Nazis? How did they get here?
And where was he?
The cliff top and the burning village below had vanished. He was standing on cobblestones again, standing on the rain-swept platform of a railroad depot, in broad daylight, surrounded by uniformed men, his arms pinned behind his back. There were no hounds, no hooded figures. Struggling, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of the shed behind him. It too had changed; instead of huddling alone beneath the trees, it appeared to be attached to the side of the depot.
Now the soldier dragged him forward to confront the Nazi officer standing motionless on the platform in the driving rain.
Bill shouted at him. “Let me go!”
The officer’s voice rose in harsh command. Bill’s captors shoved him toward the depot wall.
Desperately, Bill jerked his head around, glancing back at the cordon of soldiers standing behind their leader. “What’s happening to me?” he panted.
The soldiers stood stiffly at attention, unmindful of the man, unmindful of his voice.
Bill closed his eyes. Maybe he was seeing things, hallucinating again. Yes, that had to be the answer; all this was imagination, and if he’d just get a grip on himself, it would go away. Easy does it now. Count to ten, take a deep breath, and when you open your eyes, you’ll be back in the shed again—
He started to inhale, but the breath burst from his body as he was slammed against the bricks of the depot wall.
Depot?
Bill’s eyes blinked open and the despairing realization came that nothing had changed; he was still here, his outstretched arms gripped by the soldiers. And now, advancing toward him through the rain, the Na
zi officer reached into his jacket and dangled an object before him.
Bill stared at the piece of yellow cloth cut in the shape of a star—the Star of David.
Reaching out, the officer pinned the emblem on Bill’s chest. Turning, he nodded toward the squad of men standing at attention, rifle barrels gleaming in the rain. “Hier ist nur ein anderen.” He gestured toward Bill. “Stell ihn mit den anderen.”
As the squad started toward him, Bill lunged forward, breaking free from the grip of his captors on either side. “I’m an American citizen,” he panted. “Don’t you understand?”
One of the soldiers detached himself from the squad; without breaking his stride, he raised his rifle and clubbed Bill across the side of the head.
Dazed, Bill fell face forward on the wet cobblestones. Pain surged through him, but somehow he managed to find his voice again. “I won’t let you do this to me,” he murmured.
Clutching hands pulled him upright, dragged him across the depot platform. Opening his eyes, Bill stared at the long line of freight cars standing on the tracks. All of them were sealed shut except for the one directly before him. Guards stood beside it with rifles raised, their bayonets jabbing at the shadowy figures filling the doorway above.
Bill turned to the soldier on his left, eyes pleading. “No—please— You’re making a mistake—”
Suddenly he felt himself being lifted from behind. Thrust forward through the opened doorway, he landed heavily, lurching against the packed bodies of the other occupants. Someone grabbed his arm, helping him to regain his balance. Glancing around, he scanned the faces of his fellow prisoners. Some were young, some were old, but all bore identical looks of resignation and despair; and like himself, all wore the yellow star.
With a rumble, the sliding door of the freight car clanged shut. Cries of fear rose in response behind him.
As the train clanked forward, Bill collapsed against the side of the car, listening to the screams and wails of the helpless horde surrounding him, and the relentless clatter of the wheels against the tracks.
Bill knew where he was going now, knew what would happen when he got there, and yet somehow it didn’t matter. What happened to him wasn’t important.
He would die, the others would die, and in time the Nazis would die. It was all the same, both for victims and for victors. And it would always be the same until the day when hatred would die too. Bill’s lips moved in a silent prayer as the train rumbled into the twilight.
S E G M E N T
2
Screenplay by
RICHARD MATHESON
Based on a story by
RICHARD MATHESON
The afternoon sun was just beginning to fade as Mr. Bloom walked through the doorway.
Miss Cox looked up from her seat behind the reception desk, then nodded briskly.
“Here we are!” She rose and moved forward with a smile of greeting that was as false as her teeth. “I’ve been expecting you all afternoon, Mr. Bloom.”
“Sorry to be so late,” Bloom said. “But how did you know who I am?”
Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. After all, he had given his name over the telephone when applying for admission and told her to expect him on Saturday afternoon. So when a man his age walked in carrying a suitcase, all she had to do was put two and two together. Or one and one. He wasn’t very good at numbers, and besides, it didn’t matter.
Neither did her reply, but he listened politely just the same.
“I formed a mental picture when we talked on the phone the other day,” she said. “I find my intuitions seldom fail me in that regard.” She stared at him quizzically, pale gray eyes narrowing behind the lenses of rimless spectacles. “You’re a Pisces, aren’t you?”
Bloom was definitely not a Pisces, but he shook his head in wonder. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “Absolutely remarkable!”
Miss Cox’s sallow cheeks flushed with pride. “Nothing to it,” she declared. “Just a matter of practice and observation. Working in a retirement home like this, you see so many people come and go—”
She broke off hastily now, abruptly aware of the unfortunate connotation of her remark, but Bloom pretended he hadn’t noticed.
“Enough of that,” Miss Cox was saying. “Welcome to Sunneyvale!”
Raising her left wrist, she glanced down quickly at the watch that rested atop it. “My goodness, it is getting late! We’d better get you squared away before it’s time for your din-din.”
Turning, she started down the hall and Mr. Bloom fell into step beside her. An observer might have found them a curious combination: the tall bony woman in the nurse’s uniform towering over the frail little old man at her side. The frail little old man was still carrying his suitcase; Miss Cox had not offered to relieve him of his burden.
As they moved down the hallway, Mr. Bloom glanced curiously through the open doorway on his left.
The room was large, large enough to contain half a dozen beds. Above each was a small shelf and against the opposite wall stood six identical plywood storage cabinets, apparently used to house wardrobes and personal belongings. Beside every bed was a single chair, only two of which were occupied.
“That’s our ladies’ dormitory,” Miss Cox told him. “As you can see, we don’t have a full house at the moment. There were four here until last week, when Mrs. Schanfarber passed away. And Mrs. Tomkins is in the infirmary now. Poor thing. Dr. Ryan looked in on her last night. Says she has viral pneumonia. Just between us, I’m afraid she isn’t going to make it.”
Bloom glanced at the two seated ladies, both of whom were eating dinner from trays set atop the small folding chairs before them.
One wore an elaborate housecoat trimmed with an overabundance of ribbons and lace. It was the sort of garment that might be chosen by a girl in her twenties who had just told a visiting boyfriend that she wanted to slip into something more comfortable. But this lady was at least fifty years removed from girlhood; although her white hair was curled tightly by the recent application of a home-permanent and her sunken cheeks had been heavily rouged, Bloom judged her to be well into her seventies.
“That’s Mrs. Dempsey,” the nurse told him. “She’s a widow.” Now her smile soured into disapproval as she gestured toward the long-haired white cat snuggling in Mrs. Dempsey’s lap. “And that’s Mickey,” she said. “I keep telling her not to feed him from the table, but she doesn’t pay any attention.”
Bloom nodded, staring at the other occupant of the dormitory. She was a plump, neatly dressed woman with dark hair and a jolly expression; the hair was obviously a wig, but her smile was genuine.
Miss Cox followed his gaze. “That’s Mrs. Weinstein. Would you believe it, she’s over eighty and still going strong. Her husband is with us, too. Of course, he’s in the men’s dormitory. They spend a lot of time together, but we don’t have a regular dining room here, so we prefer our residents to take their meals separately. You know how it is. If they all ate together, there’d be too much confusion. Besides, some of them are on special diets.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “For example, the Weinsteins only eat Kosher. You can’t imagine the trouble that makes in the kitchen.”
Bloom nodded again, but listening to Miss Cox’s remarks about the residents made him just a trifle uncomfortable; he felt like a visitor being taken on a guided tour of the zoo by the head keeper.
Now they moved along the hall to another open doorway at the right. He followed Miss Cox over the threshold and found himself in a room almost identical to the one that the women occupied.
“This is the men’s dormitory,” Miss Cox announced. “I’ve given you the first bed here, nearest the door. Weinstein likes the one next to the window—he’s had it for years. Seniority rights, you know.” She glanced along the row of empty beds. “Agee is next to Weinstein and then comes Conroy. And Mute in the one next to you.”
Bloom stared down the row of empty beds. “Don’t the men eat here?”
“Usually
they do,” Miss Cox said. “But seeing as this is Saturday, Weinstein and Agee are having dinner with Mute in the recreation room. They like to watch the game on television there. And Conroy is in the visitors’ room with his son and daughter-in-law.”
Bloom noticed that she referred to none of the men as “Mr.” Obviously Miss Cox was an ardent champion of Women’s Lib.
“Put your suitcase on the bed,” she told him. “You’ll find a place for your things in the wardrobe over there. As soon as you’ve unpacked, I’ll have José bring in a tray with your dinner.”
Bloom shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I had a very late lunch. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to rest for a little while.”
“Suit yourself.” Miss Cox turned, moving toward the doorway. She halted there and glanced back. “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here. If you want to wash up, there’s a towel and a washcloth on the shelf in your wardrobe locker. The men’s bathroom is at the end of the hall. Now I’d better be getting back to my desk. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”
Before he could reply, she exited quickly, leaving him alone in the room.
Mr. Bloom surveyed it with a rueful smile. Welcome to Sunneyvale.
His glance traveled across the narrow beds, each covered by a drab gray blanket; the exposed borders of the sheets and the single pillow were white, but they too had a grayish tinge, the product of too many washings and too little bleach. The late afternoon sun shown dimly through windows at the far end of the room, but its rays were not strong enough to dispel the shadows blurring the outline of the shelves above each bed, the woodened-back chair beside it, or the wardrobe cabinets on the opposite wall.
Everything seemed gray here, including the inmates.
Guests, Mr. Bloom corrected himself. All the residents were paying guests, courtesy of Social Security, Medicare, pensions, and savings. And as long as they paid, they stayed; stayed in their gray dormitory until a deeper darkness descended—the darkness of death. Sunneyvale was no different from the other retirement homes he’d seen; just another warehouse for senior citizens awaiting graduation into oblivion.
