by Stephen King
coming . . . and this is no ordinary storm. (to PIPPA) Got to go back, sweet girl. You be good.
DON BLOWS ANOTHER RASPBERRY.
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MIKE (low) Gee, I love Robbie's kid.
MOLLY says nothing, but rolls her eyes in agreement.
MIKE What do you say, Hatch?
HATCH
Let's roll while we still can. If they're right, we're all apt to be cooped up for the next three days.
(pause) Like Pippa, with her head caught in the stairs.
None of them laugh. There's too much truth in what he says.
32 EXTERIOR: THE ANDERSON HOUSE ON LOWER MAIN STREET DAY.
The Island Services four-wheel drive is parked at the curb. In the foreground, by the walk, is a sign reading WEE FOLKS DAY-CARE CENTER. It's on a chain, and swinging back and forth in the wind. The sky overhead is grayer than ever. The ocean, visible here in the background, is full of gray chop.
The door opens. MIKE and HATCH come out, pulling down their hats to keep the wind from tearing them off, raising the collars of their jackets. As they approach the car, MIKE stops and looks up at the sky. It's coming, all right. A big one. MIKE'S anxious face says he knows that. Or thinks he does. No one knows how big this baby is going to be.
He gets into the car behind the wheel, waving to MOLLY, who stands on the porch with her sweater over her shoulders. HATCH waves, too. She waves back. The four-wheel drive pulls around in a U-turn, headed back to the market.
33 INTERIOR: THE ISLAND SERVICES VEHICLE, WITH MIKE AND HATCH.
HATCH
(quite amused) The "smaller button," huh?
MIKE
Everyone's got one. You gonna tell Melinda?
HATCH
No . . . but Pippa will. Did you notice, through the whole thing, she never lost sight of her bread.
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The two men look at each other and grin.
34 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET DAY.
Coming up the center of the street, oblivious of the impending storm and rising wind, is a boy of about fourteen DAVEY HOPEWELL. He's dressed in a heavy coat and gloves with the fingers cut off.
This makes it easier to handle a basketball. He weaves from side to side, dribbling and talking to himself. Doing play-by-play, in fact.
DAVEY
Davey Hopewell in transition ... he avoids the press . . . Stockton tries to steal the ball, but he doesn't have a chance . . . It's Davey Hopewell at the top of the key . . . clock running out . . .
Davey Hopewell's the Celtics' only hope ... he shakes and bakes ... he DAVEY HOPEWELL stops. Holds the ball and looks at:
35 EXTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON'S HOUSE, FROM DAVEY'S POINT OF VIEW.
The door is open in spite of the cold, and the overturned walker is lying by the porch steps, where LINOGE threw it.
36 EXTERIOR: RESUME DAVEY.
He tucks his basketball under his arm and goes slowly to MARTHA'S gate. He stands there for a moment, then sees something black on the white paint. There are CHAR MARKS where LINOGE
tapped his cane. DAVEY touches one with a couple of bare fingers (cutoff gloves, remember) and then snatches them away.
DAVEY Owww!
Still hot, those marks. But he loses interest in them as he looks at the overturned walker and the open door that door shouldn't be open, not in this weather. He starts up the path; climbs the steps.
He bends, moves the walker aside.
WEATHER LADY (voice)
What part does global warming play in such storms? The fact is, we just don't know . . .
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DAVEY (calls) Mrs. Clarendon? You all right?
37 INTERIOR: MARTHA'S LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.
The weather is still playing. The storm graphics have moved closer toward their eventual point of impact. LINOGE sits in MARTHA'S chair, with his bloody cane drawn across his lap. His eyes are closed. His face has that look of meditation.
WEATHER LADY
One thing we do know is that the jet stream has taken on a pattern which is very typical for this time of year, although the upper flow is even stronger than usual, helping to account for the terrific strength of this western storm.
DAVEY (off-screen)
(calls)
Mrs. Clarendon? It's Davey! Davey Hopewell! Are you all right?
LINOGE opens his eyes. Once again they are BLACK . . . but now the black is shot through with TWISTS OF RED . . . like FIRE. HE GRINS, showing those AWFUL TEETH. We hold on this, then: FADE OUT. THIS ENDS ACT 1.
Act 2
38 EXTERIOR: THE PORCH OF MARTHA'S HOUSE DAY.
We are looking out through the open door at DAVEY HOPEWELL, who is approaching the door slowly and with growing unease. He's still got his basketball under his arm.
DAVEY
Mrs. Clarendon? Mrs.
WEATHER LADY (voice-over)
Large windows should be taped to improve their integrity in the face of strong wind gusts.
He stops suddenly, his eyes widening, as he sees:
39 INTERIOR: THE HALLWAY, FROM DAVEY'S POINT OF VIEW.
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Sticking out of the shadows are two old-lady shoes, and the hem of an old-lady dress.
WEATHER LADY (voice-over) Gusts in this storm may range into . . .
40 EXTERIOR: THE PORCH, WITH DAVEY.
His fears temporarily forgotten he thinks he knows the worst, that she's fainted, or had a stroke, or something DAVEY drops to one knee and leans forward to examine her . . . then FREEZES. His basketball slips out from under his arm and rolls across the porch as his eyes fill up with horror. We don't need to see. We know.
WEATHER LADY (voice-over)
. . . speeds we normally associate with hurricanes. Check the dampers on stoves and fireplace chimneys! This is very important . . .
DAVEY pulls in breath, and at first can't get it out. We see him struggle. He is trying to scream.
He touches one of MARTHA'S shoes and makes a little wheezing noise.
LINOGE (voice)
Forget the NBA, Davey you'll never even play first string in high school. You're slow, and you couldn't throw it in the ocean.
DAVEY looks down the shadowy hall, realizing that MARTHA'S killer is likely still in MARTHA'S
house. His paralysis breaks. He lets out a SHRIEK, bolts to his feet, turns, and pelts down the steps.
He stumbles on the last one and sprawls on the walk.
LINOGE (voice)
(calling)
Also, you're short. You're a dwarf. Why don't you come on in here, Davey? I'll do you a favor.
Save you a lot of grief.
DAVEY scrambles to his feet and flees, flinging terrified glances back over his shoulder as he buttonhooks out of the CLARENDON gate, across the sidewalk, and into the street. He pelts down Atlantic toward the docks.
DAVEY
(screaming)
Help! Missus Clarendon's dead! Someone's killed her! Blood! Help! Oh, God, somebody help!
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41 INTERIOR: MARTHA'S LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.
His eyes are back to normal ... if you can call that cool, unsettling blue normal. He raises one hand, and makes a beckoning gesture with his index finger.
WEATHER LADY
The best way to sum up what we're saying to you is "prepare for the worst, because this is going to be a bad one."
42 EXTERIOR: MARTHA'S FRONT PORCH.
Faintly, we can still hear DAVEY HOPEWELL bawling for help. His basketball, which came to rest against the porch rail, rolls across the
boards slowly at first, then gathering speed to the front door. It bounces up over the doorstoop and inside.
43 INTERIOR: MARTHA'S HALL, LOOKING BACK TOWARD THE PORCH.
In the background is MARTHA'S body, just a dark lump of shadow. DAVEY'S basketball bounces past it, leaving great big smacks of blood every time in lands.
WEATHER LADY
Another piece of advice? Make sure you've got plenty of Smile-Boy all-beef bologna
on hand.
When the weather turns nasty, nothing warms you up ...
44 INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.
The ball rolls across the floor, weaving between the furniture. When it reaches MARTHA'S chair, where LINOGE now sits, it bounces itself twice, gaining altitude. On the third bounce, it lands in his lap. He picks it up.
WEATHER LADY
(holds sandwich)
. . . like a good old fried bologna sandwich! Especially if the bologna is Smile-Boy all-beef bologna!
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LINOGE He shoots . . .
He throws the ball with SUPERHUMAN FORCE at the TV. It hits the screen dead center, sending the WEATHER LADY, her sandwich, and her two enormous storm systems into electronic limbo.
Sparks fly.
LINOGE ... he scores!
45 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET, WITH DAVEY.
He's still running down the center of the street, still screaming at the top of his lungs.
DAVEY
Mrs. Clarendon! Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon! There's blood all over! One of her eyes is out!
It's on her cheek! Oh, God, one of her eyeballs is right out on her cheek!
People are coming to windows and opening front doors to look. They all know DAVEY, of course, but before anyone can grab him and calm him down, a big green Lincoln pulls in front of him, like a cop cutting off a speeder. Written on the side is ISLAND-ATLANTIC REALTY. A portly gentleman in a suit, tie, and topcoat (the only business garb on Little Tall Island, quite likely) gets out. We may or may not see a resemblance to the absurd mannequin on the store's porch. This is ROBBIE BEALS, the local big deal, the unpleasant DON BEALS'S even more unpleasant father. Now he grabs DAVEY
by the shoulders of his jacket and gives him a hard shake.
ROBBIE
Davey! Stop it! Stop that right now!
DAVEY stops it and begins to get himself under control.
ROBBIE
Why are you running down the middle of Atlantic Street, making a spectacle of yourself?
DAVEY Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon.
ROBBIE
Nonsense, what are you talking about?
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DAVEY
There's blood everywhere. And her eye's out. It's . . . it's on her cheek.
DAVEY begins to weep. Other people are gathering now, looking at the man and the boy. Slowly, ROBBIE releases DAVEY. Something is going on here, something that may be serious, and if so, there's only one man to check it out. We see this realization dawning on ROBBIE'S face.
He looks around at a middle-aged woman with a sweater hastily pulled around her shoulders and a bowl of cake batter still in one hand.
ROBBIE
Mrs. Kingsbury. Look after him. Get him a hot tea . . .
(reconsiders) No, give him a little whiskey, if you've got some.
MRS. KINGSBURY Are you going to call Mike Anderson?
ROBBIE looks sour. There's no love lost between him and MIKE.
ROBBIE
Not until I take a look for myself.
DAVEY
Be careful, Mr. Beals. She's dead . . . but there's someone in the house, I think . . .
ROBBIE looks at him impatiently. The boy is clearly hysterical. An old man with a craggy New England face steps forward.
GEORGE KIRBY
You want help, Robbie Beals?
ROBBIE Not necessary, George. I'll be fine.
He gets back into his car. It's too big to U-turn in the street, so he uses a neighboring driveway.
DAVEY He shouldn't go up there alone.
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The group in the street (which is still growing) watches ROBBIE drive up to MRS. CLARENDON'S
with troubled eyes.
MRS. KINGSBURY
Come on inside, Davey. I'm not giving whiskey to a child, but I can put the teapot on.
She puts an arm around him and leads him toward the house.
46 EXTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON'S HOUSE.
ROBBIE'S Lincoln pulls up in front. He gets out. Surveys the path, the overturned walker, the open door. His face suggests that this might be a little more serious than he at first thought. But he starts up the path, anyway. Leave it to that know-all MIKE ANDERSON? Not likely!
47 EXTERIOR: LITTLE TALL ISLAND TOWN HALL DAY.
This is a white wooden building, stark in the New England style, and the center of the town's public life. In front of it is a little cupola with a largish bell inside a bell the size of an apple basket, say. The Island Services four-wheel drive pulls up in front, using a slot marked RESERVED FOR
TOWN BUSINESS.
48 INTERIOR: THE ISLAND SERVICES VEHICLE, WITH MIKE AND HATCH.
HATCH has got a pamphlet called Storm Preparedness: State of Maine Guidelines. He's deep in it.
MIKE You want to come in?
HATCH
(doesn't look up) Nope. I'm fine.
As MIKE opens the door, HATCH does look up ... and gives MIKE a sweet, open smile.
HATCH
Thanks for seeing after my little girl, boss.
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MIKE
(smiles back) My pleasure.
49 EXTERIOR: ANGLE ON THE ISLAND SERVICES FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE.
MIKE gets out, once more settling his hat so it won't blow off. As he does this, he takes another small measuring glance at the sky.
50 EXTERIOR: MIKE, ON THE WALK.
He stops at the cupola. Now that we're closer, we can read the plaque in front. There is a list of war dead on it: ten from the Civil War, one from
the Spanish-American, a couple each from I, II, and Korea, and six from Vietnam, the po' folks'
war. Among the names we see lots of BEALSES, GODSOES, HATCHERS, AND ROBICHAUXES. Above the list, in big letters, is this: WHEN WE RING FOR THE LIVING, WE HONOR OUR DEAD.
MIKE brushes the bell's clapper with a gloved forefinger. It rings faintly. Then he goes on inside.
51 INTERIOR: THE LITTLE TALL ISLAND TOWN OFFICE.
It's your usual cluttered secretarial bullpen, dominated by an aerial photo of the island on one wall. A single woman is running the whole show plump and pretty URSULA GODSOE (she has a plaque with her name on it beside the in/out basket on her desk). Behind her, through a number of glass windows along the main corridor, we see the actual town meeting hall. This consists of many straight-backed benches, like Puritan pews, and a bare wood lectern with a microphone. Looks more like church than government. Nobody's out there right now.
Prominent on the wall of URSULA'S office is the same sign we saw on the door of the market: STORM EMERGENCY POSSIBLE NEXT 3 DAYS! "TAKE SHELTER" SIGNAL is 2 SHORTS, 1 LONG. MIKE
strolls over and looks at this, waiting for URSULA. She is on the phone, speaking to someone in tones of forced patience.
URSULA
No, Betty, I haven't heard any more than you have . . . we're all dealing with the same forecast .
. . No, not the memorial bell, not with the winds we're expecting . . . It'll be the siren, comes to that. Two shorts and one long, that's right . . . Mike Anderson, of course . . . those are decisions we pay him to make, aren't they, dear?
URSULA winks broadly at MIKE and gives him a one-moment gesture. MIKE raises his own hand and claps his fingers against his thumb several times, miming a talking mouth. URSULA grins and nods.
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URSULA
Yes . . . I'll be praying, too ... of course we all will. Thanks for calling, Betty.
She hangs up and closes her eyes for a moment.
MIKE
Tough day?
URSULA
Betty Soames seems to think we have access to some secret forecast.
MIKE Kind of a Jeane Dixon forecast? Psychic weather?
URSULA
I guess.
MIKE taps the STORM EMERGENCY placard.
MIKE
Most people in town have seen this?
URSULA
If they're not blind, they've seen it. You need to relax, Mike A
nderson. How's little Pippa Hatcher?
MIKE
Whoa, that was fast.
URSULA Ayuh. No secrets on the island.
MIKE
She's fine. Got her head stuck in the stairs. Her dad's out in the car, doing his homework for the Big Blow of '89.
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URSULA
(laughing)
