NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD - ACT TWO: "The House Fear Built"
Barbara made it to the house. Barely.
Ben's about to turn it into a war zone.
Ben spins suddenly inside the kitchen door and the movie stops being polite. This is where Romero strips the fantasy out of survival and leaves you with splinters, sweat, and the sound of a man trying to think faster than death moves.
Zeke Alton plays Ben like a man who's already lost but refuses to lie down. He hammers, he plans, he moves. Barbara, still shattered in Olivia Graham's haunting performance, watches him build their coffin and calls it hope. The boards go up. The windows disappear. The house becomes a box.
Then Ben does the unthinkable - he lights the dead on fire.
A corpse burns in the yard like a funeral no one asked for. The flames push back the night, and for thirty seconds, it feels like winning. But fire doesn't last, and the dead don't quit. They just wait.
The radio crackles to life: "Stay inside. Stay calm."
Ben laughs without sound. Calm died an hour ago.
Romero doesn't give you relief. He gives you wood, nails, and the slow realization that every choice Ben makes is the wrong choice and the only choice. Barbara floats through the room like a ghost practicing for the real thing. The house groans. The dead press closer. And somewhere in the static, the world pretends it still has answers.
By the time Ben mutters, "All right, this is your decisions," and they move toward the glow of the television, the farmhouse has stopped being shelter. It's a tomb with a TV set, and the truth is about to crawl out of the screen.
Romero doesn't write escape.
He writes what happens when the walls hold but the people don't.
The dead are patient.
The living are coming apart.
CAST
Narrator: Jack Daniel
Ben / Truck Driver: Zeke Alton
Barbara: Olivia Graham
Harry Tinsdale: Jim Connor
Helen Cooper: Wendy Shapero
Tom: Charlie Bodin
Sheriff McClelland: Rob Fitzgerald
TV Commentator: Adam Pilver
Zombies / Ghouls: Natalia Castellanos & Josh Sterling
Light a match. Lock the door. Press play.
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Transcript
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Last time on 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 night to come.
But boards don't hold forever.
And those ghouls outside, they're not the hitladin.
They're the warning shot.
Act 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 girl's.
She steps 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 hands still touching the switch.
It is as though she dare not move.
She watches silently.
The man flings open drawers and spills contents onto the shelving and onto the floor.
His hands fall to the silverware drawer, still open from when Barbara first discovered it.
He pulls it out until it stoops itself with.
What?
It stoops itself?
Stops.
Thank you.
It stoops itself with a crash.
He pulls it out until it stops 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, handle 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 weapon 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 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 pace 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.
He sees 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, shoes shine 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 eyes 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!
You!
Angry at first, he stops himself, then speaks still frantically, but with less harshness.
You scared?
Yeah, I'm scared.
I'm scared too.
Just like you.
Now,
we ain't gonna be be worth a plug nickel if we don't do something.
Now, I'm gonna board up these doors and windows, but you got to pitch in.
We gotta help ourselves, because ain't nobody coming around to help us.
And
we're gonna be all right, okay?
Now,
now I want you to scamper out there.
See if there's 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.
Barbara shudders.
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 in sync 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 load, 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 at the hinges on a tall broom closet door.
One final swipe, and a great yank frees the wooden door, and the man stamps 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 this 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, it 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 in 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 whacks at them with a 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 instill confidence.
While he talks, though, he keeps working rapidly, his pace as intense as ever.
Oh my god.
This ought to hang their cripper.
They ain't that strong, they're uh two more nails in position, driven to the molding.
He tests the barricading wood with two good yanks.
It holds.
Nah, they ain't coming through that.
He drags the last two nails all the way.
We gotta figure out how many nails we got.
He sees the parts of the windows that remain uncovered.
I'm gonna leave 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.
Well,
this 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.
No dragging now or fussing with your makeup.
Or I'll leave you out there.
Just run in here and we board up this door.
The door between the kitchen and living room has been open 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 door frame.
He gropes in his pocket and notices that his supply of nails is dwindling.
He checks the piles sprinkled from the can.
He empties 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.
You 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 and starts out of the room.
Barbara follows.
They are in the living room.
We ain't got too long.
They're going to be trying to hammer their way in here.
They're 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 they're scared of fire, too.
I found that out.
His eye measures the sight of the big windows.
He looks all around the room.
Finally, his eyes fix on the large dining table, and he moves quickly toward it, talking as he moves, resuming his train of thought.
I swear, there must have been 50, 100 of them down that came here when the news broke.
Barbara watches, almost transfixed.
At his 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.
Bracing it against himself, he heaves on one of the legs and tries to break it free.
With a great ripping sound, the table leg is torn off 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.
I seen a big old gasoline truck, you know.
Down Beekman's.
Beekman's diner.
And I heard the radio.
I got radio in my 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 it a a case line or a cas line do we know i don't know i'd say cash gasoline gasoline
gasoline gasoline i'm gonna call it gasoline it is gasoline that's what he says in the film is gasoline that's funny he says gasoline in the film
this this gasoline truck come screaming out the diner onto the road must must have been 10 15 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 at the table leg.
A second powerful swap frees the leg.
He moves on to the third.
I just seen this big truck.
It looked funny, you know, like how slow trucks will roll and they start pulling out on the road and weaving.
And then I see them things.
And the truck moving so slow, they catching up and grabbing and jumping on.
Another table leg falls loose to the rug.
And the truck just cut right across the road through the guardrail.
You know, I'm starting to throw on my brakes.
And the truck smashes in this big sign into the pumps and the so station down there i heard the crash and that big thing started burning and it was burning but it was still moving right through the pump stand and into the station and i'm stopped just 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 they move kind of like they cripple but 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 no how.
He got the cab of the truck just plowed halfway into the wall of the station.
And that thing...
That thing was frying him in there.
And he's screaming.
He's screaming like hell.
Barbara's eyes deepen, and her face wrinkles in anxiety.
The continuing nightmare grows more and more complex.
The man swats the last leg from the table.
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 assistants as they walk together, each burdened by the heavy table.
I don't know what's going to happen, you know.
I mean, I don't know if the whole place is going to explode or just fly to pieces.
What's going to happen?
I start driving for the gas station.
And that poor cat in the truck is screaming and screaming.
And after a while,
he just stopped.
The man sets down his end of the table and wipes beads 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 them things standing back across the road, just standing and looking like,
looking like they just came from the
from the grave or something
and they're over by the diner
and there's cars busting in the diner lot and
lots of the windows smashed
and it's for sure some some of them things done to people in the diner
and more is outside just all over the place just
is weird just biding the time for the chance to move in
So I started my truck up
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 them.
See, I seen them for the first time in my lights and then
I just run them down.
I just
grind them down hard as I can.
I knock a couple of them
50 feet, I swear.
I just flailing into the air and I just I just want to smash them
Crush them filthy things.
They just stand there.
I crush them.
I crush them.
They don't run.
They don't even try to get out the road.
Some of them even just reaching out like they're trying to grab me.
They're just standing there, and the truck is just running them down like
they're bugs or something.
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.
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.
I just.
You know, I got kids, you know, and I.
I guess they do all right.
They can take care of themselves, but
they 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 room.
I'm gonna do what I can.
I'm gonna get back.
I'm gonna see my people.
Things 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, and 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.
Now, listen, you and me gonna be all right, too.
We won't head them things off.
I mean
You can just you can just smash them all you got to do is just keep your head and don't be afraid Look, we move faster than they can and they're awful weak if you if you don't run and you just keep swinging you can smash them.
We smarter than they are, all right?
And stronger than they are.
We're gonna stop this, okay?
The girl stares
All we got to do is keep our heads.
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 on 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 heard nothing?
She stares blankly, silently, her eyes fastening in his.
Her reply is her silence.
You mean you ain't got no idea what's going on here?
Barbara starts to nod her answer.
She begins to tremble.
I.
I.
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, in circles about the room.
No!
Oh, no!
No!
I can't!
What's happening?
What's happening to us?
Why?
What's happening?
Tell me!
Tell me!
The man grabs her, takes her to bring 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, me and
Johnny,
my brother Johnny.
He bought flowers for
this man came after me,
and John.
And now,
he's
right.
All right.
He tightens his grip.
She wrenches against him.
Get your hands on me!
She flings herself away from him, beating him across the chest, taking him by surprise.
But 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 him.
She comes toward the man, pleading with tears, the desperate tears of a frightened child.
Bring him here.
We'll be safe.
We can help him.
We.
The man steps toward her.
She backs away, holding one hand toward him defensively and the other toward her mouth.
No!
No!
He takes one deliberate stride for her.
Now.
Now you calm down.
Okay, you are safe here.
Now we can't take no chances.
We've got to get Johnny.
Now, come on now.
Just settle down, all right?
You don't know what these things are.
It ain't like no Sunday school out there.
Oh, please.
Please.
No,
no.
No.
She is sobbing violently.
Her words become screams.
She is verging toward complete hysteria.
The man struggles to calm her.
She wrenches from him, but his grip remains so that her arms jerk her whole body in the act of wrenching away.
She stares at the man.
Their eyes meet in an instant of calm, but only an instant before she screams.
She kicks him again and again as he struggles to pin her arms at her side 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 soft chair.
But she is up again, screaming and slapping at his face.
He is forced to grab her again and practically 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 fall sorrowfully on his and she begins to crumble.
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 Barbara 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.
Save Radio Network.
Normal broadcast facilities have been temporarily discontinued.
Stay tuned to this wavelength for emergency information.
Your law enforcement agencies urge you to remain in your homes.
Keep all doors and windows locked or boardage shut.
Use all food, water, and medical 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 a recording.
Our live 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 the 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 near the couch, where Barbara lies unconscious, there are old magazines.
The man grabs them, rips pages loose, and crumples them into the fireplace.
He piles kindling wood and larger logs, then touches the paper with a lighted match, and a small fire takes hold.
There is charcoal light on the mantle.
He sprays the glowing fire, and it whooshes 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 windowsill and braces it there while he places a nail in position.
He pounds with a crowbar, driven by desperation.
Another nail and another.
With the 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 others stand silently.
The man rushes to the fire where the biggest logs have now begun to blaze.
He seizes the discarded table legs and saturates them with the 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 figures still stand silently.
With charcoal light, he drenches the padded armchair and touches it with the torch.
It catches instantly, and flames flames lick and 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, unbolting it and flinging it wide open.
From the yard, as 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 fly, and small particles of the chair's stuffing 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 bangs 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 has decided to board up the door rather than try to secure the bay windows.
He checks his remaining lumber.
The supply is dwindling, but he selects the best piece for boarding the den door.
He's about to start hammering when an idea strikes him.
He opens the door again and enters the room.
There are chairs, a desk, a 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 are piles of old boxes, suitcases, 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 shoeboxes, under things, items coming flying out of the closet.
A shoebox 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 manual 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.
We're all right now.
This place is good and solid.
And I found us a gun.
A gun and 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 look, sooner or later, somebody's going to 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.
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 boarded shut.
Well, that's us.
We doing all right.
He can't smile, and with the girl not looking at him, his attempt is half-hearted.
He takes up the rifle, the cigar box, a coat and her shoes, and 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, he's 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 real Cinderella story, ain't it?
No response.
The man reaches and reflects for his jacket pocket, but he has given Barbara his jacket.
Oh, hey, uh,
you know 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 cigarette 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
you lie down and 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.
Maybe you.
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 if
you're out or something, but I'm going upstairs now, okay?
We safe down here.
Ain't 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 could hear him, and I think I could get him out.
Later on, I'm gonna 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.
Now they're upstairs.
It's 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, and it's about to stand when his glance falls on the girl again, and he tries to get through one last time.
Okay?
You gonna be all right?
She remains silent.
The man stands, stands, tucks 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'm going to 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 effaced.
He sets down his supplies, and the sight of the corpse is repulsive, and he tries not to look at it.
The body is lying half across a blood-soaked throw rug, and 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 up the doors.
The noise of his work fills the old house.
Downstairs, Downstairs, Barbara still sits dazed on the couch.
The fire flickers on her face and the burning wood pops loudly now and 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 programming.
Stay tuned to this.
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 background.
The sound holds for a long while.
The girl does not seem to notice.
Ladies and gentlemen, what?
Yeah, yeah, look.
What?
Yeah, I got that one.
What?
Another one?
Put it through.
Up-to-the-minute reports inform us 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 inform us that the President is planning to make public the results of that conference in an address to the nation over your Civil Defense Emergency Network.
A long pause by the announcer.
The camera studies Barbara'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 taken 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 in 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 worldwide 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 utmost 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, non-communicative beings, and they are definitely to be considered our enemies and what we must call a...
At this, Barbara bolts from the couch in wild screaming.
She runs blindly toward the front door.
The truck driver appears at the top of the stairs.
Startled, unslinging the dog, he leaps down the stairs.
The girl is clawing at the barrel, trying to break out of the house.
She is sobbing in wild desperation.
The man is almost upon her, but she writhes out of his reach, runs across the room toward the maze of furniture.
Suddenly, from within the maze, strong hounds grab her.
She screams and
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 at his side.
They have come through the door that the truck driver has tried and found locked.
The man holding Barbara is dressed in coveralls.
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.
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.
What?
Man, man, I.
Oh, it looks like you got things pretty well locked in.
Man, I could have used 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 were making up here?
How are we supposed to know what was going on up here?
It could have been one of those things, for all we know.
That girl was screaming.
Now, you know what a girl sounds like.
Them things don't make no noise.
Anybody got to know there's somebody up here could use some help.
We can't really tell what's going on from down there.
Yeah, we thought we could hear screams, but that might have have meant those things were in the house after her and you wouldn't come up and help
well i
if
there was more of us yeah that that racket sounded 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 was being ripped apart you better get your story straight mr all right now you tell me i'm not gonna take those kind of chances when we get a safe place we luck 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...
Look, mister.
All right.
We came up, okay?
We're here.
Now I suggest we all go back downstairs before any of those things find out we're in here.
They can't get in here.
You got the whole place boarded up?
Most of it.
All but upstairs.
It's weak in places, but it won't be hard to fix it up good.
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 tell me they can't get through a pile of wood.
His wife and kids downstairs.
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,
I think we're better off up here.
We could strengthen all these up mr.
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 you're crazy.
You you're 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 pushed one other out the door.
I'm telling you, they turned our car onto its roof.
Oh, hell, any good five men could do that.
That's my point.
Only there's not going to be five.
There's going to be 10, 20, 30, 100, maybe, you know?
Once they know we're in here, the place will be crawling with them.
Well, if there's that many,
they're going to get us wherever we are.
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 it locks and boards from the inside.
But all these doors and windows.
Wait, we'd never know where they were going to hit us next.
Oh, okay, you got a point, Mr.
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'd never know it.
Windows.
But 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 they're 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 cuz ain't no guarantee that anybody's gonna send help
Suppose them things come in here.
We can't bust out of the cellar because we gotta open that one door and they got us.
I don't know.
I think he's right.
You know how many's out there?
I figure maybe six.
Sir, look,
you two can do whatever you like.
I'm going back down to the cellar, and you better decide because I'm gonna board up that door, and I'm not gonna be crazy enough to unlock it again, no matter what happens.
Wait a minute, Mr.
Tainsdale.
Now, let's think about this for a minute.
Nope.
I 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 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.
Yeah,
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.
That's more than there was.
There's a bunch out back, too.
Unless they're the same ones that was back here.
He bursts into the kitchen.
As the fringed rifle sling 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 barricade.
Gray, rotten hands, scratching, reaching, trying to grab, and through aspects of the glass, the inhuman faces 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 seize 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 at the hideous face, blam!
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 crumpling 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, still 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, Helen.
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.
Disgust sweeps over the young man's face.
He tries to scrape the cold thing 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, and the truck driver tries to swing the barrel of the gun through the thing struggling with Tom.
But 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 blast, and the hands Tom was fighting jerk back and fall into darkness.
Foot against the wall, the big man forces himself away from the door out of the grasp of 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.
Oh,
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.
The two 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 are these things?
No, give me more of that.
This is not a pensive, like, inner moment.
This is fucking full-on, just you're terrified.
Sexier, got it.
Way sexier.
Maybe, do me a favor, just unbutton the shirt.
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.
Damn thing from hell.
Outside, the thing that has fallen limply, without the use of its eyes, moves its arms in 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 boars!
He starts to move to gather supplies when Harry speaks.
You're crazy!
Those things are gonna be in every door and window in the place, so we gotta get into 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 into your damn cellar!
Get out of 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.
You keep your hands off her.
She's staying here with me.
Harry is stopped again for a moment.
Then he moves toward the refrigerator again.
And 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.
And you are stone dead wrong.
You just wrong, you understand.
Now, if you make it into the cellar, you get your ass moving.
Get down them stairs.
Get out of here, man.
Don't you mess with me no more.
That man is crazy.
He's crazy.
We've got to have food down there.
We have a right.
This is your house?
We have a right.
You!
You going down there with him?
Oh, well.
No beating around the bush.
You going or ain't you?
This is your last chance.
There is a long moment of silence.
Tom then turns to the older man.
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's 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 bastards!
Harry!
Harry!
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 nuts.
With my help?
Let him go, man.
His mind is made up.
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'd be better off up here.
The truck driver ties the broken fringe back onto the rifle, then begins to reload the gun, replacing the spent shuttles.
Harry,
if we stick together, man,
we can fix it up real good.
There are places we can run to 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'd be 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 a while, 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 it 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.
Tom 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 dark 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 a makeshift shower stall.
Lines for drying clothes are strung over the pipework so low that Harry has to duck under them as he walks from the stairs to the other side of the confining quarters.
There are stationary tubs in an old metallic cabinet against one of the walls.
Harry's wife, Helen, is at the faucet over the tubs, wetting a cloth with cold water.
She She looks up as Harry enters, but is more interested in what she is doing at the moment.
She wrings out the cloth and takes it to where a young girl, their daughter, lies motionlessly atop a homemade work table.
On a pegboard above the table are hanging tools and cables, and built into the table itself are drawers that probably contain smaller tools, screws, bolts, washers, etc.
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 a 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 up 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 staying 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 him cough slightly.
They don't 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 been civil defense or.
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 hiss.
He walks around the room with still still no results.
Shit, this 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 emits static at varying levels.
Harry.
He continues his fidgeting with the radio.
He goes near the walls and stares, holding it high and still spinning the dial.
Harry, 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 or expression until he pivots violently and flings the radio across the room.
I hate you, right?
I hate the kid.
I want to see you die here, right?
In this stinking 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 suffer 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 a doctor.
She's
gonna die here, 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 sakes.
There's maybe 20 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 could 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 10 minutes, Harry.
A civil defense thing to tell us what's due.
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 calmer tone, almost pleading.
Harry, please, for just a minute, we'll go up and see what's up there.
We'll hear the radio, and 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.
Startlingly, Tom's voice penetrates again.
Harry!
Hey, Harry!
Ben Vana television upstairs!
Come on up!
We'll see the civil defense broadcast on TV.
Come on, let's go up.
There'll 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.
End Act 2.
Nice.
You guys, we have a lunch of nothing but mushrooms and fetish.
So let's break our lunch.
Sauce and shit.
