Twilight Zone The Movie Read online

  You’re travelling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. Next-stop

  • where demonic tyrants of the past live again to terrorize a man who carries the seeds of their hate into the present.

  • where evil perches on a plane wing taunting the psychic who dare not believe his eyes—and still hold on to his mind.

  • where the power to control the world rests in the fantasy-fraught imagination of a lonely child.

  • where the joys of eternal youth are offered to those who remember childhood and are not too old to dream.

  For those who remember . . .

  THE TWILIGHT ZONE

  was a television series that ran originally on CBS from 1959 to 1964. Close to eight million people accepted the invitation of its master of ceremonies, Rod Serling, to travel beyond the realm of reality into this rarefied Zone where the improbable sprang into being before their eyes and challenged them to new understanding. “The Twilight Zone” was a cultural phenomenon, entertainment with both magic and message. In syndication, the show has reached millions more with the same impact.

  For those who have never seen

  THE TWILIGHT ZONE

  a new world is about to be opened where the suspension of disbelief leads through bizarre experience into basic truth. As an act of homage four film directors, Steven Spielberg, Joe Dante, George Miller, and John Landis, brought you the Warner Bros. movie. Now Robert Bloch translates its dramatic impact into print for you.

  Books by

  ROBERT BLOCH

  Psycho

  Psycho II

  Twilight Zone: The Movie

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1983 by Warner Bros. Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.,

  666 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, N.Y. 10103

  ISBN: 0-446-30840-4

  A Warner Communications Company

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Warner Books Printing: September, 1983

  S E G M E N T

  1

  Written by

  JOHN LANDIS

  Bill Conner fought his way through the early-evening traffic with more than his usual quota of curses as he maneuvered the Ford into the right-hand lane and prepared to make his turn.

  Sure enough, just as he slid into position, the light changed!

  Story of my life, he told himself. Every time I think I’m getting someplace, there it goes again—they stop me cold.

  His fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel as he scowled into the headlight glare of the bumper-to-bumper traffic reflected in his rearview mirror. Even before the signal turned green again, his foot hit the gas pedal and he started to swing around the corner.

  Through the windshield, his eyes caught a blur of movement, and the sound of a sudden shout mingled with the squeal of brakes as his car halted, barely missing the stream of pedestrians directly in its path along the crosswalk.

  Bill leaned out of the window to get a better glimpse of their frightened faces as they scurried by. Black faces, of course.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he shouted.

  The crosswalk cleared and he completed his turn, sliding into the comparative safety of the side street.

  With an effort he forced himself to relax his pressure on the gas pedal. Better slow down, try to take it easy. The last thing he needed now was an accident. Some black steps in front of your car and the next thing you know there’s a Jewish lawyer coming at you with a million-dollar damage suit.

  Bill leaned forward and switched on the radio. A little music to soothe his nerves, that’s what he needed. Just a song at twilight—

  A blast of raucous sound assailed his ears and a high-pitched female voice screamed in song.

  Bill cut off the voice, wishing that he could cut her throat instead. Darn blacks. Bad enough they’d taken over the streets—now they’d taken over the air, too. Getting so they didn’t even leave a white man room enough to take a decent breath anymore.

  What was happening to this country anyway? Things were different when he was a kid. You didn’t hear all this stuff about civil rights; those people did their jobs and kept their places. Now the whole world was turning into one big welfare state, nothing but taxes and more taxes, and for what? Nobody had the guts to stop it, nobody even dared to speak out against it anymore. All these newspaper stories about robberies, muggings and murders, crime in the streets—crazy, that’s what it was. Just crazy.

  Too bad they didn’t have someone like himself running things; he could clean up the whole mess in a hurry. Take the crime situation, for example—first thing to do is kill off eighty percent of the lawyers, ninety percent of the psychiatrists, and a hundred percent of the blacks.

  Bill shook his head. No sense letting himself go overboard. The way things were going, decent hardworking citizens like himself didn’t stand a prayer. All he could hope for was a little rest and relaxation, something to take his mind off his troubles—particularly after a day like the one he’d just had. At least they couldn’t take that away from him—not yet, anyway.

  The bright lights of a bar flashed ahead on his left. Bill slowed the car, seeking a parking spot alongside the right-hand curb. He finally found one, half a block ahead. Cutting his headlights and turning off the engine, he stepped out into the street, making sure that he’d locked the door behind him. The old neighborhood wasn’t safe anymore; leave your car unlocked for a minute and kiss it good-bye forever. That’s progress for you.

  Bill shrugged, shaking off the thought, then squared his shoulders as he crossed the street and moved in the direction of the entrance beneath the neon light. It was Happy Hour time. No sense walking in with a frown on his face. Remember, you’re a salesman, and the first job of a good salesman is to sell himself.

  The place was crowded with customers, homeward-bound like he was, who’d stopped off en route to unwind for a moment after a long hard day.

  Bill turned and scanned the far edges of the crowd, then caught sight of the familiar figures seated in the far corner booth.

  The two men were almost mirror images of himself; Ray was perhaps a few years older and Larry a trifle younger, but both wore similar outfits—double-knit suits, white shirts, the kind of conservative necktie calculated to inspire confidence in a potential customer. Two good salesmen, two good buddies.

  Now they looked up at him and returned his wave of greeting. Ray moved around to the center of the booth as Bill slid into the seat behind him.

  “What took you so long?” he said.

  “Heavy traffic. Getting so a guy could make better time walking.” Bill glanced down at his watch. “Hey, look, you guys—I can only stay a couple of minutes. The old lady’s got some cousins from Florida coming over for dinner.”

  Larry eyed him across the table. “Then, you better hurry and catch up.” He turned and signaled to a waitress as she passed the booth. “Hey, girl! Another beer over here. Better make it two.”

  Obviously, Larry was feeling no pain. Ray seemed to be the more sober of the two; as Bill spoke, he was conscious of Ray’s stare.

  “Something biting you?” Ray asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The whole world, that’s what’s wrong.”

  Across the table Larry met his scowling gaze with a grimace of mock dismay. “Oh-oh!”

  Ignoring him, Bill turned to Ray. “Remember that guy Goldman?”

  “So that’s it. You didn’t get promoted.” Ray nodded. “What happened?”

&
nbsp; “They passed me up for that Jew.”

  The waitress set two glasses of beer on the tabletop in front of Bill and he turned, his scowl vanishing at the sight of her. Reaching out, he made a grab for her arm. “How’d you like to cheer up an old man?” he murmured.

  The waitress pulled away with a deftness born of long practice. “Just drink your beer and you’ll feel better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ray shook his head. “Easy, Bill—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?” Ray blinked as Larry nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Hey,” Ray said. “Just cool it—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Wrong.

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

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

  Juden, and Juif.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Ihre Papiern.”

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

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