Twilight Zone The Movie (5 page)

There was no way of telling, no way of knowing if he faced friend or foe. Only the lights held promise, beckoning him forward, out of the darkness. No matter what might be lurking across the river, it was better than what lay behind him.

Bill waded into the water and when it rose to waist-level he started to swim, ignoring his body’s aching protest. No matter how tired he was, he had to keep going.

To his surprise, as he swam he felt the tension in his muscles ebbing, but the realization was purely physical; his mind was not affected.

Or was it? Once again the events of the past few hours flashed before him and again the question came: Had it only been hours? Suddenly it seemed to him that he’d been on the run forever—running from the Nazis, the Klansmen, then those G.I.s in the jungle. Had it really happened or was he going crazy?

The full ache in his limbs returned and now he greeted it gratefully; at least this gave him part of the answer. There was no way he could be so beat unless what had happened was real.

It wasn’t his imagination and he wasn’t crazy. It was the others who’d freaked out; the Nazis who mistook him for a Jew, the Klansmen who thought he was black, the G.I.s who figured him for an oriental.

What was the matter with them, didn’t they have eyes? Couldn’t they see that he was an American all along? If they’d only looked, only listened, they should have known.

Crazy, that’s what they were. But it didn’t matter now; the important thing was that he’d escaped and if he could find someone here in the village across the river, if they were friendly, then maybe they’d help him to get away. Away from the jungle and the crazies, help him to get back home again.

Reaching the shallows, Bill rose to his feet and made his way to shore. Ahead of him the hanging lights still burned, but nothing stirred in the shadows beyond.

Again the thought came and with it rose the fear: Was it an ambush?

There was only one way to find out, and now that he was here he had to take the chance. Slowly he forced himself forward up the bank and stepped into the semicircular clearing before the thatched huts arranged by the cliffside. Above him he could hear the buzz and drone of the insects fluttering around the burning bulbs. There was no other sound except his own harsh breathing and the muffled thudding of his heartbeat.

Outlined against the light, Bill glanced across the compound. What were they waiting for? If they had weapons, now was the time to use them; standing here he made a perfect target. And if they didn’t shoot, if they were friendly, then why were they afraid to show themselves?

Bill swallowed quickly, then took a deep breath. “Anybody here?” he shouted.

The only answer was the echo of his own voice.

Bill frowned. Maybe they couldn’t understand what he was saying, but at least they had heard him call out and they could see he was unarmed. Why didn’t they show themselves?

Still no sound, still no movement, except for that of insects buzzing and fluttering around the bare bulbs overhead.

Bill turned and crossed to the hut on the far end at his left. He moved along the side to the open doorway, halting there. Again he called. “Anybody here? Come on out— It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.”

There was no answer to his invitation. Beyond the darkened doorway, all was still.

Bill took a step forward, then peered into the hut. Dimly he discerned the cast-iron cookstove in one corner, the sleeping-mats littering the bare earth on either side. Other than that, the hut was empty.

Frowning, he started around the semicircle, pausing to peer through each doorway in turn, finding nothing but a duplication of the first hut’s contents. Stove and sleeping-mats . . . and in a few cases, bowls and cooking utensils, plus a few blankets and bundles of clothing. Behind him the lights still blazed and in several of the huts he noted the presence of cooking pots atop the stoves.

He stepped inside to examine one of them, starring down at the bubbling broth and sniffing its aroma.

There must have been someone here quite recently, that much was certain. And it looked as though they’d left in a hurry; that much was obvious, too, but where had they gone? And why had they left in such a hurry?

Bill stumbled out of the hut, staring around the deserted village and shaking his head. No sense trying to figure out what had happened here; all he knew was that he was still alone, alone and tired. Tired of thinking, tired of running. All he wanted now was sleep; yet deep within him, a warning sounded. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep, not here, not now. But he had to get some rest.

Moving around to the side of the hut, Bill lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against the outer wall, surrendering to the wave of weariness that rose within him. Involuntarily his eyes closed. Now the wave crested, drowning him in darkness.

Drowning, that’s what he was doing now.

He had to be drowning, going down for the third time because his whole life passed in review. The inner visions flashed before him: Ray and Larry needling him in the bar—the Nazi officers shooting as he raced across the rooftops—his fall to the pavement below. Now the Klansmen were dangling the noose before his neck—again he forced one of his hooded captors against the fiery cross, hearing him scream in agony. Suddenly the scream was transformed into the baying of the bloodhounds pursuing him through the night—then their howling was lost in the stutter of the machine gun and the rumbling roar of the exploding grenade. Once more he blundered blindly through the jungle, swam the river, searched the silent huts—

Bill’s eyes blinked open.

For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but as his vision cleared, he stared up at the dangling lights and into the darkness beyond.

He realized that he must have fallen asleep in spite of himself; he’d been dreaming, but now he was fully awake, fully aware.

Bill turned, glancing toward the river. The black bulk of a catamaran loomed from the center of the stream, its unfurled sails offering ample explanation of how it achieved its silent approach.

In the dimness Bill could discern the movement of shadowy shapes at the stern of the craft.

Bill rose, racing toward the shelter of the undergrowth beyond the far end of the compound.

Up ahead, just past the end of the hut farthest to his right, he caught a glimpse of a narrow path half-hidden by overhanging shrubbery. He ran for it quickly, disappearing beneath the shelter of its branches. Panting, he paused, staring back toward the river.

Now the catamaran was dark no longer; sweeping forward from its back, the beam of a powerful spotlight fanned across the huddle of huts in search of the fugitive.

He started up along the narrow pathway that snaked through the underbrush covering the steeply slanted cliffside.

Panting, Bill clambered forward. The path was steep; he toiled upward, puffing and sweating with the intensity of his efforts.

Now a shell whistled behind him and burst against the side of the path below.

Turning, Bill glanced down past the flying chunks of debris and dirt. A large bush burst into flames. The river was red in the reflection of the flames and on its crimson surface a small boat bobbed, pulling away from the catamaran and moving toward the shore. Bill scowled, watching it approach the beach below.

They were sending a landing party!

Frantically, he labored up the path to the shelter of the trees surmounting the cliff top.

Now, from far below, Bill heard shouts rising over the roar of the flames.

He started forward again, eyes alert, seeking an opening through the trees ahead.

Then he saw it—the small wooden shed standing unobtrusively in the deeper shadows at his left.

He ran toward the entrance, his hand moving quickly toward the door.

To his relief it swung inward. He stumbled across the threshold. Then he halted, staring through the shadows of the shed’s interior. Piles of kindling surrounded him on three sides, leaving only a narrow space between as he closed the door. In the darkness he groped forward, reaching out to dislodge a length of cordwood at the right. Blindly he began to pile logs against the door, working feverishly to raise an improvised barrier.

Then, he huddled down in the darkness. There was nothing else he could do now except pray that somehow his hiding place would pass unnoticed once the landing party reached the top of the cliff.

For a long moment Bill crouched there, listening intently for a sound from beyond the barricaded door. The shelling had ceased and the distant crackle of flames diminished. Bill waited now for the sound of voices and footsteps to signal the landing party’s approach.

Nothing stirred in the silence of the night beyond.

Bill felt a sudden surge of relief. Perhaps his escape route hadn’t been discovered. Once the landing party searched the hillside and found nothing, it would return to the boat, leaving him here in safety.

Bill prayed silently. Let them go—go away and leave me in peace—

But now, suddenly, he heard the howling.

Rising through the night came the baying of hounds, and over it the shouts sounding directly before the door.

To his horror, he recognized familiar voices, whooping in triumph.

“We got him now!”

“Yippee! Let’s burn him out!”

“No way—I want him alive. Hang on to them dogs until we get that door down!”

The Ku Klux Klan again!

But how could they be here?

Numb with bewilderment, frozen with fear, Bill listened as the door of the shed began to splinter beneath the blows of an axe blade.

He rose, reaching for a piece of cord wood from the pile at his right. But before his hand closed around it, the door crashed inward.

The Nazi soldiers grabbed Bill by the shoulder, knocking the wood from his hand, and pulled him out of the shed.

Nazis? How did they get here?

And where was he?

The cliff top and the burning village below had vanished. He was standing on cobblestones again, standing on the rain-swept platform of a railroad depot, in broad daylight, surrounded by uniformed men, his arms pinned behind his back. There were no hounds, no hooded figures. Struggling, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of the shed behind him. It too had changed; instead of huddling alone beneath the trees, it appeared to be attached to the side of the depot.

Now the soldier dragged him forward to confront the Nazi officer standing motionless on the platform in the driving rain.

Bill shouted at him. “Let me go!”

The officer’s voice rose in harsh command. Bill’s captors shoved him toward the depot wall.

Desperately, Bill jerked his head around, glancing back at the cordon of soldiers standing behind their leader. “What’s happening to me?” he panted.

The soldiers stood stiffly at attention, unmindful of the man, unmindful of his voice.

Bill closed his eyes. Maybe he was seeing things, hallucinating again. Yes, that had to be the answer; all this was imagination, and if he’d just get a grip on himself, it would go away.
Easy does it now. Count to ten, take a deep breath, and when you open your eyes, you’ll be back in the shed again—

He started to inhale, but the breath burst from his body as he was slammed against the bricks of the depot wall.

Depot?

Bill’s eyes blinked open and the despairing realization came that nothing had changed; he was still here, his outstretched arms gripped by the soldiers. And now, advancing toward him through the rain, the Nazi officer reached into his jacket and dangled an object before him.

Bill stared at the piece of yellow cloth cut in the shape of a star—the Star of David.

Reaching out, the officer pinned the emblem on Bill’s chest. Turning, he nodded toward the squad of men standing at attention, rifle barrels gleaming in the rain.
“Hier ist nur ein anderen.”
He gestured toward Bill.
“Stell ihn mit den anderen.”

As the squad started toward him, Bill lunged forward, breaking free from the grip of his captors on either side. “I’m an American citizen,” he panted. “Don’t you understand?”

One of the soldiers detached himself from the squad; without breaking his stride, he raised his rifle and clubbed Bill across the side of the head.

Dazed, Bill fell face forward on the wet cobblestones. Pain surged through him, but somehow he managed to find his voice again. “I won’t let you do this to me,” he murmured.

Clutching hands pulled him upright, dragged him across the depot platform. Opening his eyes, Bill stared at the long line of freight cars standing on the tracks. All of them were sealed shut except for the one directly before him. Guards stood beside it with rifles raised, their bayonets jabbing at the shadowy figures filling the doorway above.

Bill turned to the soldier on his left, eyes pleading. “No—please— You’re making a mistake—”

Suddenly he felt himself being lifted from behind. Thrust forward through the opened doorway, he landed heavily, lurching against the packed bodies of the other occupants. Someone grabbed his arm, helping him to regain his balance. Glancing around, he scanned the faces of his fellow prisoners. Some were young, some were old, but all bore identical looks of resignation and despair; and like himself, all wore the yellow star.

With a rumble, the sliding door of the freight car clanged shut. Cries of fear rose in response behind him.

As the train clanked forward, Bill collapsed against the side of the car, listening to the screams and wails of the helpless horde surrounding him, and the relentless clatter of the wheels against the tracks.

Bill knew where he was going now, knew what would happen when he got there, and yet somehow it didn’t matter. What happened to him wasn’t important.

He would die, the others would die, and in time the Nazis would die. It was all the same, both for victims and for victors. And it would always be the same until the day when hatred would die too.
Bill’s lips moved in a silent prayer as the train rumbled into the twilight.

S E G M E N T