Twilight Zone Anthology

by Serling , Carol

“Because something strange is going on here.” He started to tell her his whole theory, but stopped because she looked too confused. Sighing, he said in a quieter, weary tone, “Would you call me a cab, please?”

  The emergency room patched him up, strapping his ankle that was badly sprained but not broken, and giving him a pair of crutches, a prescription for painkillers, and the advice to stay home from work to elevate and ice his foot. Out in the cab, Buddy greeted him with anxious affection, as though they’d been parted for days. The dog was whining again and pawing his ears in obvious discomfort, so Nick asked the cabbie to drive them to the animal emergency clinic. The vet on duty was a young guy, with very gray intense eyes behind a pair of glasses and long, gentle fingers that probed Buddy expertly.

  “He’s got a microchip implanted in his ear,” the vet said, frowning. “Badly done. It’s bleeding, and it shouldn’t do that. You don’t live in Haven Estates, do you?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Nick asked warily.

  “What is it with you people? This company that’s selling you these invisible fence systems for dogs is taking all of you for a ride. I’ve removed several of these chips from dogs that lived there, nearly all of them runaways.” The vet shook his head. “There’s usually a collar with a transmitter that goes with the chip. It’s badly designed, set on a wrong frequency. It drives dogs nuts. It’s inhumane. These people don’t know what they’re doing.”

  Nick frowned, deep in thought. He figured they had a very good idea of what they were doing, and it wasn’t to keep dogs safe at home. It was to drive them away.

  “You want me to remove this chip?” the vet asked. “He’s going to be suffering extreme discomfort until I do.”

  Not liking the censure in the vet’s voice, Nick started to explain but held back. It would sound too crazy. “Yes, get it out,” he said.

  And when Buddy was bandaged and given a treat, Nick asked, “You haven’t removed one of these chips from a runaway Westie, have you?”

  The vet had. Two days before, a female Westie had been brought in by a Good Samaritan. She wasn’t wearing any tags, just her transmitter. She was half crazed from the frequency it was set on, and exhausted and dehydrated from running.

  “Obviously she came from a good home. She was clean, no fleas, had her nails trimmed properly, showed regular brushing and exercise. But that damned collar . . .”

  “Is she still here?” Nick asked, amazed at such luck.

  “We can’t board dogs here. The animal shelter picked her up.”

  “Thanks!” Nick shouted, already heading outside on his crutches.

  He tried phoning Erin to tell her the news. When she didn’t pick up, he left a message on her voice mail. In the morning, he called the shelter, but Erin hadn’t gone there to rescue her dog. So Nick went to retrieve Cotton. The Westie was thinner and a bit unsure of things, but soon she was romping with Buddy in Nick’s backyard. He called Erin’s work number and finally reached her with the good news.

  Sounding flustered and emotional, Erin thanked him, offering to walk both dogs that evening when she got home. But as five o’clock came and went, she didn’t show.

  Worried, Nick phoned her repeatedly that evening, without success. He wanted to go by her house and check on her, but the prospect of trying to wedge his swollen ankle, his crutches, and two dogs into his car to drive half the length of the street was daunting. Still, he kept imagining Erin sitting on her sofa, zoned into space.

  “This place is turning us into zombies,” he muttered to the dogs, and resolutely kept the TV off, as he had all day.

  In the middle of the night, he woke up, courtesy of his aching leg, and couldn’t go back to sleep. He hadn’t filled his prescription of painkillers, telling himself it was too dangerous to be zonked on something when the dog nazis might show up, demanding Buddy. Now, lying there in the dark with his ankle throbbing, he wished he hadn’t been so macho about the pills.

  Until he heard a stealthy sound at his yard gate. He froze under the blanket, his ears straining. Just when he thought he’d imagined it, he heard another soft scrape along the brick side of his house.

  He sat up, all senses on alert. The gate was padlocked, so no one was getting into the backyard without climbing over the fence. Buddy and Cotton were snuggled together in a comfy doggy bed in Nick’s bedroom, completely safe, so he didn’t have to worry about them. Still, was it burglars or dognappers prowling around his house?

  Nick heard a quiet rattle of the latch and then the sharp snick of bolt cutters.

  He rolled out of bed in a tangle of blankets and crutches, finally gaining his feet. Buddy sat up, watching him uncertainly.

  “Shush,” he whispered, hoping Buddy wouldn’t bark.

  Easing himself over to the window, he peered out and saw three men in dark coveralls moving quietly across his small backyard. One was roaming around as though searching. He crouched to shine a penlight inside Buddy’s doghouse and shook his head at the others. Another opened the phone box in Nick’s yard and fiddled inside it.

  “Hell,” Nick whispered, wishing he still had a cell phone.

  He could hear the third man working quietly at the side of the house, as though he was messing with the security system . . . or the cable box. In his corner, Buddy growled. Cotton sat up, panting nervously.

  At the other end of the house, in the living room, the unmistakable sound of the TV’s activation mode powered on. Nick felt an almost imperceptible sensation crawling across his skin, followed by the sudden urge to go watch something. He wondered what kind of electromagnetic fields were being emitted by the high-tech wiring in his house and what it was really being used for.

  Clad only in his boxer shorts, he stood listening in the shadows, barely breathing, his heart racing. He feared the men in dark coveralls would be coming inside the house next, like alien invaders in old B movies. Maybe they were going to carry him out of there to their spaceship and dissect him. Would anyone on Lady-brook Lane notice that he was gone? Would anyone care?

  Not the clown with the white SUV that had nearly run over him. Not Anderson, who wouldn’t say hello. Not the stoner in the black Nissan that had left him bruised black. He wasn’t even sure about Erin, who’d blown him off. He didn’t know whether to be worried about her or mad.

  His gate eased shut, and he peered out, watching one of the men fit a new padlock in place. Nick had the awful conviction that it would be identical to the one they’d cut and his key would fit perfectly. When he heard them walking away, he swung himself through the shadowy house on his crutches, but by the time he reached his front window, there was no sight of them. He heard no vehicle, either. But someone had placed a kid’s soccer ball in the yard next door. It hadn’t been there earlier. And Nick realized that although he heard the kids out playing sometimes, he’d never actually seen them.

  He hobbled to the front door, checking the dead bolt to make sure it was secure, although now he realized that there was nothing secure about his house. Maintenance knew his security and house codes. They let the cleaners in. If they wanted to come in there and get him, they could.

  On the living room wall, the flat-panel TV was glowing gray, and its green power light was on, meaning it was once more standing by to switch on with his preselected morning program at six o’clock, giving him the early headlines, the weather forecast, and a good dose of whatever message was being sent subliminally.

  But why? What did they want? Why were they doing this to people?

  There were no answers.

  After a largely sleepless night, he was up again at dawn, gritty-eyed but determined. Buddy and Cotton watched him with their heads cocked quizzically as he struggled around his bedroom, pulling on an old tracksuit and tossing clothes into a small duffel. He’d bought this house online. He’d sell it the same way, but he and the dogs were getting out of there now.

  In the living room, the TV blared suddenly, making Nick nearly jump out of his skin. He hesitated for a moment, then finished h
is hasty packing and looked around. There was nothing there that he couldn’t abandon if he had to, or leave for professional movers to pack up for him later. That might be a sad commentary on how he lived, but at the moment it was damned convenient.

  He fed the dogs, clicking the TV off without looking at the screen. Even so, during the short time it was on he developed a headache and a feeling of lassitude that made him wonder if he shouldn’t put this off until he felt better.

  Watching coffee drip through the filter into his cup, he sagged a little, letting fatigue and strain wash through him. Maybe he was overreacting. The maintenance guys had to work in their yards at some time, and it was nice to have them stay out of sight, wasn’t it?

  The dogs came scampering through the kitchen, pretending to chase each other. Cotton leaped at his injured leg with a happy little bark before tearing off after Buddy. Pain flashed through the entire left side of his bruised body, making him lean over, gasping for breath.

  His head cleared, and he realized that if he didn’t get out of there—right now—he really was going to become a zombie, maybe forever.

  Using one of his crutch tips, he pushed his duffel into the utility room, then sacked up dog food and bowls.

  “Buddy!” he called. “Bring Blue Wuzzy, okay?”

  Buddy came running to him, but without the toy. Nick was looking for it when the TV came on, loud and bright. He stopped, his ears and eyes assaulted by sounds and flashing colors. A corner of his mind told him not to look, not to wait, to get out of there, but he couldn’t move.

  A dog pawing at his injured ankle snapped him out of it. Gritting his teeth, he leaned over through a haze of pain and punched the remote. The TV went gray again, leaving the room in deafening quiet. Sweating, Nick sucked in several deep breaths.

  The sun was streaming in his east windows now, puzzling him until he glanced at his watch and saw that a half hour had gone by without his realizing it. A half hour of standing in his living room like a statue while the TV blared at him.

  “Oh God,” he whispered.

  The dog toy ceased to matter. He felt the panicky need to run. Fumbling with his crutches, he nearly lost his balance until he forced himself to slow down. The dogs bounced happily around him, excited when they saw their leashes. Buddy ran to the front door and back several times, while Cotton wiggled until he could barely snap her leash to her collar.

  He tried to be patient and keep his voice calm. But Buddy was being goofy. He ran to the back door and pawed it, then ran to the front. Obviously he needed to go outside, but there was no time . . . no time.

  The sound of loud, anxious barking snapped Nick back to consciousness. He looked around, befuddled, and realized that the TV was on again. Both Buddy and Cotton were prancing at the back door, and another half hour had slipped by.

  Nick’s brain was foggy. He didn’t want to move, but Buddy kept barking. Nick blinked slowly. He had to let the dog out. No. He needed to get into the car. He couldn’t remember why.

  Struggling to recall what he’d been trying to do, he reached out with a wavering hand and tried to push the remote. The TV stayed on.

  Fear gathered inside him, but he couldn’t remember why he was afraid. He thought that maybe he should do something, something very important. Only, he was so tired. He wanted to sleep.

  Buddy barked again.

  “Okay,” Nick mumbled. “I’ll take you out. Can’t you let a guy sleep?”

  Forgetting his crutches, he took a step forward. The moment his weight landed on his injured ankle, the pain woke him up as though he’d been branded with a hot iron. He yelped, nearly fell, and caught himself on the kitchen island. Hanging on to it desperately, he threw one crutch at the TV, and heard the sound of shattering glass. It went mercifully black and silent.

  A viselike force that had been gripping him released, and Nick sagged to his knees. When he realized he was making soft little whimpering sounds, he forced himself to stop. At least that damned TV wasn’t digging into his brain anymore.

  Then the security-control pad at the utility door began to flash a red symbol, and a soft chime sounded, warning him that he had an error in the house system.

  They know, Nick thought in desperation. They’ll be coming.

  He lurched forward, abandoning his other crutch, and threw himself at the utility door. He managed to fling it open just as the dead bolt tried to lock. One second slower, and he would have been locked inside his house, unable to escape. Good old burglar-capture system, he thought. It had nearly captured him.

  “Buddy! Cotton! Come on!” he called. He loaded the dogs into the car and yanked on the manual release of his garage door, grateful now that the lightning spike had burned out the opener. They couldn’t control this, he thought, rolling up the overhead door.

  A man in coveralls was standing in his driveway with a toolbox and a grim expression. “I’m here to fix that, Mr. Penby.”

  Nick jumped into his car, bumping his swollen ankle in the process. He wanted to swear. He wanted to weep. There wasn’t time for either. He locked the car doors just as the man thumped on his trunk lid.

  “Hey!” the man shouted.

  Starting the car, Nick roared out of his garage, making the maintenance guy jump for his life. Shooting into the street, Nick barely avoided hitting the white SUV that was also backing out. It braked sharply, and the driver’s window lowered. A puzzled face with red-rimmed eyes peered out at him as though not knowing who he was.

  From the opposite direction, a maintenance vehicle was coming down Ladybrook Lane. Nick’s heart was pounding so hard that he thought he might hyperventilate, but he gunned his car up the street, not slowing when the maintenance truck flashed its headlights at him. It veered as though intending to smash into him. Nick swerved through a front lawn, sending chunks of sod flying in his wake, as he wrestled his bouncing, lurching car back onto the pavement and went rocketing on.

  Not until he passed Erin’s place did he slow fractionally. It was past time for her to be at work. Had she gone, or was she sitting in her living room, still staring blankly? He dared not stop to check. Next door to her house, the black Nissan was gone, and a red Ford sedan was parked in the driveway instead. A little blond girl he’d never seen before was playing hopscotch in the driveway while her mother unloaded suitcases and boxes from the trunk.

  “Angie!” the mother called. “Come and help me, please.”

  Nick couldn’t believe new people were already moving in. Where had the stoner gone? How could new residents be in place so quickly? Something inside him didn’t really want to know the answer.

  He shot out through the neighborhood gates and drove across town before finally finding a gas station that still offered a pay phone. Dialing Erin’s work number, he counted the rings impatiently.

  Finally she picked up.

  “Erin!” he said, grateful to hear her voice, even if it sounded slightly slurred. “Thank God. I thought they’d got you. Don’t worry about Cotton. She’s safe and—”

  “Who?”

  “Cotton,” he said, slowing down. “Your dog.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “I’m sorry. Who did you say was calling?”

  “It’s Nick. Your friend on Ladybrook. Listen, Erin, for your own good, don’t go home tonight. Are you listening, Erin? Do you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry. Who did you say was calling?”

  “Don’t hang up,” he said desperately. “You have to move out of Haven Estates. Don’t go home after work. Do you understand me? There’s something crazy going on there. It’s not safe for you to go home. Stay with a friend or get a hotel room. As for Cotton, meet me at Eastside Park at Twelfth and Main to get her.”

  Erin didn’t speak.

  His frustration grew, making him grip the phone so hard that his hand was shaking. “Erin! Remember Nick? Remember your dog? That cute little white number you said was your baby? Remember taking her for walks? Remember planting flowers, and how I helped you take your kitchen ta
ble apart so it would go in? Come on, Erin! You have to shake this off! Meet me at Eastside Park as soon as you can.”

  “Eastside Park,” she said slowly.

  “Yes. Go straight there on your lunch break, and I’ll explain everything I’ve—”

  She hung up, leaving the phone buzzing in his ear.

  He frowned, bowing his head before slowly replacing the receiver. Beside him, Buddy panted, staring at him with complete trust. Cotton stared at him, too, her bright little eyes less sure. He reached out and sadly scratched her white ears as he drove away.

  At noon, an unmarked panel truck circled Eastside Park, checking all the vehicles parked under the trees. The driver called in. “Nick Penby’s not here. No sight of him.”

  “Acknowledged. We’ll put a new family in 3501 Ladybrook tonight as soon as the repairs are finished. Keep watching the park in case he turns up later.”

  “Will do.”

  The panel truck turned right onto Rickman Avenue and sped away, only to return ten minutes later to circle the park slowly once more.

  From a nearby side street, Nick watched bleakly from his parked car. He knew then that Erin wouldn’t be coming. And whatever purpose was being served by experimenting on the inhabitants of Haven Estates, Erin was now a part of it, sucked deep into a place where not even her former love for her dog could save her.

  Unlike Nick, who recognized in time the perils lurking in today’s high-tech world—where people increasingly sacrifice human contact for online chats, where they sleep in houses but don’t live in them, where they live and play in virtual reality without realizing they have forgotten how to live in real time—Erin couldn’t unplug enough to regain her balance.

  Even the simplest values, such as a dog’s unquestioning love or the friendship and trust between two people, can cease to have any meaning, once an individual moves into the Twilight Zone.

  The tall man in the pinstriped suit is Mr. Samuel Mechling. As Mr. Mechling pulls his suitcase through the hotel lobby, he has a lot on his mind. Mechling is a salesman, and he’s thinking about sales brochures and new contacts, marketing meetings and business dinners. As he steps up to the front desk, there’s one thing he hasn’t thought about. He hasn’t considered the startling fact that he’s about to sign the register . . . for the Twilight Zone.