by Stephen King
192 EXTERIOR: THE MARKET NIGHT.
The Island Services four-wheel drive turns into the front parking area. The storm shutters are down over the market's display windows, but we can see BRILLIANT BLUE LIGHT shining through the door.
193 INTERIOR: THE ISLAND SERVICES VEHICLE.
It's crammed with BEEFY GUYS. MIKE is at the wheel.
r
STORM OF THE CENTURY 221
What in the hell is that?
JOHNNY
(awed)
MIKE doesn't bother answering, but he's out of the truck almost before it has stopped moving.
The others follow, but MIKE is first up the steps.
194 INTERIOR: THE CONSTABLE'S OFFICE.
HATCH sleepwalks into that BRILLIANT LIGHT, heedless of the objects floating and swirling in the air. The PowerBook bumps his head. HATCH bats it aside and it floats away like something underwater. He reaches LINOGE, who is almost blindingly bright.
LINOGE is in reality an old man, we see, with ragged white hair falling almost to his shoulders.
His cheeks and brow are carved with lines, and his lips are sunken, but it's a strong face, all the same . . . and dominated by the eyes, which SWIRL WITH BLACK AND RED. His ordinary clothes are gone; he is wearing a dark robe that gleams with SHIFTING SILVER PATTERNS. He continues to hold his STAFF UP with one hand (there is still a SILVER WOLF'S HEAD at one end, but now we see the shaft is carved with magical runes and symbols) and grips HATCH'S shoulder with the other . . . only it's not really a hand at all, but a talon full of claws.
222 STEPHEN KING
LINOGE brings his face down until his brow is almost touching HATCH'S. His lips part, revealing his pointed teeth. During all of this, HATCH stares at him with wide, blank eyes.
LINOGE Give me what I want and I'll go away. Tell them. Give me what I want. . . and I'll go away.
He turns, the hem of his robe flaring, and strides toward the door that leads to the loading dock.
195 INTERIOR: THE MARKET, LOOKING TOWARD THE MAIN DOORS NIGHT.
They burst open, and MIKE runs in, followed by his posse. He moves up the center aisle, jumping the overturned card table, and grabs KIRK FREEMAN.
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MIKE What happened? Where's Hatch?
KIRK points numbly into the constable's office. He is beyond words. MIKE plunges through the doorway . . . then stops.
196 INTERIOR: THE CONSTABLE'S OFFICE, FROM MIKE'S POINT OF VIEW.
Looks like a cyclone struck it. Papers and office supplies are strewn everywhere, fluttering in the draft from the open loading-dock door. HATCH'S PowerBook lies shattered on the floor. The jail cell is empty. A litter of bars lies in front of the door, which is still locked but gaping wide, all the same.
The hole is vaguely man-shaped.
ROBBIE and HENRY stand against the wall, their arms around each other, like small children who are lost in the dark. HATCH stands in the center of the floor with his back to MIKE and his head lowered.
MIKE approaches cautiously. The other men clog the door to the market, watching with big eyes and solemn faces.
MIKE Hatch? What happened?
STORM OF THE CENTURY 223 HATCH doesn't respond until MIKE actually touches his shoulder.
MIKE
What happened?
HATCH turns. His face has been changed in some fundamental way by his close encounter with LINOGE stamped by a terror that may never leave him, even if he survives the Storm of the Century.
MIKE (reacts) Hatch . . . my God . . . what . . . ?
HATCH
We have to give him what he wants. If we do that, he'll go away. He'll leave us alone. If we don't
. . .
HATCH looks toward the open loading-dock door, where SNOW is SWIRLING IN. ROBBIE joins them, walking slowly, like an old man.
Where did he go?
ROBBIE
HATCH
Out there. Into the storm. Now they all look toward the door.
197 EXTERIOR: DOWNTOWN, LOOKING TOWARD THE OCEAN NIGHT.
The snow is pelting, the drifts are still building, and the sea is still pounding the shore and sending up airbursts of foam. LINOGE is out there someplace, just another part of the storm.
FADE TO BLACK. THIS ENDS ACT 5.
Act 6
198 EXTERIOR: INTERSECTION OF MAIN AND ATLANTIC NIGHT.
The drifts are deeper than ever, and several show windows have been broken inward. The streets are impassable to even four-wheel drives now; the lampposts are buried halfway to their light globes.
178
THE CAMERA MOVES BACK TO THE DRUGSTORE, and we see the aisles have become frozen tundra. Frost twinkles on the letters spelling "PRESCRIPTIONS" at the back of the store. Nearer the front there's a sign that reads BEAT OLD MAN WINTER WITH A GENIE HEATER!, but Old Man Winter's got the last laugh this time; the heaters are almost buried in snow.
The pendulum clock is too covered with snow to read, but still working. It begins to STRIKE THE
HOUR. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
199 INTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON'S FRONT HALL NIGHT.
We see her body, covered with the tablecloth. And hear another STRIKING CLOCK. Five ... six ...
seven . . . eight . . .
200 INTERIOR: THE WEE FOLKS DAY-CARE CENTER NIGHT.
A CUCKOO BIRD MOLLY'S kids must love is running in and out of the clock on the wall, impudent as a tongue. Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twelve. With that last comment, the bird goes back into hiding. The day care itself is spotless but spooky, with its little tables and chairs, its pictures on the walls, the blackboard with "WE SAY PLEASE" and "WE SAY THANK YOU" written on it. There are too many shadows, too much silence.
201 EXTERIOR: THE LOADING DOCK BEHIND THE STORE NIGHT.
We see PETER GODSOE'S WRAPPED BODY, now just a frozen lump under the tarp . . . but those boots are still sticking out.
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202 INTERIOR: THE CONSTABLE'S OFFICE.
It's still littered with paper and office supplies from hell to breakfast, and the fallen bars still lie where they fell, but the place is empty. THE CAMERA MOVES through the door to the market. It is also empty. The overturned table and litter of cards in the canned goods aisle testifies that there was sudden trouble here, but trouble has departed now. The big clock over the checkout counters a battery job reads a minute past midnight.
203 INTERIOR: THE SUPPLY SHED BEHIND THE TOWN HALL NIGHT.
There are two wrapped bodies here those of BILLY SOAMES and CORA STANHOPE.
204 INTERIOR: THE TOWN HALL KITCHEN NIGHT.
Neat as a pin clean counters, swept floor, washed pots heaped high in the drainers. A small army of town ladies with too much time on their hands (no doubt generaled by MRS. KINGSBURY) has put things to rights, and the place is all ready for breakfast pancakes for two hundred or so. On the wall, the clock reads two past midnight. Like Wee Folks Day-Care, this place feels spooky, with the minimal lighting supplied by the gennie and the WIND SCREAMING outside.
Sitting on stools by the door are JACK CARVER and KIRK FREEMAN. They have HUNTING RIFLES
across their laps. Both are close to dozing.
KIRK How're we supposed to see anything in this?
JACK shakes his head. He doesn't know.
205 INTERIOR: THE TOWN OFFICE NIGHT.
The CB radio CRACKLES SOFTLY AND MEANINGLESSLY. There's nothing on it but static. At the door, HATCH and ALEX HABER are watching, also armed with hunting rifles. Well . . . HATCH is 179
watching. ALEX is dozing. HATCH looks at him, and we see him debating whether or not to elbow ALEX awake. He decides to have pity.
THE CAMERA SLIPS to URSULA'S desk, where TESS MARCHANT sleeps with her head pillowed on her arms. THE CAMERA STUDIES
226 STEPHEN KING
HER for a moment, then turns and FLOATS down the stairs. As it does, we hear a FAINT VOICE
THROUGH STATIC:
PREACHE
R (voice)
You know, friends, it's hard to be righteous, but it's easy to go along with so-called friends who tell you that sin is all right, that neglect is fine, that no God is watching and you can go ahead and do whatever you think you can get away with, can you say "hallelujah"?
MUTTERED RESPONSE Hallelujah.
There are about ten people left in the TV area. They have gravitated to the few comfortable chairs and a couple of old rummage-sale-quality sofas. All but MIKE are asleep. On the TV, barely visible through the interference, is the slicky-hair PREACHER, looking every bit as trustworthy as Jimmy Swaggart in the courtyard of a triple-X motel.
MIKE
(speaks to the TV) Hallelujah, brother. Tell it.
He's in an overstaffed chair a little apart from the rest. He looks very tired and probably won't be awake for much longer. He's already started to nod out. On his hip he's wearing his revolver in a holster.
PREACHER
(continues)
Brethern, tonight I'd like to speak to you especially of the secret sin. And tonight I'd like to remind you, say hellelujah, that sin tastes sweet on the lips but sour on the tongue, and it poisons the belly of the righteous. God bless you, but can you say "amen"?
MIKE cannot, as it happens. His chin has drifted down to his chest, and his eyes have closed.
PREACHER
(continues) But the secret sin! The selfish heart that says "I need not STORM OF THE CENTURY 227
share; I can keep it all for myself, and no one'll ever know." Think of that, brethern! It's easy to say, "Oh, I can keep that dirty little secret, it's nobody else's business, and it won't hurt me," and then try to ignore the canker of corruption that begins growing around it ... that soul sickeness that begins to grow around it ...
During this, THE CAMERA PANS some of the sleeping faces among them we see SONNY
BRAUTIGAN and UPTON BELL, SNORING on one sofa with their heads together, and on the other, JONAS and JOANNA STANHOPE with their arms around each other. Then we FLOAT AWAY AGAIN, toward those makeshift draw curtains. Behind us, the PREACHER'S VOICE fades. He continues to talk about secrets and sin and selfishness.
We DRIFT THROUGH the draw curtains. Here, in the sleeping area, we hear DORMITORY SOUNDS
OF REPOSE: COUGHS, WHEEZES, SOFT SNORES.
We pass DAVEY HOPEWELL, sleeping on his back with a frown on his face. ROBBIE BEALS, on his side, reaching across to SANDRA. They are holding hands in their sleep. URSULA GODSOE sleeping 180
with her daughter, SALLY, and her sister-in-law, TAVIA, close-by, the three of them drawn as tightly together as they can in the wake of PETER'S death.
MELINDA HATCHER and PIPPA are sleeping with their cots pushed together, forehead to forehead, and RALPHIE is cradled in his sleeping mother's arms.
We drift to the area where the kids were initially put to bed, and quite a few of them are still there BUSTER CARVER, HARRY ROBICHAUX, HEIDI ST. PIERRE, and DON BEALS.
The residents of Little Tall are sleeping. Their rest is uneasy, but they are sleeping.
206 INTERIOR: ROBBIE BEALS, CLOSE-UP.
He MUTTERS SOMETHING INCOHERENT. His eyeballs move rapidly behind his closed lids. He's dreaming.
228 STEPHEN KING
207 EXTERIOR: MAIN STREET, LITTLE TALL ISLAND DAY.
Standing in the street actually above it, as Main Street is buried under at least four feet of snow is a TV REPORTER. He is young and conventionally handsome, dressed in a bright purple Thermo-Pak ski suit, matching purple gloves, and wearing skis . . . the only way he could get to his stand-up position, one assumes.
There's four feet of snow in the streets, but that's only the beginning. The stores have been all but buried under MONSTER DRIFTS. Downed power lines disappear into the snow like torn strands of cobweb.
TV REPORTER
The so-called Storm of the Century is history in New England now folks from New Bedford to New Hope are digging out from beneath snowfall amounts that have added not just new entries but new pages to the record books.
The REPORTER begins to ski slowly down Main Street, past the drugstore, the hardware store, the Handy Bob Restaurant, the Tie-Up Lounge, the beauty parlor.
TV REPORTER
They're digging out everywhere, that is, except here, on Little Tall Island a little scrap of land off the coast of Maine and home to almost four hundred souls, according to the last census. About half the population sought shelter on the mainland when it became clear that this storm was really going to hit, and hit hard. That number includes most of the island's schoolchildren in grades K through high school. But nearly all the rest . . . two hundred men and women and young children . . . are gone. The exceptions are even more ominous and distressing.
208 EXTERIOR: THE REMAINS OF THE TOWN DOCK DAY.
Teams of grim-faced EMERGENCY MEDICAL TECHNICIANS are carrying four stretchers down to the POLICE BOAT that has tied up to the stump of the dock. Each stretcher bears a zipped body bag.
TV REPORTER (voice-over) Four corpses have been found so far on Little Tall Island.
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Two of them may have been suicides, police sources say, but the other two are almost certainly murder victims, bludgeoned to death by what was probably the same blunt object.
209 EXTERIOR: RESUME MAIN STREET, WITH REPORTER.
Oh-oh. He's still wearing the purple ski suit, still clean-cut and as chipper as a chickadee, but the purple gloves have been replaced by bright yellow ones. If we didn't recognize LINOGE before and hopefully we didn't we do now.
181
TV REPORTER
(LINOGE)
Identities of the dead have been withheld pending notification of next of kin, but all are said to be longtime island residents. And baffled police are asking themselves one question, over and over: Where are the other residents of Little Tall Island? Where is Robert Beals, the town manager? Where is Michael Anderson, who owned the island market and served as Little Tail's constable? Where is fourteen-year-old Davey Hopewell, who was at home, recovering from a bout of mononucleosis, when the big one hit? Where are the shopkeepers, the fishermen, the town selectmen? No one knows. There has only been one case like this before, in all of American history.
210 INTERIOR: MOLLY ANDERSON, SLEEPING, CLOSE-UP NIGHT. Her eyes move rapidly back and forth beneath her closed lids.
211 INSERT: A DRAWING OF AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VILLAGE.
WOMAN TV REPORTER (voice-over)
This is how the village of Roanoke, Virginia, looked in 1587, before everyone disappeared every man, woman, and child. Their fate has never been discovered. A single possible clue was discovered, a word found carved on a tree
212 INSERT: A WOODCUT OF AN ELM TREE. Carved into the bark is the word "CROATON."
WOMAN TV REPORTER (voice-over) this word. "Croaton." The name of a place? A misspelling?
230 STEPHEN KING
A word written in a language lost over the centuries? No one knows that, either.
213 EXTERIOR: RESUME MAIN STREET, WITH WOMAN TV REPORTER.
She is very pretty in her purple Therma-Pak ski suit; it goes well with her long blonde hair, flushed cheeks . . . and her BRIGHT YELLOW GLOVES. Yes, it's LINOGE again, now speaking in a woman's voice and looking very pretty. This isn't transvestism played for laughs, but a guy who really looks like a young woman and speaks with a woman's voice. This is deadly serious.
This reporter has picked up exactly where ROBBIE'S version left off, now doing a walk-and-talk (a walk-and-ski, in this case) up Main Street, toward the town hall.
WOMAN TV REPORTER
(LINOGE)
Police continue to assure reporters that a solution will be found, but even they are not able to deny one essential fact: hope is dimming for the missing residents of Little Tall Island.
She skis on toward the town hall, which is also buried in drifts.
WOMAN TV REPORTER
(LINOGE)
Evidence suggests that most or all of the is
landers spent the first and worst night of the storm here, in the basement of the Little Tall Island Town Hall. After that ... no one knows. One wonders if there was anything they could have done to change their strange fate.
She skis onto what would be the town hall lawn in summer, toward the little cupola with the bell inside. THE CAMERA REMAINS STATIONARY now, watching her go.
214 INTERIOR: DAVEY HOPEWELL, CLOSE-UP.
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Sleeping uneasily. Eyeballs moving. Dreaming while the WIND SHRIEKS OUTSIDE.
*
STORM OF THE CENTURY 231
215 EXTERIOR: IN FRONT OF THE TOWN HALL DAY.
The REPORTER in the purple ski suit reaches the cupola, and even with his back to us, we can tell that DAVEY'S version of the REPORTER is a man. He turns. He is BALDING, BESPECTACLED, wearing a MUSTACHE ... but it's LINOGE again.
TV REPORTER
(LINOGE)
One wonders if, in their insular selfishness and Yankee pride, they refused to give something . . .
some simple thing . . . that would have changed matters for them. To this reporter, that seems more than possible; it seems plausible. Do they regret it now? (pause) Are any of them alive to regret it? What really happened in Roanoke, in 1587? And what happened here, on Little Tall Island, in 1989? We may never know. But I know one thing, Davey you're too damn short to play basketball . . . and besides, you couldn't throw it in the ocean.