by Rod Serling
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. She didn’t want to hear it aloud. The word was “doomed.” But unspoken or not, it hung there in the still hot air.
It was just four and a half weeks ago that the earth suddenly, inexplicably changed its elliptical orbit, and began to follow a path which gradually, moment by moment, day by day~ took it closer to the sun.
Midnight became almost as hot as noon—and almost as light.
There was no more darkness, no more night. All of man’s little luxuries—the air conditioners, the refrigerators, the electric fans that stirred up the air—they were no longer luxuries. They were pitiful and panicky keys to temporary survival.
New York City was like a giant sick animal slowly mummifying, its juices boiling away. It had emptied itself of its inhabitants. They had trekked north toward Canada in a hopeless race against a sun which had already begun to overtake them. It was a world of heat. Each day the sun appeared larger and larger; and each day heat was added to heat until thermometers boiled over; and breathing talking moving came with agony. It was a world of a perpetual high noon.
It was the next afternoon, and Norma walked up the steps carrying a heavy bag of groceries. A can and some wilted carrots protruded from the top. She stopped on the landing between two floors and caught her breath. Her light cotton dress clung to her like a wet glove.
“Norma?” Mrs. Bronson’s voice called out. “Is that you, honey?”
Norma’s voice was weak and breathless. “Yes, Mrs. Bronson.”
She started up the steps again as the landlady came out of her apartment and looked at the bag in Norma’s arms. “The store was open?”
Norma half smiled. “Wide open. I think that’s the first time in my life I’ve been sorry I was born a woman. “She put the bag on the floor and pointed to it. “That’s all I was strong enough to carry. There weren’t any clerks, just a handful of people taking all they could grab.” She smiled again and picked up the bag. ‘‘At least we won’t starve—and there are three cans of fruit juice on the bottom. “
Mrs. Bronson followed her into her apartment. “Fruit juice!” She clapped her hands together like a little child, her voice excited. “Oh, Norma... could we open one now?”
Norma turned to her, smiled at her gently, and patted her cheek. “Of course we can.” She started to empty the bag while Mrs. Bronson kept opening and closing drawers in the kitchen area.
“Where is the can opener?”
Norma painted to the far drawer on the left. “In there, Mrs. Bronson.”
The landlady’s fingers trembled with excitement as she opened up the drawer, rummaged through its interior, and finally pulled out a can opener. She carried it over to Norma and abruptly grabbed a can out of the girl’s hand. And then, her hands shaking, she tried to get the point of the opener firmly into the can, breathing heavily and spasmodically as she did so. Can and opener fell from her fingers and landed on the floor. She dropped to her hands and knees, emitting a childlike wail, and then suddenly bit her lip and closed her eyes.
“Oh, my God!” she whispered. “I’m acting like some kind of an animal. Oh, Norma—I’m so sorry—”
Norma knelt beside her and picked up the can and the opener. “You’re acting like a frightened woman,” she said quietly. “You should have seen me in that store, Mrs. Bronson. Running down the aisles. I mean, running. This way and that way, knocking over things, grabbing and throwing away, then grabbing again.” She smiled and shook her head, and then got to her feet. “And at that,” she continued, “I think I was the calmest person in the store. One woman just stood in the center of the room and cried. Just cried like a baby. Kept pleading for someone to help her.” Norma shook her head again, wanting to obliterate the scene from her mind.
A small radio on the coffee table suddenly lit up and began to hum. After a while there came the voice of an announcer. It was deep and resonant, but somehow sounded strange.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice said, “this is station WNYG. We are remaining on the air for one hour to bring you traffic advisories and other essential news. First, a bulletin from the Office of Civil Defense. Traffic moving north and east out of New York City—motorists are advised to remain off the highways until further notice. Traffic on the Garden State Parkway, the Merritt Parkway, and the New York State Throughway heading north is reported bumper to bumper, stretching out in some places to upwards of fifty miles. Please... remain off the highways until further notice.”
There was a pause and the voice took on a different tone. “And now today’s weather report from the Director of Meteorology. The temperature at eleven o’clock Eastern Standard Time was one hundred and seventeen degrees. Humidity ninety-seven percent. Barometer steady. Forecast for tomorrow...” Another pause, and the tone changed again. “Forecast for tomorrow...” There was a long silence as Norma and Mrs. Bronson stared toward the radio. Then the announcer’s voice came on once more. “Hot. More of the same, only hotter.”
The sound of whispered voices came from the radio. “I don’t care,” the announcer said clearly. “Who the hell do they think they’re kidding with this weather report crap?...Ladies and gentlemen,” he went on, a strange kind of laughter in his voice, “tomorrow you can fry eggs on sidewalks, heat up soup in the ocean, and get yourselves the sunburn of your lives just by standing in the Goddamn shade!” This time the whispered voices were more urgent and intense, and the announcer was obviously reacting to them. “What do you mean, panic?” he blurted out. “Who the hell is there left to panic?” There came the sound of grim laughter.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice continued, “I’m told that my departing from the script might panic you. It happens to be my contention that there aren’t a dozen of you left in this city who are listening to me. I’m starting a special contest now. Anyone within sound of my voice can tear off the top of their thermometer and send it to me. I’ll send them my own specially devised booklet on how to stay warm when the sun is out at midnight. Now maybe I can find a couple of real pizazz commercials for you. How about a nice cold beer? Wouldn’t that taste just great?” The voice faded off slightly. “Lemme alone,” it said, “do you hear me? Goddamn it, lemme alone! Let go of me!” More frantic whisperings followed, and then a dead silence, finally replaced by the sound of a needle scratching on a record and then the sound of dance music.
Norma and Mrs. Bronson exchanged a look.
“You see?” Norma said, as she started to open up the can of grapefruit juice. “You’re not the only frightened one.”
She unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, then took two glasses down from a shelf and poured the juice into them. She handed one of the glasses to Mrs. Bronson, who looked at it but didn’t drink.
“Go ahead, Mrs. Bronson,” Norma said softly, “it’s grapefruit juice.”
The older woman looked down at the floor, and very slowly put the glass down on the counter. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t just live off you, Norma. You’ll need this yourself…”
Norma moved over to her swiftly and held her tightly by her shoulders. “We’re going to have to start living off of each other, Mrs. Bronson.” She picked up the glass and handed it to the landlady, then winked at her and held up her own glass. “Here’s looking at you.”
Mrs. Bronson made a valiant attempt at a smile and a wink of her own, but as she put the glass to her lips she had to stifle a sob, and almost gagged as she swallowed.
The music on the radio went off abruptly, and a small electric fan at the end of the room stopped its desultory movement to left and right, the blades coming to a halt like some tired, aged airplane.
“The current’s off again,” Norma said quietly.
Mrs. Bronson nodded. “Every day it stays on for a shorter time. What if...” she began, and she turned away. “What?” Norma asked softly. “What if it shuts off and doesn’t come back on again? It would be like an oven in here—as hot as it is now, as unbearab
le, it would be so much worse.” She put her hands to her mouth. “Norma, it would be so much worse.”
Norma didn’t answer her. Mrs. Bronson drank a little more of the grapefruit juice and put the glass down. She walked around the room aimlessly, looking at the paintings that lined the room. And there was something so hopeless in the round, perspiring face, the eyes so terribly frightened, that Norma wanted to take her into her arms.
“Norma,” Mrs. Bronson said, staring at one of the paintings.
Norma moved closer to her.
“Paint something different today. Paint something like a scene with a waterfall and trees bending in the wind. Paint something... paint something cool.”
Suddenly her tired face became a mask of anger. She seized the painting, lifted it up, and then threw it down on the floor. “Damn it, Norma!” she screamed. “Don’t paint the sun anymore!” She knelt down and began to cry.
Norma looked at the ripped canvas lying in front of her. It was the painting she’d been working on—a partially finished oil of the street outside, with the hot white sun hovering overhead. The jagged tear across the picture gave it a strangely surrealistic look—something Dali might have done.
The old woman’s sobs finally subsided but she stayed on her knees, her head down.
Norma gently touched her shoulder. “Tomorrow,” she said softly, “tomorrow I’ll try to paint a waterfall.”
Mrs. Bronson reached up to take Norma’s hand and held on to it tightly. She shook her head; her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Oh, Norma, I’m sorry. My dear child, I’m so sorry. It would be so much better if—”
“If what?”
“If I were to just die.” She looked up into Norma’s face. It’d be so much better for you.”
Norma knelt down, cupping the old face in her hands. “Don’t ever say that again to me, Mrs. Bronson. For God’s sake, don’t ever say that again! We need each other now. We need each other desperately.”
Mrs. Bronson let her cheek rest on Norma’s hand and then slowly got to her feet.
A policeman came up the stairs and appeared at the open door. His shirt was unbuttoned. His sleeves had been cut off and were ragged and uneven at the elbows. He looked from Norma to Mrs. Bronson and wiped the sweat off his sunburned face. “You the only ones in the building?” he asked.
“Just me and Miss Smith,” Mrs. Bronson answered.
“You had your radio on lately?” the policeman asked.
“It’s on all the time,” Mrs. Bronson said, and turned to Norma. “Norma, honey, what station did we—”
The policeman interrupted. “It doesn’t make any difference. There’re only two or three on the air now and they figure by tomorrow there won’t be any. The point is—we’ve been trying to get a public announcement through for everyone left in the city.” He looked from one face to the other and then around the room, obviously reluctant to go on. “There isn’t going to be a police force tomorrow. We’re disbanding. Over half of us have gone already. A few volunteered to stay back and tell everyone we could that—”
He saw the fear creep into Mrs. Bronson’s face and he tried to make his voice steady. “Best thing would be to keep your doors locked from now on. Every wild man, every crank and maniac around will be roaming the streets. It’s not going to be safe, ladies, so keep your doors locked.” He looked at them and made a mental note that Norma was the stronger of the two and the more reliable. “You got any weapons in here, miss?” he asked, directing the question to her.
“No,” Norma answered, “no, I haven’t.”
The policeman looked thoughtful for a moment and then unbuckled his holster, removing a police .45. He handed it to Norma. “You better hang onto this. It’s loaded.” He forced a smile toward the landlady. “Good luck to you.”
He turned and started down the steps, Mrs. Bronson following him out. “Officer,” she said, her voice shaking, “Officer, what’s going to happen to us?”
The policeman turned to her from halfway down the steps. His face was tired, drained out. “Don’t you know?” he asked quietly. “It’s just going to get hotter and hotter, then maybe a couple of days from now”—he shrugged—“four or five at the most, it’ll be too hot to stand it.” He looked over Mrs. Bronson’s shoulder at Norma standing in the door, still holding onto the gun. His mouth was a grim straight line. “Then you use your own judgment, ladies.” He turned and continued down the steps.
It was the following day or night. The current had gone off, and with it the clocks, so that the normal measurement of time was no longer operative. A sick white light bathed the streets and chronology had warped with the heat.
Norma lay on the couch in her slip, feeling the waves of heat, like massive woolen blankets piled on top of her. It was as if someone were pushing her into a vat of boiling mud, forcing the stuff into her mouth, her nose, her eyes, gradually immersing her in it. Between the nightmare of sleep and the nightmare of reality, she groaned. After a moment she opened her eyes, feeling a dull, throbbing ache in her temples.
She forced herself to rise from the couch, feeling the same ponderous heaviness as she walked across the room to the refrigerator. She opened the door, took out the milk bottle full of water, and poured herself a quarter of a glass. This she sipped slowly as she retraced her steps across the room to the window. She gasped as her hands touched the sill. It was like touching hot steel. Her fingers went to her mouth and she stood there licking them, and finally she poured a few drops of water from the glass onto them. She listened for sounds, but there was absolute stillness. At last she turned and crossed the room, opened the door, and went out into the hall. She knocked on the door of Mrs. Bronson’s apartment.
“Mrs. Bronson?” she called. There was no answer. “Mrs. Bronson?”
There were slow footsteps behind the door and then the sound of a door chain. The door opened a few inches and Mrs. Bronson peered out.
“Are you all right?” Norma asked.
The landlady unhooked the chain and opened the door. Her face looked pinched and ill, her eyes watery and too bright. “I’m all right,” she said. “It’s been so quiet. I haven’t heard a sound.” She moved out into the hall and looked over the landing toward the steps. “What time is it?”
Norma glanced at her watch and shook her wrist. “It’s stopped. I’m not sure what time it is. I’m not even sure whether it’s morning or night.”
“I think it’s about three o’clock in the afternoon,” Mrs. Bronson said. “It feels about three in the afternoon.” She shook her head. “I think that’s what time it is.”
She closed her eyes very tightly. “I lay down for a while,” she went on. “I tried shutting the curtains to keep the light out, but it gets so stifling when the curtains are shut.” She smiled wanly. “I guess that’s psychological, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t think there’s much difference between out there and in here.”
From up on the roof came the sound of glass breaking, and then a loud thump.
Mrs. Bronson’s hand shot out and grabbed Norma. “What was that?” she whispered.
“Something... something fell.”
“Oh, no... it was someone.”
Norma looked up the steps leading to the top floor. “Didn’t you lock the roof door?” she whispered, feeling a nightmare moving in on her.
“Yes,” Mrs. Bronson said hurriedly, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “No,” she corrected herself, and shook her head wildly. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I thought I did.”
A door above them squeaked open and Norma didn’t wait to hear anymore. She took Mrs. Bronson by the arm and pulled her into her apartment, slamming the door and locking it. The two women barely breathed as the sound of footsteps came down the stairs. They stopped outside.
Mrs. Bronson turned to Norma. Her mouth opened as if ready to say something, but Norma damped her hand over it and warned her with her eyes to be silent.
There was the sound of movement in the hall, and footsteps came to
the door. “Hey!” a man’s voice called out. “Who’s in there? Somebody in there?”
Norma felt all the muscles in her body constrict. Neither of them made a sound.
“Come on out,” the voice said. “I know you’re in there. Come on out and be friendly.” The voice sounded impatient. “Come on—I ain’t got all day. You come out or I’m gonna come in!”
Norma, her hand still on Mrs. Bronson’s mouth, looked desperately around the room. She saw the policeman’s gun on the coffee table, moved over, and picked it up. She went to the door and held the gun close to the keyhole. She cocked it and then put her face against the door. “Did you hear that?” she asked in a loud voice. “That was a gun. Now get out of here. Go down the steps and go out the front door. Leave us alone.”
Heavy breathing sounded on the other side of the door. Whoever was out there was thinking it over very carefully.
“Okay, honey,” the voice finally said. “I never argue with a lady who has a gun.”
Shuffling footsteps started down the stairs and Norma moved quickly to the window, craning her neck so that she could see the front steps below. She waited, but no one came out of the building.
“I don’t think he went down the stairs—” she started to say, and then, hearing the click of a key, she whirled around to see Mrs. Bronson opening the door. “Mrs. Bronson!” she cried. “Wait a min—”
The door was pushed open and a man stood there—a hulking, heavy-featured giant of a man in a torn undershirt, his face and body grimy. Mrs. Bronson screamed and started to rush past him. He caught her by the arm and threw her aside.
Norma held up the gun, clawing at it, trying to find the trigger. The man lashed out, knocking the gun aside, and backhanded her across the face. Norma was stunned by the jolting pain. The man kicked the gun across the floor, then walked over and put his foot on it. He stood there breathing heavily, looking from one to the other.
“Crazy dames! It’s too hot to play games. It’s too damn hot!”