Narrator (24:41)
The big man waves his hand in disgust at the repetition of the radio and moves away as it continues its announcement. He resumes his efforts with a heavy wooden tabletop. This time he drags it to the living room window. He leans it against the wall and pulls back the curtain to peer outside. There are now four figures standing in the yard. The voice of the distant radio recording continues. The figures stand very still, their arms dangling, aspects of their silhouettes revealing tattered clothing or shaggy hair. They are cold, dead things. Something in the distance suddenly startles the truck driver. From across the road, a figure is moving toward the house. The man spins himself away from the door and rushes to the fireplace. He reaches for his matches. In the little stand near the couch where Barbara lies unconscious, there are old magazines. The man grabs them, rips pages loose, and crumples them into the fireplace. He piles kindling wood in larger logs, then touches the paper with a lighted match, and a small fire takes hold. There is charcoal light on the mantle. He sprays the glowing fire and it whooshes into a larger blaze, almost singeing the big man's face. As he works, the larger logs begin to burn. He returns to the window. The recorded message repeats itself continuously. The man hoists the table to top to the windowsill and braces it there while he places a nail in position. He pounds with a crowbar, driven by desperation. Another nail and another. With the table secure, he checks it hastily and leaps to another window where he can peer out between its nailed up boards. The new figure is just reaching the place where the others stand. Silently, the man rushes to the fire where the biggest logs have now begun to blaze. He seizes the discarded table legs and saturates them with a charcoal light, then holds the largest ends into the fire until he has two good flaming torches, then a torch in each hand. He moves toward the door again. He nudges a big padded armchair ahead of him to the door and taking both torches in one hand, pulls the curtain aside for another look at the yard. The figures still stand silently with charcoal light. He drenches the padded armchair and touches it with a torch. It catches instantly and flames lick and climb, casting flickering light throughout the house. The heat on the man is severe, but he has to fight it. He lunges for the door, unbolting it and flinging it wide open. From the yard that the door bangs open, the flaming chair is visible. It throws eerie, irregular illumination onto the lawn. The waiting figures stand, step back slightly. The man shoves the chair through the doorway. It slides across the front porch. It topples over the edge and the flaming bulk tumbles down the steps onto the front lawn. In the rolling motion, flames lick and fly and small particles of the chair's stuffing leap and glow in the night wind. The bonfire rages in the tall grass. The waiting figures back further away. Inside the house, the front door bands shut and the man fastens the bolt. He hurries again to the window, puts more nails into the tabletop, fastening it securely, then surveys his surroundings, seeking out possible vulnerability. The camera moves with him, seeing the task that lies ahead. There is a side window in the living room, a window in the dining room at the other side of the house, the front door and the flanking glass panels. He turns, still inspecting, and his eyes reflect surprise. The girl is sitting up on the couch. Her demeanor is startling. We cut to her. Her face is bruised and she sits in silence, staring at the floor. The radio drones on. The fire plays on her face and reflects in her eyes. The man takes off his jacket and moves toward her. He fixes his jacket over her shoulders, looks sympathetically onto her face. She just stares at the floor. The man feels dumb and helpless. Forlornly, he moves to the pile of lumber, chooses a table Board and goes to the side window. The radio voice continues. The truck driver boards up the two side windows, then moves to the front door. He gets an ironing board and places it across the door horizontally. It extends over the flanking glass panels, leaving cracks at the top and bottom, but they are too small for anything to get through. He drives nails through the board into the molding and tests the barricade for strength. Finding it sufficient, he leaves it and goes on to the next. In the dining room, there are two closed doors. He tries one, finds it locked, examines it, and finds no latch. It has been apparently locked with a skeleton key. The other door is unlocked and leads into a den which contains several windows. The man is disappointed at the added vulnerability. He thinks for a moment, then leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. It is clear that he has decided to board up the door rather than try to secure the bay windows. He checks his remaining lumber. The supply is dwindling, but he selects the best piece for boarding the den door. He's about to start hammering when an idea strikes him. He opens the door again and enters the room. There are chairs, a desk, a bureau. He steps to the desk and starts to rummage through the drawers. He pulls out paper, a stack of pencils and pens, a compass, a hundred little odds and ends. Another drawer, a hundred more things. He leaves it open. The bureau contains mostly clothing. He rips out the big drawers and hurls them through the doorway and into the dining area. One drawer, two, their contents spilling onto the floor. He looks back at the bureau. A final idea hits him. He shoves the great piece of furniture through the door, walking it through the tight opening until it clears the doorway. Then the desk, which warrants another struggle as the man attempts to secure all things of possible value before he finally nails the door shut. In the closet, there is a lot of old clothing. The man finds a good, warm coat and jacket and flings them over his shoulder. High on the shelves are piles of old boxes, suitcases, hat boxes, an old umbrella. He looks for an instant, debating their worth or the possible worth of what they might contain. At his feet, he sees still more clutter. Boxes, umbrellas, dust, shoes and slippers. He picks up a pair of ladies flats and examines them, thinking of the barefoot girl out on the couch, and tucks them under his arm. As he pulls away, something catches his eye within the dark recesses of the closet. Something shiny. The sheen of a finished piece of wood. A familiar shape lying under a pile of dirty clothing. He reaches eagerly and his hand finds what he had hoped for. A rifle. He sets everything down and rummages even, even more eagerly. All over the floor of the closet, through shoe boxes, under things, items coming flying out of the closet. A shoe box contains old letters and postcards. But in a cigar box, clattering around with pipe cleaners and cleaning fluid, there is a maintenance manual and a box of ammunition. He flips open the box and finds it half full. He shoves manual and cartridges into his pocket, then decides to take the whole cigar box full of material. He tucks it under his arm, gathers jackets and shoes and leaves the room. In the dining room, he drops the load of supplies in the bureau and the sight of the girl in the living room stops him short. She is sitting as before, not moving.
