Dawn of the Dead (9 page)

The children were dressed in overalls and were fair-haired and blue-eyed. Probably the children of a farmer, Peter thought, as he raised his gun. Maybe they were brother and sister. As the children tried to scramble to their feet, Peter fired several shots in rapid succession. First the little girl fell; then the boy.

Peter continued to fire long after the children stopped twitching. His eyes were dry—but wide with desperation and disgust. Finally the click of the weapon signalled that it was out of ammunition. Peter was sweating profusely now, his breath coming in deep, dry gasps.

Meanwhile, the two creatures continued their advance toward Fran and Steve.

“Just run,” Steve shouted at Fran, who stood mesmerized by the monsters and totally petrified. She turned and looked behind them, but they were boxed in by the hangars.

“Run right past 'em,” Steve advised her. “Right around 'em. They can't catch you.”

She hesitated, and her eyes grew wider with terror as the zombies drew closer.

Steve was screaming now, jumping up and down.

“Run, Frannie. Goddammit, I'm right behind you. We can handle them!”

With one decisive action, Fran started up the little grade. She ran to the right of the creatures, and they moved in her direction, arms outstretched. As their clawing hands drew closer to her, she recoiled in fright. One of them was practically on top of her now.

“Run, Frannie. Move!” Steve yelled, almost in hysterics himself.

Fran stared into the vacant, dazed eyes of the lead zombie. She was almost hypnotized by the creature's steady gaze. At the last instant, she regained her composure and ran just past the creatures. A little way up the grade, she turned and looked back, stopping again.

Fran's heart was pounding and she was shaking with fear. She felt as if there were nowhere to run and that she was merely taunting the zombies. She didn't realize that they didn't think as humans any more, or even react like swift animals, but merely staggered around, bumping into things and people without differentiation.

One of the zombies had now turned up the grade and was after her. The other creature continued to advance on Steve.

Steve ducked into the open hangar. The thin beams of sunlight that cut through the wooden boards of the structure made a striped pattern on the dirt floor. In the corner of the hangar, Steve noticed a pile of greasy tools. He rooted through them until he found an enormous sledgehammer. Grabbing it he ran out of the shed, dodging around the lead zombie. The zombie tottered like a wind-up toy and staggered on even after Steve had changed direction. Grasping the handle of the giant hammer firmly, Steve charged up the grade toward the zombie. As he reached the creature's back, he brought the twenty-pound steel head of the sledge slamming against the ghoul's skull with all the strength his 138-pound body could muster.

The creature staggered on for a few more steps, its head a bloody pulp, and then it fell to its knees and finally flopped face down in the dust. Blood gushed out around the ghoul and mixed with the dust-laden ground covering.

Without pausing, or breaking stride, Steve grabbed Fran's hand, and the two of them rushed toward the helicopter. The other zombie at the hangar finally realized that its prey had changed direction, and it turned around and was walking up the grade. Its hands clawed at the air, and its bulging eyes glared straight ahead.

Roger, who had been totally unaware of all the excitement, pumped the last drops out of the fuel hose. As he turned around, he was shocked to see the frantic expressions on the faces of the couple as they made their life-or-death dash to the helicopter.

While Steve charged up the grade, he saw the zombie approaching Roger from behind. He shouted and waved his free arm, and Roger spun around. The stumbling creature was almost upon him. It raised its arms, and its hands clutched the air in a bizarre salute. Roger let the fuel nozzle drop to the ground, and he started to run but realized that he was trapped at the side of the machine. He didn't have his rifle and had to fumble with the snap on his handgun holster before he was properly armed.

Suddenly, the blank face of the zombie turned red as the top of its head seemed to disintegrate into a bloody pulp. Roger realized with alarm that the mindless creature had walked directly into the spinning chopper blade. He watched with a mixture of disgust and relief as the body staggered forward another step or two and then collapsed into a bloody heap.

While Roger was watching the repulsive death of the zombie, Steve and Fran had reached the chopper. Steve let go of Fran's hand and dropped his bloody sledge to the ground. He lunged into the cockpit and grabbed his rifle.

The zombie that was stumbling up the grade from the hangars almost lost its footing. Some natural sense of equilibrium caused it to regain its balance, and it advanced steadily toward the helicopter.

Suddenly, Fran was gripped by violent loathing and a physical weakening, and she fell to her knees on the ground, retching and clutching at her stomach. She was directly in line of the zombie's trajectory. Steve raised his gun and, fumbling, aimed at the approaching creature. He fired again, and this time the bullet only grazed the creature's face. It wobbled from the impact but did not fall.

Roger, meanwhile, had retrieved his high-powered rifle from the copter, and he ran to Steve's aid. Steve had fired two more rounds, another miss and a graze on the arm. The creature didn't react at all. It could have been a fly landing on his arm.

Just as Steve was about to shoot once more, Roger stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and stepped up alongside him. Calmly, Roger aimed and fired one shot cleanly through the creature's brain. The zombie fell, and a newspaper blew over him like a shroud.

During all the action outside on the airstrip, Peter had been staring at the small corpses, now dotted with bullet holes. Finally he roused himself and instinctively started to load his weapon without looking at the action, and backing wearily out toward the door of the chart house. Behind him, silhouetted against the brightly sunlit doorway, was another zombie. The creature lumbered forward just as Peter turned. Startled, he reached for more shells and backed away a few steps as he tried to load the bullets into his gun. The creature reached out and took another step into the room.

Peter stared directly at the creature's eyes. Then, suddenly, out in the glaring light, a few hundred feet behind the zombie, Steve appeared with his rifle. He was barely visible behind the zombie's broad back. Peter could just about see him over the creature's shoulder.

Then, without warning, Steve shouldered the rifle and aimed directly at the zombie. But to Peter's trained eye, it seemed that the barrel was on a straight line, pointing directly at him.

With agility and foresight, Peter ducked quickly to the floor. Steve's gun fired a split second later. The bullet missed the creature and went crashing into the room. It ricocheted off the coffee machine. Another shot crashed through the glass in the front room.

Peter didn't know where to run first—away from the stalking zombie or away from Steve's wild shots. While he crouched, Peter filled his gun with shells. A third of Steve's bullets tore through the creature's shoulder, but it still stood. Slowly, it turned toward the crouching man. Peter crawled under the table as another shot splattered into the coffee cups.

Unless that dude is blind, Peter thought, he's got to see me in here. The bastard's trying to blow my head off too!

Just in time, Roger once again stepped up beside Steve. And once again he took careful aim and fired one super-clean shot, sighting through the telescopic range finder. As Peter finished loading his weapon, the zombie crashed into the room, falling over the table and onto the floor.

With the wind whipping dust and debris in her face, Fran was still doubled over and trying to keep herself from vomiting. She knew it was caused by the excitement, but she also knew the other cause; and she shuddered to think what would become of her now that there was utter chaos and confusion terrorizing the countryside.

A sudden movement and Fran flinched, only to be relieved when she saw Steve rushing to her side.

“Peter,” shouted Roger toward the chart house, his rifle poised.

The big man appeared in the doorway, a grim look on his face, snapping the safety on his rifle.

Fran's retching caused her to choke and cough. Steve grasped her shoulders and tried to help her, but he didn't know what to say and had a hard enough time trying to keep himself from shaking.

With long, purposeful strides, Peter advanced upon the couple.

Stephen felt his presence when the trooper was still a dozen steps away.

Immediately, Steve recognized the anger in the man's eyes. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and in the back of his mind he knew why the man was standing there, his rifle aimed directly at Stephen.

Steve tried to stand, but his shaking was so intense now that he tripped and fell on his back in the dust. In an instant, Peter loomed over him with the barrel of his rifle aimed at point-blank range at the convulsing man's forehead.

“No . . . my God! Don't . . . what are you doing?” Fran screamed through her choking.

“You never aim a gun at anyone, mister,” Peter said to him calmly, in a low tone, barely audible over the whipping propellers. “It's scary, isn't it?
Isn't it?
” he said, poking Stephen in the ribs with the nose of the rifle.

Stephen looked at the big man meekly. He felt himself flush with humiliation. He had thought he had seen something else in the shack, but he hadn't been sure. He was so intent on killing the zombie that the thought that had crossed his mind—where was Peter?—had lodged in his brain.

Peter lowered his weapon and extended his hand, helping Steve up onto his feet.

A subdued Roger cleared the fuel hose from around the runners of the chopper. Peter climbed into the cockpit and sat in the rear of the copter without saying a word. The image of the two children kept playing through his head. And, the glint in Steve's eye as he aimed the rifle directly at his head. Peter was sure he could see that glint even through the barrel of the gun.

Roger helped a shaking Fran climb aboard. She was weakened from the vomiting and felt numbed by what she had just witnessed. The enormity of the situation dawned on her. This wasn't kid stuff, she realized with horror.

Steve walked around to the front of the cockpit bubble and climbed into the pilot's seat with almost studied calmness. Roger climbed in after Fran as she squeezed into her familiar uncomfortable spot by Peter. The man offered her a sip of water as if to say, My beef's with Steve, not with you. She accepted it gratefully and then let her head flop wearily against the rear bulkhead.

“We gotta find fuel,” Steve announced with urgency in his voice. He surveyed his flight charts, shuffling the papers and trying to seem very busy after the embarrassment of the incident.

“No, we've gotta stay away from the big cities,” Roger told him, hoping that the incident would be forgotten and they could get on their way. “If it's anything like Philly, we might never get out alive.”

“We might not get out of
anyplace
alive,” Peter broke in, his voice oozing with hostility and double meaning. “We almost didn't get out of here.”

“We're getting outa here fine,” said Roger, trying to cool him down and keep the peace. He felt responsible for bringing the two together. He hadn't realized it would be like mixing water and oil. “As long as there's not too many of those things we can handle 'em easy.”

“Yeah,” Peter insisted, “well, it wasn't one of ‘those things' that nearly blew me away!”

Steve felt the bile rising in his throat. So what if the guy was bigger than he was. No one was getting nowhere unless he flew this thing, and it was about time they appreciated it. He turned to say something in retort, but Roger stopped him.

“We gotta stay in the sticks,” he said seriously. “There's bound to be more little private airports upstate.”

“There's the locks along the Allegheny,” Steve said somberly, reluctantly returning to his charts. He had hoped a direct confrontation would clear the air. “Fuel stations there, private and state.”

“Prob'ly still manned,” Roger countered. “We don't need those hassles either.”

“They're just after scavengers . . . looters . . .” Steve said sanctimoniously.

“Oh,” Peter cut in, “you got the papers for this limousine?”

“I got WGON ID,” Steve shouted angrily, “and so does Fran.”

“Right,” Peter said venomously, “and we're out here doin' traffic reports? Wake up, sucker. We're thieves and bad guys is what we are. And we gotta find our own way!”

Peter's words hit them all in the pit of the stomach. He was right. They weren't any better than the looters and the scavengers who roamed the countryside. But what choice did they have? The engine droned on, but the helicopter didn't leave the ground. The men looked at each other silently, steadily. Peter was the first to move as he took a long slug of water from the plastic container.

Finally, Fran spoke. Her voice had an edge of anxiety to it. “Jesus Christ. We don't even know where we're going. We don't have a radio. We're running out of water. We need food . . .” She looked at each one of the men, their faces haggard and drawn. Steve looked particularly devastated.

“Stephen,” she said tenderly, “you need to sleep.”

He looked at her earnestly for a second and then turned to the controls of the copter. Without another word he set it in motion. Its props started to spin, and then with a surge of power it lifted off and flew away. The dry earth swirled up into a cloud and blew more bits of paper over the wide-eyed corpses that lay in the morning sunlight.

Peter glanced backward toward the chart house and wiped his hand across his sweating brow. He'd try to get some sleep now. God knew how much he needed it, but he didn't think that he could ever sleep again.