Dawn of the Dead (13 page)

“Let up a little . . . let up a little,” he gasped to Peter.

Peter let up the pressure and the gate rose a few inches. But, as more and more zombies appeared outside, they too clutched at the roll gate. The openings in the grid were only big enough for their fingers; their hands could not reach through. However, the force of their pushing in unison caused the gate to go higher and higher . . . higher than Peter intended it to go to clear the obstructing corpse.

With his rifle butt, Roger managed to push the dead zombie clear except for one of its arms. From outside, a creature’s hand suddenly grabbed Roger’s weapon.

For a moment, the macabre thought passed through Roger’s mind: it was like the tug-o-war game he used to play with his friends when he was younger. Only now the stakes were life or death!

“Come on . . . come on,” Peter cried out. He was having a harder time holding the gate, and it inched upward, out of his reach.

Roger decided to let go of the gun barrel, and the creature flew back into the crowd, brandishing its prize. Roger grabbed for the gate to help Peter, and they tried again to close it.

“The arm . . . that arm’s in the way,” Peter told him.

Roger squatted and managed to throw the dead zombie’s arm, which was now only held onto the body with a thin strand of muscle, clear.

With a slight shiver of revulsion at what he had just done, Roger grabbed the gate again. Now with both of the men focusing their attention and strength on the gate, it moved down more steadily.

At the last moment, another clutching arm jutted into the store, but when the gate hit it, it withdrew. Finally, and not a minute too soon, the gate clicked solidly into place.

The two troopers stepped back from the gate and collapsed against another glass display case. This one held sunglasses, suntan lotion, and various vacation-time necessities. The men gathered their strength and watched in horror as the creatures still moaned and gurgled, slamming against the gate. Their fingers clutched futilely at the grid, but they were unable to budge it.

“Well . . . we’re in. Now, how the hell we gonna get back?” Roger asked, scanning the department store. About ten or twelve zombies tried to get in. Several others made their way along the balcony. Roger also noted in disgust that six lay dead along the floor, their heads bleeding profusely from gunshot wounds or smashed skulls.

“Let’s go shopping first,” Peter said, calm, cool and collected once again. Roger marveled at his cold-hearted approach.

The two big troopers backed into the aisles of the store. The creatures outside still pushed and shoved at the gate. The one with Roger’s rifle had the instincts to use it as a bludgeon, but it had no effect.

A trembling Stephen opened the door to the administrative corridor. A stench filled his nostrils, and a feeling of claustrophobia enveloped him. Zombies littered the dark, narrow hallway. He could see to the open end of the hallway and noted that it was inactive. He let his eyes roam along slowly, observing the washrooms and the long row of doors that led into the various offices. The sound of his breathing echoed in the corridor, and he could hear the blood pulsating through his veins. He was primed, ready for any attack.

He moved slowly into the corridor, letting the fire stair door close behind him.

Fran, who had been staring at the beam of Steve’s flashlight so hard that her eyes hurt, gave a gasp as she watched the beam narrow, flicker, and finally disappear. She heard the door click shut in the darkness.

“Stephen . . . Jesus God . . .” she uttered in fright as she backed into the storage area. She moved quickly to the little pyramid of cartons that led up to the roof and sat on the bottom carton, biting her fingers.

The silence was unbearable. Every sound, the creaking of the building, the wind outside, sounded as if it were amplified tenfold.

Meanwhile, in Porter’s, Roger was riding down the escalator. On his back was a backpack, already filled with goods. He could have been a regular shopper except for his uniform and rifle. When he got off the moving stair on the ground floor, the recorded music tape ended. He was struck by the eerie quiet of his surroundings, while the tape machine rewound itself.

He moved through the clothing department, browsing through the racks of the latest fashions. His eye was caught by a leather blazer. While he admired it, he backed into one of the store mannequins and the dead, vacantly staring eyes startled him. He snatched up a lined windbreaker and tied it around his waist by its arms, and then he trotted off down another aisle, looking for Peter.

He found the big trooper with a radio under his arm, involved in snatching up a small television.

“Hey man, we can’t carry all this shit . . .” Roger protested.

Peter ignored him, and turned a corner where he dumped the articles into something that Roger could not see. As Roger trotted over, he saw that Peter had a big gardening cart already heaped with goods.

“Oh,” Roger remarked sarcastically, “we’re gonna just wheel right by ’em, right!”

“We gonna try, brother,” Peter said grimly. “We ain’t doin’ this for the exercise. We might as well try to get what we can.”

“There’s no way this is gonna happen . . .” Roger said, confused. Even though he didn’t understand the plan, he began to help Peter throw things into the cart.

They raced down the hardware aisle, tossing in tools and other supplies, such as electrical cables, flashlights and batteries. It was almost as if they were contestants on a game show, like Supermarket Sweep, where they had five minutes in a store to grab whatever they could. They tried to put things in that would help them if they were stranded in a primitive area. Their thoughts were to get as far away from this civilization gone berserk as possible.

Stephen, on the other side of the structure, was busily examining maps and electrical equipment in the maintenance office. He rummaged through one of the desks. He wondered where Peter and Roger were now. He hadn’t heard any gunfire for at least fifteen minutes and considered the possibility that they had made a get-away. But where would they go by foot? He had the keys to the copter—and they wouldn’t get far without him. At least that made him feel useful—and powerful.

At the open end of the corridor that led out to the second-story balcony, zombies wandered past. They headed for the department store entrance, where many of the creatures still clawed at the roll gate.

The zombies moved randomly. Some were already leaving the gate, as their prey was now out of sight within the store. They began to wander aimlessly.

Three of the creatures turned into the administrative corridor and started toward the offices.

Stephen had, meanwhile, found a large binder in a desk drawer. It contained all the plans for the mall, duplicating the charts on the walls and including many others. He smiled with pleasure at the thought that here was all the material that he needed: a complete maintenance manual revealing all the workings and the entire layout of the huge shopping mall. Minute by minute, Steve’s composure and confidence were building. He didn’t have that sinking sensation in his stomach that he felt when he thought all was lost. Maybe it would still be possible for him and Fran to start a new life, a family. There must be some area of the North American continent that was free from this terror. They would try for Canada—if only the two troopers weren’t with them. With their extra weight, which was almost twice as much as his and Fran’s, they were a drain on the fuel supply. But they were fighters and quick thinkers. On the other hand, Steve wouldn’t have stopped here in the first place and they might have arrived up north in safety if they hadn’t been wasting their time ransacking a department store and playing soldier with a bunch of ghouls. He slammed the drawer shut in disgust.

The elevator doors slid open with a loud whoosh and the two troopers were revealed in the car. They pushed their cart out into the second-story aisle of the big store. Their attention was drawn to the roll gate and the creatures that clawed at it ineffectually. They rolled the overflowing cart up very close to the gate. When the zombies saw their human prey again on the balcony, their moaning and clutching began anew.

The troopers left the cart and disappeared back among the aisles. They ran onto the interior escalator, bounding down faster than the moving steps. Then, they ran across the first floor until they could see the lower level roll gate. Since there hadn’t been much going on at the gate for a while, the creatures had moved away, and a few could be seen wandering the concourse.

“Let’s go, brother . . . the old okey-doke!” Peter said with animation.

They moved up to the roll gate.

“Hey, ugly,” Roger called out to a zombie who lumbered past.

The creature turned slowly. Its expressionless face registered the sound of a movement, and then it lumbered for the gate with a moaning roar. The gaping blood-dripping mouth and clutching hands dove for the gate, which popped forward from its thrust. The action caused Roger to jump, even though there was no immediate danger of the gate giving in.

“Let’s raise some hell . . . hey . . . hey . . .” Peter shouted.

“Over here,” Roger called out. “Let’s go over here.”

The creatures’ antennae were up again, and the signals they received were coming from the department store entrance. As one, they lumbered along toward the gate. When they reached it, several pushed at the metal grids. The troopers backed away, but stayed in sight of the creatures.

Roger seemed jumpy.

“Just give it time,” Peter said in a soothing tone. “Give it time.”

Upstairs, the dozen or so zombies at the upper gate were attracted by the commotion on the first floor. They too began to move away from the gate and lumber along the balcony toward the stairways and escalators.

Stephen opened another drawer in the maintenance office. Rummaging around through old tea bags, unsharpened pencils, ones with broken points, bits of string and rubber bands, old forms and pieces of clean rags, he found a loaded handgun, which he stuffed into his belt. Then he moved to the large cabinets containing the walkie-talkies and the keys.

In the corridor outside, stray zombies, who were not attracted to the commotion generated by Peter and Roger, wandered in and out of the executive offices as they drew nearer to the maintenance room.

Steve picked up the maintenance manual and started to leave the office. He was planning to go upstairs and go over all the exits and entranceways with Fran and try to plot out some kind of plan. He didn’t want to wait around all day until Roger and Peter stopped masquerading as commandos and took some decisive action.

As he peered around the corner, he saw the first zombie approaching from the hall. The creature saw him as well and reacted by reaching out its arms. Steve estimated it was about twenty feet away. That was all he had to know—he ducked back into the office and slammed the door. His heart began pounding again and a convulsive trembling overtook him. Unbeknownst to him, a second creature was moving up behind the first, and a third entered the corridor from the accounting office.

Steve noticed that the metal door locked only with a key. He fumbled for a moment with his rifle, then he dove for the key cabinet. Panicking, he realized that there were hundreds of keys on the rings. He looked at the wall map. Suddenly, the room spun before him. In his anxiety, he couldn’t focus on either the maps or the hundreds of keys. How would he lock the door? he wondered in alarm.

In the hallway, the first creature slammed against the door. It ran its hands blindly along the door, missing the doorknob entirely. Then, in frustration, it pounded on the door with its open hands.

Behind the door, the pounding only increased Steve’s panic. He stared at the map, trying to calm the dizziness so that he could focus on the maze of numbers.

Meanwhile, the second creature had reached the door and it, too, was clawing at it. The third approached slowly.

Rattling among the keys, Steve’s fingers were shaking so vigorously that he couldn’t hold the key ring still in order to decipher the numbers.

Outside, one of the creatures, through its random clutching, was able to take hold of the knob and pushed in and out, not yet turning it.

Steve’s eyes bulged with terror as he saw the moving knob. He threw himself against the door, still trying to read the numbers on the keys. The knob turned slowly, and there was pressure from the other side, even against Steve’s weight. He managed to slam the door shut despite the creature’s insistent pushing. Frustrated in his attempt to read the small numbers on the key ring, Steve threw it down and grabbed his gun.

During Steve’s battle with the zombies in the administrative wing, others were falling over one another as they tried to move down the up escalator. They scrambled to their feet and moved toward the department store entrance.

In the concourse, many of the creatures were moving toward the gate, and already there were a dozen or so clinging and shoving at the metal grid.

“OK,” Peter reported. “They’re coming . . .” Through the crowd he could see several other creatures lurching down the stationary steps. He readied his walkie-talkie, pulling the antenna out full.

“Go on up,” he told Roger. “Stay outa sight, but lemme know when it’s clear enough.”

Roger, clutching his walkie-talkie, disappeared among the aisles. As if he were running across a minefield in Nam, he crouched, going deeper into the store. Peter tried to hold the attention of the creatures at the gate.

“Right here, babies,” he taunted. “This is where it’s at . . . you dumb-ass suckers. You dumb . . . you are
dumb
!”

Panting, Roger reached the back elevator, and as the doors closed, he breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the button for the balcony level. The doors glided open, and he moved through the second-floor aisles with the stealth of a panther.

“I think we can move the wagon,” he said into his walkie-talkie to Peter.

“Clear?” came the crackling reply.

“Not altogether, but they’re spread out pretty good . . . enough to move the wagon.”