Dawn of the Dead (9 page)

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.

5

The little helicopter chugged off toward the northwest. As it flew across the deserted landscape, it seemed as if its lonely survivors were like Noah in his Ark. About sixty miles north of Pittsburgh, their view was assaulted by the sprawling tentacles of an enormous structure. Half a dozen roads converged on a parking lot the size of six football fields, veined with yellow lines and arrows. It was a huge shopping mall—“Shoppers Paradise,” the sign said—created out of the mountainous rocky terrain of the coal mining territory. It had been designed to bring a more suburban influence into the area. Fortresslike, the outer walls were all concrete, and they stretched upward for more than two stories. Entrance to the structure was through four doorways, situated north, south, east and west. Inside was a self-sufficient environment of shops that catered to all the needs of the community: food, clothing, shelter and leisure. A sophisticated system of air ducts and heating apparatus precluded the need for outside windows and focused the shoppers’ attention on the flashy consumer products inside.

As the helicopter drew closer, the passengers noted that what few cars remained in the lot were parked haphazardly, some with their doors wide open.

The little machine eased itself down onto the roof of the building. The engine sputtered and coughed, and the blades slowed down so that their whirring noise was only a buzz.

Fran, who was now very uncomfortable, with an uneasy feeling in her stomach, and a pounding headache from lack of food and sleep, looked around in horror. In the parking lot, walking among the abandoned vehicles almost like shoppers on a typical Saturday, were hordes of the living dead. If she hadn’t known better, she would have mistaken them for normal people, but their lumbering walk was unfortunately extremely recognizable.

At the north mall entrance, the all-glass revolving door, flanked by two ground-to-ceiling picture windows and several regularly hinged doors, was surrounded by a number of zombies. A few of them had managed to negotiate the hinged doors and enter the building. Others bounced off windows and clawed at the transparent glass in confusion. One creature was trapped in the revolving door and circled endlessly.

The creatures, as was their nature, wandered around aimlessly, with no apparent purpose. Even the whirring sound of the helicopter caused them no alarm.

“Oh, my God!” Fran cried in terror as she watched the loathsome parade from the ledge of the roof.

Stephen ran over to her side. He stared at the creatures moving steadily toward the building.

“No chance,” he declared, starting back toward the copter. “Forget it. Let’s get out of here.”

Roger walked out to the couple and took a glance around the parking lot.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. They can’t get up here.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a frantic note in his voice. “And we can’t go down there!”

“Let’s check it out,” Roger said calmly but with authority.

He turned and noticed that Peter had already done so. He was the type who didn’t wait for a consensus of opinion but made an affirmative move. Roger trotted over to him.

“Most of the gates are down,” Peter said, staring through one of the giant grids of transparent Plexiglas bubbles that faced down into the building. Roger peered through another of the bubbles.