Dawn of the Dead (20 page)

The steady buzz from the helicopter sounded overhead. Steve was getting more and more frustrated as he watched his companions. He wanted to land the helicopter and help, but he had given Fran his gun and was sure that if he disobeyed Peter's orders, he'd have hell to pay later on.

Fran was perched on the edge of the roof, watching in desperation. She tried to aim her rifle at the creatures, but her hair kept blowing in her eyes from the pass of the chopper. She brushed it away with irritation.

“Roger, in front,” she shouted over the engine noises. “Roger, in front, Roger,” she screamed, very excited and agitated.

Roger fired again and again down the narrow space between the vans. Another zombie fell. The dead bodies littered the parking area like so many pieces of paper. Roger was not in direct danger any more, but he seemed to be getting sadistic pleasure out of his target practice.

“For Chrissakes, come on!” Peter yelled out angrily.

But Roger was like a crazy man. He leaned out of his window in a very vulnerable position, whooping like a child as he tried to level off another shot.

Suddenly, a zombie grabbed him from behind, and he almost fell out of the window. He struggled to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leaned over and tried to get a shot at the creature, but he couldn't get a clean sight. Roger grabbed frantically at the window frame on Peter's door and tried to pull himself up. A second creature grabbed him from behind as well.

“Monsters, monsters,” Fran uttered emotionally. She fired her gun. The bullet slammed into the pavement, kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly missed one of the creatures. She fired again, and this time her shot tore into the shoulder of the zombie, but it didn't stop him.

The chopper zoomed in very close. Dust and debris flew up in the trooper's face in its wake. Peter was still unable to get off a shot, and the added particles frustrated him. He shot a look of disgust up at Steve.

Roger, using both hands, swung his gun butt in an uppercut. It slammed against one of the creatures that was grabbing him, and it drove the ghouls back with a staggering motion. Then, in a desperate heaving of strength, Roger climbed through the window into Peter's cab.

Peter pulled the big rig away even while Roger's legs were still hanging out the window, bouncing around from the movement. The zombies grabbed at Roger's ankles, and one managed to hold on as the truck picked up speed.

Like a madwoman, Fran fired again and again. One shot ripped into the zombie that held onto Roger's legs. It let go and fell, rolling across the pavement. She fired again and this bullet hit the pavement. The creature managed to struggle to its knees, raising its head and looking about wildly for its unseen opponent. Once more, Fran brought the rifle up, sighted it and fired. This time the shot hit the creature's neck. Once again, she fired. Now it was the zombie's shoulder. She was really cooking now. Confidently, she aimed for the head, and the bullet hit its mark. The creature sprawled on the cement. Fran leaped for joy and aimed at another creature and began to shoot.

The helicopter passed overhead. Steve had watched, fascinated, as Fran picked off one zombie after another. The woman was really remarkable—once she set her mind to something.

“Jesus,” Roger suddenly exclaimed.

“What?” Peter asked, just as his truck was about to roll out of the lot.

“My goddam bag,” he suddenly realized. “I left my goddam bag in the other truck!”

Peter brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.

“All right, now, you son of a bitch,” he fumed in anger. “You better screw your fuckin' head on, baby!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger assured him. “I'm OK. Let's go.”

Suddenly, Peter grabbed the other man by his lapels and slammed his back against the door of the cab.

“I mean it! Now you're not just playin' with your life, you're playin' with
mine
!”

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Roger was startled somewhat out of his emotional exhilaration. He stared at Peter, a confused, hurt look on his face. He thought they were buddies in combat, through thick and thin.

“All right,” Peter softened. “Now are you straight?”

“Yeah,” he sulked.

Peter released him and returned to the wheel. He gunned the engine, and the monstrous rig roared into a big arcing turn in the parking lot.

Through her gun sights, Fran could see the truck returning. The helicopter had already flown over the roof, and Steve was wondering why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turned and tried to signal Stephen with the tip of her rifle extended.

Finally, he saw her and flew closer. The woman waved a high sign, and the chopper buzzed back over the lot.

With her hair whipping around her face, Fran took up her position again, her rifle at the ready. She thought for a moment and then began to reload the weapon, pulling the shells from the breast pocket of her shirt.

Peter's truck zoomed back into position, again colliding with some of the zombies in the area.

As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, Roger leaped out and climbed in through the window of the other cab. He snatched up his knapsack and several tools that were strewn over the seat and floor. The wires where he had jumped the engine were all entangled in colors of blue and red and yellow. Bits of glass and blood had splattered the seat covers.

As soon as the activity started again, more zombies were attracted to the vicinity. They converged on the cab area. Two more came up between the trucks, and several came around the front of the cab.

Meanwhile, Fran struggled to load the gun quickly. She had taught herself to shoot it in a matter of minutes, just applying some simple logic.

Again, the helicopter buzzed overhead.

As Roger climbed through the window to enter Peter's cab, his pack accidentally fell to the ground. With a reflex action, he dropped between the two cabs, landing on his feet. Panicking, he realized that he was facing the two creatures, who were approaching quickly. He reached up and with one hand on each of the open window frames, swung his legs up hard. His kick sent the creatures sprawling. Then, he bent to collect his pack. Once again, he was grabbed from behind.

And once again, Peter tried to level off his gun but was unable to get a shot. At this point, he almost felt like shooting Roger. The guy was going off half-cocked. He wasn't all there. His actions and his decisions were not the reactions of a well-trained soldier, and if there was one thing that Peter couldn't abide, it was sloppy maneuvers.

Fran tried to get a shot, but she didn't have the confidence in her accuracy with Roger in the way.

Surprisingly, Roger kept his cool this time, and his first thought was for the pack of tools. He reached out and tossed the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball.

Peter caught the pack as several of the tools clattered out and onto the floor of the cab.

The creature that was holding on to Roger gained an advantage from Roger's imbalance when he threw the pack, and now it bit at the man's arm. Roger tore away as soon as he felt the bite, but blood appeared at the wound. Then Roger squared off a solid punch right to the zombie's jaw. The creature flew back and, in a domino effect, almost knocked over the others behind it.

Roger jumped, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. Meanwhile, the zombies that Roger had pushed over had struggled to their feet and were regrouping. They advanced and grabbed at the squirming trooper. He tried to get a hold on the side of the door by pushing with the soles of his feet, but the surface of the door was too slippery.

Peter dropped his rifle and moved to help Roger by grabbing his hand, but Roger fell from the high window back to the pavement. Peter drew his handgun, sitting up in his seat to see where Roger had fallen.

Once again Roger leaped, his hands catching the window frame. The zombies clutched at him viciously. He swung up his legs and kicked the creatures off balance. This time he managed to get his feet locked against the door, and Peter grabbed the trooper's arm with his free hand, but another zombie was pulling at his shirt and still another made a grab for his legs.

Peter took careful, deliberate aim with his pistol and fired point blank at one of the clawing ghouls. The impact caused it to fly back, and it freed Roger so that he was able to pull himself higher. His face was straining from the agony of exertion. Just as his torso was through the window, another creature grabbed him.

Peter could no longer get a shot as Roger filled the window, so the big trooper dropped his pistol and pulled Roger's arms, struggling to haul him through the opening.

For the second time that day, Roger dangled from the window, his legs kicking. Peter started the truck, and as it began to roll away, one of the clutching zombies was able to get a solid hold on Roger's leg. The creature opened its cavernous mouth and bit into the calf. Blood gushed out through the material, and the creature bit again, relishing the flavor and coming away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip from Roger's trouser leg.

A shriek of incredible agony came from Roger, and he whipped his legs around violently. The truck accelerated with a lurch and sped away, the final zombie thrown to the ground from the momentum.

The creature rolled a little way on the pavement before stopping. Then it sat on the ground, hunched over like a gorilla, the bloody mass of flesh and material still dangling from its mouth. It tried to separate the cloth from the more appetizing morsels.

A bullet whizzed by, disturbing the thing's tasty treat, but it continued chomping on its morsels. Another bullet tore through its shoulder, but it was still only concerned with its prize.

The bullets were coming from Fran's rifle, and as she fired, she swore through her teeth. The gun roared, and clouds of dust flew up around her. Finally, she hit the seated creature cleanly through the head with her third bullet. She could see it fall, unnoticed by the others that walked by it.

Up in the sky, the helicopter escorted the big truck back to the warehouse for the third time.

The truck rumbled along, jostling the two passengers as Roger struggled to tie a tourniquet around his bleeding leg. He used his belt and pulled it tightly.

“That's it,” Peter stated as he heard Roger suck air in through his teeth in agony.

“Bullshit,” Roger said, teeth clenched in pain.

“We gotta deal with that leg!”

“I'm dealin' with it . . . I'm dealin' with it fine! I won't be able to walk on this at all if we wait.”

“Can you walk on it
now
?” Peter shot back, anger rising in him at Roger's stubbornness.

“You're damn right I can . . . damn right I can!” he shot back just as arrogantly.

He struggled to wrap the bloody part of his leg with the torn piece of trouser.

“I stop movin' this leg . . .” Roger said sharply, with great deep breaths between his words. He could hardly keep from screaming out, the pain was so intense and the gash so deep. “May not ever get it goin' again . . . there's a lot to get done before . . . before you can afford to lose . . . me . . .”

Peter turned and stared at his friend for a second, not believing that Roger could think him so callous. But then he guessed he never really told Roger about his feelings one way or the other. Dismissing it as an emotional outburst, he drove on to the warehouse, escorted by Steve's chopper.

An eerie stillness had come over the parking lot. A huge trailer truck now stood in front of each of the four entranceways to the mall. The trucks were remarkably close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals could be opened slightly, but not enough for the zombies inside to pass through.

After a while, the stillness was shattered by the collecting mob of zombies who were trying to get into the building. They swarmed around the trucks, frustrated and confused. They clawed at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some tried to climb up onto the cabs, while others tried to claw at the loading doors on the trailers.

Some of the creatures had even managed to crawl under the rigs and were pawing at the underside of the trucks. Then they would squirm their way toward the doors but couldn't stand because there was no room. Creatures inside pushed the doors out so that the zombies under the trucks couldn't push them in. They were all working at cross-purposes, and so none of them would be successful.

One creature, who had crawled under a trailer, managed to push open a mall door. It crawled into the building through the milling legs of the other ghouls who were trying to exit. They all buzzed around like a swarm of insects.

Still, the revolving door offered the best access for the creatures. Although it was complicated and baffling to their empty brains, two creatures did manage to crawl under a truck that blocked one of the doors, and one of the ghouls was able to negotiate the rotating action and enter the concourse.

“It all depends on how many of them are still inside,” Peter was telling Steve as they huddled over maps of the building. They were safely back up in the crawlspace, the cartons still piled up against the fire stair entrance. “That's a long haul between those entrances.”

“Well,” Steve replied. “If we can get some more flares . . . or maybe some of those propane jobs.”

“The guns are first. Guns and ammunition,” Peter stated bluntly.

Nearby, Roger moaned with pain. Fran was applying a dressing to his leg. The wound was wrapped with several layers of cloth that Fran had cut in strips from one of the blankets. She had used the disinfectants from the open first aid kit.

“You sure you're gonna make it, buddy?” Peter asked, crouching near his friend. He gestured to Fran and took over the wrapping of the wound, tying more strips around it tightly and around the upper thigh.