Dawn of the Dead (28 page)

In the ducts, Peter heard the bloodcurdling screams. He stopped short, listening intently. All was quiet. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then he snapped to and backed away, heading for the maintenance corridor.

In the elevator car, Steve thrashed and kicked ferociously. The creatures had a hard time, but they finally managed to pull him out of the car. The elevator doors closed and opened, their safety bumpers slamming against the creatures that blocked it.

A zombie took a bite out of Steve's arm. Another took a large chunk out of his neck. He scrambled, trying to free his handgun from its holster. Punching and kicking, even though he was bleeding profusely, he managed to pull his weapon. He fired the big pistol once . . . twice . . .

Peter was just dropping out of the duct in the washroom when he heard the pistol shots. The thought struck him that he may have made a terrible mistake in thinking that Steve was dead. Unless it was a raider's gun, which he truly doubted, he had left his comrade to die!

He started to climb back into the grid, but he stopped himself. What good would he do now, those were the desperate shots of a dying man. Confused, angry with himself, utterly exhausted, he punched at the wall violently, shattering a bone in his hand.

Once more the big pistol sounded and its shell ripped through the head of one of the zombies. The zombie flew back out of the car, but the doors still slammed against one last creature. Others poured out from the store as Steve fired one last time. The zombie that had been wedged between the doors flew back, and the doors finally closed shut.

Outside, Steve could hear the remaining zombies pound against the door. They scratched and pawed, none of them with the intelligence to push the button, but narrowly missing it with their random banging.

Once the doors closed, Steve fell to the floor. The wound in his neck ran red, his eyes widened with terror, and he stared at the pistol in his hand. He was finding it increasingly harder to breathe.

Peter appeared alone at the bottom of the fire stair. First the yapping puppy, then Fran, ran to him.

Fran could tell by the way Peter hung his head.

“No . . .
no
!” she shrieked, feeling faint.

She threw herself down the remaining steps. Peter caught her before she managed to charge out into the hall.

He held her tightly in his arms.

“I heard his gun . . . maybe he's all right. We'll wait. We'll just wait a while . . .”

A slight blue haze appeared in the eastern sky. The mall stood silently in the impending dawn, mute to the disaster that had taken place within its walls that night.

Armies of zombies, reinforcements for the wounded and killed, moved in and out of the building unimpeded. They walked through the halls and lumbered through the aisles.

Several creatures pounded and scratched at the closed panels of the elevator doors in Porter's. As they pushed against one another, one of them inadvertently pressed on the elevator call button with its shoulder. The door glided open and in the open car, Stephen stood. The blood on his body was caked and dry, his eyes were vacant, drool filtered down from his mouth. He stepped forward. The other creatures drifted away, some bowing a welcome to a new member of the tribe. He was among them now, no longer prey—one of the living dead.

The doors slid closed and banged against Steve, but the bumpers reacted electronically and opened again. He lumbered into the store and started down the familiar aisle. Other creatures drifted by him in total acceptance.

Upstairs, a red-faced, tearful Fran packed supplies into a sack. She moved ponderously, as if each action was an effort.

Peter stood at the top of the stairs, his eyes focused on the landing.

With more and more determination, Fran planted the filled bags next to the base of the escape ladder that led to the roof. Her movements were deliberate. She had filled her head with the hope that Steve was alive, and that this packing was for them—and the baby. But now she realized it was not to be so.

A lumbering zombie walked almost purposefully up to the maintenance corridor entrance as if it knew the way. It did—it was Steve. Other zombies passed him, wandering aimlessly. He looked past them, seeing the fake partition wall. Something deep inside his dead brain triggered a reaction, and he lumbered forward.

“It's almost light,” Fran said softly to Peter. He had not left the stairway since he had returned from the battle. “Let's go.”

He looked at her silently, his face drawn and tired. She had never seen him looking so vulnerable.

“He doesn't answer the radio. It's been hours.” She had prepared herself for the worst and some inner resource of strength that she didn't even know she had welled up inside, filling the void.

“For God's sake,” she began to cry. “You better come on because if I get to thinkin' about this, I'll just go down there and let them . . . let them . . .”

The puppy began to growl and charged down the steps through Peter's feet.

In the hallway, Steve had reached the fake wall and was pounding on it. The other creatures moved up behind him and joined in.

Upstairs, Peter heard the pounding, but stood stoically, gazing down into the darkness. Adam continued to bark, as if in recognition, below.

“What is it?” Fran asked, fear rising in her throat.

“They're comin' up!” Peter cried out. “Maybe Stephen's with them!”

With a great crunching noise, the fake partition gave way. The army of creatures, led by Steve, staggered over the splintered lumber and the crushed plywood and moved up the stairs.

Peter slammed the door just as the puppy scurried by and leaped into Fran's arms.

“Go on,” he spoke to her quietly. “You get out of here.”

“Peter . . .”

“I said you get out of here.” His face was set with grim determination, and Fran didn't dare question him any further.

Fran was in a panic. She didn't want to leave without Peter, but she could see his stubbornness setting in.

“Oh, Jesus, Peter . . . please . . .”

“I don't want to go,” he said sadly. “I really don't . . . you know that? I really don't.”

Suddenly, the door flew open and the advancing creatures lumbered in.

Fran started to scream. The puppy cowered in her arms. She practically crushed it.

“Stephen, Stephen . . .” she started for her lover, but Peter raised the supergun, a slight, enigmatic smile curling on his lips, and he shot the zombie clean through the head.

As Stephen fell, Fran startled to reality.

“Move, woman,” Peter commanded, rushing her to the ladder. She grabbed the sacks, and with the puppy under her arm, she climbed the ladder to the roof. Peter picked up the derringer that he had hidden by the ladder and covered her as she made her escape.

The creatures advanced on Peter, and he managed to lead them away from the skylight, toward his room. They crashed through the carefully set up living room, upsetting the furniture, overturning lamps, crushing the knick-knacks.

On the roof, Fran ran toward the helicopter and threw the sacks in, securing the puppy in his cage, which she had installed in the back of the passenger section. She jumped in the pilot's seat and sat staring at the controls. Then she moved into action and started the copter up.

Peter backed into his room, the creatures gaining. He slammed the door in their faces. Just as he was about to raise the small handgun to his head, his mind flashed on Fran, sitting alone in the copter. He stared at the gun in his hand and then violently kicked the door open. Suicide would never be his cup of tea. The sudden movement scattered the zombies and allowed Peter a clear path to the ladder. He made his escape as if he were a quarterback running for the winning touchdown.

Fran had waited patiently at the controls, idling the engine. But so many minutes had elapsed that she was sure now that Peter was not coming and lifted the copter off the roof. The puppy yelped in the back, hating his confinement. A sudden movement below caused Fran to look down. She could hardly believe her eyes. Peter had rushed up onto the roof and had made a leap toward the landing apparatus of the copter. He had managed to grab a hold and was hanging on, his legs kicking and thrashing as he made his way to the passenger side door. Fran could hardly contain her joy as he squirmed his way up and into the passenger seat as she lifted off the roof.

The little vehicle jolted as he swung into place beside her.

“Do we have enough gas?” he asked, scanning the parking lot below as the zombies looked up in the sky at the disturbance.

“Very little,” Fran said, as the little bird puttered away into the welcoming arms of dawn.