Dawn of the Dead (5 page)

“It's one of them . . . My God. It's one of them,” another S.W.A.T. officer cried when the male zombie appeared in the hall. The other troopers tried to calm the panicking crowd.

“Shoot for the head,” still another S.W.A.T. man directed.

A young, dark-haired woman rushed toward them, pushing toward the crowd as the zombie advanced.

“No! No!” she cried as she threw her arms around the creature, immune to the trooper's attempts to stop her. “Miguel . . . Dios mio . . . Miguelito . . .”

The zombie stared at her with vacant eyes. She tightened her grip.

“Miguel . . . mi vida . . . Miguelito . . .”

“Grab her, get her out of there,” cried the S.W.A.T. officer who had first noticed the male zombie. He leveled his gun at the creature, but the clutching woman was directly in his line of fire.

By now, the zombie was grabbing at her, trying to bite her neck and her arm. The woman's face contorted with the horrible realization that this was no longer her husband, but a terrifying monster locked within his body. She gave out a blood-curdling shriek as he bit at her again, and she tried to pull away. But the zombie only tightened his grip. A trooper tried to attack from behind the creature and wrestle him away as another trooper attempted to pry the woman out of the demon's grasp. The zombie managed to pull another piece of flesh off the woman's arm, and she screamed hysterically, her eyes rolling to the top of her head in terror.

“Stand clear . . . for Christ's sake, stand clear!” the officer bellowed as he tried to get off the shot.

Roger watched in horror as the young officer snapped out of his frenzy and tried to extricate himself from the remains of the splattered zombie. Suddenly, the female zombie lunged at the darker trooper, and the two tumbled to the floor. Roger attacked her with a violent burst of energy and wrestled her away from the trooper. Then, with all his might, he threw her against the wall. Again, she bounced back and advanced toward him. This time Roger raised his gun, and just as she was about to reach him, he fired at her forehead. The bullet finally halted her.

Out in the hallway, a trooper brought his gun butt against the male ghoul's head. The creature loosened his grip on the out-of-control, insanely screaming woman. The trooper who had been holding her pulled her free across the floor. The S.W.A.T. officer who had been aiming his pistol at the male zombie was finally able to fire. The first bullet tore through the zombie's shoulder. The second ripped through his neck, and the third passed neatly through his skull. With an anguished moan, the zombie fell to the floor.

For a second, there was silence as each human present breathed a sigh of relief. Then, a few citizens mumbled a brief prayer of thanks. Soon, a rustle of movement was heard as troopers and confused elderly people alike drifted through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state.

Roger and the older trooper signalled each other with glazed eyes and drifted into the hallway. Roger stepped aside as the dark trooper walked into the streaming crowd of almost hypnotized people. Leaning against the door-jamb, a sudden, loud gunshot made Roger duck and spin around. In the apartment, he was met with a distressing sight: the young trooper, still covered with the ghastly remains of the ghoul, had shot himself through the head. He lay entangled with the female zombie—a coupling possible only in death.

Roger found himself reeling headlong, against the flow of human traffic, toward the dark sanctuary of the fire stairs. He burst through the metal door from the hallway and fell retching against the stair railing. Since he hadn't eaten in over twelve hours, he had the dry heaves. In the silent stairway, his heavy breathing was amplified. He tried to calm himself with deep gasps of air, which he exhaled slowly. Removing the gas mask, he coughed slightly in the lingering mist.

A rumbling sounded through the quiet, dark landing.

“You're not alone, brother.”

On impulse, Roger tightened and reached for his gun. In the shadows, however, he wasn't able to pinpoint the location of the speaker, but he sensed that it was in close proximity. Looking up, Roger was stunned to see the trooper who had shot Wooley, recognizable in spite of the gas mask, sitting on the stair above him, aiming his rifle at Roger's head.

“You was in Wooley's unit,” the voice threatened.

“I didn't see nothin',” Roger stammered, slinging his rifle to show that he was no longer the aggressor.

The trooper relaxed and lowered his gun. As he removed his gas mask, Roger noticed that he was black.

Roger didn't know why he was so surprised at this fact; but the stranger had such a sense of mystery around him that he had eluded classification.

“You runnin'?” Roger asked, trying to sound friendly.

The big burly man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head indecisively.

“I don't mean 'cause of Wooley,” Roger went on to explain. For all of Roger's courage, this man really made him feel uneasy. “I just mean 'cause of . . .” he stammered, feeling as if he were a kid brought before the principal.

“Yeah, I know,” the deep voice cut him off.

In his nervousness, Roger ran off at the mouth, “There's a lot of people runnin'. I could run.”

Roger stared long and hard at the grim-faced man, who didn't seem to react to any of Roger's heartfelt sentiments.

“I could run right tonight,” Roger repeated almost to himself.

The trooper stared straight into Roger's eyes, his level gaze never once flinching. That's the gaze of a coldblooded killer, thought Roger. But it's also the gaze of a man who's seen everything, done everything, and just doesn't have the patience or the time to be afraid.

Contritely, Roger went on: “Friend of mine got a helicopter. He does traffic for WGON. Got a helicopter and he's runnin' out with it. Asked me to come.”

Roger's heart was pounding with this admission of weakness, but the trooper only smiled.

Roger took the smile as an encouragement of his position. “You think it's right to run?” he asked, but just as soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt foolish for asking. Jesus, he thought, it's like asking this dude for permission to piss.

The smile disappeared, as if he had told himself a private joke but now had to return to the stone-faced gaze. The broad shoulders shrugged in answer. Then, standing to his full six-foot, five-inch height, the man walked down the stairs. He turned past Roger on the landing and continued down into the lingering gas haze. As if he were a faithful hound, Roger followed.

Roger was drawn to the big man's magnetism, to the strength that seemed to radiate from his hulking frame. As they padded down the stairs, trying not to disturb the peaceful silence with the clomp of their heavy boots, they heard a slight noise a few landings down. The two troopers froze in their steps. From the dark stairwell the noise grew louder. The two men shouldered their weapons, assuming the ready-for-fire position.

As the sounds drew closer, they became more distinct. The little scraping thumps were like the weary footfalls of someone, or something, trying to negotiate the stair. Roger hoped that it was not one of the walking dead. He didn't have the strength to do battle with another of those creatures. But not for a moment did he think he would hesitate to do what duty called for. And he knew that the trooper would not give a second thought to shooting whatever came up those stairs right between the eyes.

A low, wheezing sound of labored breathing now accompanied the shuffling steps.

Roger stared into the darkness, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the absence of light, he noticed a figure appearing out of the shadows. It fell against the wall below, and both troopers took it for a sign that the creature was readying for the attack. They raised their weapons, fingers poised on the trigger. The figure pulled away from the wall. As it came through the mist a shape was beginning to form: a ghostly shape, robed in black.

“Señores,” a meek voice cried out. “Please to let me pass?” it inquired weakly, breaking into a low wheezing cough. The figure slumped to the step, collapsing from the agony of the long climb. A frail, gnarled hand hung on to the railing for support.

Roger recognized him as the old priest from the local parish. His flock was made up mostly of Puerto Ricans who had lived in the housing project. Roger stooped next to the weary old man, who was struggling to catch his breath. His pale face and watery hazel eyes made Roger think that he was closer to death's door than he had anticipated.

The old priest clutched at his chest, crushing the crucifix around his neck to the pasty white skin.

“Let's get him to the medics,” Roger whispered to the trooper.

“No . . . no . . . no, please just . . . let me pass,” the old man uttered with what breath he could muster. “My sister . . . I go up to seven floor . . . to find my sister . . .”

“They're takin' everyone down,” Roger tried to explain. “They probably brought her down. Come on,” he urged the frail bag of bones.

“My sister,” the priest protested. “She is dead . . . they tell me. The dead they do not bring down.”

Roger and the trooper shot a glance at each other.

The priest struggled to his feet, grabbing the railing.

“Just let me pass. Martinez is dead. The people of one-oh-seven will do what you wish now. These are simple people. But strong. They have little, but they do not give it up easily. And,” he said with renewed strength in his shaking voice, “they give up their dead to no one!”

The last outburst was more than his fragile constitution could take, and the old priest crumpled into a coughing fit. The two big troopers looked on: one passively, the other helplessly.

Roger took a tentative step toward the old man, but he held up his hand and continued.

“Many have died on these streets in the last weeks. In the basement of this building, you find them . . .”

The two men looked at each other in shock. Their greatest fear was being realized.

“I have given them the last rites,” the priest said as he staggered to his feet. “Now, you do what you will . . .”

As the old man started up the stairs, Roger moved to help him, but the trooper held up a huge hand.

“You are stronger than us,” the priest called back to them as he weaved his way up the stairs and through the mist. “But soon, I think, they be stronger than you.” The sound of the old man's coughing trailed off as he disappeared up the stairwell in the darkening haze.

“The dead walk, señores,” he called from the mist. “We must stop killing . . . or we lose the war . . .”

Roger looked at his companion and without further word they both shouldered their rifles and began the long climb down to the basement of the large building. The old priest's footsteps were now barely audible.

When the two men arrived in the basement, S.W.A.T. team members were already engaged in prying off the boards that had been haphazardly nailed over the entrance to the storage area. The tenants had been ingenious in their haste—old chair seats, a basketball hoop backing and some pieces of plywood served to keep the door inaccessible from the outside and impenetrable from the inside.

The remainder of the riot troops stood at the ready, high-powered rifles raised high, flamethrowers poised. But the eyes of the troops were vacant; they had experienced more in the past twenty-four hours than in all their years on the force.

There was silence except for the creaking of the nails as they were pulled free. There was a certain expectancy running through the minds of the men as they watched the third to the last, the second to last, and finally as they watched the last board removed. A great tearing sound snapped them all into action. The boards flew off as if a tremendous gust of wind had ravaged through the storage area. Practically ripping the door off its hinges, a flood-water of zombies charged into the hall.

The mostly black and Puerto Rican people were now wide-eyed and terrifying zombies. All ages, sizes and shapes, they moved in one mesmerized, stupefied mass toward the stunned troopers. The men couldn't react quickly enough, and the steady stream of zombies prevented them from having any room to shoot in the tight quarters.

Valiantly, they tried to fight back and wrestle to the ground the oncoming creatures. In the front lines, the zombies bit and clawed at anything in their way. Clamping jaws closed on arms and hands. Some of the troops were trampled in the crush.

The mesmerized commander tore his eyes away from the marauding ghouls and called to his men, “Back off . . . back off . . . spread out . . .”

The rear lines managed to retreat into the wider vestibule, and as the struggling bodies were able to spread out in the open space, many troopers were able to raise their weapons and fire off the desperately needed shots.

The ones not lucky enough to get off some well-placed shots were crushed by the oncoming ghouls, who lunged at them, clutching and clawing at anything in their path.

Roger and the trooper arrived just as the onslaught began, and they were fighting side by side in the middle of the seething battle. Several creatures tried to attack at once, and as Roger slammed them with the butt of his rifle, the trooper picked the stunned creatures off one by one with his rifle shots.

In the dark hallway, little skirmishes took place. The once highly organized troopers were scattered and confused by the mindless onslaught of these creatures. The commander, who had seen action in Korea and Vietnam, was totally at a loss at how to command his troops and had retreated to a corner in hysterics, a ghoul clawing at his once precisely creased trousers.

As the majority of the ghouls moved into the wider area of the hallways, away from the entrance to the storage room, the braver souls among the troopers moved into the room.

There, in the dank and gray storage room, among baby carriages, bicycles chained to pipes, large trunks, cartons of every size and shape, old beds and other furniture, lay remains of dripping, mutilated corpses. Even though many of them had been eaten away, they were still moving, their heads uninjured.