Dawn of the Dead (16 page)

Panting and gasping for air, Fran made it to the top and into the storage area and slammed the door. For a moment, she just backed away in terror, her mind a blank. Then, she snapped back to consciousness and started to drag the good cartons over to use as a barricade. But the cartons were extremely bulky and heavy, and she struggled with one that was so large that she couldn't get a good grip. The smooth cardboard slipped out of her hands.

She could hear the zombie's footsteps on the middle landing, and anxiety gripped her.

With one great heave, she managed to shove the carton over against the door and moved to haul another. She felt weak and dizzy, and the thought passed through her mind that she might give herself a miscarriage, but it only stunned her for a moment that she would think that and then she went on.

She could now hear the zombie at the top landing and sensed that it was trying to open the door.

Before she was able to bring another carton over, the door moved slightly. She threw herself against it, all 110 pounds, but she knew that it wouldn't do any good. She had to lean over the carton against the door and couldn't get a proper footing on the slippery floor. As if in slow motion, the door moved a fraction of an inch at a time. Then, the creature's wounded and bloody hand appeared at the edge of the door. Its mutilated fingers clutched the edge, smearing blood all over it.

Fran backed away in terror and ran toward the escape pyramid. Then she turned suddenly and faced the door.

The creature was straining against the weight of the carton. Now, both its hands clutched the edge of the door. The carton moved another inch and then another. The creature's head could now be seen as it strained to get through the widening space. Fran's eyes were wide with fright, mesmerized by the approaching ghoul. She looked around for something to use as a weapon, but the room was almost bare except for the cartons and the water drums. In a split-second decision, she thought to run for the skylight; the creature would never be agile enough to follow her up there. Just as she was about to mount the pyramid, she caught sight of Roger's knapsack in the shadows. She ran for it as the creature finally broke into the room, shoving aside the heavy carton.

Fran's hands began to tremble as she rummaged through the cloth bag. To her dismay, nothing seemed appropriate. She dumped the contents out on the floor: ammunition, mace cans, batteries, flares . . . Her heart leaped when she saw the cylindrical containers and she nervously grabbed one up, her shaking hands trying to deal with the paper wrapping.

The zombie moaned as it drew nearer. It was approaching the pyramid of cartons.

Fran managed to free the wrapping, and she snapped the cylinder in two at the mark.

As she turned, she realized that the zombie was now between her and the pyramid, cutting off her immediate escape route. Its lumbering steps were bringing it nearer and nearer. Fran backed away a few steps as she tried to strike the head of the flare on the small striker at the tip of the cylinder cap. It wouldn't fire . . . she tried again . . . and again. Now, the zombie had reached the knapsack. It staggered over the spilled contents, knocking the other flares rolling about the floor.

Finally, Fran was able to get her flare to light, and it caught with a great blast of air. The bright whooshing flame startled the woman as well as the creature. Its eyes went wide, and it brought its arms up so as to cover its eyes. The intense white flame cast an eerie light over the creature and threw the zombie's enormous shadow against the cartons and the wall. The creature backed away from the flame a few steps, almost tripping over the articles on the floor.

All fear was gone from Fran now. She had an objective, and as long as she didn't think about what was happening, about what she was battling, then she was fine. She managed to advance close enough to snatch up two extra cylinders. Then she skirted around the zombie in a wide arc. The creature swatted at the air with its arms, keeping its distance, but still threatening.

Fran considered making a run for the door to the fire stair, but then she thought that she might run into others, and she didn't want to leave this hiding place open to more invaders. Finally, she decided to climb the pyramid, and try to escape onto the roof. She circled around to a point where she could climb up from behind the moaning zombie. She rushed for the cartons and started to climb, but she lost her footing, trying to hold the flares in both hands, and she crashed into the topmost carton. In a second's time, the momentum caused the carton to slide off, and Fran was unable to prevent it. The heavy case tumbled to the floor, almost crashing into the zombie. The creature started to clutch and grab at the cardboard pyramid.

Since the stack of cartons was now one too short, Fran was only able to reach the mouth of the skylight with her hands, but didn't have the strength in her arms to pull herself up. Accidentally, she dropped two of the flares, including the lit one. With a sinking feeling, Fran realized that the flare had not only tumbled to the floor but landed behind the pyramid, where it no longer offended the ghoul's eyes. Now the thing tried to mount the cartons.

Fran stuck the last flare in her mouth and reached up with both hands for the edge of the skylight. She lifted with all her might, her feet coming off the carton tops, but she still couldn't pull herself up. The muscles in her arms strained, but they didn't have the necessary power. Now, she tried to lower her feet back on the cartons, but the zombie's movement caused the pyramid to shake and wobble. The creature, unbelievably, was making progress, and it could almost touch Fran's foot.

During Fran's ordeal, the three men were making their way through the crawlspace in the ceiling. It was an area of large ductwork that seemed to run the length of the mall. Roger looked down through a grid. He could see the interior of a sporting goods store.

“Sweet Jesus!” he exclaimed when he saw that along one wall was displayed an arsenal with the latest in weaponry for the sportsman.

“I seen it,” Peter concurred. “Come on!”

They moved as quietly as they could. Several side tunnels branched off in both directions from the one that they were in.

Steve passed another ceiling grid, and he could see a fully equipped radio and electronics shop.

“I hope you know where you're going,” Roger said to Peter, who was leading them in the dark tunnel.

“This is it. Come on.” He dropped out of the ceiling grid, landing in a plush office. It had the same color scheme as the executive offices, but everything was of a much more expensive quality. Roger's legs appeared through the open grid, and then he too swung down, holding on as long as he could with his hands so as to soften his landing.

Suddenly, the two troopers felt the presence of another person in the room. Roger turned and was shocked to see a slumped figure in a large chair at the desk. Startled, Roger grabbed for his gun. Peter just stood there, openmouthed and staring at the dead man in the chair.

They were obviously in Porter's office. Plaques and diplomas, photographs of Porter with presidents and high government officials, dotted the walls. Some days earlier, when the reports of widespread looting and rampaging armies of zombies had come into Porter's office through his personal teletype machine, he had taken his own life. It just wasn't worth fighting to save what he had spent his whole life building up from a horde of mindless creatures. That explained why the door had been locked when Roger and Peter had explored the executive corridor earlier.

“Come on . . .” Peter said, stirring out of his stupor first.

Steve's legs wiggled above.

“Just drop, I got you,” Peter told the neophyte.

“I can't . . . I . . .” came the muffled reply.

“The desk,” Peter said to Roger. “Gimme a hand.”

The two troopers took hold of the big desk and slid it away from the president's corpse. The action made the body's chair spin slightly, and its wide, terrified eyes seemed to watch the action.

With the desk in place, Steve's toes were able to reach the surface. He lost his balance and pulled back up. Then he kicked the picture frame off the desk and it fell to the floor, shattering the glass over the photos of the president's wife and children.

“Come on,” Peter urged again.

Steve finally managed to get his footing on the desktop, and he lowered himself into the room. He stared at the corpse in the big chair, a totally unexpected sight that startled him more than the zombies, whom he was used to by now.

Peter had already moved to the door and was unlocking it so that they could enter the corridor. He opened it a crack and peered out. The corridor was empty except for the dead zombies. At the end, which opened onto the mall, he could see the cartful of supplies.

As the other men came up behind him, Peter opened the door gently and slipped into the hall. He started to walk as quietly as he could toward the cart. The other men, according to the plan, moved backward up the corridor toward the fire stair. Roger kicked the corpses to one side, making a path for the cart.

Peter grabbed the handles of the cart and started to pull it down the corridor, walking backward so that he was always facing the mall opening, on the lookout for possible intruders.

In the corridor, Stephen snatched up the maintenance manual that had been trampled on by the zombie upstairs.

Peter backed slowly up the hall. The wheels of the cart squeaked, and Peter bit his lip with the anxious thought that the sound might attract the attention of an aimlessly wandering creature.

Roger kicked the last corpse close to the corridor wall. Suddenly, Steve noticed that the door to the fire stair was wide open!

“Jesus Christ,” he shrieked, bounding toward the door. Roger spun around, surprised by Steve's violent outburst. Peter turned around too, and saw what upset Steve. He quickened his pace, pulling the cart with him.

“Come on . . . you got it,” Roger encouraged Peter.

Steve trotted off up the steps. After Peter had pulled the cart to safety inside the stairway, Roger ran up the stairs, too.

Steve broke into the storage area, dropping the manual.

“Frannie!”

Fran turned in Steve's direction, not believing her ears. The zombie, who had been steadily gaining on Fran, continued to swat at the flare that Fran had managed to light, and sent it flying out of her hand. She was startled, and the cartons felt as if they were going to topple, too. She tried to hold herself steady with both hands. The creature grabbed at her kicking legs.

Steve raised his rifle and moved in for a closer shot.

Roger came charging through the door.

“Don't shoot . . . they'll hear ya . . .” He ran to the pyramid with Steve.

The creature was still clutching at Fran. She kicked violently just as Roger pulled the back of the zombie's clothing. The combined force caused the creature to hit the floor. Just as it was about to kneel and stand up, Steve brought his rifle around like a baseball bat, smashing the butt into the thing's head. Then, for good measure, Roger delivered a blow with his gun, straight down, like a battering ram.

Steve dropped his rifle and rushed to Fran. As if all the strength had been drained from her, she fell off the cartons into his arms, sobbing and choking.

“Frannie,” Steve asked, his voice cracking. “Are you all right? You OK, Frannie? Hey . . .” There was true concern in his voice.

But the woman was incoherent. She babbled between tears and sobs, clutching her stomach.

Peter appeared in the doorway carrying the TV and several other items. He dumped them on the floor. He glanced at Fran briefly, but didn't offer any assistance or sympathy for her terrible experience.

“Let's get this stuff up, come on,” he said to Roger gruffly.

Roger dragged the dead zombie toward the door. Peter walked over to help. At that moment, Fran started to retch. Frazzled, Steve tried to calm her. He ran over to the water can and brought her some water in an empty Spam can.

“Frannie . . . it's OK . . . Come on, it's OK. Are you hurt, hon? Did ya hurt yourself? Frannie . . .”

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. She seemed as if she wanted to stop, but the sobbing was too intense and she couldn't control it. All the fears and terror that she had been holding in burst like floodgates.

Meanwhile, Peter was downstairs at the door to the corridor. He peeked out and could see into the mall at the far end. The coast was clear, and he and Roger hurriedly carried the corpse into the hall and rolled it onto the floor. Then they retreated back into the fire stair. Peter held the door open slightly and watched the corridor for a moment.

“I think we're OK, brother,” he said to Roger, convinced that they hadn't been seen. He closed the door quietly.

Grabbing more supplies from the cart, they started upstairs.

“We're OK . . . we're all OK,” Steve was telling Fran, trying to comfort her. “We got a lot of stuff . . . all kinds of stuff.”

In the background, the two troopers brought their load of supplies into the big room and deposited them near the TV. Mechanically, as soon as they dropped off one load, they went down for another.

“This is a terrific place, Frannie,” Steve was saying, wiping the perspiration-drenched hair from her eyes. She was still sobbing and retching. “This place is perfect. We got it made in here . . . Frannie.”

Once more, the enormous barricade of food cartons was stacked against the door. A calm pervaded the little fortress, the silence broken only by the noise of rustling paper and chewing as the survivors ate. A faint electronic whistle threaded through the background. The refugees were sitting near the pyramid on the floor. Peter seemed to be sleeping sitting up against the structure. Roger was nibbling at the delicacies from Porter's gourmet department, known all over the East coast for its fine food. Around them, as if they were children after Christmas, lay their loot. Roger leafed through the maintenance binder as he ate, as casually as if it were the Sunday paper. In reality, they didn't know what day it was and weren't even sure of the time. No one had bothered to rewind watches or mark the passing days in a calendar. All normal functions, except for the very basic ones, had ceased.