Dawn of the Dead (26 page)

“Well, they know we're here, maybe we should,” Fran started, but Peter cut her off abruptly.

“No chance.”

The little puppy scrambled up to Fran's feet, his tiny tail wagging furiously. Fran picked it up in her arms and cradled it to quiet its excited whimpering.

“Well, if there's only three of them—”

“Who says?” Peter quizzed her grimly. He seemed to revert to his old self—serious and cold as it was. But at least he was taking charge again. For the past few weeks he had become melancholy and morose. It was ironic that a situation that put them in direct danger would bring him back to life.

There was a long silence. Then the radio sputtered with static. Voices were muffled, as if someone had put a hand over the microphone to hide their conversation. Steve started to speak.

“Shhhh! Quiet!” Peter reacted, cutting him off.

He strained to hear the disguised conversation.

“I think we should,” Fran insisted.

Peter turned on her with fire in his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, shut up and listen!”

His outburst was greeted by more static and then slight laughter could be heard. Steve looked into Peter's face, but the big trooper just stared at the speaker impassively.

“Hey, you in the mall,” came the voice over the speaker again. It sounded malicious and arrogant. “You just fucked up real bad! We don't like people who don't share.”

Instantly, as if he recognized the voice, Peter reacted. Slipping out of his jogging suit, he put on his army fatigues. He removed his Adidas sneakers and put on his combat boots. Then he grabbed his weapons and strapped on his holsters. He looked down at his hands and made a ritual of removing the thousand-dollar electronic watch, the gold bracelets at his wrist and the jeweled rings on his fingers.

“Come on, man,” he said to Stephen, coldly. “Get it up.”

Steve jumped at the command and ran to strap on his weaponry.

Fran stood by frantically, holding her stomach as if it hurt, her eyes wildly scanning the room as the men darted back and forth energetically.

The little puppy clamored for her attention, but she was too absorbed by the action around her to notice.

The band of raiders traveled together like a rat pack. In fact, most of them were survivors of the big cities, street rats who had managed to survive in the sewers and tunnels and subways that crisscrossed the metropolises. They were a straggly bunch, with loyalties to no one, not even each other. They roamed the countryside like scavengers, looting, burning, stealing and raping. The women who didn't protest much were taken along. All children were left behind to fend for themselves. There were others besides Thor, Hatchet and Old Nick. There was one who looked like a Mexican bandito, replete with a large sombrero and leather holsters filled with bullets crisscrossing his chest.

Several men and a few women were huddled inside a van. Thor stored a microphone on a portable radio unit and chuckled to himself. The van was cluttered with junk: empty food tins, an arsenal of weapons, including every kind of gun imaginable, hatchets, knives and explosives.

The majority of the men and one or two of the women had roamed with motorcycle gangs. They were all outfitted with sleek, powerful motorcycles that had custom gas tanks and lots of chrome. They mounted the big bikes now, turning the controls with their hands and stomping down on the accelerators with their heavy, steel-tipped boots. Even Thor had changed out of his beloved sandals for this escapade.

The bikes roared into action, creating a thunderous din that could be heard by Peter and Stephen, who ran across the roof, fully armed. Clouds of dust and fumes rose into the air as the few remaining men and women stood by the vans and waved the marauders on.

The two men reached the edge of the roof and Peter peered off at the horizon. Nothing could be seen, but the ground seemed to vibrate from the approaching bikes. Peter brought the binoculars up to his eyes. Through the lenses he could make out the vague shapes in the darkness. As the sound swelled, he could see the raiders charging toward them. He counted them as they came up the rise. First two powerful bikes . . . then three more . . . three more . . . at least fifteen bikes in all. They were accompanied by two vans, which skidded and almost collided in their attempt to keep up with the thundering bikes.

“Just three, huh?” Peter commented over the deafening sound.

Steve could hardly believe his eyes. “Holy shit!”

“They'll get in. They'll move the trucks,” Peter said matter-of-factly. He seemed to display no emotion, but his heart was pounding. He knew he could have handled the raiders with Roger's help, but now all he had was a pregnant woman and a weak-kneed boy.

“There's hundreds of those creatures down there,” Steve said, but he couldn't even reassure himself of that fact.

“Come on, man,” said Peter, losing patience. “This is a professional army. Looks like they've been survivin' on the road all through this thing . . . Damn! How many of those stores are open?”

Steve looked frightened. “I dunno . . . several of 'em . . .”

“Well,” said Peter with uncharacteristic animation, “let's not make it easy for 'em . . . Come on!”

The two men charged across the roof and back down the ladder that led from the skylight. The rumble of the convoy now filled the living space.

Fran was desperate with fear and worry as she watched Steve and Peter rush by her. They didn't even stop to look at her, but she accosted Steve as Peter continued to crash on ahead through the door and onto the fire stairs.

She grabbed onto Steve's arm.

“What's happening?”

“There's fifteen or twenty of 'em,” Steve said, panting from exertion and also terror of the raiders. For some reason he could deal with the mindless zombies better than with these thinking, yet lawless, barbarians. “We're gonna shut off the gates.”

“Stephen!” She felt panic overtaking her, and in her more delicate condition, she wasn't as confident of defending herself as she had been the last time.

“We're just gonna shut the gates,” he assured her. “They'll never find us up here.”

He disappeared through the door to the stairway. Fran dropped the puppy, which she had been cradling the whole time, and it skittered across the floor and went running after Steve, its ears flopping and tail wagging in its innocence.

Fran started to chase after the dog, but instead she moved to the storage area and snatched up her own weapons. Determination on her face, she started to load her rifle.

Outside, the motorcycle convoy made a pass at one of the trucks. In the darkness, the zombies clutched at the swiftly moving bikes. Whooping their war cries, the raiders fired their guns, dropping several of the creatures along their path.

A mob of creatures gathered at the commotion. They formed an impenetrable wall. Thor raised one of his swords as a signal and the raiders regrouped, dropping back across the parking lot. Some of the riders lost their balance as the zombies clawed at them, but they generally managed to stay on their bikes. A couple weren't so lucky.

Thor pulled up to the other side of the lot and told his lieutenants, Nick and Hatchet, “They'll spread out comin' after us . . . then we go in with the van . . .”

The other bikers gathered around their leaders. A psychedelic painted van pulled up, and two bikers scrambled aboard the side doors.

Thor's woman, Chickie, whom he had picked up in a raid outside of Pittsburgh, jumped into the driver's seat of the van, revving up the engine.

The zombies, attracted to the sound, started to move out after the convoy. The migration thinned out the mob at the mall entrance.

In the mall, Peter dropped out of the grille into one of the offices. He immediately charged out of the room and into the maintenance corridor, where he broke at a dead run for the mall proper.

“Downstairs first,” Peter shouted back to Steve, who followed close at his heels.

“OK,” Steve panted, trying hard to keep pace with the big trooper.

“Got your talk box?” Peter asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Keep it handy,” he cautioned.

Outside, the psychedelic van with huge wheels and a special souped-up engine roared toward the mall entrance. The bikers waited on the other side of the lot, their engines idling. They continued to whoop and holler like the savage band of renegades they were.

The van, with Chickie at the wheel, crashed through the ranks of advancing zombies. Chickie's blonde hair was wild and matted. She was dressed in black leather from head to toe and toted a switchblade six inches long. On many occasions, she used it well. She pulled the little vehicle up alongside the truck cab. Three men piled out and scrambled into the big trailer. The zombies in the immediate area clutched at the men, and the raiders had to fight their way clear. Chickie revved the engine again, and with the zombies clawing menacingly at her windows, she pulled out and went squealing back toward the main group of bikers.

The zombies continued to advance upon the regrouping ranks of motorcycles in the parking lot, but they were still pretty far away. The raiders didn't worry. They opened fire with guns of all sorts and sizes and the barrage was deafening, as well as effective.

Several creatures fell in the hail of bullets. Some of the zombies that were only wounded struggled to get up only to be cut down again.

The van pulled up behind the bikes. The men still whooped and shouted, picking off the zombies as if they were ducks in a row at a carnival.

On the first floor of the mall, Peter and Steve dashed about, slamming down the roll gates on the still-open stores. In the background, the din of the shooting and screaming was clearly audible. They left the entranceway to Porter's open until last so that they could get upstairs within the store if necessary.

At the trailer cab, one of the bikers stood guard, picking off zombies, which clawed at the passenger side window, at point-blank range. Another biker, this one clad in army-green fatigues, looked to jump start the engine, but to his surprise the engine started with a burst.

“Shit,” the raider said, sitting up at the wheel, revving the big engine, “it's still taped up. It's all ready for us.”

The ghouls still jumped and scratched at the windows as the truck pulled away.

Inside the mall, Steve looked up as the familiar sound of the cab's engine filled the air. His heart skipped a beat, and he went to find Peter, slamming down the gate of the pharmacy before he took off. Peter was already running into Porter's. He crashed up the escalator and into the second-floor aisles. Stephen broke for the hardware store, which was also open.

Meanwhile, the huge trailer rolled away from the mall entrance. A shout of victory went up from the raiders all over the parking lot. The zombies at the doors didn't even try to enter the now unprotected doors since their attention was focused on the raiders. From all the other mall entrances, creatures began to converge on the parking lot.

On the other side of the lot, the bikers revved their engines loudly, as if giving one unified bellow. They prepared to make a run on the building. The three raiders from the truck hopped out of the cab and ran toward the doors. As they moved, they shot any zombies that got in their way. Some of the creatures fell, others clawed as the men ran swiftly by. The raider in the army fatigues was pounced upon by a huge redneck zombie who had been wounded in the shoulder by a bullet. The creature brought the running man down and started gouging at him. Still, the biker's comrades did not lose one step or look to see if he were alive. They kept running toward their destination.

One of the raiders reached the mall door and slammed into it. To his surprise it was locked, so he just hauled off with his machine gun and blasted his way through. With a barrage of shells, the mechanism ripped open. The men pushed in through the doors. The little alarm units were knocked flying and sent out an incredibly high-pitched signal. The raiders' heavy boots stomped on them, crushing them into wire and metal, as they charged by.

Peter was just slamming down the gates on the balcony when he heard the high-pitched alarms sound. He dove across the balcony. One of the raiders heard the rumbling gates and looked up to see Peter dive along the railing upstairs. He opened fire with his machine gun. The bullets just missed Peter and he started to crawl around the balcony, just out of sight from below.

In the meantime, Steve had just slammed down the hardware store gate, and he made a mad dash for the department store. But the raiders spotted him too, and opened fire. Like a commando, Steve ran in a zigzag pattern and dove into the big store, where he ducked into the shadows, leaving the big gate wide open to the marauders.

Springing up from behind the balcony railing, Peter leveled off his supergun on the raiders. One of his shots hit its target, and a raider fell back with a giant gaping wound in his chest.

The last raider, Thor, sensing Peter's ability with his weapon, ducked out of sight, behind a column.

Steve now saw his chance to charge the roll gate. He jumped up and ran over, slamming it shut. Now he was securely inside the store.

The convoy roared toward the mall now, trampling zombies in their wake.

Just as the group reached the building, the remaining inside raider rushed to the doors. He held them open as the big fleet of rumbling cycles came screaming into the building. The tropical birds in the cages fluttered frantically. Some dropped dead from sheer fright.

Steve stood in awe, his fingers clutching the grid of the roll gate, as if he were a child watching a circus. The machines tore down the concourse, the sounds erupting as if from a giant earthquake. The zombies, many of them wounded and bleeding, lumbered after them. The raider at the door was grabbed by a zombie, then another. Peter, shooting from above, aimed first at the zombies, downing one of them, and then at the raider. His death by bullet was far more humane.