Authors: George A. Romero
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.
Around them lay a stack of tools, some still in wrappings; electric razors, still boxed; some clothing articles, including the leather jacket that Roger had admired; the radio that could also play small cassettes of audio tape. In addition there were soaps, toiletries, pens, pencils and notebooks, flashlights, cigarettes and several decks of playing cards with a canister of chips. The quantity of necessary items was in inverse proportion to the quality of leisure items that could have been found in a family room or den.
The three figures were bathed in the blue glow from the television screen, which Steve tried to tune in. Its power cable was spliced into the leads of a bare light fixture overhead. Fran slept behind some cartons; her sobbing had finally subsided and left her weak and tired.
“What the hell time is it, anyway?” Roger asked, annoyed that there was nothing on the tube.
“Only about nine,” Steve surmised.
Roger nodded his head toward the portable set. “And nothing?”
The only thing coming from the set was the high-pitched whine that the civil defense sent out, and only the C.D. logo appeared on the screen.
“As long as we’re getting the pattern, that means they’re sending,” Steve said matter-of-factly.
Roger snapped on the large, battery-powered radio. He rolled the dial around, but all he got was static. Finally, he heard a signal, and he tuned it in. A badly modulated voice droned through the interference. It sounded as if it were a war correspondent sending a signal from very far away.
Steve clicked off the TV set so that they would better be able to hear the announcer:
“. . . Reports that communications with Detroit have been knocked out along with Atlanta, Boston and certain sections of Philadelphia and New York City . . .”
“Philly . . .” Roger said almost to himself.
“I know WGON is out by now,” Steve said with animation. “It was a madhouse back there . . . people are crazy . . . if they’d just organize. It’s total confusion. I don’t believe it’s gotten this bad. I don’t believe they can’t handle it.” He looked around the room proudly. “Look at us. Look at what we were able to do today.”
A few feet away, still in a slumped position by the pyramid of cartons, Peter’s eyes blinked open. He had been listening to what he wanted to hear, and now this statement by the kid really made him take notice. His eyes moved slightly to the side so that he could watch Stephen. The young man was gesturing wildly with his hands, going on and on about their exploits as a team. The other two didn’t realize Peter was awake. Roger nodded his head, but it didn’t seem as if he were really listening to Steve’s ramblings.
“We knocked the shit out of ’em, and they never touched us,” Steve exclaimed. “Not really,” he said in a quieter tone.
The rumbling voice erupted from the other side of the room.
“They touched us good, Flyboy. We’re
lucky
to get out with our asses. You don’t forget that!”
The two men looked at Peter. Steve’s face colored at being caught mouthing off about something he really hadn’t contributed to. The droning of the radio, announcing more disaster reports, was a counterpoint to Peter’s speech.
“You get overconfident . . . underestimate those suckers. And you get eaten! How’d you like that?”
He spoke in a low, unemotional tone, barely turning his head so that Steve could see his expression. Peter hadn’t moved a muscle except for his eyes and his mouth. Steve was transfixed.
“They got a big advantage over us, brother,” Peter went on. “They don’t think. They just blind-ass do what they got to do. No emotions. And that bunch out there? That’s just a handful, and every day there’ll be more. A couple hundred thousand people die each day from natural causes. That’ll prob’ly triple or better with folks knockin’ each other off the way it’s goin’.
“Now say each one of them comes back and kills two, and each one of them two more . . . you know about the emperor’s reward?”
As if they were children at story hours, the two grown men shook their heads.
Peter went on, “Emperor tells this dude, ‘I’ll give you anything I got, name it’ . . . dude puts out a chessboard . . . says gimme one grain of rice on the first square, two on the second, four on the third, eight . . . double for each square on the board. Dude got all the rice in the kingdom, baby. Wiped the emperor out!”
“Yeah,” Steve interrupted. “But these things can be stopped so easily . . . if people would just listen . . . do what has to be done—”
Peter swiveled his upper torso and faced Steve.
“How about it, Flyboy? Let’s say the lady gets killed. You be able to chop off her head?”
Steve was stopped midsentence by the last comment. It was meant to sting and it did. He stared at the big man, his mouth open. He was just about to answer yes when he stopped himself again. All he could do in response was stare.
Fran, who was trying to get some rest on the other side, opened her eyes wide as the conversation drifted by her. When Steve didn’t answer, she sat up, thinking that he had lowered his voice. Sitting in the shadows behind a wall of cartons, she listened; but there was silence except for the drone of the radio. Upset, she reached for her pack of cigarettes, part of the loot, and lit one.