Authors: George A. Romero
Finally, Peter was able to get his truck in the proper gear, and it started to roll a little faster. Desperately, he headed for Roger’s cab. In the chopper, Steve realized that he could be of no assistance and hovered closer to get a better look at the action. He could see that Roger now had a good grip on his gun but was unable to clear the weapon from around the gear sticks. To Steve’s horror, he saw that the zombie who was now in the lead was actually scrambling into the cab with Roger, and was all but on top of the struggling trapped trooper.
Just as a second creature was about to claw his way in, Peter, now moving with a good amount of speed, swung his truck up and crushed it against the side of the cab. Blood splattered all over the truck and trickled to the ground.
Meanwhile, Roger was frantically trying to keep the first zombie’s mouth away. Its gaping hole was filled with rotted and blackened teeth. The two bodies entwined in a wrestler’s hold. Even though the zombie was the weaker of the two, Roger was hampered by the position he was in. He had to channel all his force in an upward direction, thus losing most of its effectiveness.
Peter, who had pulled his truck too far past Roger’s, now slammed his rig into reverse and backed up. This time he managed to get his window in a direct line with the open door on Roger’s cab. He raised his rifle and aimed, but he could not get a clear shot. The zombie had managed to pin Roger against the steering wheel and the blond trooper’s head was directly in Peter’s line of sight. The zombie’s head was positioned behind Roger’s.
“Get its head up . . . get its head up,” Peter shouted, trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter.
Hearing the sound of a human voice, Roger realized that Peter was outside. He struggled with the creature, in the process dropping his rifle on the floor of the cab. It clanged against his tools. Finally, he managed to get a stranglehold on the creature’s neck. He pushed up with all his might, but he couldn’t budge the ghoul. The zombie’s hands clutched at his face, its fingers pushing on Roger’s eyes, and the pain was unbearable.
In a split second, Peter saw the opportunity to fire at the zombie while it held Roger at arm’s length. The gun gave out a deafening roar. The zombie’s head flew apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splattered the inside of the cab and the driver’s window. The gummy stuff flew into Roger’s face, blinding him momentarily. He wiped away the wet matter, cringing when he realized what it was. The zombie fell limp, its dead weight crushing Roger against the controls of the cab. Desperate, blood running all over him, Roger frantically tried to free himself. With a great heave of his body, he pushed the leaden creature out of the cab. His eyes stared in terror and revulsion. Instantly, he brought his sleeve up to wipe the stains from his face, feeling the bits of flesh and blood caked to his skin and even on his lips. His body shook and quivered in disgust.
A sudden crash brought Roger to his senses, and he spun around. One of the zombies had actually recalled the instinct to smash through the driver’s side window with a tire chain. Roger was stunned for a minute that the creature could have managed such a feat. Still shaking, he dove to the floor for his weapon.
“Get down, stay down,” Peter called, trying to level off a shot. “I got it!” he screamed, but once again he was unable to get off a shot because Roger was in the way.
Roger, his adrenaline pumping overtime, sat up with his gun and leveled off at the creature himself. The shell crashed through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creature’s head.
Roger’s body shuddered as the bullet hit. “You bastards . . . you bastards . . .” he started mumbling incoherently, his voice quivering and a glazed look coming into his eyes.
Suddenly, he gave a war whoop and looked at Peter, semi-deliriously shouting, “We got ’em, buddy . . . we got ’em, didn’t we?”
“Cool it, man,” Peter hissed at him over the noise of the big engine. “Get your head.”
Peter had seen this reaction many times during combat. A soldier would do something that he found utterly repugnant but necessary, and if he couldn’t accept what he’d done, his mind just snapped. He had seen it happen in Nam and on the streets of Philly. And, sometimes, the experience was so totally devastating that the trooper or cop or soldier never recovered.
“We got this by the ass . . . got this by the ass!” Roger leaped around in the cab, his face a fiery red, sweat pouring down his neck and collecting in a pool by his collarbone. He dove down again, and started to work on jumping the truck.
“Hey, Rog,” Peter said more gently. “Get your head, man. Come on . . . we got a lot to do. Roger?”
There was a rustle of movement and then nothing from the floor of the cab. Peter looked about himself cautiously and then started to open his door and step out, when suddenly Roger popped up again. The engine of the truck roared and Roger just smiled calmly at Peter, sending a steady gaze across the space between the two cabs.
“Let’s go, baby,” he said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Number two—”
“You all right?”
“Perfect, baby . . . perfect!” he said, gunning the engine happily and pulling the big vehicle out of the area. Peter followed, a look of confusion and concern on his face.
As the two semis rumbled out of the warehouse lot and started down the grade toward the road, the helicopter followed suit. Stephen had craned his neck to watch the action, and his eyes had been wide with fascination as he observed the struggle below. He believed that Roger and Peter had more guts than anyone he’d ever known. He didn’t think he could have lasted one minute in that cab with those creatures without puking his brains out!
The trucks moved along at a fast pace. Suddenly, a few zombies loomed up before them as they ascended a grade. The creatures were walking slowly up the road. Roger’s eyes widened with anger, and he steered his rig right for the creatures. The front of the cab smashed into two of them. One was crushed under the wheels, and the other flew back from the impact.
Fran, too, had been watching with horror, although from her vantage point she could barely make out a thing. She had wished those jerks had thought to rip off some binoculars, but that was too easy. She should have made them a shopping list. At least they would have accepted that as part of her function.
But now, anxiety was choking her. She could see the two trucks pull up over the rise. The helicopter buzzed along with them. Then the trucks roared around the entrance ramps into the parking lot, and again the chopper zoomed right over the roof.
Fran trotted across the roof to see the action in the lot.
The trucks rumbled toward the second set of entrance doors. Roger steered the huge trailer truck directly broadside with the doors. In the process, the vehicle knocked over several creatures and scraped against the building as the big trailer blocked off the entrance. This time there were more creatures still alive in the immediate area. They clutched at the cab and leaped at the doors.
Watching from above, Fran decided to take action. She seemed to become inspired from the real bravery that Roger and Peter had shown that morning. As the creatures converged on the truck, she aimed her rifle down at them. Before she fired, Peter’s rig slid in very close to Roger’s, the cabs abreast.
Peter’s truck knocked over several of the clutching creatures. One of the zombies, which was caught directly under the front wheels, was still moving and clawing at the air. Several creatures jumped at the driver’s side window of Peter’s cab.
Roger grabbed his gun and moved to level his cab on Peter’s side, but the rigs were too close and he couldn’t open the door. Rolling down the window, he shouted, “The windows . . . open your windows . . . your window,” to Peter.
Peter noticed that the door wouldn’t open, too, and he fumbled with the gear shift in order to pull away, but noticed Roger gesturing.
Then he dove across the cab and rolled down the passenger’s side window. Roger leaned out of his open passenger window and tried to get his weapon into a firing position. One or two zombies squeezed through the narrow space between the trucks. They were just about to reach Roger when he managed to fire. His bullet killed the lead ghoul. Other zombies moved around the front of Roger’s cab and they reached him in a moment.
The steady buzz from the helicopter sounded overhead. Steve was getting more and more frustrated as he watched his companions. He wanted to land the helicopter and help, but he had given Fran his gun and was sure that if he disobeyed Peter’s orders, he’d have hell to pay later on.
Fran was perched on the edge of the roof, watching in desperation. She tried to aim her rifle at the creatures, but her hair kept blowing in her eyes from the pass of the chopper. She brushed it away with irritation.
“Roger, in front,” she shouted over the engine noises. “Roger, in front, Roger,” she screamed, very excited and agitated.
Roger fired again and again down the narrow space between the vans. Another zombie fell. The dead bodies littered the parking area like so many pieces of paper. Roger was not in direct danger any more, but he seemed to be getting sadistic pleasure out of his target practice.
“For Chrissakes, come on!” Peter yelled out angrily.
But Roger was like a crazy man. He leaned out of his window in a very vulnerable position, whooping like a child as he tried to level off another shot.
Suddenly, a zombie grabbed him from behind, and he almost fell out of the window. He struggled to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leaned over and tried to get a shot at the creature, but he couldn’t get a clean sight. Roger grabbed frantically at the window frame on Peter’s door and tried to pull himself up. A second creature grabbed him from behind as well.
“Monsters, monsters,” Fran uttered emotionally. She fired her gun. The bullet slammed into the pavement, kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly missed one of the creatures. She fired again, and this time her shot tore into the shoulder of the zombie, but it didn’t stop him.
The chopper zoomed in very close. Dust and debris flew up in the trooper’s face in its wake. Peter was still unable to get off a shot, and the added particles frustrated him. He shot a look of disgust up at Steve.
Roger, using both hands, swung his gun butt in an uppercut. It slammed against one of the creatures that was grabbing him, and it drove the ghouls back with a staggering motion. Then, in a desperate heaving of strength, Roger climbed through the window into Peter’s cab.
Peter pulled the big rig away even while Roger’s legs were still hanging out the window, bouncing around from the movement. The zombies grabbed at Roger’s ankles, and one managed to hold on as the truck picked up speed.
Like a madwoman, Fran fired again and again. One shot ripped into the zombie that held onto Roger’s legs. It let go and fell, rolling across the pavement. She fired again and this bullet hit the pavement. The creature managed to struggle to its knees, raising its head and looking about wildly for its unseen opponent. Once more, Fran brought the rifle up, sighted it and fired. This time the shot hit the creature’s neck. Once again, she fired. Now it was the zombie’s shoulder. She was really cooking now. Confidently, she aimed for the head, and the bullet hit its mark. The creature sprawled on the cement. Fran leaped for joy and aimed at another creature and began to shoot.
The helicopter passed overhead. Steve had watched, fascinated, as Fran picked off one zombie after another. The woman was really remarkable—once she set her mind to something.
“Jesus,” Roger suddenly exclaimed.
“What?” Peter asked, just as his truck was about to roll out of the lot.
“My goddam bag,” he suddenly realized. “I left my goddam bag in the other truck!”
Peter brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.
“All right, now, you son of a bitch,” he fumed in anger. “You better screw your fuckin’ head on, baby!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roger assured him. “I’m OK. Let’s go.”
Suddenly, Peter grabbed the other man by his lapels and slammed his back against the door of the cab.
“I mean it! Now you’re not just playin’ with your life, you’re playin’ with
mine
!”
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Roger was startled somewhat out of his emotional exhilaration. He stared at Peter, a confused, hurt look on his face. He thought they were buddies in combat, through thick and thin.
“All right,” Peter softened. “Now are you straight?”
“Yeah,” he sulked.
Peter released him and returned to the wheel. He gunned the engine, and the monstrous rig roared into a big arcing turn in the parking lot.
Through her gun sights, Fran could see the truck returning. The helicopter had already flown over the roof, and Steve was wondering why the truck hadn’t appeared on the road. Fran turned and tried to signal Stephen with the tip of her rifle extended.
Finally, he saw her and flew closer. The woman waved a high sign, and the chopper buzzed back over the lot.
With her hair whipping around her face, Fran took up her position again, her rifle at the ready. She thought for a moment and then began to reload the weapon, pulling the shells from the breast pocket of her shirt.
Peter’s truck zoomed back into position, again colliding with some of the zombies in the area.
As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, Roger leaped out and climbed in through the window of the other cab. He snatched up his knapsack and several tools that were strewn over the seat and floor. The wires where he had jumped the engine were all entangled in colors of blue and red and yellow. Bits of glass and blood had splattered the seat covers.
As soon as the activity started again, more zombies were attracted to the vicinity. They converged on the cab area. Two more came up between the trucks, and several came around the front of the cab.
Meanwhile, Fran struggled to load the gun quickly. She had taught herself to shoot it in a matter of minutes, just applying some simple logic.
Again, the helicopter buzzed overhead.