After a few minutes of whooping it up with the other men, the reality of the situation hit Stephen squarely in the jaw. His body wavered for a second and he felt sick and weak in the knees. But it was also a good feeling, a feeling that he could do anything he wanted to, as long as he put his mind to it. His family had always been a cerebral one, and he had never been taught the pure joy that comes from physical accomplishment. Now, as he stood sweating and panting with the two troopers, a strange calmness overcame him.
But the pleasant feeling was short-lived. The three men continued to shout at the creatures through the cage, and the repulsive beasts were already gathering at the gate. The zombies had lost all of the individuality they had when they were human, but Steve noticed that they were of many shapes, sizes and ages, some with the horrible wounds that had caused their deaths.
There was a middle-aged gray-haired man in a business suit; a housewife, possibly in her forties, in an apron; a well-dressed young woman, once attractive with long blond hair, in a skirt and sweater, probably an office worker. There were some children, about ten to thirteen, who looked like they’d just come home from school; a construction worker with a beard; a young black man with an Afro and wire-rimmed glasses; and a grandmother-type with a gray bun at the back of her neck. A few more men in nondescript work clothes hung around the gate, but it didn’t much matter what any of them had been in their former lives, they were all horrible and partially decomposed now, and their strength had nothing to do with their appearance. The youngest were most repulsive, as many had died of violent causes and not of old age.
Peter had warned Steve not to soften when a child or older woman approached him. They were all deadly.
Out on the concourse, a few zombies wandered aimlessly, but most of them turned toward the direction of the first-floor department store arch, where the men were doing their best to stir up a racket.
On the upstairs balcony, the creatures that had collected there were again moving toward the stationary steps and the escalators.
The three creatures that Steve had battled with in the administrative corridor moved toward the open mall. Two walked out on the balcony, but the third turned into an open office. They seemed as stiff-legged and awkward as wind-up dolls. The last one staggered back out, spun around and headed down the hall toward the fire stair.
Fran, who had been waiting nearly an hour for Steve’s return, heard the faint whooping of the men as she moved toward the stairway door, which was still open. She couldn’t imagine what the sound was for. It seemed like a celebration of some sort, and then the horrid thought crossed her mind, What if they had cracked under the pressure? Or what if Steve were dead and Peter and Roger were happy? She stopped herself from those silly thoughts. Sitting up here alone was making her crazy. She was starting to imagine the wildest things. She wished Steve would hurry back.
She stepped out into the landing and looked down into the vast murkiness of the fire stair. Suddenly the shouting stopped. The silence was worse, and she felt desperate with fear. The trembling began, and she moved back into the storage room, and then back onto the landing. She didn’t know where to turn. Where the hell were Steve, Roger and Peter? Who did they think she was, leaving her here all alone? She wasn’t a child, she could be of some use, but all they wanted to do was play soldier and leave her up in this godforsaken room with a bunch of cartons.
“Shit,” she screamed out to the empty landing, her fear turning to anger. She took a few steps down the stairway. She thought she saw something moving in the dark. Frozen with fear, she stopped on the third stair from the top, turned around and ran back up.
“God dammit!” The screaming seemed to help. At least she heard the sound of a human voice, even though it was only her own.
Once more she started down the steps. She wanted to see what was happening, but she really should have been armed. Steve had taken the only other rifle.
In the corridor below, the creature wandered into another office and then spun around and walked out again, as if it were playing some insane game with itself.
“We just gotta wait longer before we move,” Roger told Steve and Peter as they crouched in the shadows of the aisles. The zombies crashed against the first-floor gate like a huge wave. The gate held fast.
“No. There’s always a chance of some of them stayin’ up on the balcony,” Peter replied.
“Yeah, but we can handle that,” Roger said, shifting position but staying down low. “We can break through.”
“If any of them see us or hear us, they’ll just follow us on up. It’s no good.”
“We can sure as hell outrun ’em . . . load up what we can and get outa here.”
The big man thought for a second. Then he said, seriously, “I’m thinkin’ maybe we got a good thing goin’ here. Maybe we shouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave . . .”
“Oh, man . . .” Roger looked disappointed. He pounded his right fist into his other hand and wouldn’t face Peter.
“If we could get back up there without them catchin’ on, we could hole up for a while. At least long enough to catch a breath. Check out the radio. See what’s happenin’ . . .”
“Man, I don’t know . . .”
Steve sat up and then crawled over to the troopers.
“There’s some kind of passageway over the top of the stores.”
The troopers looked at the young pilot, almost surprised to hear him speak. They had expected that he’d be too shell-shocked from his experience to utter a sound.
“I don’t know if it’s just heating ducts or it’s some kind of access. I saw it on a map.”
“Upstairs,” Peter gave the command. “Let’s go.”
The three moved off down the aisles, then ducked out of sight around the corner. As if they were imprisoned against their will, the zombies clutched and grabbed at the metal gate, moaning and rattling the grid loudly.
In the maintenance hallway, the lumbering zombie tripped over the thick manual lying on the floor. Then it wandered blindly into another office, ignoring the book as well as the corpses that littered the corridor.
Fran had made it to the middle landing of the fire stair. Suddenly, she was overcome by a wave of nausea. She held her stomach, retching. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and she felt dizzy. She practically fell to the landing, and sat there, letting her head flop against the wall. She could taste the salt of her tears.
She had never been so miserable in her life. And, what a life it was too. She didn’t know what would happen in the next few minutes, let alone the next few years. And what would happen to the life within her? What future was there for the child that she carried inside?
“Watch it . . . don’t let ’em see you,” Peter told the men as the upstairs doors of the department store elevator opened and they trotted out. As they cleared the wall, they could see the entrance arch. There were no zombies at the gate, but two were seen drifting along the balcony outside.
The men moved stealthily along the aisles. Above them in the ceiling was a series of large grillwork panels. Peter shone his flashlight beam into one.
“Looks big enough to crawl through,” Roger said, as they observed the ceiling, which was about twelve feet high. The light beam penetrated the grille to reveal a fairly large space above.
“They’re locked,” Peter told him.
“Damn, that’s those other lock numbers we saw on the chart.”
“Why the hell would they be locked?” Steve asked.
“Jackpot, Flyboy,” Peter said, patting Steve on the back. “You’re all right.”
“What?” Roger spun around, confused.
“They’re locked because you can get through ’em easy from the other part of the building,” Peter explained to his two comrades.
“Over here,” Steve called to them. He had noticed that one of the ceiling grids was very close to the elevators. Peter looked at the grid and then down at the double doors.
“The elevator shaft!” It was as if a light bulb had gone on in his head.
He ran over and hit the button. The doors flew open.
“Hold ’em,” Peter instructed Roger.
Roger stood against the rubber safety bumper, holding the car doors open wide. Peter stepped up on the hand railing that ran around the car, and he reached up for the escape hatch, which was held in place by four nub-headed bolts. He removed the bolts quickly and was able to dislodge the hatch cover and pass it down to Steve. Then, he stuck his head up through the opening.
“It’s here.” His voice sounded muffled. He shone his flashlight back and forth in the darkness. He could see another grid in the wall of the shaft. “Get a screwdriver and somethin’ to stand on for in here.”
“I know where the tools are,” Roger volunteered. “Get one of those tables,” he told Steve.
As Roger ducked off down an aisle, Steve moved to the nearby furniture department, where he grabbed a lightweight lamp table. The elevator doors closed like the jaws of a shark. He had to hit the button again and wait for the doors to reopen. Peter had already hoisted himself up and was climbing out of the car and up into the shaft. Steve used the first table to hold the door open, and he went to get another. This time he came back with a large coffee table. He set it under the opening in the car and placed the smaller table on top of it. It looked like a two-tiered cake. Then he climbed up, sticking his head up into the shaft. The doors closed again, leaving him in the small compartment in relative darkness.
“It’s all right,” Peter said as he examined the wall grid with his flashlight. It was filled with cables and elevator mechanisms and covered by a greasy black film. “You found it, Flyboy.” He spoke softly, but his voice had an eerie, echoing sound in the narrow shaft.
The car door opened again and Steve ducked down to see Roger, who bore a screwdriver and pliers along with some other tools in a shopping bag.
“One-stop shopping,” he said cheerfully. “Anything you need right at your fingertips.”
Steve relayed the tools up to Peter, who immediately began to work on the screws that mounted the grid into the wall frame. He passed the flashlight to Steve, who held the beam steady on the work area. The men worked in silence, each instinctively knowing his task and performing it with speed and precision.
Fran sat in the stairwell. The nausea had subsided, but she was afraid to move. She bit into the hand that she held across her mouth to keep from crying. She could feel all the pulse points in her body—at her throat, her heart, her wrist—beating furiously.
In the silence, she heard a faint click, and she felt a wave of relief flood her as she thought it might be Stephen. She stared at the bottom landing, hoping to see Steve’s familiar shape in the shadows. Then there was a thump, as if something had fallen against the door, and Fran knew that her hopes would not be fulfilled yet. Those weren’t the quick steps of Steve or the other two outside, those were the lumbering clumsy actions of one of the living dead!
Slowly, Fran stood, a scream of fright rising in her throat, her eyes transfixed on the door below.
“Stephen!” she emitted.
The door slowly opened. The crack of light grew larger and larger. The plodding, sluggish figure of the zombie moved into the fire stair. The light from the corridor illuminated the figure and made it seem tremendous. Its gigantic shadow appeared on the wall. Choking back a scream, Fran turned and ran up the stairs. She could hear the creature’s steady, heavy footsteps following her up. Occasionally it would bump into the wall or trip, unsure in the dim light.
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.
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.
She was awfully disappointed in Steve. He let the bigger man bully him. He had always been so confident and so reliable. That was what had attracted her to him at the station. Her ex-husband had been afraid of his own shadow, but in his home he tried to be the boss. Steve had always stood up to authority figures and spoken his mind. But Peter could silence him with one look—it was frightening.
The faint strains of the radio broadcast wafted through the room. The announcer sounded unprofessional; he didn’t have the clipped, midwestern accent of most newscasters. His voice was tired and he stumbled on some words, taking long pauses between paragraphs.
“. . . gasses or certain toxins that might affect the creatures. Experiments with hallucinogens have begun at Haverford, in the hopes of producing an agent that will cloud the brain and prevent the effective motor coordination of the body. However, scientists fear that the creatures function on a subconscious, instinctive level and that such drugs will have little or no effect. In Nevada, chemicals sprayed from crop-dusting airplanes have had more of an ill effect on the human population than on the walking corpses . . .”
Peter turned his attention from the broadcast.
“She all right?” he asked Steve, referring to Fran. “She looked blown.”
“What did ya expect?” Roger asked, annoyed that Peter was being so hard on his friend. Steve wasn’t a professional fighter like Peter and himself, but Roger still thought he had done damn good under pressure.
“No, I mean she really looked sick . . . physically.”
Steve looked at him long and hard. He was a difficult man to figure. He was one way one minute and a different person the next.
“She’s pregnant,” he said softly.
There was a long, heavy silence. The radio droned on. Finally, Peter heaved a sigh and closed his eyes again as though instantly falling asleep.
“How far along?” asked Roger, a concerned look on his face.
“Three and a half . . . four months . . .”
“Jesus, Steve,” he said, rubbing his head. “Maybe we should try to get movin’ . . .”
Without opening his eyes, Peter spoke:
“We can deal with it.”
“Yeah, but maybe she needs a doctor or—”
Peter cut Roger off. “We can deal with it! It doesn’t change a thing.”
Now he opened his eyes again and looked hard at Steve.
“You wanna get rid of it?”
“Huh?” Steve was shocked at the coldhearted attitude. It wasn’t even his decision to make.
Peter ignored his shocked look. He seemed to enjoy making people squirm.
“Do you want to abort it?” he repeated tensely. “It’s not too late. I know how.”
Tears streaked Fran’s face. She strained her ears for Steve’s retort. He should smash the bastard across the face, she thought. How dare he make that suggestion. And how dare Stephen not speak up and say it’s not his decision to make. Her heart pounded as she waited for the reply. The only sound was the droning radio.
After a time, Fran heard Steve’s footsteps rounding the corner to her sleeping area. He seemed surprised to see her sitting up. She was on one of the new blankets from the store. Another was rolled up as a pillow where her head had lain. She wiped away her tears, a lit cigarette still in her hand.
“Hey,” Steve said, kneeling next to her. “You OK?”
“All your decisions made?”
He looked at her for a moment, speechless.
“Do you want to . . . abort it?” she asked pointedly.
“Do you?”
She met his question with silence. Looking away, she took another drag on the cigarette, which was burning down so low it practically seared her fingers. Stephen sat next to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
She looked into his eyes.
“So I guess we forget about Canada, right?”
“Jesus, Frannie,” he said, taking her in his arms. “This setup is sensational. We got everything we need. We seal off that stairway . . . nobody’ll ever know we’re up here. We’d never find anything like this . . .”
He seemed as though his mind was made up. The decision had been made by the troika, the triumvirate, and the opinion of one Frannie Parker was of no regard.
“I guess nobody cares about my vote, huh?” She pouted.
“Come on, Frannie. I thought you were sleeping.”
She pulled away from him, the end of the cigarette growing smaller and smaller. “What happened to growing vegetables and fishing? What happened to the idea about the wilderness . . . hundreds of miles from anything and anybody? . . . Steve, I’m afraid. You’re hypnotized by this place. All of you. It’s all so bright and neatly wrapped that you don’t see . . . you don’t see . . .”
She leaned toward him, making a final plea. “Stephen, let’s just take what we need and keep going.”
“We can’t hardly carry anything in that little bird,” he rationalized.
“What do you want?” she said, her voice rising in anger. “A new set of furniture, a freezer, a console TV and stereo? We can take what we need. What we need to survive!”
Peter’s eyes popped open, and he leaped up. “Shut that thing off!” He had the hearing of a trained dog. And it seemed as if he never slept, just closed his eyes.
Roger clicked off the radio, and they listened. Slight sounds were coming from the fire stair. The TV had been turned on again with the sound low, and the blue glow made the barricade of cartons look surreal.
Roger crawled over and clicked the TV set off again. The electronic C.D. whistle died, and there was silence.
Steve had heard Peter’s outburst, and he stepped tentatively from behind the wall of cartons. Crawling on her hands and knees, Fran peered around the corner to look.
There was another noise, sounding too familiar, just like the faint squeaking of the door at the bottom of the steps. Then footsteps on the metal stairs. Slow, deliberate, heavy footsteps . . .
The faces of all the refugees tightened. Peter and Roger pulled out their rifles, and Roger readied his.
They all tried to hold their breath, to make as little noise as possible, so that the intruder wouldn’t know they were there.
More thumping in the hall and Fran grabbed Steve’s hand. He squatted down and held her. The sounds seemed to be getting closer and closer. The door behind the cartons clicked, but didn’t move. Then there came an insistent pounding, slowly at first, then stronger. It kept up for a few minutes; yet it seemed an eternity for the occupants. And then there was silence.
Peter gave everyone a look that meant, Don’t relax, the worst is not over.
After a time, the footsteps receded down the stairs.
“Somebody better sit watch all the time,” Peter pronounced, and the others shook their heads in agreement.
“They’ll never get through there,” Roger said, hoping that he was right.
“Enough of ’em will,” Peter replied seriously. “And it ain’t just them things we got to worry about. That chopper up there could give us away if somebody come messin’ around.”
“What are they gonna do?” Roger insisted. “Land another pilot to fly it out. They’re not gonna mess with a little bird like that. They got enough on their hands. You know, back in Philly we found a boat in the middle of Independence Square. Somebody tryin’ to carry it to the river, I guess. Didn’t make it. Damn thing sat there for eight days.”
“Somebody finally got it, though. It come down to how much it’s worth.” Peter laid his rifle against the side of the carton and lit a cigarette.
Fran ducked around and lay back down on her blanket. She lit another cigarette from the first and then ground the first one out on the cement. She was becoming a chain smoker from this experience. And to think that she was planning to give it up because of the baby. What did it matter now? Who knew if she would even get out alive!
“Frannie . . .” Steve came around and sat next to her again.
She took a deep drag on the cigarette.
“Dammit, Fran,” he looked at her earnestly. His brown hair was all matted, and there were smudges of grease in his hair from the trek through the ceiling ducts. He looked almost comical. “You know how many times we’d have to land for fuel tryin’ to make it up north? Those things are out there everywhere. And the authorities would give us just as hard a time . . . maybe worse. We’re in good shape here, Frannie. We got everything we need right here!”
Steve curled up with his head on the rolled blanket. He held out his arms to her.
“Come on . . . get some sleep.”
She still didn’t respond or move toward him.
“Frannie. Come on.”
Grinding her second cigarette out on the floor, she stretched out next to Steve. Tentatively, he put his arm around her. When she didn’t push it off, he tightened his hold, and then began rubbing his hand up and down her body as he curled next to her. Staring into her eyes, that seemed to be focused elsewhere, he opened her blouse and reached inside. He closed his eyes and seemed to relax in the comfort of her softness. His hand moved under her clothing. Fran still hadn’t spoken, and her face was set in a grim, thoughtful expression. At first she didn’t respond physically at all, but then at Steve’s insistence, she relaxed her body, and she brought one of her arms up around his head.
“I’m not just being stubborn,” he told her softly as his hands explored her hardening nipples under her clothing. “I really think this is better. Hell, you’re the one’s been wantin’ to set up house.”
She continued to stare off across the barren room impassively.
In the administration corridor, all was quiet. A few stray zombies wandered among the corpses on the floor. One large and severely wounded creature came out of the fire stair, probably the one that had been pounding on the door upstairs.
A female zombie, dressed in jeans and a sweater, in her early twenties, squatted near one of the corpses in the hall. She lifted its arm and moved it to her mouth, but she dropped it quickly, repelled by its coldness. Then she leaned over and picked at another corpse, just like someone at a smorgasbord. This one was cold, too. Discouraged, the zombie stood and drifted toward the mall.
Slowly the creatures left the corridor and moved out onto the second-floor balcony. The central mall was strewn with the bodies of their not-so-lucky comrades. Here and there a few zombies squatted and finished off their dinner.
Meanwhile, the radio in the upper room droned on and lulled the inhabitants to a fitful sleep:
“. . . not actually cannibalism . . . Cannibalism in the true sense of the word, implies an intraspecific activity . . . These creatures cannot be considered human. They prey on humans . . . They do not prey on each other . . .”
On the mall balcony, zombies wandered past the stores, as if out for a Sunday stroll. Some moved down the stationary stairs onto the main concourse below. More and more zombies had been filing in from the surrounding communities, as if their normal lives continued; schools, offices and shopping malls continued to attract the walking dead.
The huddled bodies of Steve and Fran were intertwined behind the cartons. Roger was stretched out in a sleeping bag that he had found in the camping department. Only Peter slept sitting up, at his post near the fire door, his rifle slung across his lap.
The radio continued:
“They attack and . . . and feed . . . only on warm human flesh . . . Intelligence? Seemingly little or no reasoning power. What basic skills remain are more remembered behaviors from . . . from normal life.
“There are reports of the creatures holding tools, but even these actions are the most primitive . . . the use of external articles as bludgeons, et cetera. Even animals will adopt the basic use of the tools in this manner.”
At the mall entrance, some of the creatures drifted out into the night, while others entered the enormous building. Although there were not as many as there had been in the afternoon, the number was enough to be reckoned with. Several creatures continued to claw at the roll gate to Porter’s. In a strange and eerie montage, the staring, painted eyes of the mannequins inside seemed to watch the zombies on the outside. The rattle of the gate mingled with the droning, fading sound of the Muzak.