An eerie stillness had come over the parking lot. A huge trailer truck now stood in front of each of the four entranceways to the mall. The trucks were remarkably close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals could be opened slightly, but not enough for the zombies inside to pass through.
After a while, the stillness was shattered by the collecting mob of zombies who were trying to get into the building. They swarmed around the trucks, frustrated and confused. They clawed at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some tried to climb up onto the cabs, while others tried to claw at the loading doors on the trailers.
Some of the creatures had even managed to crawl under the rigs and were pawing at the underside of the trucks. Then they would squirm their way toward the doors but couldn’t stand because there was no room. Creatures inside pushed the doors out so that the zombies under the trucks couldn’t push them in. They were all working at cross-purposes, and so none of them would be successful.
One creature, who had crawled under a trailer, managed to push open a mall door. It crawled into the building through the milling legs of the other ghouls who were trying to exit. They all buzzed around like a swarm of insects.
Still, the revolving door offered the best access for the creatures. Although it was complicated and baffling to their empty brains, two creatures did manage to crawl under a truck that blocked one of the doors, and one of the ghouls was able to negotiate the rotating action and enter the concourse.
“It all depends on how many of them are still inside,” Peter was telling Steve as they huddled over maps of the building. They were safely back up in the crawlspace, the cartons still piled up against the fire stair entrance. “That’s a long haul between those entrances.”
“Well,” Steve replied. “If we can get some more flares . . . or maybe some of those propane jobs.”
“The guns are first. Guns and ammunition,” Peter stated bluntly.
Nearby, Roger moaned with pain. Fran was applying a dressing to his leg. The wound was wrapped with several layers of cloth that Fran had cut in strips from one of the blankets. She had used the disinfectants from the open first aid kit.
“You sure you’re gonna make it, buddy?” Peter asked, crouching near his friend. He gestured to Fran and took over the wrapping of the wound, tying more strips around it tightly and around the upper thigh.
“Just hurry up with that!” Roger exploded irritably. He didn’t like to show any weakness around Peter. His wound was really bothering him, and he secretly wished that he could let loose and bawl his eyes out. They didn’t have the proper pain killer. Morphine would have been the most effective. Guess he would just have to “bite the bullet” and carry on. He cringed as another wave of pain shot through him.
He watched Peter motion Steve over to a corner. The serious expression on Peter’s face showed that they were probably talking about another supply raid. And the fear on Steve’s face showed that Peter was sparing no one. He would go on as before, experienced partner or not.
Steve scurried over to Fran and tried to talk to her quietly. What do they think, I’m a baby? thought Roger, annoyed at their patronizing attitude toward him.
Suddenly, Fran exploded.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she screamed at Steve. She seemed shaken from the day’s exploits. They all were; but she seemed especially changed.
Steve tried to quiet her, but she merely turned on her heel, and if there had been a room with a door to slam, she would have slammed it. Since they were still in the big, practically empty room, she sulked to a corner.
A ceiling grid opened, and a tall figure dropped out of it. He landed on the floor of the sporting goods store. It was Peter, with a rifle slung on his shoulder and an empty pack on his back. Several of the maintenance room key rings were strapped into his belt.
Attracted to the movement, a zombie suddenly charged from across the room. The gate to the mall balcony was open in this particular store. Another creature also tuned in to the noise, joined the first, and they started through the open entrance.
A few seconds later, Stephen descended into the darkened store. His equipment was also strapped onto his body. Instantly, he noticed the moving creature. Peter was trying to unsling his rifle and was unaware of the danger. In a split second, Steve conquered his fear of heights and let himself fall to the floor. He landed in a heap, rolled into a store exhibit and sent the displayed items flying.
Peter looked up and quickly untangled his gun and managed to level off a shot at the charging creature. Meanwhile, Steve regained his footing, brushing himself off from the fall. The second creature rushed steadily up the aisle. With quick reflexes, Steve grabbed a powerful crossbow and arrow from a nearby exhibit. He cocked the simple mechanism and fired it. It gave off a strumming sound. The small shaft ripped cleanly through the creature’s skull and embedded itself in a wall beyond. The zombie staggered forward a few steps before it fell. Steve stared at it in openmouthed astonishment.
Peter hit him on the shoulder, rousing him from his dazed position. Then they ran toward the entrance arch. Peter jumped up on an adjacent countertop and managed to reach the lip of the roll gate and swing it down fast. Then Stephen caught the cage below and slammed it into place just as another ghoul fell against it moaning and clawing.
Stephen unslung his gun and was about to level it off on the creatures outside when Peter jumped down from the counter.
“Don’t try to shoot through those gates,” he commanded. “Openings are too small. Bullet’ll wind up chasin’ us around in here.”
A zombie crashed against the gate with all his might, startling the already nervous Steve.
“He can’t get through,” Peter assured him. “Come on.”
The men crashed back through the store and Peter moved right to the racks of weapons. He pulled down a gorgeous high-powered rifle that was equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting.
“Ain’t it a crime!” he ejaculated.
“What?” Steve asked, confused by the man’s sudden outburst.
“The only person who could ever miss with this gun,” Peter said, looking through the telescope, “is the sucker with bread enough to buy it.”
His line of sight was on the cross hairs of the telescope that zeroed in on the enlarged forehead of the same zombie who was thrashing against the roll gate. Peter could sense the superweapon’s lethal accuracy with one glance through the viewer.
Stephen was busily diving into the ammunition, and he moved behind the counter, where he pulled out boxes of shiny new handguns.
Peter, meanwhile, found elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulled several other rifles from the rack. The firepower that Steve and Peter were collecting for their own private arsenal was mind-boggling.
“You just wait out there,” Peter called to the creatures gathering at the gate, trying to break in. “We’re comin’ . . . and we are ready!”
By the time Peter and Steve had returned to the crawlspace hideout, Fran had informed Roger of the plans, which she thought were ludicrous. But Roger was already excited and raring to go. They all dressed with double holsters containing handguns. Each had a rifle strapped over his or her shoulder and another in hand. Ammo belts were slung around their hips, and they carried packs with other supplies. Ceremoniously, they dumped Roger into the big gardening cart that Peter had used to carry the initial supply load out of the store. The wounded trooper looked pretty comical perched in the cart.
Peter urged the group on, pushing Roger in the cart before him. When they reached the balcony, they noticed that there were only a few creatures about. The living dead turned in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandoes. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fired his weapon several times at some of the closest creatures.
The creatures from the main concourse below began to move up the stationary staircase and struggled with the escalators. The rotting, bleeding corpses of the creatures slain in the earlier battles were still cluttering the area.
Fran and Steve were the first to reach the entrance to Porter’s department store. Immediately, Steve started to work on the gate locks. Peter pulled up, the small rubber wheels of the cart leaving marks on the linoleum floor. He turned the cart a full 180 degrees so that the blond trooper was facing out toward the mall.
As Steve fumbled with the second lock, Peter faced the few zombies that were converging along the balcony. He lifted his new superweapon and stared through the scope. The gun went off with a stupendous growl, the sound of its power reverberating through the mall. The single shot ripped cleanly through the center forehead of one of the creatures.
A pleased smirk on his face, Peter took aim again and made another perfect kill. Then a third time—whammo—and another zombie bit the dust. All the while, Roger fired several times, some of his shots going wild, others making the target.
As Fran stood ready at the roll gate, Steve finished with the final lock. Then she pushed against the cage, and it started up. Now, Steve stood and the two rolled the cage into the ceiling, but Steve was particularly careful not to let the gate roll out of his hands. They had been instructed very carefully by Peter, and they both wanted to make a good impression. This is like the first day of school, Fran thought cynically. They were both afraid to do anything wrong and have Peter’s wrath brought down upon them.
Fran moved into the store followed by Peter, who pulled the cart behind him. Then, Steve, Peter and Fran pulled the gate shut long before any of the advancing creatures could reach them.
Once again, the zombies pounded on the locked gates, but the humans were already running through the aisles of the big store, and the pounding was very distant to them.
“How’s the ride?” Peter asked as he wheeled Roger into the elevator and hit the button for the first floor. The doors closed and the car started down.
“Kinda bumpy,” Roger said, trying for humor, but Peter could sense that he was in extreme pain. In a movement that was out of character for the stern trooper, Peter put his hand on Roger’s shoulder.
“Look here . . .” he started, his voice cracking a bit.
Roger was immediately embarrassed, for himself as well as Peter.
“I know, I know . . . Shut up,” he said affectionately.
They had both been through a lot together, and it was something not easily put into words. It was an unspoken truce on the battlefield, something that men in combat would carry about with them forever.
The elevator doors glided open, and Peter pushed the cart out into the first floor of Porter’s. His expression did not show any of the softness that the conversation with Roger, seconds before, had exhibited. He was ready for action.
Fran and Steve charged down the store escalator, moving faster than the steps. They ran through the hardware department, where Steve snatched up several propane torches. Fran stuffed a few extra bottles of gas into her backpack.
Then, as Fran held two torches, Steve lit them. A great hiss exploded, and one of the propane nozzles spat out a white hot flame as it was ignited by one of the new disposable lighters that the foursome had “liberated.”
Peter wheeled the cart up to the first-floor entrance gate. Several creatures outside the cage flew into a sudden frenzy at seeing the humans, as if they were animals in a zoo. They slammed against the grid but it only swayed, holding up against their weight as usual.
“Unlock the middle one last,” Peter instructed.
Steve fell on the right-hand lock with his keys. He could feel Peter’s eyes boring into the back of his head and wanted to do the job properly. His hands shook as he tried the keys in the lock. As he crouched by the gate, the zombies converged, pushing and shoving. He could smell their hot sour breath and feel their insistent pressure against the cage. Fran held one of the lit torches very close to the gate, and the creatures backed away, cringing and shielding their eyes. Finally, Steve found the correct key, and the lock gave way with a solid click.
Once more Steve crouched. This time he bent over the lock to the extreme left. As if they were trained seals, the zombies followed. Fran stood at attention with the flaming torch. No longer did she shrink away when the creatures approached. She had become almost inured to them.
“All right,” Peter said to Steve’s back. “The toughest part’ll be gettin’ by these right here . . .”
The second lock clicked open. The zombies continued to push, and the gate was more pliant with only the middle lock securing it now.
“It’s a long haul down to the entrance,” Steve replied, moving to the middle and final lock.
Peter craned his neck to see past the zombies and down the concourse. Attracted to the noise and commotion, several other zombies started toward Porter’s entrance.
“We’ll be all right,” Peter told him, looking off toward one of the main entrances, where a truck trailer blocked off the entrance from the outside.
“It’s too far!” Fran cried out, panic rising in her voice.
“There’s no backin’ out now,” Peter insisted. “We gotta lock those doors!”
“We’ll never make all four,” Fran countered, her fear in control and the power of reasoning replacing it. “It’s too risky.”
“You just stay here and be ready to open up for us,” Steve told her from his crouching position.
Suddenly her eyes lit up.
“The car!”
“What?” a startled Peter asked.
“The car!”
She pointed to the slowly spinning exhibit that displayed the new automobile. It was a sleek, sporty Mustang that looked fast and maneuverable.
Peter immediately grasped the plan forming in Fran’s mind. He looked trepidatiously at Roger, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the last few hours.
“You OK to start it?” he asked the other trooper, who cringed with pain but nodded his head affirmatively.
Despite Roger’s discomfort, he moved quickly and efficiently, reaching for his supply pack.
The zombies continued to clutch at the gate with renewed strength. At the unlocked ends, the grid gave a little but still managed to hold the ghouls out. Fran approached the gate and waved the torch menacingly. The creatures moaned and moved back. With a flick of the wrist, Steve unlocked the middle and final lock.
“It’s goin’ up,” he warned.
With a thunderous roar, the gate swung out of Steve’s fingertips. The zombies charged, but Fran’s torches made them hold back slightly. Steve grabbed one of the propane canisters with one hand and drew a pistol with the other. Fran drew a handgun from her holster too, and they both fired into the pack of zombies. A few fell by the entranceway, knocking over a small perfume display. Others tried to approach but were frightened away by the bright flames.
With remarkable agility, one male ghoul started toward Steve, but the pilot managed to blast his torch directly into the monster’s face. The black matted hair caught fire, and the creature threw itself wildly about, scattering other zombies around him.
During the altercation, Peter saw his chance to break away with the cart and charged through the opening.
Wincing in agony, Roger gripped the sides of the cart until his knuckles turned white. Peter maneuvered him through the throng of zombies, and they crashed through, scattering the creatures about like so many bowling pins. They headed straight for the car exhibit, successfully dodging the few zombies on the concourse in the cart’s path.
“Close the gate . . . close the gate . . .” Peter shouted over his shoulder as he made his way toward the spinning vehicle.
Steve grabbed the lip of the roll cage, and it started down. Fran stood by, still inside the store, with one of the torches held high as if she were the Statue of Liberty safeguarding New York harbor.
“The keys, Stephen,” she realized as the gate rolled down steadily. “The keys!”
Steve dove toward the gate and tried to impede its downward progress, but it slammed shut with a metallic crash.
“Jesus Christ!” Fran swore in desperation at Steve’s clumsiness.
Peter stopped in his tracks when he heard Fran’s outburst. He looked back but several creatures had followed him and they advanced slowly, blocking his view.
Other creatures had stayed with Steve, and they approached him as he tried to pass the keys back through the small opening in the gate. The big ring was too big.
“You mother!” Steve cried out to no one in particular.
“Keep ’em . . . just keep ’em,” Fran shouted frantically. “Look out!”
The zombies approached Steve from the back now and they were very close. He lunged at them with his torch. They backed off slightly.
“Come on, man! Get outa there!” Peter cried out as the creatures on the concourse continued to draw closer to him and Roger.
Still in agony, Roger managed to level off several shots, but he was very shaky from his extreme discomfort. With much skill and a little luck, he was able to down one of the zombies.
“Stephen,” Fran shrieked. “For God’s sake . . .” she held up her torch so that the bright flame faced the converging ghouls.
Stephen crouched and put the key in the right-hand lock, which was also approachable from the outside. The zombies continued their slow relentless crawl toward him.
Peter was also in a terrible predicament as another group of the creatures drew nearer. He started to push the cart again, and managed to dodge around two little clusters of the walking dead.
Just as the lock clicked, one of the bolder creatures grabbed Stephen from behind. A quick-thinking Fran managed to aim her torch closer, and it disarmed the zombie for a moment. Stephen was able to thrash his body back and knock the ghouls off balance. Then he deftly lifted the gate just high enough to slide the keys underneath it with just one lock undone.
The creatures swarmed around him now, closing in. One of them grabbed Steve from behind, knocking his torch flying. It rolled away with agonizing slowness, but Steve was blocked from retrieving it. Desperately, Fran tried to aim her pistol, but she couldn’t shoot through the grille. Instead, she held the torch higher. She was horrified as Steve kicked and scrambled, rolling on the floor. The zombies smothered him as if they were flies attracted to a discarded sandwich. He managed to roll onto his back and kick his legs high, knocking one or two of them to the floor. Then he pulled himself up to one elbow and fired with his pistol, killing another. He crawled to the torch and grabbed it, the clutching creatures tugging at his pants and shirt, all the while.
They didn’t have any particular system, but merely seemed to reach out and grasp whatever was close by. Their movements were wild and random, but there were so many of them that they managed to throw Steve off guard, and he had to struggle to regain his balance.
He was able to bring the flame up and flashed it at the zombies. They backed away enough for him to crawl to an open space. Once there, he was able to scramble to his feet, and he charged down the concourse toward the car.
Once at the exhibit, Peter stopped the cart, even though two lumbering creatures were practically breathing down his neck. He raised his rifle and fired at the oncoming ghouls. Roger, mustering all the strength he could and grimacing with the agonizing pain of his wounds, managed to pull himself up out of the cart. He limped to the exhibit as Peter’s supergun scored two perfect hits.
The platform was spinning slowly, but the wounded trooper lost his balance as he mounted it and fell, rolling against the car. The turntable carried him around toward another creature. Helpless, struggling in pain toward the driver’s door of the vehicle, he didn’t even have enough strength to call out.
“Watch it, Roger,” Steve, who was approaching, cried. “Roger!”
Roger turned his head and saw the ghoul just before the creature grabbed him. The thing’s hands randomly clutched at Roger’s dripping bandage, and its hands were covered with the trooper’s blood. Roger shrieked in pain.
Peter jumped onto the spinning turntable and leaned across the hood of the car. Without pausing, he fired point-blank into the creature’s skull, and his supergun drilled a hole the size of a half-dollar through the creature’s head. The momentum of the spinning turntable caused the thing to fall off the exhibit stand.
Peter rushed to Roger’s side. Excruciating pain shot through him as he tried desperately to open the driver’s-side door.
Peter tried to help Roger, and as they managed to open the door, which was unlocked, he eased his friend onto the seat. Immediately, almost numb, Roger went to work under the dash.
“Get in!” Peter shouted to Steve as he saw the zombies advancing now. As if a battle cry had gone out, they arrived from all points of the concourse. Steve rushed up to the platform, and he and the big trooper scrambled into opposite sides of the back seat. Simultaneously, they slammed the doors, making sure both the front and back locks were secured. Roger still worked as quickly as he could. The sweat drenched his face and neck, and his face twitched uncontrollably.
The leaders of the separate bands of creatures converged on the turntable. Some fell as they tried to step onto the moving disc, but others were successful and struggled over to the car. They smashed at the windows of the car with their hands, trying to find a way inside. From Fran’s point of view, it was a nightmarish scene: the men huddled in the shiny new, slowly rotating car, surrounded by the living dead, pounding and scratching the car.
She now relocked the gate mechanism that Steve had previously opened. She stood again, and tried to see over the zombie crowd, but it blocked her line of vision to the car. She could only hear the moaning of the creatures and their insistent pounding. With a sigh of despair and frustration, she turned the valve on her propane nozzle, extinguishing the flame.
“I’ll drive it . . .” Steve called out as the car’s engine roared to life. Roger gave a weak smile at his victory.
“I got it,” the wounded trooper insisted.
His face contorted in agony as he moved into position behind the wheel. Although he was shaking, he bit his lip and slammed the car into gear. As if they were cockroaches, at least eight creatures crawled over the car, and more threatened to approach. Roger waited patiently as the platform spun to a more desirable position. As soon as the nose of the car aimed directly down the concourse, he stepped on the gas and the car pulled out quickly. The men in the back watched in horror as zombies still pounded at the windows, their distorted faces pressed very close against the safety glass. As the car roared away, the creatures fell off into a heap, one on top of the other.
The front wheels moved off the platform easily and bounced onto the floor of the concourse, but the frame scraped the top of the disc and it was stuck for a moment. The disc continued to spin, carrying the rear of the car with it. But Roger only gave it more gas, and the rear wheels spun, finally catching.
The car shot out onto the mall floor. Some of the zombies clung for a moment, but they all fell away quickly, scrambling to regain their footing; then they followed, the exhaust fumes billowing up in their faces.
The car skidded and swerved on the shiny mall floor. For a second it seemed that the pain was too much for Roger and that the car was out of control, heading directly for a marble column in the concourse. But Roger managed to pull the car out of the skid and maneuvered it toward the exit with tremendous energy.
One of the laggers of the zombies’ group tried to intercept the speeding auto by stretching out its arms, but the car crushed it unmercifully, splattering blood all over the floor.
Now Fran was able to see the car as it rounded the corner and headed directly for the main entrance, which she could see from her position.
The zombies at the entrance had already started back into the mall, attracted by the commotion. As the car zoomed down the concourse, it easily broke their ranks, scattering and splattering bodies everywhere.
Roger, his body drenched with sweat, his jaw set and teeth clenched, threw the car into a screeching tailspin, stopping with almost perfect precision at the doors.
The big trailer blocked the entrance effectively, but some creatures had managed to get inside the door. Under the big van, several zombies were struggling with the doors. One just pushed in, and it seemed that it would be able to enter.
Peter and Steve slammed against the door. Steve aimed his torch directly at the clawing creatures. The one in front withdrew its arm. But the grotesque things continued to writhe and kick under the truck. An image flashed in Steve’s mind—it was just like one of those medieval paintings of the gates of hell. And for one slight second, he began to question what he was doing. But then he put the thought out of his mind.
Peter returned to the car and searched around for the set of master keys. Slamming the door, he fell upon the lock mechanisms with the coded keys. Finding the proper one, he locked the swinging doors.
“That’s not one hundred per cent,” he told Roger, “but I don’t think they’ll get through.”
“Can’t they smash the glass?”
“Safety stuff . . . pretty indestructible . . . They got no leverage under the truck.” He turned to survey the situation. “Gimme the alarms.”
Steve rummaged in his backpack and produced two portable battery-operated burglar alarms. Peter activated the units and stood them against the base of the now locked doors. As he crouched near the glass, the creatures outside went into a frenzy, clawing at the glass doors. They were unable to get in.
“I’m hoping they’ll go away after they find they can’t get in,” he said to Steve as they watched the other creatures slowly moving down the concourse, approaching the action at the locked door.
The men jumped back into the car with not a moment to spare, and Roger put the vehicle into motion with a deafening blast.
Once again the sleek auto ripped through the ranks of advancing zombies. Like cardboard figures, they fell and were crushed under the powerful wheels.
Although Fran was practically paralyzed with fear, she felt helpless as she watched the car speed down the concourse. It was almost as if she were watching a terrifying, large-as-life movie. She stood by the department store gate as a muffled voice came over the walkie-talkie.
“We’re OK,” Steve’s voice crackled. “We got it made . . . it’s gonna work.”
She stared out through the roll gate. The surviving zombies in the concourse staggered weakly after the car. Almost a hundred bodies littered the concourse; some were beginning to move again, their blood mingling with the grease and debris kicked up by the speeding vehicle.
Once again, the shiny auto, with snazzy racing stripes, pulled up to the second door, sliding into a tailspin. The men scrambled out and again the zombies outside tried to crawl under the second trailer. But the men were able to shut them out easily, locking the door and planting the alarms. They worked as a team, silent this time, absorbed in their work.
When they had finished, they stood to look down the concourse. The creatures seemed to be more spread out now, but their numbers seemed to have multiplied.
“How many do you figure are already in?” Steve asked.
“Dunno,” Peter said, shaking his head, and stretching his arms outward. “Not too many. We’ll get ’em easy. We get it all locked off and we’re goin’ on a hunt!” he said with a malicious gleam in his eye.
It gave Steve a chill as he watched the big trooper raise his supergun and sight through the telescope.
Peering through the cross hair on the scope, Peter settled on the forehead of one of the creatures that was lumbering down the hall. The face appeared magnified and distorted, by the telescope. Peter applied pressure to the trigger, and the gun roared. After the impact, he still kept his eye on the scope and watched with pleasure as the sight filled with red. Without taking his eye away he knew that his bullet had hit the mark. He had the utmost confidence in the supremacy of his weapon.