Dawn of the Dead

by George A. Romero

  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 da
y 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.