Dawn of the Dead

by George A. Romero

  “You’ll take care of me . . . I know you will . . .” Roger pleaded.

  “I will.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yeah, brother?” his voice softened. His eyes glistened and the lines around his mouth tightened.

  “Peter, don’t do it . . . till you’re sure . . . sure I’m comin’ back. Don’t do it till you’re sure . . . I might not come back, Peter.” Roger’s voice weakened, and a shudder passed through his body. “I’m gonna try not to . . . I’m gonna try . . . not to come back . . .”

  His body gave a final heave, and his eyelids fluttered but remained opened. Peter reached across the still chest and closed the lids. Then he sat very still, the tears streaking his dust-covered face.

  • • •

  Moonlight filtered down through the skylight in the living area, a pathway to heaven. The path to freedom through the skylight was now a sturdy wooden ladder, that had replaced the pyramid of cartons. Someone had superstitiously left a derringer pistol on the top step.

  Stephen was huddled over the huge twenty-one-inch color console television that they had lugged up to replace the first one. He had wired the set to a makeshift antenna that stretched up through the skylight. Now he fiddled with it, but only a faint signal came in. Nearby, a table lamp sat on a small end-table, shedding some light on the darkened room. Its cable was patched into a network of wiring that stretched about the room.

  Fran unpacked in the dining alcove. She had chosen a pale wood butcher-block with four rush-seated chairs. Nearby was a matching breakfront, which she had filled with dishes and silverware. It was something she had always wanted, and she felt foolishly like a newlywed. She was trying very hard not to think about what was going on in the other room. For quite some time now, Roger had been silent, but neither she nor Steve had the nerve to investigate. At every sound, she turned to see if Peter was coming out of the room.

  Steve was intent on the television. At first he had turned it on to get his mind off Roger, but now he was seriously listening to the two men who were talking. One was a commentator, the other a government official. It amazed him to see others who were still alive. He felt so isolated here. It had only been about three or four days, but since their total existence had been disrupted, all time had lost its meaning.

  “I’ve got to . . . be careful with words here . . .” the scientist was saying. He was dressed in a suit, but his tie was rumpled and his shirt open at the collar. His face was unshaven and his eyes drawn, with dark circles under them. “We haven’t been able to study their habits. We’ve repeatedly asked for a live capture so we can have controlled studies . . .” he seemed to stutter on the last word and his cheek twitched nervously. “We need s-s-supply-and-demand ratios.”

  The commentator was also dressed in a rumpled suit, but he wore no tie. He, too, looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

  “You mean,” he questioned, “their need versus—”

  The scientist cut him off. “Versus the amount of food available. Let’s be blunt.” He pulled his folding chair closer to the camera. There was a commotion in the TV studio. The noises and shouting reminded Steve of the confusion at WGON before they had escaped.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, thinking how far away they were now from that scene, and how much they had gone through to be here now.

  He squatted near the set, his eyes transfixed. Fran came up to the screen from behind him.

  The scientist continued, his eyes growing wider and darting nervously.

  “Project their rate of growth. There’s a critical balance. And it’s the waste that kills us, literally. They use . . . they use maybe five per cent of the food available on the human body. And then the body is usually intact enough to be mobile when it revives. There’s an ecological imbalance, and they’re incapable of understanding.” He finished his sentence, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. The stains on his sleeve were noticeable over the air.

  “What are you proposing?” The commentator had gray hair and an unshaven face as well. He wore rimless glasses, which kept slipping off his nose. The hot lights from the studio caused him to perspire.

  “We have to be unemotional,” the scientist replied. “We have to provide countermeasures or we’re all . . . they can’t control the rate of growth and consumption. We have to control it for them.”

  “You’re suggesting that we help them?” the commentator asked, horror-stricken.

  “By helping them in this case we save ourselves.” The scientist looked around at the studio audience, hoping to get some support for his radical idea.

  A great outcry greeted his words. The image on the set bobbled around as if the camera were being jostled by an irate crowd. The speaker fumbled for the right words to describe the situation.

  Steve watched with fright in his eyes. “Good God,” he uttered.

  The scientist’s whining words reached Peter in the other room. His face was impassive and expressionless. His eyes, however, were pinpointed on something straight ahead of him.

  “I’m proposing that certain . . . necessary measures be put into effect at once,” the scientist continued. “Measures applying to all official search-and-destroy units, while they’re still operative . . . Hospitals . . . rescue stations . . . and any . . . private citizens . . .”

  Peter’s eyes fluttered and he looked down at the rifle stretched across his lap. The TV droned on from the living room:

  “In cooperation with the mobile units of the O.E.P., the corpses of the recently dead should be delivered over to the authorities for collection in refrigerated vans . . . they should be decapitated to prevent revival . . .” The words rushed out of the scientist’s mouth, as if they were distasteful.

  When he had finished, he took a deep breath, as if anticipating the outburst that followed.

  Peter’s eyes went from the rifle on his lap to the floor, where twenty feet away lay Roger’s corpse. His face was covered with a blanket. A slight breeze from the fan in the living room wafted over the inert form, lifting the corners of the blanket.

  “This collection . . . this collection,” the scientist shouted over the voices clamoring in the studio. The staff was now on stage, protesting vigorously. Emotional and foul language was being thrown around with no concern for the FCC regulations.

  “This collection could be . . . stored . . . rationed . . . for distribution among the infected society . . .” He could barely be heard over the angry shouts. “In an attempt, in an attempt to curb the senseless slaughter . . . the senseless slaughter of our own society . . .”

  Peter blinked his eyes. He wanted to make sure of what he saw. He wanted to be certain that it wasn’t his imagination playing tricks on him. But now he knew it to be true—Roger’s foot had definitely moved under the blanket. He tightened his hands on his weapon.

  He tried to shut off his mind from the scientist’s insistent, rasping, high-pitched voice.

  “The dissection . . . the dissection of the corpses can be carried out . . . carried out with respect for the dignity of the human body . . .”

  Roger’s arms seemed to move and were now twitching slightly. The blanket started to slide down his face.

  “The heads . . . the heads and the . . . skeletons . . . whenever possible . . . could be identified and . . . buried in consecrated grounds . . .”

  All hell broke loose in the studio. Chairs were thrown on the stage and the picture wavered.

  Peter stared with fascination mixed with disbelief as the blanket continued to creep down Roger’s face. Soon, his vacantly staring eyes were visible . . . the drooling mouth . . . the pasty, green-tinted face. A putrid stench filled the air. Peter couldn’t believe the transformation. He almost expected Roger to jump up as if it were a joke.

  Suddenly, the figure tried to sit up. Peter snapped back to reality and clicked a shell into his supergun.

  Then, the corpse sat all the way up. It stared blankly at Peter, then with recognition. It struggled to its f
eet. Peter calmly sighted the center of its forehead through his rifle. He, too, rose.

  “We’ve got to remain unemotional . . . unemotional . . . rational . . . logical . . . tactical . . . tactical!” the scientist pleaded above the raging commotion in the studio. Nervously, he once again wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “They’re crazy,” Steve muttered, staring at the tube, disbelief written all over his face. “They’re crazy.”

  “It’s really . . . all over, isn’t it?” Fran asked, mournfully.

  From the other side of the room, a sudden blast roared through the wall. Fran jumped and fell into Stephen’s arms, shaking and hysterically crying.

  Steve closed his eyes tightly and started to tremble uncontrollably. A few seconds later, the TV was clicked off. Steve opened his eyes and saw Peter standing by the set, the rifle still in his hand. The man’s eyes were blindly staring at the blank screen.

  Without speaking, Steve untangled Fran’s arms from around his neck, rose, and walked over to Peter. Gently, he took the rifle from the immobile man.

  A little while later the two of them dumped Roger’s corpse on top of the stack of bodies in the bank vault. The whole time, neither man had uttered one word, nor exchanged one sentiment, but went about their work purposefully. The dead man’s eyes stared at them with a puzzled expression as they placed him in the huddle of arms and legs. Blood oozed from the familiar gunshot wound in the center of Roger’s forehead.

  As the heavy door of the vault closed with a metallic slam, Peter thought the whole image was one of hell itself.

  As the clanging sound resounded throughout the mall, Peter uttered a long-forgotten prayer of salvation for Roger’s soul, just in case.

  11

  They had missed Roger’s presence painfully at first. His hearty laugh, his lively personality. He had really been a uniting force for the little band of survivors. They had expected him to come charging around corners, dashing through the room, always full of life and vitality.

  After three months, things returned to relative normalcy. Now Fran chased a little puppy across the room. It had just left a puddle under the dining room table.

  “Adam, no, no!” she called out as it scuttled through the room, sliding across the scatter rug.

  She grabbed the little spaniel by the fur on its neck and dropped it on some papers that were layered in a corner of the general room.

  As she straightened up, she was aware of her protruding belly, her pregnant condition very noticeable now. She wiped her brow as if she were an exhausted housewife and shuffled back into the bedroom that she and Steve shared. She picked up the sheet and continued to make up the double mattress. One thing she enjoyed was that instead of doing the laundry she just discarded the dirty sheets and towels and unwrapped new ones.

  On an end-table near the bed there was a reading lamp. Piled up around the table were all the best-sellers in hard and soft covers from four months ago, piles of out-of-date magazines, and half-empty cups of instant coffee.

  She and Steve had done their best to make the living room liveable. There was a large sectional couch in brown velvet, small end-tables with lamps and ashtrays and knick-knacks. The huge TV set was near some large potted plants, which got sunlight from the skylight overhead. The hard cement floor was covered with the finest oriental rugs from the department store. A few leather easy chairs completed the room, each with a footstool. On the wall were posters and paintings. They had even managed to carry up a fake fireplace before they closed the fake wall, with an artificial log and an electric flame. The whole place had a very homey atmosphere.

  In the dining area, there was a microwave oven, a refrigerator and more cabinets with dishes and silverware.

  While Fran straightened up, Steve wandered about the department store. He fiddled with a new supersonic calculator and looked at adult games. In this isolated environment, he had become obsessed with the gadgets and other items in the department store. It was his habit to explore each day and try everything in sight. He had become very possessive, hiding things from Peter and Fran.

  On the roof, in the bright sunlight of early morning, Peter played tennis against a wall of one of the utility sheds. He wore a new sweat suit and brightly colored sneakers. His sleek new silver racket slammed phosphorescent orange balls against the wall with lightning speed. He attacked each shot with determination and strength, his face set in anger. It was his only release. For in three months, the image of Roger’s puzzled expression had never left his mind.

  Peter hit one ball too high and it flew over the shed, bouncing on the other side and banking off the lip of the roof. Then it flew over the edge and landed in the parking lot below, hitting the pavement. It bounced several times before rolling off among the feet of the army of zombies that was still wandering this way and that through the area. The number had never really diminished, for as others were killed, fresh, new ones rose from the corpses of the recently dead to take their place.

  The creatures mobbed around the trucks at the main entrances. They moaned and gurgled as they clawed at the building. There were hundreds of the living dead—all different ages, sexes and shapes. Some were clothed, as if they had just stepped out of their homes that morning, on their way to work; others were naked, their large wounds gaping and oozing.

  Fran waddled around the kitchen area, preparing dinner for the two men. They played cards on a table in the living room. In the middle of the table were hundred-dollar bills.

  “Dinner,” Fran called half-heartedly, and the men pushed their chairs back from the bridge table and crossed to the dining room table. It was set with the best linen, silver, china and crystal that Porter’s had to offer, directly from the bridal department.

  After a dinner of warmed-up canned beef stew, canned vegetables and stale cake from the bakery downstairs, Fran served coffee.

  “There hasn’t been a broadcast for three days,” she said to Steve, indicating the television set, which was on. Only grayish snow filled the screen, and the speaker hissed as it received no transmission signal. “Why don’t you give it up?”

  “They might come back on,” Steve said morosely, staring into his coffee cup. Peter sat silently at the table, his food practically untouched.

  Suddenly, Fran felt a rage. She slammed down her apron angrily and stomped over to the TV. She clicked it off, and the blue glow disappeared, the drone stopped. She returned to the table. Steve stood up, and moved to the set. Without looking at either Fran or Peter, he clicked it back on. Peter watched the two sheepishly. It was a familiar domestic scene to him. They played it out every night from boredom and frustration. He glanced over the food-laden dishes, across to the suburban-looking living room, and then off into the distance.

  “What have we done to ourselves?” Fran asked plaintively. Steve huddled over the set, trying to focus it. Fran moved to the table and started to clear it. When she reached for Peter’s plate, he put out his hand and touched her gently. When she looked at him, his eyes were filled with tears.

  • • •

  The next morning, Fran awoke with a start. She had determined that this day would not be the same as the others of the past three months. She shook Steve awake roughly.

  “Get up, now. You promised.”

  He opened one eye and rolled over.

  She shoved him again.

  “After breakfast?”

  “OK, but get moving.” She struggled up from the mattress on the floor. It was getting more and more difficult to maneuver herself with her growing belly.

  After breakfast, the couple climbed the ladder and emerged on the roof in the bright sunlight. They entered the helicopter, this time with Fran at the controls. Steve leaned over her and indicated some levers and buttons. Soon the thunderous roar of the engine disturbed the quiet morning air. The helicopter rose and hovered over the roof of the mall.

  “OK, easy now . . . easy . . . bring ’er down . . .” Steve instructed Fran after she had completed a successful tak
e-off.

  In the cockpit, Fran was flustered, but she managed to handle the controls. She was intent on learning to fly the damn machine. She had thought they were all becoming too morose, too limited, and that it was time for them to stop feeling sorry for themselves and make the best of it. Who knew, maybe they would get word over the tube or the radio that the disaster was over. Then they could return to civilization. She wanted to be ready. She had learned a lot about herself over the past few months. And one of the things she knew was that in order to survive, one had to be self-sufficient. In fact, she had been reading up on home birth methods, and if necessary, she was confident that she could deliver her own child. The American Indian women had done it, and so could she.

  “Easy . . . stabilize it,” Steve told her. He had remained relatively calm and responsive, she thought. She guessed he was getting bored with all his gadgets. “That’s it.”

  She reacted efficiently, handling the controls better now as the chopper’s runners just touched the roof’s surface.

  “That’s it . . . that’s it . . . You got it!” Steve said excitedly.

  The runners hit the roof’s surface, and the chopper settled.

  With joy, Fran impulsively threw her arms around Steve’s neck. It was the first time she had touched him in two weeks.

  “You did it, you did it,” he said with sincerity. “Hon, you did it.”

  She excitedly hugged and kissed him with the happiness of a ten-year-old learning to ride a two-wheeler. She practically bubbled over. It was the greatest release for the two of them since they had been holed up in the mall.

  As seen from a great distance, the helicopter on top of the mall roof looked very small, the whine of its dying engine barely audible.

  But two beady eyes, nonetheless, had seen the action. The figure to whom they belonged pulled the binoculars away and turned to his companion.

  The first man was named Thor. He wore a Viking-like outfit, complete with a fur tunic, sandals laced up his calves, two swords with gilded hilts secured to a six-inch-wide leather belt and long, straggly hair, pulled back with a leather thong. His companion was known as Hatchet, for his fascination with sledgehammers, hatchets and machetes. He wore skin-tight faded jeans, and a short denim jacket open over his bare chest. His chest was tattooed with a snake sliding its way up the leg of a woman. The woman was nude; her decapitated head lay at her feet.