Free Dawn of the Dead by George A. Romero Page A

that housed snowplows and other maintenance machinery. The scrap stuck against the glass for a moment, as though glued there, and then it fluttered to the ground. Watching the journey of the scrap through glazed eyes was a zombie with a badly scarred face.
    The chopper landed by the fuel pumps, and the passengers, thankful for the opportunity to stretch their legs, scrambled out. Steve immediately ran over to check the pumps.
    “Shit, man. Damn near empty.”
    “Lotta private planes in farm country like this,” Roger said as he raised his arms high above his head and started to do a few jumping jacks to get his circulation going again. “Guess they all hit the pumps and took off.”
    “To where?” Steve asked as he dragged the hose over and started filling the chopper’s tank with what was left. “Where the hell can they go?”
    “Where we goin’?” Peter asked abruptly.
    Instead of answering him, Steve moved to the second pump and checked its gauge and then the hose itself. It spurted with more force.
    “There’s a good bit left in this pump,” he said as he stretched the hose toward the chopper. “Damn,” he uttered when it didn’t reach, “I gotta get it closer.”
    He jumped back into the cockpit, and the machine lifted off the ground.
    Fran, who had been standing around observing the whole encounter, had noticed the hostility between Steve and Peter. Men, she thought. Always needed their egos massaged. Now wasn’t the time to prove who was boss. They had to work together.
    She walked slowly backward toward a small rickety hangar area while she watched them interacting. Then she turned and looked down toward the private hangars. Most of them had been left wide open, and the planes they had housed were long gone. Obviously, their owners had been in a great rush, not expecting to ever have to return. It was frightening: where would they go? If the living dead had already caused havoc in this little out-of-the-way town, was anywhere safe?
    She noticed that one or two of the old wooden double-doors were still closed and locked with chains and padlocks. Maybe in there were the planes of those who hadn’t been fortunate enough to get away. Maybe those planes belonged to the ones who’d chosen to stay and fight the losing battle against the zombies. Or maybe those owners were now zombies themselves!
    The wind from the chopper blades blew Fran’s hair, and a swirl of debris and dust flew up around her shoulders. She tried to shield her eyes and nose from the dust.
    On the other side of the field, Peter kicked open the door to the chart house. The room was filled with dust from the partially opened windows, and it was totally dilapidated. A few small chairs surrounded an old wood table. Several half-finished cups of coffee sat on top of wrinkled flight charts, leaving brown rings soaked into the paper. A half-eaten sandwich was now the home of dozens of flies, which swarmed around and buzzed loudly. An old, cracked and filthy window shade clicked against its window from the gusting wind, which came in through the cracks in the wall. Peter flinched at the sounds and the stench of the room. Somehow he found this kind of situation more threatening out in the middle of nowhere than in the middle of the inner city. He guessed it was just what you were accustomed to that made the difference.
    He readied his weapon and walked over to the shade. Then he pulled it down and let it roll up on itself. It made a loud flapping noise, but there was nothing behind it. Peter heaved a sigh of relief.
    Outside, Steve was just setting the chopper down as Roger ran over with the hose nozzle. Ducking under the blades, Roger inserted the device into the tank receptacle even before Steve had idled the engine. There was something about this deserted airstrip that gave him the creeps too.
    Maybe all those hours in the copter had given him too much time to think, Roger pondered. When there was action, he was always ready. But when there