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

was time to think, sometimes it gave him second thoughts about what he was doing. That had always been his problem with Louise. As soon as he’d had any time off just to sit around the house, he’d grown restless. Idleness made him uneasy.
    Steve hopped out of the cockpit and shouted over the engine noise to Roger.
    “I’m gonna see what’s left in the hangars.”
    He turned before Roger replied and trotted off after Fran. Frankly, he was a little worried about her exploring around here alone, but he didn’t want to alarm her.
    Meanwhile, in the chart house, Peter idly kicked an old coffee machine at one end of the room. The machine clicked loudly and, much to Peter’s surprise, spat out a cup. It didn’t look too appetizing, but the hot brown liquid would be all the warm nourishment he would be getting for a while.
    Peter’s eyes scanned the bulletin board while he waited for the cup to fill. Notes spilled out off the bulletin board to the coffee machine and even onto the walls. They had all been written hurriedly, in all sorts of handwriting styles and in various inks and colors.
    Some of the notes read:
    “LUCY—GONE TO JOHNSTOWN.”
    “Charles—I have the kids; Left with Ben. Mom’s dead.”
    “Couldn’t wait. Gone to Erie—Jack Foster.”
    The wall was plastered with such messages, some frantic, some matter-of-fact. Peter wondered how many of these had even been read by the right people.
    He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. A sudden movement from the closet door just across the room attracted his attention. It appeared locked but it rattled against the lock, once, twice, more regularly than if it were caused by wind drafts.
    Peter moved toward it cautiously. The door banged violently with a loud crash, and then it stopped. That was no wind, Peter thought, as he set his coffee on the chart table and took his rifle in both hands.
    Again, the door banged hard, and the skeleton key that had secured it was knocked out of the keyhole and fell to the floor with a metallic clang. Peter’s eyes were drawn to the caked bloodstain where blood had recently run out under the closet door and onto the linoleum floor.
    Another bang sounded, and then there was the unmistakable gurgling moan of a zombie. It was trying to break out of the closet!
    With remarkable calm, Peter raised his M16 and aimed it at the door about head height. The M16 roared in the little room, shaking the shack to its foundation. Splintery holes appeared in the old wooden door.
    At the sharp crack of the gunshots, Fran and Steve snapped to attention. Fran had been standing at the entrance to one of the little wooden hangars, while Steve was inside checking out the cockpit of an old Cessna. Upon hearing the shot, Steve immediately ran out and grabbed Fran’s hand. As they turned the corner to run up the grade toward the helicopter, they were confronted by two zombies. The zombies staggered slowly toward them, appearing in the dust cloud brought up by the blade of the chopper.
    Panic seized Fran. They were weaponless, vulnerable. She let out a scream.
    Steve gripped her arm more tightly.
    “Roger, Roger,” he cried, but the trooper couldn’t hear him under the whirling blades. He continued to fill the fuel tank, unaware that his friends had no protection and that he was in danger of being surprised from behind by one of the zombies.
    A third zombie was now lumbering toward the helicopter and Roger was still totally immersed in filling the tank.
    Inside the chart house, Peter stared at the closet door. There was silence for a moment and then another moan, and the door shook again with another bang.
    Taking careful aim, Peter fired two shots, lower right and lower left of the first, forming a neat triangle. Then, in a fit of violence, he fired a volley of shots just where the creature’s head should be. There was no way that the bullets could have missed their target this time.
    For a moment there was quiet. But, as a highly trained soldier, Peter