“Little bastard’s got ’em all moved into one building . . . dumb little bastard,” the commander said to the sergeant on his left.
“Looks like they’re gonna try to fight us,” the sergeant responded.
The commander took up the bullhorn again.
“Martinez . . . the people in this project are your responsibility. We don’t want any of them hurt, and neither do you!”
Roger cocked his ear for the reply but was met with silence. The great concrete slab was mute to the commander’s demands. The four S.W.A.T. team members crouched in readiness.
“I’m giving you three minutes, Martinez . . .” Roger mouthed as the commander bellowed the familiar refrain through the bullhorn.
“Turn over your weapons and surrender . . .” the commander, a brisk, wiry, gray-haired man in his fifties, continued.
“There are no charges against you . . .” Roger mouthed.
The commander repeated, “There are no charges against you or any of your people . . .”
“Yet,” Roger said aloud, to no one in particular. The men beside him were struggling with their own feelings of nervousness and excitement toward the impending battle.
“Three minutes, Martinez,” the amplified voice of the commander boomed out across the inanimate fortresses, the deserted playgrounds, the parking lots filled with rusting second-hand cars, a few pimps’ Cadillacs sprinkled throughout.
Roger lifted the luminous dial of his watch to his face.
“And counting . . .”
The project was like a still-life photograph.
“Come on, Martinez!” Roger rooted out loud.
One of the silent squatting figures suddenly lurched toward Roger.
“Yeah, come on, Martinez,” Wooley lashed out viciously. “Show your greasy little Puerto Rican ass . . . so I can blow it off,” spat the seasoned veteran, a redneck of the first order, who had come up North like a mercenary.
Distressed, Roger looked over at the big man, who was so caught up in his violence that he jumped up from under cover and was a perfect moving target for the snipers.
“I’ll blow all their asses off,” he rambled on. “Low-life bastards. Blow all their little low-life Puerto Rican and nigger asses right off . . .”
Roger could see that the Alabama man was starting to crack. He was also concerned about the smooth-faced rookie sitting on Wooley’s other side. The boy’s eyes flickered nervously from Wooley to the ground below.
“Keep cool,” Roger cautioned quietly. “Just don’t pop off in there when we go in.”
The boy nodded gratefully. Roger was pleased that in this confusion and terror he was able to add a word or two of human kindness.
Wouldn’t Louise be surprised at him now. She was always screaming at him that he didn’t have an ounce of human kindness or consideration in his five-foot-ten, one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound muscular body. She claimed he loved his guns and his Vietnam medals of commendation more than her, and sometimes he wondered if he did, too. He often wondered if her attraction to him was only physical—he was often told by women that his sandy hair, well-chiseled face and good build really turned them on. But for all her screaming and hollering at him, he would give anything to be with her now, curled up on the sofa watching Johnny Carson. Even though they’d been divorced for almost two years, he would marry her all over again just to be away from this mess.
His thoughts were interrupted by Wooley’s strident voice:
“Why the hell do we stick these low-lifes in these big-ass fancy hotels anyway? Shit, man. This’s better than I got. You ain’t gonna talk ’em outa here. You gotta blow ’em out. Blow their asses!”
The boy had listened to this sickening tirade and his face was ashen.
“You gonna be all right?” Roger asked.
The boy managed to nod in the affirmative.
“Let’s get on with it,” Wooley snarled and started pacing like a caged animal. “This is a waste of my time!”
Abruptly, without warning, the metal door to the fire stair burst open, and several figures rushed out of the cavernous darkness. Shots fired from handguns crisscrossed in the night air. A bullet smashed through the skull of the ashen-faced rookie. He died with an expression of confusion on his face, falling against Roger, a pleading look in his eyes. Roger experienced a sinking feeling, but then darkness-cloaked figures charged here and there, distracting him. More gunfire echoed through the night, and other S.W.A.T. men dodged and dove for cover. Wooley stood, unprotected and arrogant, and fired off a round with his automatic weapon.
On the street, the commander, upon hearing the gunfire, ordered through the bullhorn:
“Move in . . . move in. Goddammit!”
“All units, all units,” the sergeant screamed into the walkie-talkie. “All units, full operation!”
With a sense of repulsion mixed with sadness, Roger struggled to remove the dead weight of the young rookie. His M16 was wedged between the inside lip of the roof and the boy’s torso. Random shots rang out, making it hard for Roger to manipulate the body and stay clear of the bullets.
A small group of black and Puerto Rican youngsters scattered about the rooftop, almost as if in play. Suddenly, another S.W.A.T. patrol, their guns drawn, emerged from behind a large elevator housing. A blast of gunfire, and the retreating young civilians had to step over the bodies of their less lucky comrades who were mowed down in their haste.
Adding insult to injury, another bullet smashed against the dead rookie’s back. In another second, as Roger finally managed to free himself, a bullet caught him squarely in the chest, but luckily the armor cushioned the impact. Roger was thrown off balance, and he struggled to catch his wind as his weapon skittered across the roof. Roger dove for it, but before he reached it he was cut off by the looming figure of one of the black youths. The kid brandished a pistol in his hand, and he looked like he knew how to use it. Roger froze like a deer before flight. The young man aimed his gun meticulously, as if in slow motion. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a sudden barrage of bullets ripped through his back and he fell to the rooftop, a pool of blood forming beneath him. Roger looked around quickly, still not believing his close escape. He felt like crossing himself, something he had not done since he was an eight-year-old altar boy.
“Come on, you dumb bastards . . . come and get ’em,” Wooley cried out, totally unaware that he had just saved Roger’s life. Roger shuddered with the thought that Wooley might have just as easily fired the gun at Roger’s own darkened shadow.
As if he were a wind-up mechanical soldier gone haywire, Wooley fired again and again, even though the skirmish was winding down.
Roger’s weapon tempted him from the middle of the rooftop. He saw that there was an incinerator housing just past where his rifle lay, and in one desperate burst of energy he charged for the weapon, snatched it up and ran for cover. Another figure hid in the shadows. It was a young civilian hiding there, trying to load his gun. The startled boy made a break as Roger skidded into his shelter.
“Hey, hold it . . .” Roger called out.
The boy froze for a moment, then, making a decision, broke into a run across the roof.
“Hold it, kid . . . Don’t run out there!” Roger tried to warn him. But before the words were out of his mouth, the slight figure was mowed down in a shower of bullets. Roger fell against the wall of the incinerator housing in a heap. Somehow, this was worse than Nam. This was his hometown, his country, and they weren’t fighting against funny-looking slant-eyes, but against their own citizens. Nothing in his Marine training had prepared him for this.
“Jesus,” he thought. “I’m acting like a real fucking sissy. Must be thinking too much.”
He strapped his rifle on his back and filed down the stairway and inside the building with the handful of survivors.
Inside the building, it looked like a raid. S.W.A.T. teams, along with units of the National Guard, were crashing through the hallways and breaking into apartmen
ts. People were herded into the hallway like cattle and held at gunpoint.
Some of the civilians, although armed with handguns, rifles, tire irons, switchblades, even a bow and arrow, surrendered willingly, a look of despair in their eyes. Others tried desperately, but to no avail, to retaliate against the invading force. On every floor of the structure, little senseless skirmishes developed.
Untouched by any bullets, just a trace of sweat on his upper lip, the commander barked into the bullhorn:
“Masks . . .”
“Masks for gas . . . masks for gas . . .” the sergeant transmitted through the walkie-talkie.
A rainfall of tear gas cannisters crashed through the windows, and the halls were filled with clouds of gas. Many civilians who were not already in the halls rushed out to join the others, and they all became a mass of choking, coughing refugees. Some even attempted to shoot their way out of the mêlée but were blinded by their tears, and their bullets bounced off walls and doorways aimlessly, wounding some of the innocent victims who were scurrying out of their doorways.
More and more survivors of the battle on the roof charged down to join the units working the hallways.
“Work your way down,” one of the S.W.A.T. team commanders ordered. His voice came from behind the gas mask paraphernalia, making him look like some prehistoric mammoth. “A floor at a time. Hold ’em in the halls till we can work ’em down the stairs.”
Roger, Wooley and the men in their unit snapped on their equally bizarre-looking masks.
Wooley seemed to have calmed down somewhat. In fact, Roger felt he seemed too calm, almost serene. The big man’s face was bright red, and sweat poured off his forehead. But when he snapped on his gas mask, he looked as ludicrous and unhuman as the hundred other S.W.A.T. and National Guard members.
A group of troopers came to a locked door on the top floor. Six of them formed a human wedge and broke the flimsy door down. An old Puerto Rican couple knelt in prayer at a small altar. Their son, a slight man in his early thirties, and his wife and four small children huddled in the corner. The young husband surrendered his gun to a trooper. Roger watched painfully as the family was led into the hallway. The youngest grandchild clutched at a battered stuffed rabbit.
The hallway seemed relatively calm until a sudden movement caught the trooper’s eyes. A young black man charged out of one of the apartments, and a woman appeared at the doorway screaming for him to stop. As he broke through the cloud of gas, Wooley snapped to attention and fired his automatic. The black man crashed to the floor, and the now hysterical woman ran to his side. A crazed Wooley kicked in the door of another apartment and fired randomly into the room.
The orderly line of civilian refugees suddenly broke and scattered aimlessly. Panicking, the younger ones tried to escape, while the older people knelt or fell to the floor in prayer. Their prayers were unanswered as Wooley continued his frenzied dance.
“Wooley’s gone ape shit, man . . .” another masked S.W.A.T. team member commented to no one in particular.
“Wooley?” Roger shouted, but the big man just kicked in the door of another apartment. Roger charged at him and grabbed him around the shoulders. Even with his size, Roger felt dwarfed next to the redneck soldier. Wooley tried to twist himself out of Roger’s grasp. His gun fired and the bullets exploded wildly. Roger felt as if he were trying to lash down a massive ship in a storm.
“Gimme a hand . . . somebody,” he called out.
Out of the mist of the tear gas, another S.W.A.T. team member stepped out. He was as big as Wooley, and just as broad. A sense of mystery pervaded him as he spoke out in a deep, resonant voice.
“Step away from him.”
“Gimme a hand,” Roger repeated.
In a sudden movement, Wooley threw his body around and slammed Roger against the wall. Roger was able to grab him just as he was about to level off his gun at the open apartment door.
“Goddammit, help me,” Roger called to the mysterious figure. “He’s crazy!”
“Step away from him,” the voice boomed.
Roger was so taken back by the authority of the voice, that for one split second he loosened his grip on Wooley, and this gave Wooley a chance to wrench free and push Roger across the hallway. That was all the time that the inscrutable trooper needed. He carefully aimed his weapon and fired one shot point-blank through Wooley’s head. The big man fell back and shuddered to the floor with such violence that even the experienced troopers gasped.
Then, the big trooper turned and hurried down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. officers turned to face him threateningly, but none of them made any attempt to stop him from barreling down the narrow passageway. He merely stared at them menacingly. His dark, piercing eyes glared at them through the mask. The group parted for him and let him pass. He disappeared through the smoke as other officers began to restore order among the civilians.
Roger was still too stunned to move. There was something about the mysterious trooper that fascinated him. Maybe it was his cool, cold-blooded manner. Maybe it was the way he sized up the situation objectively and then, matter-of-factly, pulled the trigger on a trooper who was obviously out of his mind and threatening to destroy the morale of the others.
A shrill, piercing scream drew Roger out of his moment of luxurious reverie. A hand reached out of the tear gas fog and helped Roger to his feet. His eyes wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask, Roger perceived what it was that had finally pushed Wooley over the edge. The other trooper who had given Roger a hand followed his gaze and his eyes were transfixed, too, on the sight visible through the door that Wooley had kicked open.
In the darkened apartment, lying in a pool of blood, were the partial remains of what had been a human body. It had been ripped to shreds and looked like a piece of meat that had been attacked by a pack of ravenous dogs!
Roger felt as if the wind were knocked out of him. He staggered to the door and leaned against the frame. The other trooper, a tall, thin blond man in his late twenties, moved inside. To the left of the remains was another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It was trying to move—to reach the troopers!
Again, the shrill, piercing scream. As Roger turned around, startled, he saw that a woman in the hall had seen the grisly sight. Maybe it was a relative, a neighbor of hers, but now it was nothing but a mass of bloodied flesh and shattered bones.
The woman ran screaming down the hall, causing a commotion and more confusion as civilians pushed through the troopers who tried to hold them back.
“Jesus, holy Jesus,” the trooper in the apartment with Roger moaned, totally repulsed.
A third officer entered the apartment. The blond trooper motioned toward the writhing corpse on the floor.
“Shoot it,” the recently arrived trooper hissed. “Shoot it through the head.”
The young officer was frozen to the spot. Never in all his training was he prepared for a moment like this. The third officer pulled out his pistol. Before he was able to fire, however, from out of the shadows a specter-like figure lunged at him. It was a wild-haired woman who flailed at him and tried to bite his arms. The officer tried to calm her down and then noticed that there were bleeding wounds all over her body. She was one of the walking dead!
The trooper’s gun rolled to the floor. He struggled to free himself from the viselike grip that the weak-looking woman had on him. Roger darted into the room and ran to the trooper’s assistance. Another creature suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway. It was unobserved by the young trooper, who had finally come to his senses and was trying to pull the gun from his holster. Without warning, he felt something cold and sticky holding onto his leg. He looked down and to his extreme horror realized that the dismembered corpse was clutching at his ankle, pulling itself closer, its mouth open. The young man tried to pull away, but fell onto the floor, crashing over a table and a lamp. He tried to crawl away, but the weight of the clutching corpse made it impossible. He dragged the corpse a
long as he tried to wrestle his gun from the holster.
Roger and the third officer, a balding, middle-aged trooper with a dark five o’clock shadow, flung their weight against the woman zombie. As if she were on an elastic string, she flew against the wall and then bounced back immediately, with the same ferocious force. The dark officer fired his gun, aiming directly at the woman’s chest. The bullet hit its mark, but it still didn’t stop her. He fired another shot to her neck, but she still barreled toward him, blood dripping from the wound in her neck onto her housedress and apron.
The blond young officer finally managed to loosen his pistol from the holster and leveled a shot at the ghoulish creature that was drawing closer and closer, trying to bite the young man’s leg. The shot, fired at such a close range, splattered the monster’s head all over the wall and on his trousers. But the kid, who was shaking violently, was so relieved that the zombie had at last released its grip that he didn’t notice the globs of brain and tissue collected on his leg. He was in such a state of shock that he raised his arm and kept firing his gun into the ceiling again, and again, and again, until the older trooper knocked it from his hand and slapped him hard across the face.
“It’s one of them . . . My God. It’s one of them,” another S.W.A.T. officer cried when the male zombie appeared in the hall. The other troopers tried to calm the panicking crowd.
“Shoot for the head,” still another S.W.A.T. man directed.
A young, dark-haired woman rushed toward them, pushing toward the crowd as the zombie advanced.
“No! No!” she cried as she threw her arms around the creature, immune to the trooper’s attempts to stop her. “Miguel . . . Dios mio . . . Miguelito . . .”
The zombie stared at her with vacant eyes. She tightened her grip.
“Miguel . . . mi vida . . . Miguelito . . .”
“Grab her, get her out of there,” cried the S.W.A.T. officer who had first noticed the male zombie. He leveled his gun at the creature, but the clutching woman was directly in his line of fire.
Dawn of the Dead Page 3
