Dawn broke as the helicopter climbed from the roof of the Pittsburgh shopping mall. Peter glanced out the window and watched a dozen zombies twitch crazily as the chopper blades buffeted their hair and clothes below.
One zombie held a rifle barrel to his face and peered into it point blank. A zombie in a nurse's uniform raked her hands at the sky as she reached for the helicopter, shrieking insanely, her arms flailing. The others shambled in pandemonium, bumping into each other like short-circuited marionettes.
Francine sat in the pilot's seat and fought to control the helicopter as it spun like a turntable. The rising sun intermittently blinded Peter as their chopper gyrated.
"Goddamn, Francine!" Peter yelled. "Do you really know how to fly this thing?"
"Stephen only taught me how to take off and land," Francine shouted frantically. "He never believed that I'd really fly without him. Damn him!"
Peter remembered the last time he saw Francine's lover. Stephen had shuffled into the storage room leading to the roof, drenched in blood and dragging his foot behind him by sinews of thread. Peter raised his semiautomatic, pointed it at Fly-Boy's face, pulled the trigger, and watched Stephen's brains blast out the back of his head. He briefly considered taking his own life until he fled to the roof where Francine met him.
Peter looked out the window again and saw a zombie collide into the man peering down the gun barrel. As he bumped the rifle butt, the man's head exploded like a red balloon. Meanwhile, the demonic nurse chased the helicopter until she tripped over the ledge and toppled out of sight. A dead fat man in a business suit opened his enormous mouth and gaped at them, wide-eyed.
"Peter, we have to refuel," Francine yelled. "But I don't know where to go!"
Peter could barely think. He'd been up all night exchanging gunfire with that damn biker gang. They had crashed through the glass doors and looted the mall while hordes of zombies spilled in behind them. Their brief respite was gone. After dwindling to two, their party was on the run again.
"See that water tower over there?" Peter yelled over the whirring blades. "I saw a Phillips station behind it when we first arrived. Maybe it still has gas."
Francine veered the chopper sideways and leveled off as they aimed toward the tower. The helicopter barely skimmed over the top as Peter pointed to a building half a mile to the west. Their aircraft slowly approached the Phillips station and Francine carefully set down only a few yards from a gas island.
"Stay here," Peter ordered as he jumped from the chopper. He had lost his SWAT rifle on the mall's rooftop and now carried only a snub nose revolver. He ran to the gas pumps as the propeller blades buffeted a whirlwind behind him. He picked up the first pump handle and squeezed the trigger a few times, but not a drop came out. He quickly flicked the other pump handles but again got no response.
"Shit!" he yelled, and ran into the office while he pointed his pistol ahead of him with both fists. He jumped over the clerk's desk and looked at the controls. Yes, all the pumps were on. The storage tanks were simply empty.
"Fuck!" Peter yelled as he rushed out of the office. Already, he saw three corpses lumbering across the street toward him. One lacked a mandible, so it wasn't too much of a threat. Its two companions leered at him through blackened gums. One had a string of intestine dangling from its bare ass. Peter sprinted to the helicopter and jumped inside.
"The pumps are empty!" he said, defeated. "We'll have to find another gas station. Take off."
"But Peter," Francine blurted, "We're out of fuel!"
A dozen zombies surrounded the helicopter. A naked woman with a chewed-up breast slammed against the door. Her ruined bosom smeared a trail of red gunk across the window. Another zombie pounded on Francine's door. His nose was gone, and ropes of green snot dangled from his yawning nasal passage.
"There's no gas," Peter yelled, pointing outside. "We have to leave, NOW! This goddamn chopper is drawing dead fuckers like flies!"
Francine wiped away tears as she tugged the stick and soared over the groaning, insatiable crowd. The helicopter flew over Pittsburgh again, but neither occupant knew where to turn next.
It was full daylight as the aircraft continued its westward course. Peter was so tired that he desperately fought back sleep. He couldn't afford to take a nap while their helicopter lost fuel, flying over a city of the walking dead.
He glanced out the window again and saw ant-sized figures shuffle soundlessly through the streets below. Although hundreds of cars and trucks were strewn about, none moved. Nobody was alive down there. Peter again wondered how that biker gang survived on the road as long as they had.
Suddenly, the helicopter engine sputtered erratically. The fuel gauge light blinked like a Christmas tree bulb as they descended.
"Peter, we're going down," Francine muttered helplessly.
"Fran, whatever you do, DON'T land in the street. We've got to find a rooftop somewhere." Peter searched frantically for a place to touchdown and saw a six-story office building to his left.
"There!" he shouted, pointing. "Can you land on that building?"
The engine skipped beats as the helicopter descended noisily. Francine swung the chopper hard left and they dangled over the building as their aircraft sputtered uncontrollably.
Trying to remain calm, Francine said, "We're going to crash."
Peter barely had time to attach his shoulder harness before the chopper dipped nose first into the rooftop. The jolt was so sudden that Peter slammed his head against the window. The helicopter leaned sideways as its whirling propeller blades slashed into the asphalt roof and splintered asunder. Bits of metal flew everywhere and Peter saw sparks explode before the helicopter toppled over on its side.
Glass shattered into the cockpit and smoke spewed everywhere. The helicopter rolled twice as the world exploded in white light and pain. Finally, the aircraft rested on its left side, only inches from the rooftop's edge.
"Fran!" Peter screamed. "Are you okay?"
Francine's eyes fluttered open as blood pooled on her forehead. She started to sob. "Peter," she cried. "Don't let me lose my baby! Please, don't let me lose my baby!"
Peter grunted while he pulled a knife from his boot and sliced off her shoulder restraints. He remembered telling Fly-Boy that he could terminate Francine's pregnancy months ago, but she'd resisted. Now her baby would die and drag her down a black hole with it.
Peter cradled the blonde woman in his arms as he carried her to the roof's exit door. He glanced at her leg and gasped. Francine sustained a compound fracture in the crash and a sliver of bone jutted through her left shin. What the fuck was he going to do now? They'd just lost their helicopter, and now he had to take care of a pregnant woman in her final month with a broken leg? God, what could happen next?
He set her down and tried to open the roof door, but discovered that it was locked. Peter drew his snub nose revolver, aimed it at the door lock, turned his face away, grimaced, and fired. After splintering the lock, he kicked the door open, scooped up Francine, and carried her down a dark stairwell.
They entered a sixth-floor reception area where Peter laid Francine down on an overstuffed couch. He tried the lights, but the electricity was dead. He turned and said, "I'd stay and take care of you Fran, but I have to find a truck to drive us out of here. I'll hotwire one, just like Roger and I did." Remembering Roger's death still hurt.
Francine was too exhausted to care. "Go on," she murmured. "I'll be fine. I just need some sleep."
"You sure?" he asked uncertain. "Do you want me to bring you anything before I leave?"
"No," she said. "Just go. But please hurry back."
Peter raced down the steps until he arrived at the first floor and looked out the window. A crowd of zombies gathered in front of the building to watch the fire billowing from the rooftop. They stood hypnotized, bewildered and ecstatic. Peter crept back and unlocked one of the ground floor windows, quietly slid it open, dropped into a back alley, and then softly closed the window. He scurried away, silently.
Francine sobbed with pain. She slid off the couch, rolled onto the carpeted floor, and shrieked. Her leg buckled in agony, her insides ruptured, and she threw up.
"Peter," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Come back, come back, come back..."
Suddenly, she felt a gushing sensation as hot liquid spilled down her thighs. At first she wondered if her bladder had released until she realized that her water broke. Later, she felt her first, tortuous contraction. She was going into labor.
Francine nearly passed out.
Peter ran into a deserted intersection, his pistol thrust in front of him, and saw a patrol car wrapped snugly around a light pole. It looked like it'd crashed only recently.
Peter carefully scooted toward the car, waving his gun to and fro. He looked down and saw the car's driver, or at least what was left of him. He glanced at the hole in the driver's side window and pieced together what happened.
The police officer had tried to flee, lost control of his car, and crashed into the pole. A mob of zombies then dragged the wriggling man through the car window before they tore him apart, limb from limb, on the street. A bloodstained police uniform lay wadded up on the road with fragments of bone, viscera, and entrails jutting from it. An odor of fetid carrion lingered.
Still holding his gun drawn, Peter knelt and examined the officer's belt. The pistol was gone, the walkie-talkie was smashed to bits, but the leather belt still held a pair of handcuffs and bundle of keys. He snatched the keys and inched his way to the patrol car.
Obviously it wouldn't drive, but he decided to check the trunk. The keys jangled loudly as he popped it open. Peter looked inside and found a .380 automatic with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying beside it.
"Bingo!" he whispered, smiling.
He lifted the .380, snapped it open, and peered inside. Satisfied, he closed it and grabbed the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. Next, he seized the duffel bag of shells and magazine clips, slung them over his neck, pocketed the snub nose, and backpedaled from the car.
Peter was about to run for it when he heard a muffled clicking. He looked down and saw the police officer's head, lying twenty feet from its body. As he approached, Peter saw that its ears, nose, and face were torn off while a string of cord and glistening vertebrate dangled from its severed neck. Only tufts of hair clung to its scalp.
Peter strode closer and saw that its jaws convulsed erratically. Although the zombies had devoured the man completely, they never reached his brain, so his skull survived in a blind, mute, paralyzed torment.
Briefly, Peter wondered about the bikers torn apart in the mall last night. Were they still in there now, suffering this same silent disembodied fate?
He smiled at that thought, and then stomped on the police officer's head. It exploded beneath his boot like a rotted melon.
The contractions arrived closer and closer together. Francine screamed and pushed. She'd never been in so much pain in her entire life. Another contraction stormed through her body and she pushed again, crying. Blood and sweat ran down her face.
Finally, a tiny head emanated between her legs. Francine curled and bore down, straining in disbelief as an infant slipped from her vagina. The baby was gray, covered with blood and slime, and an umbilical cord dangled from its navel.
Francine lifted her baby to her face, chewed the umbilical cord apart, and spit out droplets of bitter amniotic fluid. Then she wiped the mucus away from the infant's face and gently patted its back. The baby awoke and cried noisily like a tiny nanny goat. It was a newborn boy.
"Stephen!" Francine cried with a combination of anguish and joy. "We have a boy! We have a boy!"
Then she tore her blouse open, dropped her bra cup, and lifted the infant to her waiting nipple. The infant suckled quietly as Francine closed her eyes and slept.
Peter marched through the street on full alert, jumping and twirling at every sound. He once collided with a rancid ghoul that had been dead a long, long time, so he batted its head with his rifle butt. The ghoul's head popped off its neck like a rotted cork and rolled into a drainage gutter. The headless corpse stood for a few seconds from sheer rigor mortis, swayed precariously, and then collapsed in the street.
Peter turned into a car lot and stopped. Sitting on the lot was the biggest, baddest tow truck he'd ever seen. It wasn't some rusty clunker with "Sonny's Towin' Service" scrawled on its side. No, this was a gigantic black and chrome motherfucker with a colossal winch in back.
Peter ran up to it and opened the cab door. He unslung his firearms and duffel bag and tossed them onto the passenger seat as he climbed in and slammed the door. At once, he realized that he didn't have his tools to hotwire the truck because fucking Roger lost them, right after a zombie bit off a mouthful of his calf and sealed his doom.
Peter cursed. He flipped the truck's visor down and a pair of keys fell into his lap like manna from heaven.
Peter broke into a broad grin and said, "Yes sir, things are finally going my way!"
Two massive fists reached through the driver's side window, seized Peter's head and shoulders, and wrenched him halfway through the open window.
Francine awoke when another painful contraction stampeded through her body. At first, she didn't know what was happening. Didn't she just have a baby? Was she delivering twins? Then she faintly remembered that she hadn't expelled all her afterbirth, so she set her sleeping baby down, curled up again, and forced the placenta to purge itself. The effort was almost as strenuous as the original delivery.
After expelling the tissue, she lifted her baby, wrapped it in her blouse, and laid it atop the sofa cushions. Then she crawled away and lay prostrate on the floor as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Francine was dimly aware that a warm, viscous, heavy blood flow issued from her vagina. She comprehended without surprise that she was dying.
Hazily, she prayed to God that Peter would return soon and rescue her baby. Her breathing leisurely slowed until she stopped respiring altogether.
Peter fell halfway out the truck window as he fought his unseen assailant. He heard it growling at him as he clutched its head and jaws and forced its snapping teeth away from his face. The monster's grip was powerful, too, and Peter feared that its sharp fingernails would lacerate his skin and transmit the deadly infection into his bloodstream.
Finally, both of them fell on the ground and Peter instantly rolled against the truck. A shriveled purple face glared at him, the whites of its eyes blood-streaked with burst capillaries. When the ghoul grimaced, its blackened gums receded so far up its roots, its teeth looked freakishly monstrous.
The ghoul lurched forward as Peter planted a boot in its face. Then he stood, reached through the window with his right hand, grabbed the shotgun, yanked it outside, swung it in a perfect arc, and squeezed the trigger. The ghoul's snarling, snapping visage disintegrated in a blast of red mist.
Francine opened her eyes. Her fingers twitched in fits and starts. She sluggishly sat upright as her cerebral matter functioned on a primal, reptilian level. An unfamiliar craving seized her when she saw the bloodstained placental sac lying on the carpet.
Francine snatched the afterbirth and gulped it down it ravenously. Beads of gore dripped from her chin as she searched furiously for more food.
Their struggle naturally drew attention, and Peter saw an army of cadavers shamble toward his truck. The monsters' immense jaws fell open in unison as they bellowed an unearthly chorus.
Peter opened the cab door, scurried inside, slammed it shut, rolled the windows up, locked the doors, and fired-up the engine. Rotted limbs pounded the windows and doors in a deafening percussion.
Francine heard a cry and glanced at the sofa where a tiny, pink fist unfurled. Eagerly, she stood up and started to walk toward it, but her dead weight snapped her fractured shin with an explosive crack.
She collapsed on the floor, but her single-minded appetite overwhelmed her pain.
Peter pushed the clutch, set the truck in first gear, and plowed through the mob. He continued to accelerate until the zombies fell from his truck as he mowed a bloody path. When he finally reached the building where he left Francine, he parked the truck by the front steps and then raced around to the back.
A woman with two milky orbs recessed in her cavernous eye sockets loomed out of the shadows and roared in Peter's face before he fired a single shot through her cranium. He found the unlocked window he made his escape from only hours earlier and slid it open, wriggled through, and dropped to the floor. He got up and slammed the window hard enough to sever the fingers of another ghoul that tried to follow him.
Then he raced up the steps two at a time, found the reception area, opened the door, and gawked at the harrowing tableau.
Francine crawled to the sofa and was just about to grab the infant when the door slammed open. A massive, broad-shouldered black man stood in the doorframe and for a split second, she recognized him.
"Peeeeeetterrrrrrr," she growled, indecisively. Then Francine uttered a rumbling, guttural snarl as she scrambled across the floor toward him, crab-like.
His boot kicked her square in the face and sent her flying. Before she could get back up, the black man crossed the room in three strides, placed his foot atop her sternum, leaned into her hard enough to crush her breastbone, thrust a steel cylinder against her forehead, and fired a thunderbolt that obliterated all consciousness.
Peter stood over Francine's lifeless body as he held the shotgun over her face. Blood, shit, and piss lay strewn everywhere, and the room reeked like an outdoor toilet.
He walked over to the sofa where a small, infant boy wailed. Peter frowned as he drew his pistol, pressed the barrel to the boy's forehead, and cocked the hammer with his thumb.
"I'm sorry son," Peter whispered. "But where I'm going, no child can follow."
The baby stopped crying, opened its eyes and fidgeted. Peter beheld the most vulnerable, innocent tot he'd ever stumbled across in his entire life. He felt like an ogre towering over it with his snub nose revolver pressed against its forehead. His forefinger barely brushed the trigger when he abruptly jerked the gun away.
"Fuck me," he sobbed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..."
Peter picked up the baby and carried him to the restroom lavatory where he bathed the struggling child. Then he wrapped the infant boy in a coat and cradled him in his arms as he strolled downstairs to the glass doors.
On seeing him, a handful of zombies mounted the steps to the entrance. Peter set the child down, quietly unslung his automatic, unlocked and pushed open the front door ever so softly, raised the .380, and squeezed off six perfect head shots in four seconds.
Then he crouched, swept up the baby with one massive hand, and sprinted down the steps to the waiting tow truck.
"Welcome to Hell," Peter chuckled as he gently placed the infant boy in the seat beside him.
Then he slammed the door, ignited the rig, stomped on the accelerator, and crushed a dozen zombies beneath his wheels as they fled town.
- THE END -