“There’s something here.”
Peter ran over and shone his beam down again. They could see a vast array of cardboard cartons . . . hundreds of them.
“Storage?” Roger asked.
“Civil defense,” Peter surmised as he moved the light beam. It illuminated a collection of large drums, stacked floor-to-ceiling and running deep past the line of vision. On the face of each drum was the familiar symbol of a triangle within a circle, and the letters “C.D.”
“And boxes of canned food!” Roger cried out happily, like a kid finding a toy.
“How do we get down there?” said Stephen. He just wanted to get off the rooftop, either back into the copter or inside the building. He felt vulnerable and exposed on the open rooftop.
For the first time since they’d disembarked from the helicopter, Peter acknowledged Steve’s presence. With a sneer on his face, he destroyed Steve with one glance. Then he brought his rifle butt down against the glass and stared directly into Steve’s eyes as the shattered pane crashed to the floor below.
They all peered with awe into the vast space. In places, the darkness was interrupted by shafts of sunlight that drifted in from the various skylights. The barren space was very quiet.
Peter shouldered his rifle, replaced his flashlight and dropped, feet first, into the room. He stood for a moment, silhouetted in a sun ray, waiting, watching, as if he were a hunting dog scenting the prey. Then he readied his rifle, looking this way and that across the large room.
“OK,” he called quietly, and Roger dropped catlike to the floor.
The two men instantly slung their rifles and moved to the food cartons. They had prearranged that they would carry the big boxes to the spot directly under the open skylight to facilitate Steve and Fran’s entrance into the semi-darkened room.
In a few moments, moving quickly and without speaking, they had constructed a pyramid out of the cartons. It seemed as if they had designed a kind of stairway to heaven—except that this stairway could only lead to a greater hell with the monotonously circling zombies waiting below. The creatures had nothing but time on their side.
Fran was shaking as she watched the two troopers piling box upon box. Unsure of herself, she clutched Stephen’s arm as he helped her get her footing on the cartons. Then she reached for Roger’s outstretched hand and he guided her down the rest of the way. An anxious Steve followed, but whether his anxiety was for Fran or himself, it was hard to tell.
Peter had not waited for the two “civilians” to enter. He was already off, as if on some dangerous mission in an exotic faraway land. He had no patience for the two neophytes. He had already written Steve off as a weakling who, although he could pilot the helicopter, was of no use on the ground. And Fran, while she was certainly spunky, was a woman, and according to Peter, subject to overemotionalism.
In the enormous room, Peter noted only two doors, one at either end. The big trooper moved up to one of them as Roger came up behind him. Roger’s gun was readied.
Peter turned the doorknob. A click told him that it was unlocked, and he gave Roger a familiar nod. Roger stood several feet back, his rifle aimed directly at the door and ready to fire. Then, with a sudden, commando-like motion, Peter threw the door open and ducked away flat against the wall. Roger stiffened, his finger all but pulling his rifle trigger, but there was no apparent danger.
Roger shivered slightly and took in a sharp breath. He hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time Peter was turning the doorknob. The blond trooper was determined not to let the other man see his fear. Roger realized that in order to gain Peter’s respect, he had to be as coldhearted and precise as the big trooper. And, even at a time like this, respect was very important to Roger.
It was quite obvious to Roger that Peter had become impatient with Fran and Steve.
Peter ran over and shone his beam down again. They could see a vast array of cardboard cartons . . . hundreds of them.
“Storage?” Roger asked.
“Civil defense,” Peter surmised as he moved the light beam. It illuminated a collection of large drums, stacked floor-to-ceiling and running deep past the line of vision. On the face of each drum was the familiar symbol of a triangle within a circle, and the letters “C.D.”
“And boxes of canned food!” Roger cried out happily, like a kid finding a toy.
“How do we get down there?” said Stephen. He just wanted to get off the rooftop, either back into the copter or inside the building. He felt vulnerable and exposed on the open rooftop.
For the first time since they’d disembarked from the helicopter, Peter acknowledged Steve’s presence. With a sneer on his face, he destroyed Steve with one glance. Then he brought his rifle butt down against the glass and stared directly into Steve’s eyes as the shattered pane crashed to the floor below.
They all peered with awe into the vast space. In places, the darkness was interrupted by shafts of sunlight that drifted in from the various skylights. The barren space was very quiet.
Peter shouldered his rifle, replaced his flashlight and dropped, feet first, into the room. He stood for a moment, silhouetted in a sun ray, waiting, watching, as if he were a hunting dog scenting the prey. Then he readied his rifle, looking this way and that across the large room.
“OK,” he called quietly, and Roger dropped catlike to the floor.
The two men instantly slung their rifles and moved to the food cartons. They had prearranged that they would carry the big boxes to the spot directly under the open skylight to facilitate Steve and Fran’s entrance into the semi-darkened room.
In a few moments, moving quickly and without speaking, they had constructed a pyramid out of the cartons. It seemed as if they had designed a kind of stairway to heaven—except that this stairway could only lead to a greater hell with the monotonously circling zombies waiting below. The creatures had nothing but time on their side.
Fran was shaking as she watched the two troopers piling box upon box. Unsure of herself, she clutched Stephen’s arm as he helped her get her footing on the cartons. Then she reached for Roger’s outstretched hand and he guided her down the rest of the way. An anxious Steve followed, but whether his anxiety was for Fran or himself, it was hard to tell.
Peter had not waited for the two “civilians” to enter. He was already off, as if on some dangerous mission in an exotic faraway land. He had no patience for the two neophytes. He had already written Steve off as a weakling who, although he could pilot the helicopter, was of no use on the ground. And Fran, while she was certainly spunky, was a woman, and according to Peter, subject to overemotionalism.
In the enormous room, Peter noted only two doors, one at either end. The big trooper moved up to one of them as Roger came up behind him. Roger’s gun was readied.
Peter turned the doorknob. A click told him that it was unlocked, and he gave Roger a familiar nod. Roger stood several feet back, his rifle aimed directly at the door and ready to fire. Then, with a sudden, commando-like motion, Peter threw the door open and ducked away flat against the wall. Roger stiffened, his finger all but pulling his rifle trigger, but there was no apparent danger.
Roger shivered slightly and took in a sharp breath. He hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time Peter was turning the doorknob. The blond trooper was determined not to let the other man see his fear. Roger realized that in order to gain Peter’s respect, he had to be as coldhearted and precise as the big trooper. And, even at a time like this, respect was very important to Roger.
It was quite obvious to Roger that Peter had become impatient with Fran and Steve.
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