Dawn of the Dead by George A. Romero Page A

And, since they were Roger’s friends, he felt that he had to become even fiercer and more courageous to make up for his friends’ lack. It was so ingrained in him that he had to please the authority figure, that even while his very life was in danger, he could only think about gaining Peter’s approval and acceptance.
    The door opened into another vast room, which seemed to be about the same dimensions as the first room and also contained stacks of C.D. supplies.
    The troopers moved cautiously through the door into the area. The room was also empty, and the sun’s rays pierced through the darkness from the skylights in this room as well. The room was dead quiet, and there was a door at the other end of it.
    “Double damn,” Roger cried out. “Looks like a free lunch, buddy.”
    In the first room, Stephen had started to open one of the cartons.
    “Spam!” Fran said with disgust.
    “You bring a can opener?” Roger asked as he walked back into the room.
    “Oh.” Fran looked disheartened.
    “Then don’t knock Spam,” Roger explained lightly. “It’s got its own key.”
    Fran flipped the can over in her hand and found the little key.
    Meanwhile, Peter had walked right past the group, as if they didn’t exist. He had a fierce, concentrated look on his face, as though he were alone on a terrible mission. He walked with such a single-minded purpose that Fran mused that he had lapsed into a trance.
    Peter strode toward the still-unknown door at the other end of the room. Roger, giving Fran a quick shrug of the shoulders as if he could read her mind, followed obediently.
    At the door, the two troopers went through the same stylized S.W.A.T. tactics they’d used at the first door. The door swung open into a very small space. Again, to Roger’s relief, there was no immediate danger.
    As they entered, the men realized that they were on the top landing of a concrete and metal fire stair. Roger recalled his meeting with Peter, which had taken place in a similar location. Although it was now only twenty-four hours later, it seemed a lifetime.
    The space was stifling: no windows; musty, stale air. A lone bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling, but down the stair at the next landing it was quite dark, and further down the stairs the blackness was so thick that Roger felt as if he had been swallowed by a great monster.
    “Whatda ya think?” he asked Peter, trepidatiously.
    Peter just stared into the darkness and then back into the storage area.
    “This is the only way up here,” Roger continued, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls, echoing in his ears. “Whatda ya think?”
    Peter merely continued staring at the empty space. Then, as if he were alone, he turned and entered the main room, where Steve and Fran waited on pins and needles.
    Roger stood for a moment on the landing, and then followed Peter into the main room. He couldn’t figure him out, but at least he could rely on him for making the right decision.
    Roger walked into the center of the room. As soon as he cleared the door, Peter appeared and slammed the stairway door closed, turning the flimsy lock. Then, without speaking to the other three, who stood by mutely waiting for orders, Peter started stacking the cartons against the door; a barricade against the unknown.
    •  •  •
    The group of refugees sat on the floor near the pyramid under the open skylight. They had attacked their cans of Spam with relish, and the empty tins littered the area. Stephen slept fitfully, his head in Fran’s lap. Her hand was in his hair, and occasionally she patted him as one would a feverish child. This was the first real sleep he was able to have since they’d left Philadelphia.
    Roger leaned against the pyramid watching Peter, who sat in the lotus position, his gun across his legs. For the past hour, Peter had not taken his eyes off the doorway to the suspicious stairwell. Infrequently, he and Roger still picked at the cans. Roger swilled water from an