Title: Promise Me

Author: Scribe

Fandom: Dawn of the Dead

Pairing: Pre-slash

Rating: R, for language

Summary: Some promises are harder to keep than others.

Archive: Yes. Ask, tell where, and provide credit and a feedback addie

Status: Finished

Sequel/Series:

Warnings: Character death

Notes: In the movie, Peter and Roger meet in a SWAT raid to clear out zombies in an apartment building, then escape the city in a traffic helicopter with pilot Steve (Flyboy), and Fran. They land atop a huge mall, and decide to secure it by blocking the entrances with semis, then clearing out the zombies inside with guns from a weapons store. Roger gets over-excited during the mission and... well...

Promise Me
By Scribe

Some promises are harder to keep than others. I've promised Fran that I'll help her learn how to shoot, and that won't be a problem. Flyboy has promised to teach her to fly the 'copter. We'll see about that. It's a good idea, a smart idea, but he wasn't too enthused when she made her demand. Guess it hurt his male pride that she wanted to be able to take care of herself instead of depending on him. I could tell him that part of it's that baby of his growing in her belly. Women don't screw around about keeping their babies safe--even if they haven't been born yet. I could tell him that, but he wouldn't listen. He doesn't hear what he doesn't WANT to hear, and I think that might make a lot of trouble for him. I just hope it doesn't make trouble for the rest of us.

I can't remember the first time I realized I was going to die, sooner or later. When you grow up in the sort of neighborhood I did, you face facts at an early age--or you DO die. Anyway, I knew that I was nothing but a mortal man a long time before we went blasting into that apartment building in Philadelphia. Martinez had organized the citizens of the projects to resist the mandate to turn over the dead for disposal. He'd gotten them all together in one building, and the dumb ass authorities had decided to go in and blast him and his followers out, rather than keep negotiating. Stupid fuckers. Martinez was a leader, an organizer. We could have used someone like him, someone who could inspire people to work together, but they got impatient, and we went in.

It was a bloodbath. They didn't have a lot of weapons, and considering how strong the gangs were in that area, that sort of surprised me. I guess the King Cobras, the Bloods, the Crips, and all the others decided that the chance to loot in all that chaos wasn't worth the risk of ending up as either a police statistic, or zombie fodder. They'd all split days before, taking their firepower with them. After that initial bloody skirmish on the rooftop, the only shots fired were by our men.

We hit the building from all four sides, each squad making its own way in and beginning a systematic sweep. At least that's how it was supposed to be. The whole world seemed to be going crazy, so I guess it wasn't surprising that a few of the officers did, too. I know for a fact that more than one of them was mowing down anything that moved--citizen, zombie... or fellow cop. I know because I killed one of them.

His name was Wooley. I'd had glancing encounters with him, and I knew him for a hostile, bigoted bastard. I wouldn't have killed him for that. Hell, you'd have depopulated half the country if you killed people for that--and not all of 'em would have been white. No, I killed him because he went ape shit and used the situation to start killing anyone who's skin wasn't pale enough to suit him. He must've blown away a half dozen unarmed citizens before I arrived, while his squad mate was trying to wrestle his weapon away from him.

That's how I first saw Roger. The hall was filling up with tear gas as I moved along it, and suddenly I come on a sight I'll never forget. Here was this little blond guy trying to disarm someone a head taller than him, and almost twice as broad. You could tell right off that the kid had grit. If Wooley had managed to get loose, the psycho wouldn't have hesitated to put a bullet in his squad mate's head. The blond guy knew that. His eyes were open so wide you could see white
all around the iris, but he wasn't backing down an inch.

I thought I wasn't ever going to get him to back away so I could take my shot. Actually, he DIDN'T back away. Wooley shook him loose by slamming him against the wall. While the young guy was winded, and I put one through the shit's head. I got out of there before some of his other partners could show up and start to ask if I really HAD to kill him.

I met him again when he came into the fire stairwell, looking for a moment's break from the chaos and insanity that had broken loose. I was sitting on a step about half a flight above him, and I had a chance to get a good look at him before he noticed me. He had shiny blond hair, chocolate brown eyes, and fair skin. He was handsome, but in an almost delicate way. I thought it was a good thing he was tough, because he'd probably caught hell at the academy.

I leveled my rifle at him--just in case. When he noticed me, I saw his flare of apprehension, but then it died, and I realized he'd recognized me, even though I was still wearing the gas mask, and looked almost exactly like a couple of dozen other men who were running through the building. He recognized me, and he wasn't afraid. I lowered the rifle and took off the mask, and we talked.

He told me he had a way of getting out--a friend had access to a helicopter. He said he was going to run. Did I think it was wrong to run? He was concerned about that. I had been considering it myself. I know I had obligations as a cop, but hell--when the house is burning down around your ears, you don't stand around to guard the valuables.

He asked if I wanted to go with him. That surprised me. He didn't know me from Adam, and he was taking a big risk, telling me this. I could have turned him in--private use of any kind of aircraft had been outlawed when they declared martial law. I didn't know him, either, so I was running a risk going with him. If we were caught... Well, military justice in a time of national emergency can be fast and brutal. I thought hard, weighing my options.

I hadn't really decided when I started down the stairs. I think what decided me was the unhesitating way he followed me.

We met the old, one-legged priest, whose simple words chilled me more thoroughly than all the slaughter I'd seen in the last few days. "You are stronger than us, but soon, I think, they be stronger than you. When the dead walk, senores, we must stop the killing, or we lose the war."

The ambulatory dead they'd stored in the basement broke free, and we fought side-by-side. Then we were confronted by the horror in the storage area--the living dead who had been too feeble to join the others in their dash to freedom, and the ones who preferred to stay and dine on the fresh corpses who had not yet risen. I knew I had to give them peace. I don't like to remember firing into the slowly squirming pillowcase. I still try to tell myself it was a dead pet that someone couldn't bear to toss away, but I can't forget the tiny stuffed teddy bear, soaked with blood. I wasn't aware I was crying till I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks.

One of them, more lively than the others, spotted me and decided he wanted fresh meat. He started dragging himself along the floor toward me, and when I tried to fire, my gun just clicked. I started to reload, but he was already close. The damn cartridge didn't want to snap home, and he'd gotten hold of my leg. He was just leaning in when the kid came up behind me and sent the poor bastard to the next world. He silently helped me finish the rest of them.

There wasn't really anything else we could do after that. The screams and gunfire told us that there was a good chance that the sheer, mindless relentlessness of the walking dead was overpowering the ragged, outnumbered police. I looked at Roger. "Your friend--he gonna mind if I show up with you?" He nodded. I said, "Then we ought to know each other's names." I offered my hand. "Peter."

He smiled. In the midst of all that death, blood, and insanity, he smiled at me. His hand was small, but his grip was firm, and steady. "Roger."

We commandeered an abandoned black and white. There was such confusion and panic on the street that no one noticed. We drove out to the police wharf, and met up with Roger's friends. Fran was a pretty blonde, who had that jittery, half-dazed look that most of the city's still living civilian population was wearing lately.

Stephen--Stephen just looked a little too put together for someone in that situation, but he was the man who was going to be flying the whirlybird, so I wasn't in any position to voice doubts if I wanted my ass airlifted out of there. I had my suspicions confirmed the next day at that abandoned rural airfield. The idiot was nearly responsible for my death.

A zombie, half his face burned away, caught me in the chart room after I'd just finished emptying my gun into the two grade school zombies who'd been trying to eat me. First Flyboy came close to blowing my head off when he aimed for the zombie that was advancing on me, then he wasted at least five shots, while the creature got steadily closer to me. Thank God Roger arrived in time to put one through the back of the zombie's head--neat and sweet. That was two times the kid had saved me. I owed him.

We could all have used some rest, but Flyboy was exhausted. I'd already caught him nodding off before the airfield fiasco, and I knew we had to find some place safe, where he could catch a few hours of sleep. We found the mall just in time, and landed on the roof. We soon determined that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for the undead to get up on the second floor, so we broke a skylight and went it. We found a treasure trove.

The place stored Civil Defense supplies in a couple of huge, featureless rooms--safe water, canned food, first aid supplies, batteries... People would kill for this stuff. We discovered that there was only one way into the interconnected rooms. Once we blocked off that door, we felt safe enough to take a little time to rest and recoup. I don't know about the others, but I was thinking it would just be for a few hours. Then it occurred to me--yeah, we had a lot of useful stuff up here, but down there...

I didn't see any reason why we shouldn't make a hit-and-run. After all, the zombies were slow moving, and spread out, and Roger and I were trained in the sort of commando tactics that would be needed. If I hadn't suggested that we could grab off some useful supplies, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here right now, thinking these thoughts. Maybe I'd be sitting next to Roger in the back of the chopper while Fran stared out the bubble, and Flyboy tried to find another fueling station.

But I DID suggest it, and Roger jumped on the idea like an over-eager puppy would pounce on a thrown stick. It was going good, too, till Stephen decided to join the party. First Flyboy almost gets himself ambushed by the zombies, then he almost leads them upstairs to Fran. If they'd discovered those fire stairs, our only escape route would have been cut off. I saved his sorry ass, as much to keep him from doing that as for his own sake.

I WILL give him this--he discovered the building schematics, locating the passages in the ceiling that would let us crawl unseen from one place to another. But then, that was one of the main things that convinced me that we ought to try to stick around for a while. If it wasn't for that, then maybe...

We almost lost Fran. One of the things (a Hare Krishna, for God's sake. I guess he'd given up on
that vegetarian crap) found it's way upstairs after Bright Boy left the door to the stairwell open.
Luckily we managed to kill it without attracting any more of them, and we got the door barricaded again.

Fran was pretty broken up. Yeah, well, that was to be expected, but Flyboy informed us that she was pregnant. Well, wasn't that just the icing on the cake. She couldn't have been that far along, and I offered to help her get rid of it, but I'm ashamed to say that I made the offer to HIM--not her. She forgave me sooner than she forgave him for not snapping me back in my place.

Roger and Stephen were pumped up. They saw the raid as an unqualified success. Stephen I could understand--he'd see it as an adventure. Roger should have known better. His excitement worried me a little, and I tried to warn them. "You get overconfident, underestimate those suckers--and you get eaten! How you like that?" I thought they were listening, God help me.

We spotted the big rigs parked at a food processing plant about a quarter of a mile away, and worked out a plan to use them to block off the outside entrances. Once no more zombies could get in, we could lock the doors and pick off the ones inside at our leisure. Simple plan. It should have worked. It DID work, except for one thing--a very bad thing.

Stephen flew us out to the plant, then took off again as Roger and I each went to work, hotwiring a couple of the semis. We got them started, and set off back toward the mall. I was going to ride drag--picking Roger up after he blocked one set of doors. The first part worked like a charm. Roger pulled the rig up parallel, scraping its side against the building and completely blocking all the doors at that entrance. I pulled up beside his rig as he shut off the motor, and he scrambled over into my cab. One of the zombies tried to grab his leg, but he kicked it off as we roared away.

Roger whooped and hollered all the way back to the plant. That should have warned me, but I was pretty pumped up myself by then. I dropped him off next to another rig, and pulled away to make my turn as he climbed into the cab to work. I didn't know that Stephen had spotted a small group of zombies, out of sight on the other side. He buzzed as close as possible to the rig Roger was working on, but my boy was too engrossed to notice.

I was busy turning around. I didn't know what was going on till I looked up and the chopper seemed to be heading right for my windshield. Then it veered off and headed back toward where I'd left Roger. That's when I saw the zombies. I've torn myself up inside for not realizing sooner what was going on. As the things shuffled closer and closer to my oblivious friend, I fought with the gearshift, trying to throw that monster into motion. God, it moved so slow.

I could see the damn things crawling up into the cab. One of them got in, but I arrived in time to crush the second one. I looked through the open door of Roger's rig, and my heart nearly stopped. Peter was on the cab floor, and a trailer trash zombie with a Farrah Fawcett hairdo was on top of him. They were writhing together, and for a split second it looked as if I'd interrupted some bizarre make-out session. But a lover doesn't snap like that, trying to bite out chunks of their partner.

I got my rifle up, but I couldn't get a clear shot. I yelled at Roger to get its head up. He managed to get his hands on the thing's throat and shoved it up. It clawed toward his eyes. I fired, and the thing's head flew apart. Roger was spattered with gore and brains, the zombie falling limp on top of him. He fought and heaved, and finally managed to throw it off, and out of the cab. He sat up, scrubbing frantically at his face, smearing the mess. Even at that distance I could see that he was trembling violently, and his eyes were wild. He'd seen a lot since this had all started, and had handled it well, but this coming in the middle of his adrenaline rush and imminent triumph had shaken him badly.

There was a crash as a zombie on the other side used a brick to break the driver's window. Still shaking, Roger went for his weapon. I lifted my rifle, but now Roger was in the way. I yelled at him to get down, that I had it. He wasn't listening. He MOVED CLOSER to the zombie that was trying to grab him through the window, and sent a bullet through its head. As it dropped, I could hear him muttering, "You bastards. You bastards." His voice was shaking. His entire body was shaking. He looked over at me and called, "We got 'em, buddy! We got 'em, didn't we!"

This wasn't good. He needed to calm down. "Roger, man, get your head..."

"We got this by the ass--by the ASS!"

"ROGER! Get your head straight, man. We got a lot to do." Dear God, why didn't I just say 'enough'?

"Let's go, baby. Number two."

"You all right?"

His voice dropped so low that I couldn't hear it, but I could make out the movement of his lips. "Perfect, baby--perfect." He gunned the big engine, making it roar, and pulled out. I followed.

I knew there was trouble. He swung over to the far side to mow down a trio of stray zombies that were wandering up the road. He ground two under his wheels and sent the third flying. When we reached the building, Roger pulled the same maneuver he had before, blocking the side entrance with the rig.

But this time there were active zombies nearby. Before he could get out, they had clustered around the rig, beating at the cab and sides. Once again I pulled up beside him, aligning the cab doors. I made sure to mow down as many of the things as I could, but I couldn't get them all. Immediately a couple of the remaining ones started beating at the window on my side. I leaned over to open the door for Peter--and I'd pulled in too close. The damn thing didn't have enough room to open.

I started to back off, but Roger yelled. "Your window! Open your window!" I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window quickly. Roger leaned out his window, but couldn't quite reach mine. He dropped to the ground, intending to climb up, but a few of the zombies had managed to squeeze into the narrow space between the trucks, and they were only a few feet from him. He jerked his weapon around, trying to get it into firing position, and managed to kill the lead zombie.

That bought him a few seconds, but he kept firing. I shouted, "For Christsake, come on!"

I don't think he heard me. I think that he'd gone almost as crazy as Wooley had. He was leaning out of his window--hideously vulnerable, firing as quickly as he could. He was so distraught that he kept missing, even at that range, and he kept whooping and yelling, his voice raw with excitement and rage--but I think I heard something like a sob in there.

He kept fighting. He tried to keep from falling, while hanging onto his weapon (yeah, a SWAT man NEVER gives up his weapon). I leaned over to try to shoot them, but again I didn't have a clear line of fire.

I heard a female scream of, "Monsters! Monsters!" and bullets started spanging into the pavement close by. God bless Frannie. She couldn't shoot for shit, but she was damn sure making an effort. She got one in the shoulder of one that was about to grab Roger. It didn't kill it, but it knocked it away. Roger used his gun but to club another, then finally lunged up and scrambled through the window. I had that rig moving before he'd even landed on the seat.

We'd almost made it off the lot when Roger yelled, "Jesus! My bag--I left my goddam bag in the other truck."

I brought the truck to a screeching halt. "All right, you son of a bitch! You'd better screw your fuckin' head on, baby."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. Let's go."

His tone was impatient, and I knew he hadn't listened. Something snapped. The fear I'd felt when I'd seen him inches from death exploded into anger, and I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him back against the door. "I MEAN it. You're playin' with your LIFE, here, boy!" He stared at me, wide eyed, his mouth a little open. He looked real young, then, and there was a sort of wondering speculation in his eyes. I quickly said, "And you're not just playing with your life, you're playing with MINE." He closed his mouth, and nodded slowly. I let my voice soften, putting my hands on his shoulder. "Now, are you straight?"

"Yeah." That crazy light had gone out of his eyes.

"Okay." I started the rig again and drove back, pulling alongside the parked truck. Roger immediately climbed through the windows into the original cab and snatched up his backpack, stuffing tools in it. The zombies started to converge again, and I called, "Hurry!" Several of them came around the cab, and two started to worm their way between the trucks. "Roger, hurry the fuck UP!" He started to crawl across, and his knapsack dropped. Goddamn all reflexes--he went
after it.

He braced his arms on the cabs and swung his legs hard, kicking the first zombie back into the second one. He reached down for the bag--and was grabbed from behind. Roger's first thought was of the vital tools. He hooked the bag into the cab like a basketball, almost hitting me. The creature took advantage of Roger's imbalance, and got its teeth into his arm. He jerked free, but I saw blood. Roger popped that sucker square in the jaw with a hard right, knocking it back, and again tried to scramble up to the window. But by now the zombies he'd kicked away had recovered, and came they back, grabbing at Roger's legs.

I tried to grab him, to haul him in, but he slipped back. I pulled my handgun, to try for a shot at close range. I managed to get one of them between the eyes, but then Roger was up again, blocking my fire. He just couldn't seem to get any higher, his shoes slipping on the side of the truck. I dropped the gun and grabbed at his arms to haul him in. He was almost there, his torso in the cab, legs dangling outside. I let go and started the truck again. That's when he screamed.

I shifted with one hand and grabbed his shirt with the other, pulling so hard that my shoulder would feel strained later. The truck swerved, but we pulled away, and Roger tumbled into the cab. My only thought was to get away from there as soon as possible. Roger's breathing was harsh and rapid. I glanced over. "Oh, JESUS!" There was a ragged hole in his trouser leg, and I could see the gaping wound in his calf. Roger was jerking off his belt. Now he wrapped it around his leg below the knee, cinching it off in a tourniquet. I swore. "That's it."

He snapped right back at me. "Bullshit."

"We gotta deal with that leg, man."

"I'm dealin' with it. I'm dealin' with it just fine. If we wait, I won't be able to walk on it at all. We
have to finish this NOW."

Why the fuck didn't I say no? Why didn't I find a clear spot and have Flyboy pick us up right then? Because I knew he was right. If we were going to do this, we had to block those other two doors right away. And we did, somehow. We'd cleared out all the zombies in the plant area, and there weren't many on the last two sides. I kept them at bay while Roger limped back to the safety of my cab. Then we went back topside.

We did what we could for the wound. Roger screamed like a scalded cat when Frannie poured alcohol on it, then he thanked her. She had suture thread and a needle in one of the first aid kits, but the wound was so ragged and gaping that they were useless. Luckily it had stopped bleeding, or we would have lost him right then--instead of this.

We couldn't wait to see if he would recover. I think, deep down, below the surface hope, we all knew what was eventually going to happen. None of us had actually seen the results of a zombie bite, but we'd all heard rumors.

We got into the gun store and loaded up on weapons and ammunition. We made the run to lock the doors, with Roger in the gardening cart I'd gotten on our first foray. Lord, that seemed like a long time ago.

The idea was to lock the ground floor doors, then begin picking off the stragglers in the mall. We made it into the upper level of one of the stores, locked the zombies out. Fran and Stephen ran for the escalators while I pushed the cart into the elevator. As we descended, I put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "How's the ride?"

"Okay. Kinda bumpy."

He was trying for humor, but I could feel how he was stiff with pain--and he was radiating more heat than he should have. "Look, man, I..."

"I know, I know." His voice was gruff. Then he put his hand up, covering mine, and said softly, "Shut up."

Fran and Stephen were waiting, with lit propane torches that they'd snagged from the hardware section. When we got to the gate, I almost gave up hope. There seemed to be too many zombies, and the doors looked just too far away. Then Fran got the idea of using one of the nearby display cars.

I hated myself as I spoke, but I looked down at Roger. "You okay to start it?"

He looked back up at me, his eyes searching mine. Then he nodded, reaching for his supply pack. Every motion screamed 'pain', but he moved efficiently. I swear, that little man must be ninety per cent guts, and the rest nerve.

We opened the gate. Both Stephen and Fran waved torches with the left hand and fired with the right. They thinned the zombies enough for me to smash the cart through, with Roger clinging tenaciously to the sides. Steven was supposed to join us, while Fran waited safely in the store, ready to let us back in as soon as we finished locking the doors. That's not how it worked out. Somehow the gate got away from Steven, and he ended up on the outside with the door locked,
zombies advancing, and the slots in the gate too small for him to pass the big ass key ring back through to Fran. He HAD to get them back to her, and that meant unlocking at least one of the three locks on the gate and lifting it enough to slide the keys under, but zombies were closing in on both him, and Roger and I. Roger pulled his gun and started shooting, but he was shaky, though he did manage to down one. I couldn't wait to see if Stephen would be torn to shreds, because other zombies had noticed up. I headed for the car.

Fran waved the torch at the zombies as Stephen worked to open one lock. He managed to get the gate up, slide the keys under, and lock it again, but the zombies were on him. Through some freakish twist of fate he managed to kick his way free of them without being bitten.

I stopped the cart near the slowly spinning dais that held the car and helped Roger stand up. He began to limp toward it, moving with painful slowness, while I picked off two approaching zombies. He couldn't keep his balance when he tried to step on the moving platform, and fell against the car. I was busy trying to draw a bead on a shuffling, decaying corpse, and didn't see him struggling toward the driver's side door, being carried closer to another creature. Stephen, coming on at a run, saw and yelled, "Roger! Watch it!"

I turned just in time to see the thing grab Roger's wounded leg, squeezing. There had already been a spot of seepage, and now the bandages were suddenly sopping with a burst of bright red. Roger screamed. For the first time, I went a little crazy myself. I jumped up on the spinning platform, leaned across the hood, and put the muzzle of my gun right on the fucker's forehead before I pulled the trigger and blasted it.

As bad as he was hurting, Roger was trying to open the driver's side door--still trying to do his job. I hurried around and helped him, easing him into the seat as gently as I could. Pale and sweating with pain, he went to work immediately.

Flyboy scrambled up on the platform, and we both dived into the back seat, making sure all locks were engaged. The car roared to life, and Stephen grabbed the front seat, like he was going to climb over, saying, "I'll drive."

Roger growled, "I got it!" and slammed the car into gear, throwing Stephen back hard as we bumped down onto the mall floor. He raced to the entrance, knocking aside any zombie that tried to intercept us. We screeched up to the entrance, and Steven and I hopped out and began locking doors. We could see that some zombies had crawled under the truck and had almost succeeded in pushing the doors open. I had to lay a propane torch against one of 'em's fingers before we could shut the door and lock it. That done we set some battery operated burglar alarms and got back in the car before the staggering corpses in the mall could reach us. We repeated the procedure till we had all the outside doors locked. Since there were no windows below the second floor, the mall was well and truly sealed. Then it was time to go hunting.

We tracked them down and killed them all, even Roger participating. I'd wheel him almost up to a lone zombie, and he'd put a bullet in its head, face set in a mask of grim satisfaction. When it was over, though, he in the small upstairs room, on a mattress we'd dragged up, especially for him. Frannie did what she could to soothe him with cool towels and wine fetched from the gourmet shop, but eventually she had to go for the tiny vials of liquid Valium, and the diabetic syringes we'd gotten from the pharmacy. Roger and I kept busy building a blind wall, closing off the corridor that led to the fire stairs. We would leave our nest only by air duct from now on. Roger had suggested just boarding up the hallway, since the zombies didn't seem strong enough to break through anything substantial. I had to remind him that it wasn't only the zombies we had to worry about finding us. There were dangerous predators out there who still had working brains.

Once our aerie was secure, it was time to clean up. We gathered all the already rotting corpses, and sealed them in the vault of the mall bank. Hell, why not? It wasn't as if anyone would need to get in again. Money had become pretty pointless by now. Once the mall was tidied up, we went 'shopping'.

Roger complained about being forced to remain upstairs, but perhaps not as much as he would have if he hadn't been fogged by drugs. He insisted that Fran go with us, mulishly threatening to work himself into a fit if she didn't go 'and bring me back something nice'. Leaving him there in that room was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I knew that if I didn't, he'd become even more agitated. I made a special trip into the gourmet store and hunted down some pickled quail's eggs he'd mentioned being curious about.

That was a couple of days ago. I was downstairs, checking the covering on the base of the fake wall when I heard the violent screaming upstairs. I quickly climbed up the rope ladder, then put the ceiling tile back in place and crawled over to let myself down next to the fire stairs at the end of the sealed off corridor. I raced up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.

Fran was taking a vial of liquid Valium out of the little refrigerator we'd brought up to store it. Her
hands were shaking, and she was ashen. In the little room, I could hear Roger screaming, and Stephen shouting, "Hurry! I can hardly hold him." I followed her into the room. I helped Stephen hold a wildly thrashing Roger as she gave him the injection. Then she left quickly, her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes.

Roger gradually began to calm down. I looked across his head at Stephen and said, "You can go, man."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I've got him." Stephen left. Sensing that there was one less controlling force, Roger
started to thrash again, crying out thinly, but I wrapped him tightly in my arms, holding him. "Sh,
now. Sh, baby. You be quiet, now." He settled down.

The minor bit on his arm was bound, but thick yellow fluid was seeping through the thick bandages. His leg was swollen grotesquely, and almost black. He'd had a fair complexion, and now it was ashen, his eyes sunk in deep, shadowed pits. His fine, golden hair was lank, dirty and plastered to his head with perspiration. The smell of the sweat mingled with the rotten-sweet smell of decay. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't.

He'd gotten so still that I thought he'd fallen into a drugged sleep, but his head rolled against my
shoulder, and he looked up at me, eyes glittering. "You... you'll take care of me, right Peter? You'll
take care of me when I go."

I felt my heart crack, but said firmly, "I will."

"I don't wanna be walkin' around," his parched lips wrinkled in disgust, "like THAT, after I go. I don't wanna be walkin' around like that." His eyes started to dart around the room, terrified, unfocussed. "Peter? PETER?"

I closed my eyes in grief. "I'm right here, Trooper."

"You'll take care of me. I know you will."

"I will."

"Peter?"

"Yeah, brother?"

"Don't do it till you're sure. Not till you're sure I'm comin' back. I might not come back. I'm going to try not to. I'm going to try..." he lifted his hand weakly, and one finger ghosted over my cheek, "not to come back." I felt a tear trickle down my face. "But you have to promise me that you'll take care of me if I do."

"I promise."

"Promise me, Peter."

"Damn it, Roger, I promise."

He sighed. "That's okay, then."

He died a half hour later.

Now I'm sitting here in Roger's room--sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. Out in the big room Fran and Stephen are listening to one of the rare broadcasts. Some scientist is suggesting that the freshly dead be decapitated to prevent revival, and the bodies then be used for dissection and study, in hopes of finding some cure. He says that the skeletons and heads could be returned to the surviving family members for dignified burial. I wonder how long it will be before someone kills him.

My rifle is across my lap, and I am staring at the sheet shrouded figure lying across from me. I have been in this exact same position for the last four hours, ever since I closed Roger's dull eyes, allowed myself to stroke his hair, and pulled the sheet over his still form. If it's going to happen, it shouldn't be long now, but God, I hope it doesn't.

The sheet twitches over his feet. My hands tighten on the rifle. I can hear the scientist droning on, the angry shouts of the on camera viewers trying to drown him out. It is all just so much meaningless noise. The sheet moves over where his arms should be. Slowly, slowly, the sheet creeps down, pulled by the minute motions. Roger's face appeares--eyes staring with no sign of the living warmth they once held. He sits up abruptly. I fit a shell into the chamber.

He looks at me--blankly at first. Then a mindless hunger kindles in his eyes, and he starts to crawl
toward me. He reaches toward me.

I raise the rifle, and keep the promise I made to the man I loved.

END