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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.

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