year as George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead , so I guess that’s why it was so overlooked. People considered it a cheap rip-off.
Andy rubbed his tired eyes. It was past one o’clock, and after a day filled with traveling and hashing things out with his uncle about the house, he was exhausted. Everything happened so fast after graduation. His parents threw him a party with all his relatives in Iowa—minus Ned, who waited for him in Anderson Mills—and now he was here.
After the last reel of the film ended, the sense of loneliness was unavoidable. The large house was so empty, and Ned didn’t waste any time wandering back to his house in Hayden City. Ned was confident his guilt-trips would work to dump off the house on him that quickly.
You should be more grateful. He’s offering you a place to stay for free.
He let the concern go for the meantime. It was time for bed. Andy gathered up a toothbrush and toothpaste and walked to the upstairs bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and when he was ready to sleep, he realized there wasn’t a bed in the house.
“Great.”
The only place to lie down was on the leather chair in the living room.
He gathered a sweatshirt and sat back down on the chair, satisfied to rest here. He closed his eyes, but after he couldn’t sleep, he decided to put another movie on. The background noise would drown out the random creaks of the foundation settling, he decided.
He pawed through the reels and chose: Death Hawk .
It started with a man wearing a large leather glove in an empty field. He placed a dead mouse on top of a wooden post and backed away. The man spoke to the gray and white hawk: “Get the mouse—use those predator skills, Willis.”
Willis sprung to the post and devoured the mouse with two pokes of its beak and a hearty swallow. The man raised his gloved hand and the bird returned to him. The trainer handed Willis another dead mouse, and the bird ate it voraciously. “We’ll have you trained for the zoo in no time. You’ll perform for children, and even adults will take enjoyment from your antics. I can’t see why anybody would be afraid of birds, especially a handsome white-crested hawk like you.”
Two men lurked nearby behind a copse of trees and watched the man talk to the bird. They both wore black leather jackets and shared a bottle of hard liquor housed within a paper bag. One of the punks produced a switchblade knife. “Weirdo is talking to a damn bird.”
The other waved a baseball bat. “Yeah, let’s take his wallet.”
The two stalked the bird trainer from behind. The punk with the bat swung it upon the handler’s back, the blow taking the man down to his knees.
The handler cried out, “What do you want from me? Stop hurting me, I’m begging you!”
Willis shot up to the sky, scared off.
“I wish I had a gun so I could shoot that bird,” the punk with the switchblade threatened. “I hate those squawking things. All birds do is shit on us.”
The other punk rummaged through the trainer’s vest and pockets. “He’s not carrying anything except for dead mice. The loser doesn’t have a penny on him.”
“You mean the dead loser. We’ll show him!”
The trainer was stabbed in the stomach, one sick sounding jab. After the trainer writhed and died on his back, the shot panned up to the sky. The hawk watched, turning its beady eyes down to the scene. The footage itself was of stock quality, and even the bird looked different than Willis.
The punk swung his bat at the sky, inviting the bird to die next. “Come down, birdie! Squawk — squawk — squawk! ”
The music bleated in foreboding horror as the bird touched down on the man’s face. With three pecks and a steal, Willis gobbled an eye from the switchblade holder. The punk cupped his eye and shrieked, the camera spinning around him to create a frenzied effect. The other punk retreated. The bird took flight again, and in no time, it angled
Andy rubbed his tired eyes. It was past one o’clock, and after a day filled with traveling and hashing things out with his uncle about the house, he was exhausted. Everything happened so fast after graduation. His parents threw him a party with all his relatives in Iowa—minus Ned, who waited for him in Anderson Mills—and now he was here.
After the last reel of the film ended, the sense of loneliness was unavoidable. The large house was so empty, and Ned didn’t waste any time wandering back to his house in Hayden City. Ned was confident his guilt-trips would work to dump off the house on him that quickly.
You should be more grateful. He’s offering you a place to stay for free.
He let the concern go for the meantime. It was time for bed. Andy gathered up a toothbrush and toothpaste and walked to the upstairs bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and when he was ready to sleep, he realized there wasn’t a bed in the house.
“Great.”
The only place to lie down was on the leather chair in the living room.
He gathered a sweatshirt and sat back down on the chair, satisfied to rest here. He closed his eyes, but after he couldn’t sleep, he decided to put another movie on. The background noise would drown out the random creaks of the foundation settling, he decided.
He pawed through the reels and chose: Death Hawk .
It started with a man wearing a large leather glove in an empty field. He placed a dead mouse on top of a wooden post and backed away. The man spoke to the gray and white hawk: “Get the mouse—use those predator skills, Willis.”
Willis sprung to the post and devoured the mouse with two pokes of its beak and a hearty swallow. The man raised his gloved hand and the bird returned to him. The trainer handed Willis another dead mouse, and the bird ate it voraciously. “We’ll have you trained for the zoo in no time. You’ll perform for children, and even adults will take enjoyment from your antics. I can’t see why anybody would be afraid of birds, especially a handsome white-crested hawk like you.”
Two men lurked nearby behind a copse of trees and watched the man talk to the bird. They both wore black leather jackets and shared a bottle of hard liquor housed within a paper bag. One of the punks produced a switchblade knife. “Weirdo is talking to a damn bird.”
The other waved a baseball bat. “Yeah, let’s take his wallet.”
The two stalked the bird trainer from behind. The punk with the bat swung it upon the handler’s back, the blow taking the man down to his knees.
The handler cried out, “What do you want from me? Stop hurting me, I’m begging you!”
Willis shot up to the sky, scared off.
“I wish I had a gun so I could shoot that bird,” the punk with the switchblade threatened. “I hate those squawking things. All birds do is shit on us.”
The other punk rummaged through the trainer’s vest and pockets. “He’s not carrying anything except for dead mice. The loser doesn’t have a penny on him.”
“You mean the dead loser. We’ll show him!”
The trainer was stabbed in the stomach, one sick sounding jab. After the trainer writhed and died on his back, the shot panned up to the sky. The hawk watched, turning its beady eyes down to the scene. The footage itself was of stock quality, and even the bird looked different than Willis.
The punk swung his bat at the sky, inviting the bird to die next. “Come down, birdie! Squawk — squawk — squawk! ”
The music bleated in foreboding horror as the bird touched down on the man’s face. With three pecks and a steal, Willis gobbled an eye from the switchblade holder. The punk cupped his eye and shrieked, the camera spinning around him to create a frenzied effect. The other punk retreated. The bird took flight again, and in no time, it angled
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