Deleted Private Rogers Scene

Joe says: Blake and I intended to put this scene at the end, right between Clay getting blown out the window by the autoclave and Shanna meeting Dr. Cook. The point was to drive home the "reverse Night of the Living Dead" ending, when the military saves the bad guy (in the classic zombie movie, the military kills the hero). Blake and I really wanted this in, and we all liked the scene, but we voted to exclude it because it really wasn't necessary, and it ruined the pacing. As with all of these alternate and deleted scenes, our motivation for cutting them is exhaustively discussed in the Exclusive Behind-the-Scenes Making of Draculas.

Private Rogers

"After that building comes down," the radio crackled, "you shoot anything that tries to crawl out, I don't give a good goddamn if it's your mother, mow that bitch down."

Private Rogers stared at the hospital from behind the wheel of the Humvee. He couldn't believe this shit was happening on US soil.

"Do I need to fucking repeat myself, private?" Col. Halford barked.

Rogers hit the mike on the walkie-talking. "No sir, I--"

A whitehot flash lit the surrounding trees and cars as bright as day, the heat like an open oven, and when Rogers could see again, the hospital was simply not there anymore.

Holy shit. Those autoclaves were badass mothafuckers. What the hell was Halford thinking? Nothing could have survived that--

Wait. What in the hell is that thing?

Rogers moved out of the driver's seat, climbed up the back of the vehicle, and stood up in the hummer behind an M2 Browning .50 cal., studying the smoking rubble as he fingered the 100-round belt and checked the swivel-range once more. He knew some of his unit had been killed, had heard the firefight going on all around him, but Halford had insisted that nothing be described on the radio. The TV folks were nearby, and the order from on high was don't let them see or hear shit.

Rogers understood that. Ain't good for nobody, killing people on camera. Didn't want Ma or Aunt Sally to hear about their son's death on the ten o'clock news, neither. But it infuriated Rogers that he didn't know which of his buddies had been wasted. Made his so damn angry he wanted to pump lead into anything that moved.

Rogers had no idea what they were up against. Terrorists, probably. Wouldn't send all of this hoo-rah out here unless it was a serious threat. He studied the landscape, looking for the thing he'd just spotted. Giant spotlights burned down on the smoldering ruins.

There.

He swung the fifty twenty degrees left.

Something crawled out of a pile of twisted support beams and staggered to its feet, smoke rising off its shoulders under the glare of the spotlights.

Holy shit.

A fucking monster.

No other way to describe it. Burned all to shit, sure, but those teeth...

Rogers had pulled two tours in Iraq, and he felt that surge of familiar adrenaline as he sited up the enemy combatant--nothing like opening up on someone with Ma Deuce.

Easier than shootin' barrels, and pure fun.

He put one round center mass, and the thing stopped, wavering amid the rubble...but kept stumbling toward him.

Got-damn.

He'd never seen a .50 round fail to stop anything.

Seen them bring down bulls with one shot. Fuck up the entire engine blocks of civilian cars.

Rogers aimed again, this time a hair higher, and squeezed off three quick rounds.

The monster's head disappeared.

As it toppled, others emerged out of the rubble behind it, some of them beginning to run toward the parking lot.

He opened up, took a dozen rounds to bring down six of them, and even still some continued to drag their gut-strewn selves across the ground.

Fuck!

He'd missed this one--one of the infecteds climbing through a pile of debris just on the edge of his peripheral vision.

He swung the fifty as far left as it would go, the infected a half second from escaping his range.

One squeeze and in the brilliance of the closest spotlight, a red cloud blew out the side of the thing's head as it crashed to the ground.

Fuckin'a it felt good to be back behind the big fifty, almost made him miss Iraqistan. Crazy thing, but while cruising those insurgent-infested shithole neighborhoods, it had occurred to Rogers that war hadn't felt like war at all. Not that he'd had--

Shit!

Four rounds practically cut the monster running toward him in half at the waist.

--any real inkling of what it would be like, but certainly not what it had turned out to be, all so surreal and horrific, like the best videogame you ever played--ridiculous and fun and profoundly sad, and after awhile, like nothing. Beyond computation.

Here came a pack of them now, all streaking toward him and hissing, and he let them get close this time, inside of thirty feet, before he cut loose, and knowing he still had four 100-round belts, he went a little crazy, barrel blazing until those monsters had practically dissolved into red mist in front of him.

Fuck, that felt good!

He was just getting going now, sweeping the rubble back and forth, jonesing to go again, but the fifty-high was fading fast.

Then it was gone.

Nothing moved in the ruins.

Come on! He was just getting warmed up. One more. Please, God, send one more. One more of those fucked-up creatures for me to kill, and I swear I won't even fucking swear any more.

But still nothing moved. Nothing except that TV helicopter, coming down to land on the grass a few dozen yards from his hummer. Rogers hoped it was filled with monsters--lighting up a chopper would be hella-good--but when it landed some children piled out.

Rogers felt something inside him deflating. That emptiness that had always filled him after a recon--

Wait.

There.

Forty feet ahead, a piece of blackened cinderblock shifted.

Thank you, God.

He sited up the movement, felt his heart starting to beat a little faster now. No headshot this time. Not even center mass. He was going to savor this one. Take it slow, start low, work his way up the legs, do the knees one at a time.

Now several pieces of cinderblock were thrown aside and a creature slowly came to its feet.

Rogers smiled.

Can't believe they pay me to do this shit.

He aimed at one of the feet as the monster started toward him across the rubble, and his finger has just begun to ease back on the trigger when he stopped.

This thing didn't move like those monsters.

It wore blue scrubs, partly singed, but it moved...like a man. An uninfected man.

"Don't shoot!" the man said as he approached, his hands lifted.

"Stop right fucking there!" Rogers screamed.

The man stopped. "I'm not one of them. I swear to--"

"Don't matter."

"I'm one of the few survivors of this massacre, soldier. I would imagine you have some people who need treatment. I am a doctor here." He glanced back at what was left of Blessed Crucifixion. "Or I used to be."

Rogers finger twitched. All he could think about were Halford's orders.

Shoot anything that tries to crawl out, I don't give a good goddamn if it's your mother, mow that bitch down.

He signed up to do some killing, for fucking sure, even killed some civvies in Iraqistan, but those had all been accidents. Dumbasses reaching for a cell phone at the wrong time, buenas noches, muthafucker.

"Come closer," Rogers said.

The doctor stepped into the illumination of the spotlight mounted to the roof beside the 50 cal.

He was scratched up all to hell. Young doctor, too. Thirty-one, thirty-two tops.

"What's your name?" Rogers asked.

"Dr. Cook. Look, it's an infection spread by biting. I'm not bitten anywhere."

Dr. Cook lifted his hands, turning in a slow circle.

I should just fucking put two rounds through his chest right now and call it good. If Halford finds out I let someone through, I'm in for a serious ass-fucking.

Rogers was about to let the gun eat the unlucky doc up, but those damn TV folks from the helicopter, with the damn kids and their damn camera, came running up. Then the damn pilot handed the damn doctor a baby.

Shit. Live on Channel 6, lone soldier massacres seven civvies. After the networks and CNN got tired of it, the clip would be on YouTube forever.

Rogers flicked on the safety.

"Getcher ass behind the perimeter line," Rogers said, "By the trailer in the lot."

"Sure thing, and thank you...what was your name?"

"Doesn't matter. Fact, don't even tell them you talked to me. I'm supposed to kill anything that moves."

"What about serve and protect?"

"That's the police, brother. Marines just break shit."

The doctor smiled. "I won't breathe a word."

Then Dr. Cook led the group through the Humvee's headlights, heading for the perimeter. Rogers climbed off the mount. He had to piss. Another symptom of combat. Some reason, after a firefight, his bladder felt like it was the size of a grape.

He made sure the TV guys weren't taping him, then took three steps away from the hummer and unzipped, getting things going with a grunt, then streaming urine onto the grass.

He heard something behind him.

CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK...

Rogers spun, reaching for his sidearm, pulsing urine all over his boots.

He pointed the .45 toward the hummer but didn't see anything.

"Who's there?"

No answer. Not that the enemy would answer. Could those monsters even talk? Rogers didn't know, and didn't care. It wasn't his job to ask questions.

His piss had dwindled to a trickle. Rogers still had to go, but instead chose to check-in and await orders. He didn't like being out here alone, even armed to the teeth. But keeping a perimeter around five acres of property, coupled with their casualties, had stretched their unit thin. He holstered both of his weapons (this is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for fighting, this is for fun) climbed into his Humvee, and picked up the radio. Just as he pressed the button to talk, he heard the sound again.

CLICK CLICK CLICK...

But it was closer this time.

Closer, and coming from the back seat.

His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror.

Staring back at him was one of those monsters, its face burned, some parts right down to the white bone beneath. One eye missing, pink goo dripping out. Sitting back there, click click clicking its horrible teeth as a rope of drool slid out of its jaws.

Rogers immediately reached for his .45, but the creature was on him before he cleared his holster, biting into his neck, so deep that Rogers felt its fangs dragging across his vertebrae.

The pain was instant, blinding, and, strangely, infuriating. Even as his blood gushed out and his vision faded to black, Rogers was royally pissed off that one of these things had gotten the drop on him. Two fucking tours in the Middle East, only to die in Colorado.

It was fucking embarrassing.

Rogers reached blindly for his utility belt, freeing an M67 frag grenade. He pulled the pin with a flick of his thumb, and it dropped it onto his lap just as his consciousness slipped away.

Semper fi, muthafucker.

Private Rogers never heard the explosion.