Previously on Night of the Living Dead,

the farmhouse turned fortress became a powder cake,

and Ben was the man holding the match.

Harry Cooper clawed for control.

Ben demanded respect.

The dead just wanted flesh.

And when fear took the wheel out on that lonely road the truck

burned hope died and sunrise started to look a lot like judgment act three

where the masks fall the guns come out and Romero proves the real monster was America all along.

Act 3. The cellar door swings open. Helen and Harry step into the hallway. Fultering, they

peer through the entranceway into the living room. Harry, standing behind his wife, is hostile.

Partially due to anger with himself because he is reneged on his decision about the cellar.

Helen, too, is overwrought, due to the emotional effect of the recent argument

and to the fact that she's about to meet strange people in an anxious circumstance.

But only Tom and Barbara are in the living room, and Barbara, overcome with nervous exhaustion,

is sleeping fitfully on the couch.

We can see the broadcast, I think, if the TV works, I have to go help Ben.

Helen has gone immediately to Barbara, looks down at her sympathetically, brushes back her hair,

and pulls the overcoat around her shoulders. Poor thing. She must have been through a lot.

Harry, during these moments, has been flitting anxiously all over the house, from door to window

to kitchen to living room, checking out the actual degree of security and worrying

about imminence of attack at any second.

...