by Z. A. Recht
He turned, surveying those left around him, and scowled. Near one of the perimeter guards, he spotted Jack—the civilian welder. He’d worked fast and hard in the storeroom, throwing whole boxes of rations up and out of the basement to the soldiers above. He seemed to have missed the bus out of town, though. Sherman ran over to him.
“What in the name of Saint Peter do you think you’re doing, guy? Next move’s combat for sure. Get the hell after that squad that just left!”
“No can do, sir. Armed now. Still gotta be useful—and I had no pack to carry stuff out. What’s better? An empty-handed civvie, or an extra gun?” Jack held up a small pistol, grinning impishly. Sherman looked perplexed. Stiles hadn’t said there were any more pistols. Jack seemed to sense his confusion and explained, “Someone must have dropped it. It was on the floor just inside the door, half under one of those shelf units. Nine-millimeter. Looks Polish or something. It’s a gun, though, right?”
Sherman knew the last comment was rhetorical, and probably laced with undetectable sarcasm.
“You know how to use that?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Yeah. This end points at the bad guys,” Jack said, pointing at the barrel. When Sherman fixed him with a disapproving glare, Jack grinned, then quickly ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, reinserted his ammo, and chambered a round in one long, fluid motion. “I’ve fired a few in my time, Sherm.”
Sherman couldn’t resist a tenth of a second chuckle. Another go-getter.
“Alright, fine. But you’ll take orders like my soldiers,” he told him. He then turned and called to one of his men: “Corporal!”
“Sir?”
“You’ve got Jack, here. His standing orders are to remain behind you and watch your back. If he runs past you, tackle him. If he runs off, shoot him in the leg. He’ll be good bait for the carriers—maybe help us get away.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corporal’s response was automatic—emotionless, nothing more than a quick acknowledgement. To Jack, it probably sounded cold, calculating, and deadly serious. Sherman wasn’t, though—his orders would be followed, but he was now certain the welder would stay safely behind the soldier—now that he feared the man would shoot him. Psychology was a semi-hobby of Lieutenant General Francis Sherman. It came in handy on the battlefield—and when confronted with his often-naughty grandchildren.
That thought gave him pause. He wondered how they were doing. He quickly dismissed it—no use worrying now.
“Alright, men, let’s get into position,” he whispered. He glanced at his watch. “Twelve minutes to game-time. Let’s kick some carrier ass, soldiers, and all head out alive and in one piece! Hoo-ah?”
“Hoo-ah!”
A light breeze had begun to blow as the soldiers helped each other clamber over the tall brick wall that blocked the alley behind the theater from the street.
“Come on, come on, get over! First two on the other side, cover the end of that alley! Overlapping fields of fire!” Sherman stage-whispered the orders as the men began to drop silently to the pavement in the alley behind the theater.
They could already hear the sounds of fists beating on the heavy wooden doors in front of the building, and the scuffling noises of shoes being dragged across asphalt. There were definitely a number of carriers on the street. They had no idea how many, but from the sound of it, there were at least a baker’s dozen, maybe two.
Sherman swung his legs over the edge of the wall, dropping down with a heavier thud than the rest of the men and groaning inwardly as his ankles and back complained.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.
Arthritic pangs were the last thing he wanted on his mind at the moment, though. He turned and looked over the soldiers. A pair of them had taken up position where the alley made its sharp ninety-degree turn towards the street, crouching at the corner, weapons held tight to their shoulders. One wielded a newly-purloined shotgun; the street-sweeper would be excellent to have in the close quarters of the alley if the infected decided to charge them here. The other was taking more careful aim with his .30-06, breathing shallowly as he peered through the scope mounted on the rails.
“Got anything?” Sherman whispered as he edged over to them.
“Couple contacts, three shamblers—haven’t even looked over yet,” said the soldier with the .30-06, watching the infected at close range thanks to the magnification of the scope.
This was what the soldiers had been psyching themselves up for over the last few hours. They were more than ready. The thinly veiled excitement permeated the air thicker than the damp, cold fog beginning to form in the winter night.
Sherman remembered being at an officer’s training class earlier in his career. One of the speakers had been a behavioral analyst. He’d said that a particularly strong emotion seemed to have a contagious effect—in short, a dictionary-perfect definition of morale. Though the men who were headed to free the besieged folk in the theater were facing possible death—or infection, which was even worse—they knew this was not only their duty, but their privilege as survivors. They were all running on adrenaline now, and the ‘fight or flight’ instinct in their brains were all switched firmly to ‘fight.’
Sherman glanced down at his watch, which he’d synchronized with Stiles and his backup crew before they’d left. Stiles was due to appear on the street in two minutes. Sherman had no doubt he’d be punctual. He hadn’t let the surviving group down yet. Once most of the infected were clear, they’d try to break through and get back to the thick hedges that lined the forest by the edge of town.
“Two minutes,” Sherman whispered, holding up a pair of fingers above his head. The soldiers, except for the two watching the alley, nodded silently and Jack nervously held up his pistol in a white-knuckled grip.
Sherman watched the hands on his clock as they ticked away, feeling his own anxiety grow with each passing second. What if something went wrong? What if the whole thing turned into a clusterfuck worse than the Bay of Pigs? What if this all would go down for nothing?
Sherman shook his head, frowning. He berated himself for a second in his head.
‘What the hell kind of thinking is that? It’s the waiting that’s doing it. Just nervous. Stay frosty—you’ve been in worse scrapes and come out shining. Adapt and overcome.’
It turned out Stiles’ watch must have gained five seconds since they’d synchronized. Just before Sherman gave the order to move forward, they heard his screaming voice in the street, echoing slightly off the brick walls off the alleyway.
“Hey! Pus-heads! You! Yeah, you, the shamblin’ pukes! This way! Hey, look! Fresh meat!” came Stiles’ voice. Sherman imagined he could see him in the middle of the street, waving his hands over his head and jumping.
The response from some of the infected was immediate. A couple of sprinters turned around, lightning fast, and issued low, guttural growls from their fever-inflamed throats. One of them actually began drooling as it looked at the soldier. The others, as if responding to an order, stopped beating on the theater door one by one and turned to look at Stiles. Once they’d all turned, there was a moment of complete silence. None of the carriers moved. They just stared, hissed, and growled. The shamblers swayed slightly back and forth, moaning pathetically.
What are they doing? Sherman mused. Measuring him up?
Just as he completed his thought, the pack took off. The sprinters lived up to their name once more, running flat-out at top speed straight towards Stiles.
“It’s on like Donkey Kong, fuckers!” Stiles yelled defiantly. His voice began to fade as he continued to shout, indicating to Sherman he’d begun his retreat. “Keep it coming! This way! This way, you dumb fucks!”
Next went the shamblers, one by one, stumbling past the alley’s entrance, arms out in front of them, reaching for their prey—which was probably two blocks away already.
“Alright, team, go, go, go!” Sherman ordered, speaking louder now that silence wasn’t
an issue. The two on guard sprang forward, running at a half-crouch to the alley’s mouth, sweeping the barrels of their weapons back and forth to check the street. The man with the shotgun fired almost immediately. A shambler had been just around the corner. It must have been one of the last to catch on. The blast took it full in the chest at nearly point-blank range, lofting it off its feet and dumping it in the gutter a few yards away. It almost immediately began struggling to get up, but the soldier packing the rifle swung the barrel around, took a moment to aim, and put a round through its skull. It went limp.
“Thanks,” said the soldier with the shotgun. “Fired by reflex. Should’ve aimed.”
“Don’t talk tactics—get to work!” Sherman barked. “I want defense! Keep a sharp eye! Don’t let any get close, and hit any sprinters first—shoot ‘em in the legs if you can’t get a clear head shot. That goes especially for you, Private.”
“Hoo-ah, sir,” said the soldier with the shotgun. The wide spread of the buckshot might let him knock down a couple runners with one shot.
Behind them, the side door to the alley burst open. Brewster and Denton had been told to expect to hear shooting in the alley—that was their signal to go. All of the theater occupants poured out. Brewster was brandishing a nice chunk of wood he’d pried from a banister, and a man Sherman didn’t know held a bloody machete in his hands. A young woman stood behind him, unarmed. Behind them came Denton—also unarmed—and Mitsui and Shephard filed out last.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Ron. “The front doors were just about ready to come off their hinges when you showed up!”
“Seconded. Good timing, General,” Denton said, throwing Sherman a loose, half-serious salute.
“Contacts!” said the shotgun-soldier in the alley mouth. “Multiple! Five—no, seven—sprinters, heading this way from downtown!”
“Armed personnel, skirmish line in the street! Open fire and retreat! Jack, myself, Ron, and you—Private Enders—form a ring around our unarmed ones! Step lively!”
The armed soldiers ran out into the street, abandoning stealth. Their earlier shots and Stiles’ yells would no doubt have alerted half the town’s infected already. Now was the time for speed. Shots rang out as the soldiers fired at the oncoming infected. Three fell almost immediately. None were head shots, but they were fatal ones. They’d be down for a while before they reanimated. Good enough for retreating purposes.
The shotgun blared, and blood flew from peppered kneecaps. Two more sprinters stumbled and fell to the pavement, howling reflexively in pain.
“More contacts, sir, from behind us! Some of Stiles’ group must’ve headed back!”
Sherman turned to look. Seven or eight more were heading back towards them. All were shamblers, slow-moving but deliberate—and shooting one in the kneecap or chest wouldn’t put it down.
“Riflemen, to the rear! Headshots on those shamblers—clear us a path! Pistoleers, shotgunners—keep on the sprinters!” Sherman barked. The soldiers shifted immediately. He was impressed to see that Jack the welder also ran to the defense, firing quickly and reloading efficiently alongside the trained infantrymen.
“Sir! More contacts! They just keep coming!” shouted a corporal firing shots from his issue Beretta. He pointed with his free hand in between shots. More sprinters were coming towards them from the center of town. It appeared to be the same mob that had ambushed them near the car lot when they’d arrived. Indeed, as Sherman watched the crowd turn the corner onto the theater’s street, he recognized a carrier that he’d shot in the shoulder wearing a very ugly plaid flannel nightgown. If it was the same group, there were probably a hundred more just about to turn that corner, half of them sprinters.
“Break and run for it!” Sherman ordered, feeling bile rise in his throat. They had plenty of ammo—maybe enough for all the carriers here—but they’d be overwhelmed and annihilated before they could get those rounds fired off. Sherman shouted again, re-issuing the order he liked the very least: “Full retreat! Disengage and retreat!”
The soldiers took one last shot apiece, spun on their heels, and ran. The riflemen dropped a couple more shamblers that were near the center of the street, clearing the group a small path of safety. They dodged past the slow, decaying carriers and headed for their rendezvous, where—Sherman hoped—their stolen utility truck would be waiting to whisk them out of reach of the infected.
“Gotta go faster, gotta go faster!” Brewster said as he ran, chanting it like a mantra over and over. He was hanging back, running slower than the slowest of the group, which happened to be the Japanese contractor, Mitsui, who was more than a bit portly. “Pick it up, man, you can do it, we can do it!”
Brewster’s words seemed to edge the man on. He picked up his speed, but it wouldn’t be enough. The group as a whole was losing ground to the sprinters. The infected ran with fevered determination, and the survivor group was already exhausted, weak from half-rations and carrying gear.
Denton spared a glance over his shoulder as they made it past their fourth block. Five more and they’d be free from the town—but he, too, could see they weren’t going to make it. The sprinters had closed more than half the distance to the group.
Sherman knew it too. He knew if they stopped, they’d be overrun. But if they kept running, they’d be tackled from behind, one by one. That was no way for a soldier—for anybody—to die.
He heard the words playing in his head as he realized what his next orders must be. He stopped in his tracks.
“Life’s but a walking shadow,” he said, drawing his pistol and turning to face the oncoming carriers. The others slowed, turned, and looked. They knew they weren’t going to make it. “A poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage . . .”
“ . . . And then is heard no more,” Denton said.
“It’s a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—signifying nothing,” Sherman finished.
“Be glad to go out with a bit of sound and fury, General,” Denton said.
“Me, too,” Jack added, walking over to stand with them. The rest of the group filtered over, weapons ready. Safeties clicked off and Ron held out his machete, whispering to Katie to stand back and run if she could. She took one step backwards—but no more.
The line was drawn. The sprinters sensed their prey wasn’t going to get away, and the frenzied intensity in their eyes gleamed even more brightly. They’d be upon them in ten seconds.
“Give them hell, brothers and sisters,” Sherman said. “Make ‘em pay!”
Fingers tightened on triggers, but just before the first round fired, a screeching noise drew the attention of all on the street, infected included. A pair of headlights had appeared behind the mob of carriers, and the sound of a roaring engine cut through the air. With a sickening, fleshy crunch, the vehicle plowed into the mob, knocking carriers left and right. Some got caught under the wheels and were twisted and broken when they were spat out behind it. The vehicle rammed its way through the line, speeding up to the survivors and skidding to the side, tires smoking. A familiar-looking face leaned out of the driver’s side window.
“I thought we had lost you for all time!” yelled Mbutu Ngasy, flashing a bright white smile. “Quick! Get in! Fastly, fastly, fastly!”
Sherman’s eyes boggled, and his jaw dropped a bit, but he heard Mbutu’s words and reacted. He was right next to the cab, so he swung open the passenger door and nearly dived in head first. The rest of the group clambered into the truck bed, fit so tightly some were laying on other’s legs and laps. None of them cared—this was a miracle.
“Punch it!” came Brewster’s voice from the truck bed. “All bodies onboard!”
Mbutu slammed the truck back into gear and burned rubber. The tires caught traction and the truck shot forward just as the leading edge of the half-broken carrier mob reached the bumper. Shots rang out as the soldiers in the bed picked off some of the closer sprinters.
“Where in the name of the Holy Ghost and Satan’s Cookies di
d you come from, Ngasy?! We thought you’d bought it in the ambush!”
“So did we!” Mbutu yelled over the sound of the roaring engine and gunfire. “We doubled back when we lost you and holed up in that warehouse we first passed! Guy was a lot more helpful when your men threatened to blow the door off its hinges! Been hiding out there since!”
“How’d you know to come now?!” Sherman shouted back.
“Heard the gunfire! Saw the cursed ones heading out—we knew something was up! We would have radioed, but no one on my truck had one that still had power!” Mbutu explained. He’d taken the first right turn he could, then a left, followed by another left to throw off the mob of carriers, and was swinging a hard right back onto the street they’d started on as he spoke. Some of the carriers were still there, a block back, and started after them again, but the majority had taken the decoy street and didn’t see them.
“Nice thinking!” Sherman said as he realized what Mbutu had done.
“Air traffic controller, remember? I have a good sense of timing and direction—comes with the work. Should’ve gone a little slower though, then the rest would have been out of sight, too.”
“Good enough, friend, good enough. A dozen’s better than a hundred,” Sherman said, clasping Mbutu’s shoulder warmly and staring in the rearview mirror at the diminishing forms of the carriers.
They passed the city limit sign, still bright and cheery, reading, ‘Thank you for visiting historic Hyattsburg! Come back soon!’
Sherman doubted very seriously he’d ever come back, and smirked inwardly.
We’ve done it, he thought, as buildings and streetlights became trees and shrubs.
“Oh, damn it all,” Sherman said, frantically fumbling for his radio. In the excitement of Mbutu’s last-moment rescue, he’d forgotten about the rendezvous team and Stiles. He needed to tell them to get out, and that they were safe and sound. He clicked the transmit button.