by Z. A. Recht
The sentry sounded off. “Tango down, Harris!”
The ex-commander wasted no time.
“I want all of you, fall back to the main encampment! Form a defensive knot! Shoulder to shoulder!”
The single sprinter might have been the only threat, but Harris was taking no chances. Best to assume there were more coming now that the gunshot had echoed across the glen and darkened fields beyond.
“God, I wish we had IR gear,” moaned Wendell, taking his place on the firing line.
“There’s a lot I’d wish for,” said Rico. “Doesn’t make it any likelier to happen, though.”
The group had picked up a couple of nonstandard arms between Lexington and where they sat. One had been given to Stiles—a five-round revolver called the Judge, loaded with .410 shotgun shells. Harris had thought it would make a perfect close-range defensive weapon for the only man immune to the Morningstar strain. He could get blood all over himself in a point-blank situation and come out unscathed.
The other was a Ruger Mini-14, which Commander Harris had claimed for himself. He snapped it up from where it leaned against a tree trunk, checked the ammo, and joined the others on the firing line.
For a long moment, silence fell on the glen once more. The small campfire cracked and popped, and the sound of safeties being flicked off were the only noise. The sailors, Hal, and Mark Stiles looked back and forth at one another, and cast nervous glances at the pitch-blackness of the forest beyond their clearing.
The sound of snapping twigs brought weapon barrels swiveling around. The defenders saw only darkness and the outline of thorn-bushes between the thick trunks.
Then a pair of sprinters burst into the clearing, shoving their way through the bushes oblivious to the cuts they received. The pair focused on the circle of defenders immediately.
“Drop ’em!” said Harris.
Four shots rang out: one from Rico’s pistol, two from Harris’s semiautomatic carbine, and a fourth from Stone’s M-16.
Rico’s shot found its mark, striking the infected on the left just above the eye. The carrier fell backward silently, arms pinwheeling through the air, and landed in a heap in the grass.
Harris’s first shot missed, and his second struck the remaining infected in the shoulder, spinning it halfway around. It came back up, a low growl in its throat that quickly became a full-fledged, guttural roar, so full of rage and determination that it drained the blood from the faces of the defenders.
Stone’s shot hit the infected in its open mouth, blowing out the back of its neck and sending it down to join its comrade in the grass.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” breathed Wendell. The sailor had good reason to be worried. The gunshots might bring out curious infected, but the deep-throated roar of the second sprinter was a dinner bell for any remaining infected within earshot.
“Steady, men!” said Harris. “Steady. They’ll be coming, now.” So close, he thought. So close, and we fuck up less than a dozen miles from the finish line. “We have to hold the bastards when they show!”
Their only warning was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps cracking branches and crunching dried leaves underfoot.
One moment, the camp was empty save for defenders.
The next, sprinters were appearing from every direction.
“Contact rear!” came a shouted alert.
“Contact left!” came another.
“More from the front!” was Rico’s report.
“Shit! Shit! They’re coming from the right, too!” Hillyard shouted.
“Fire! Fire! Take them down!” Harris yelled.
Gunshots rang out in staccato bursts. Carriers dropped left and right, some taken down by chest shots, others killed permanently by well-aimed rounds to the head.
“Reloading!” came Rico’s voice. He dropped a magazine free and slapped in a fresh one, and began unloading rounds on the infected.
The sprinters were gaining ground. They’d closed about half the distance from the tree line to the defensive knot in the center of the clearing. The sailors’ gunshots began to ring out faster and faster, as they desperately tried to kill their opposition before it closed on them.
A sprinter launched itself from the underbrush and low-tackled Hillyard, dragging itself up the man’s trousers. The sailor tried to aim his MP-5 down at the sprinter’s skull, but the infected batted the barrel out of the way and sank its teeth into the sailor’s neck. His scream trailed off into a gurgle.
Wendell went down next, taken by a pair of sprinters. His buddies came to his rescue, pulling the infected off the sailor and bodily throwing them away from the knot. They raised their pistols and dispatched the attackers with a flurry of shots, but the momentary breach in the line allowed more of the infected to close to melee range.
“They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere!” Allen shouted. Panic was beginning to creep into his voice.
Harris picked up on it. “Steady, men! Keep up the fire!”
Slowly, the sprinter attack began to slacken off. What had been dozens tearing through the underbrush slowed to half a dozen at a time, then pairs, and finally, the assault ceased entirely. The final sprinter fell, taken by a shot to the throat by Mark Stiles’s Winchester.
Silence fell once more. The smell of gunpowder and the sickening scent of coppery blood overpowered the tantalizing odor of the forgotten venison steaks, now beginning to blacken and char on the grill.
“Is that it?” Rico asked, blood pumping. His eyes were wide, and he scanned the tree line for more threats.
Harris waited a moment, heard nothing, and nodded, using the lull to reload his M-14.
“Damn,” Allen said. “We’re down two more. If we don’t get out of here soon, I don’t—”
“Check these bodies!” Harris said, cutting Allen off. “Finish off any of the bastards that didn’t get hit in the head. Don’t want them getting back up.”
The sailors spread out, abandoning their defensive knot, and flicked on flashlights, inspecting the bodies of the deceased carriers. Here and there a shot rang out as a sailor finished a sprinter.
One of the infected, leaning against a tree with a bloody smear leading down the bark to where it lay, snapped its eyes open. With a shudder and a moan, it leaned forward, and tried to lift itself to a standing position.
Hal Dorne took aim with his pistol and finished it off with a shot to the forehead. The undead slumped back against the trunk, stilled for good.
Harris took a look around the now-ruined camp, shaking his head. “All right, gents. Let’s pack up. It’s not safe here anymore. We’ll have to move out.”
“In the dark, Commander?” asked Rico. “Won’t that just get us attacked again?”
“Maybe,” admitted Harris, “but it’s better than sitting here and hoping more aren’t on their way.”
Perhaps it was bad timing on Harris’s part, or perhaps the universe was simply betraying its twisted sense of humor, but at that moment the night breeze carried the sound of low-pitched moans to the group.
“Oh, shit,” said Stiles.
“Shamblers,” agreed Allen. “Lots of them.”
“But from where?” asked Rico, turning in a circle.
Stiles turned, too. The moans seemed to come from everywhere.
Harris made a quick decision. “All right, men! Grab up your weapons, ammo, and food! Leave your bags and packs! We can scavenge more clothes and gear in Omaha! We’ve got to beat it to the trucks, now!”
The sailors gave him no argument. They grabbed what precious little ammunition remained, slung their weapons, and prepared to move out.
All the while, the sound of undead moans grew closer and closer. The enemy’s footsteps were now audible. By the time the group was ready to bug out, the first of the shamblers had appeared on the edge of the clearing.
Rico took aim at the closest, but Harris stayed his hand. “Save your ammo, Rico. We might need it. All right, men! Due east! Stay quick, stay quiet, stay low, and
watch your flanks!”
The group, minus the two unfortunates who had been lost to the sprinters, took off at a dogtrot through the woods. They ducked branches and weaved past thornbushes, doing their best to remain silent.
Stone, in the lead, took the group down a culvert than ran alongside the highway, counting on the dip to hide them from view. It would have been a good move, except one of the shamblers happened to be standing on the edge of the decline. It let loose a deep moan and tottered toward the survivors. Rico fired once, missed, and tried again, this time nailing the shambler below the chin. Bits of skull and gray matter sprayed from the back of the thing’s skull, and it fell forward, rolling down the hill to come to a rest at the survivor’s feet.
“Watch the blood,” cautioned Harris, pointing at the shambler. “Walk around it.”
“Sir,” said Allen, his face gray as a granite headstone, “I think we have bigger problems.” The sailor pointed to the edge of the highway above, where half a dozen more shamblers had appeared. Joining them was a lone sprinter, snarling and twitching, staring with bloody eyes at its prey. It let loose another roar before it charged.
Harris’s M-14 bucked once, putting a crater in the sprinter’s chest. It hit face-first and slid, unmoving, down the hill into the culvert.
The crowd of shamblers was right behind it, making their way down the steep decline toward the soldiers, the hill giving them a bit of added speed. Gunshots lit the night and muzzle flashes created a strobe effect in the darkness. Harris glanced behind and saw that the shamblers they’d left behind in the camp were catching up. They were flanked.
A shambler tripped on its way down the hill, causing Stone’s pistol shot to miss high. The shambler rolled head over heels and came to a stop at the man’s feet. It immediately grabbed out at the man’s legs, yanking him to the ground. It sank its teeth into his boot. Stone’s face didn’t change, and his only reaction was to kick at the shambler with his other foot. When that didn’t work, he sat up and pressed his pistol against the shambler’s head and fired, blowing the back of its skull off.
One by one, the sailors began to report their dwindling ammunition. Their voices took on an edge of panic. Stiles felt fear begin to blossom in his own chest.
Immune or not their teeth will still kill me dead.
Allen, still on point, tried to lead the men onward. “Come on!” he shouted. “There’s a storm drain ahead—runs under the highway! We can funnel them in one or two at a time! We could stand a chance there! It’s just over here—!”
Allen turned to point and found himself standing face-to-face with a shambler that had come around the wide trunk of an ancient oak. It was missing one eye and a chunk of its throat had been torn out. Allen, gagging against the stench, raised his pistol, but the infected leaned forward and tackled the sailor, bringing him to the ground.
“Help! Help me!” Allen cried. His pistol had been dropped in the tussle, and he was now grappling with the infected, trying to keep its head and fingernails away from his flesh.
Harris ran with Stone, trying to pull the infected off the desperate man. Harris yelled orders, tried to rally his men into another defensive knot, but their frazzled nerves were getting the better of them. The darkness, the omnidirectional attack, the dwindling ammunition—all conspired against them. The situation was grave, and all the men knew it.
Hal Dorne fired another shot at one of the shamblers, caught it high in the chest, and knocked it to the ground. It would be back up in moments, but at least it would slow the decaying infected down a bit. He took stock of their situation, and found it approaching hopeless.
The sailors were outnumbered. Shamblers lined the highway’s edge above, and more came at them out of the pitch-black woods. The sailors’ ammunition was running low. A pitched fight would see them all dead.
Think, Hal. Think. What do you do?
The answer hit him immediately.
Stiles. Get Stiles out of here.
The retired tank mechanic cast about for the young soldier. He spotted him kneeling in the grass, levering a round into his Winchester. His well-aimed shot dropped another shambler. Hal made a beeline for the resourceful young man and grabbed him by the shoulder.
Stiles shrugged off Hal’s grasp and fired again.
“Stiles!” shouted Hal. “We have to go! Now!”
Stiles spared an angry glare in Hal’s direction. “These guys are getting slaughtered!”
“Come on, Mark! We have to get you out of here! You’re the key! We can’t let you die here!”
Hal grabbed at Stiles’s clothing again, trying to pull him back and away from the engagement. Stiles pushed back hard, knocking Hal on his rear.
“Fuck off, Hal!” shouted Stiles.
Hal’s patience had worn thin. He pulled himself to his feet, wound up, and roundhouse-punched Stiles in the jaw, sending the soldier sprawling. Hal was on him before Stiles could recover, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt. “Listen up, Stiles! You’re our one hope for a vaccine! All of these men tonight will have died for nothing if you check out here! Get your shit together, son! We need you alive!”
The blow seemed to restore Stiles’s senses. He looked around the culvert, swallowed hard, and nodded. “All right, Hal. Fine. Have it your way. Let’s go.”
“About goddamned time!” was Hal’s shouted reply.
The pair picked themselves up, grabbed their weapons, and climbed the opposite side of the culvert.
Hal spared one final glance over his shoulder at the firefight in the ditch. The bodies of shamblers lined the ditch, surrounded by the bloodied and fresh corpses of sprinters. At the far end, Commander Harris and Stone had pulled the infected off Allen and were backing up, still firing nonstop, at the approaching horde of shamblers. They were making for the storm drain. Rico was nowhere to be seen.
Hal saw Stiles gritting his teeth, probably feeling like a traitor. Stiles turned his back on the scene and took off after Hal, who had turned to forge a trail through the tall grasses and young trees that led east, toward Omaha.
Mark Stiles moved slower.
“What is it?” Hal asked.
“My leg is burning.”
The original bite, the one he’d received in Hyattsburg, hadn’t infected him, but it also refused to heal properly. It was closed up and showed no signs of putrefaction, but it still pained him. Hal waved him on, and Stiles limped as fast as he could after him, swishing the tall grasses out of his way as he went.
Behind him, the sounds of gunfire began to fade. By the time Hal and Stiles had made it across a wide field and into another narrow stand of trees, the sound was little more than echoes in the distance. Hal felt sick to his stomach. He’d grown to be friends with many of the sailors, and to lose them this close to their destination struck him as cruelly unfair.
Looking everywhere but at Stiles, Hal pushed his way through the tightly knit branches of a young pine grove, emerging in a tiny, ten-foot-by-ten-foot clearing. It wasn’t much better than their original camp spot, but the trees here were much closer together, forming a curtain no eyes could penetrate. If they stayed quiet, they would be safe until the sun rose and the infected retreated to their shady hideaways.
“This will do,” whispered Hal, kneeling in the center of the clearing. “We’re another half mile closer to Omaha.”
Stiles said nothing. The gunshots in the distance had dropped off into silence.
“I managed to save my pack,” Hal went on, unslinging the rough leather knapsack from his shoulders. “We have a little food, some medical supplies, and one of the short-range radios.”
“We just lost a bunch of good men,” whispered Stiles, his face a mask. “We were so close.”
“Don’t,” replied Hal. “If we get a vaccine out of your blood, all of it will have been worth it.”
“Yeah,” said Stiles. “I keep hearing that.”
“You don’t believe it?” asked Hal.
Stiles shrugged.
“G
et some faith or get used to it,” said Hal, pointing a finger at Stiles. “You’re humanity’s greatest asset right now, my friend. We gotta keep you safe.”
“Safe,” mused Stiles.
Hal scoffed. “There are safe places. Little place in the islands in the South Pacific. Had myself a nice little shack there. Plenty of beer. Beautiful native girls. You know—perfect tans. Water’s just as blue as the Caribbean. Paradise. That’s why I retired there.” Hal chuckled. “Fucked that one up pretty good, didn’t I?”
Stiles kept his mouth shut.
Hal continued. “Yes, sir, right now I should be hitting golf balls in my backyard, sipping a beer and listening to Skynyrd. But here I am instead—dodging infected, back in the good old U.S. of A. Hell of a retirement. Take my advice, Mark.”
“What’s that?” asked Stiles.
“Don’t bother investing in a retirement fund. Spend it all now, while you’re young enough to enjoy it.”
“Never did start one.”
“One what?” asked Hal.
“A retirement fund,” said Stiles. “Guess I never thought that far ahead.”
“I knew I liked you for a reason.”
Time passed in silence. Overhead, the waxing moon was disappearing behind the treetops. Stiles checked his watch, remembered he’d traded it a while back for a few painkillers from the sailors’ medic to help him with his leg, and gave Hal’s foot a tap. “Got the time?”
Hal pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. “It’s two-thirty. About four hours to sunup. We should get some rest.”
Stiles laughed. “Yeah, like I could sleep after everything that’s just happened.”
Hal shrugged, tucked his knapsack behind his head to serve as a pillow, and leaned back against it, crossing his ankles. “You’ve got first watch, then. Wake me in two hours.” The older man pulled the brim of his baseball hat down over his eyes, and within a few minutes was breathing deeply and regularly, out like a light.
Stiles watched Hal sleep for a moment and marveled at the man’s ability to drift off after such a frantic firefight, especially one in which many friends had been lost. He reminded himself that Hal Dorne was more than a civilian. He’d seen combat—real live combat—before, and had probably learned to catch a few winks whenever the opportunity presented itself. Stiles was too high-strung to consider sleep. His guts were twisted up at the thought of his sailor friends lying dead in a ditch half a mile away.