by Z. A. Recht
A section of fence had been ripped free, and Keaton saw the bloodied remains of several of his volunteers trapped under the wire mesh. Shamblers seemed to be everywhere, but the objective part of Keaton recognized that there were actually less than a dozen. It was just that the dozen were spread out over an ever-widening area. Some were wandering down a side street, presumably going after defenders that had abandoned the line. Still more were clustered around the bases of the guard towers, reaching up toward the defenders within.
Those were being dealt with.
Sherman was leaning over the edge of the tower, firing straight down at the shamblers around the base of his tower. Every third or fourth round would find its mark, and a shambler would slump against the steel of the tower and slide to the ground, leaving behind bloody smears. Willis was firing after the shamblers that had broken away from the main gate area. His accuracy at long range left a little to be desired. Keaton turned to watch the effects of the man’s shooting, and saw a round ricochet off the concrete near the foot of a shambler, and saw another punch a hole through a carrier’s back. Neither did much to slow or stop the attacking infected.
The men in the other guard tower were busy with their own shamblers, finding it awkward to aim straight down with their longbarreled rifles, but neither position was in great danger. The infected had never been great climbers.
The sheriff looked out into the field and ground his teeth together. Another half-dozen or so shamblers were steadily approaching across the field, heading straight for the breach in the fence. He made a decision.
“Wes!” he yelled. The deputy in the guard tower didn’t hear the call over the sound of the gunfire, so Keaton called again. “Wes, damn it!”
The deputy looked up from his scope, noticed the sheriff, and waved. “Keaton! We’ve got problems!”
“I fucking noticed! Take out the ones in the field! Don’t let anymore of the bastards into town! I’m going after the stragglers!”
With that, Keaton snapped up his rifle and turned, running down the side street where he’d seen the group of shamblers. In the guard tower, Willis shifted his position once more, taking aim at the approaching undead reinforcements.
“This is for Mike,” Wes said, referencing one of the dead defenders trapped beneath the fallen fence. He fired, blowing the back of a shambler’s skull off. “And this is for Tina.” Another shot, another kill. Willis paused to reload, scowling at the undead in the field. He’d killed six of them so far, and the rest of the defenders had probably knocked off another dozen or two, but that still left a full dozen up and wandering.
Keaton tore down the side street, past the modest houses of Abraham with their green yards and pruned shrubs, until finally he caught sight of them, just making a turn onto another road. They were definitely locked onto prey. Keaton was out to make sure they didn’t reach it.
“Hey! Hey!” Keaton yelled as loud as he could manage, waving his arms and rifle over his head as he ran. “Over here!”
Two of the shamblers halted and awkwardly turned, eyes falling on the rapidly-approaching Sheriff. They opened their mouths and moaned, signaling the rest of their group. The remainder of the shamblers slowed to a stop and turned as well, in their stiff, jerky way to face their newfound prey.
“That’s right!” Keaton yelled, slowing to a jog. “Right here! I’m lunch today!”
Keaton stopped and knelt, pulling his rifle in close to his shoulder. He sighted in as the shamblers began to work their way back towards him, and fired. His bullet took down the lead shambler. It fell into a line of tall, flowering plants and was lost to sight except for its feet, which jutted out onto the cement of the sidewalk.
Keaton grinned behind his sights, worked the bolt of his rifle to chamber another round, and fired a second time. This bullet went slightly awry, punching a hole through the jaw of a shambler and exploding out the back of the thing’s neck. It collapsed in a heap. Its body was still, but the head still moved from left to right, snapping what remained of its teeth in exasperation. The round must have severed its spinal cord.
The rest of the shamblers, four in all, were closing on the Sheriff. That was fine with him. A closer range meant his shots would be easier. He racked another round into the chamber, drew a bead on the nearest shambler and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Keaton felt his eyes widen. The light click of the firing pin hitting nothing but an empty chamber rang out louder than any of the shots he’d taken so far today. He’d forgotten to reload in his haste to get back to the fighting.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed. He dropped his rifle and began rapidly patting himself down, feeling for extra rounds. He knew he’d stashed some on his person somewhere. The shamblers drew ever closer as he searched. Keaton patted down his last pocket, finding nothing—then he remembered. He’d taken off all his gear—ammunition, radio, equipment belt—before jumping into the bleach-filled trough. “All right, not good.”
Keaton grabbed up his rifle and backed away from the shamblers, putting some distance between himself and his would-be slayers.
“All right, Keaton, this isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said to himself. “You’re unarmed, but you’re smart and they’re slow. Just keep thinking.”
As Keaton wracked his brain for a plan, he kept backing away from the shamblers. They followed him mindlessly, moaning out loud with frustration—the distance between them and their prey never seemed to decrease. Keaton noticed this, and allowed himself a quick grin.
“That’s the spirit, Sheriff,” he told himself. “Just keep them coming.”
Keaton continued his slow retreat, leading the errant shamblers back to the scene of the battle at the main gates, foot by tedious foot.
At the rear of the town, the fight was turning against the attackers. The defenders of Abraham had better cover, and the attackers had been surprised by the sudden, ferocious defense. The attacking machine-gunners had been killed, depriving the raiders of their heaviest armaments.
The defenders weren’t coming out of the fight unscathed, however. Even as Krueger drilled another enemy rifleman from behind the brick wall, a defender wailed as she caught a round in the stomach and collapsed to the grass, clutching at the wound. Jack, who had managed to clear the bits of debris from his eyes well enough to see, crawled over to the woman to try and help. By the time he reached her and rolled her over, she was dead, staring up at him with fixed and dilated pupils.
The attackers were yelling something back and forth between themselves. Krueger tried to hear what they were saying, but the words were lost in the chatter of gunfire. They seemed to be orders of some kind.
Krueger saw one of the men pointing at the fenceline and shouting back up the hill to a man who was well-covered behind a row of jutting limestone. Krueger took a shot at the man shouting up the hill, but missed, and the raider dove for cover of his own. Krueger cursed and chambered another round, this time shifting his aim to the man hiding behind the limestone outcropping—only to find the man had moved.
“Where, oh, where could you have gone, you little bastard?” Krueger whispered as he peered through his scope. Suddenly, the man rose up from behind the outcropping, winding up in a classic pitcher’s stance. Krueger grinned and fired, the round taking the man directly through the chest. It was an instant kill—but before the man dropped, he completed his pitch. An oblong object arced through the air, landed just on the inside of the chainlink fence, and rolled to a halt against it. Krueger’s eyes widened.
“Everyone down!” he screamed, ducking behind the wall. “Grenade!”
Before he could even finish his warning, the explosive went off with a concussive blast, shredding the fence and embedding shrapnel in the brick wall Krueger was hunched behind. A defender screamed as he took shrapnel to the chest, collapsing on his back in the grass. He clutched at the bit of metal protruding from his ribcage.
The grenade was probably meant to land behind the brick wall and take out
the line of defenders there, Krueger realized, but his shot had taken away some of the man’s momentum. Still, the explosive hadn’t been rendered entirely ineffective. The end result was a section of fence that had been blown outward, warped by the blast, and shredded in several places by shrapnel.
The attackers took up a yell, charging the breach and firing their weapons full-auto.
Most of the defenders were still hunched behind cover, ears ringing from the grenade blast. Denton and Mbutu, close enough to Krueger to have heard his warning, had covered their ears and were quick to recover. They sprayed the breach in the fenceline with rifle and pistol fire, dropping two of the charging attackers. One lay wounded, crying out in pain and rolling around on the ground.
The rest reached the fenceline and started pouring through. Krueger looked through his scope and realized he couldn’t count the number of attackers flooding the fence. There had to have been fifteen, maybe twenty, at least.
“Fire! Fire!” Krueger cried out, abandoning his scope. He aimed in the direction of the breach and let fly round after round, trying to suppress the charge. Other defenders joined in, rising up from behind the wall and opening up on the raiders.
Attackers fell left and right, riddled with rounds as they tried to funnel themselves through their entry point. Those that made it took cover behind trees and even a fire hydrant, returning fire. Defenders went down as the raiders fired.
Krueger’s rifle clicked empty and he swore. He’d used up all the .30–06 rounds he’d taken from the sheriff’s station. He left his rifle where it lay, drawing his pistol instead. He flicked the safety off and popped up from behind the brick wall, firing a trio of shots at the raiders.
Krueger didn’t stop to see if any of them hit, and dropped back down to relative safety. Return fire kicked up debris and brick dust floated over the wall, making Krueger’s eyes itch. His mouth felt dry as a bone.
The raiders were now spread out on the inside of the fence, hunkered down behind cover of their own. Krueger’s mind raced, and he let his infantry training take over.
He turned so his back was to the brick wall and looked left and right at the remaining defenders. None of them were military; none of them would understand what needed to be done. He was about to start grabbing random volunteers for his plan when he noticed four figures rapidly approaching down the main road, running full-tilt toward the fighting. Krueger squinted at them, and let fly a bark of laughter.
“Thomas!” he yelled, waving his hand above his head. “Thomas! Over here!”
The sergeant major and the three deputies, all still soaking wet from their decontamination, had chosen to run for the rear of the town and reinforce the lines there. Thomas spotted Krueger hunkered down behind a two-foot brick wall, waving his hand at him. Thomas made for the sniper, running hunched over to present as small a target as he could manage. Bullets from the raiders sought out the deputies and himself, and the whizz of near misses made the old sergeant involuntarily flinch. He made it to the brick wall, falling hard against it. The deputies dove for cover nearby as well, and began firing at the raiders.
“It’s no good, Sergeant!” Krueger yelled over the gunfire to Thomas. “They’re well behind cover, and so are we! It’s a slugging match! We need to flank these fuckers and put some fire on them from a better position!”
Thomas poked his head up over the brick wall, eyes flicking left and right, quickly taking in the tactical situation. He dropped back down after only a moment and nodded. “Fourteen of them, all with assault rifles on the inside of the fence. Two more outside the fence with scoped rifles.”
Krueger’s eyebrows raised. That was quite an assessment for a three-second recon.
“I agree, Krueger,” Thomas went on. “We’re going to need to drive them out from behind their cover.”
“Wish we still had one of those tear gas grenades,” Krueger said, reloading his pistol.
“Wishes are like assholes,” Thomas grumbled. “Everyone’s got one and most of them are shitty. Krueger, you’re on me. Deputies!”
The three men that had accompanied him looked over.
“You’re with us! The rest of you, keep firing on these bastards! Defend!”
Thomas leapt up, sprinting away from the firing line. He was headed for the nearest house. Krueger and the deputies jumped up and followed as closely as they could manage. Thomas swung around the corner of the house and ran along the side, making for the back yard. Krueger was right behind him. Two of the three deputies made it. The third was hit by a raider’s bullet right before he made the turn, and collapsed soundlessly, face-first, onto the lawn.
Thomas ran through the backyard, circling around the house. When he came to the other corner, he halted, kneeling behind a white fence with thick green vines entangling it. Krueger and the remaining deputies caught up and knelt beside Thomas.
Thomas looked up over the fence. Down the road about twenty meters away he could see the engagement continuing, but from this angle, he had a clear view of the raiders as they lay or stood behind their cover of choice.
“All right, listen up and listen good,” Thomas grumbled, turning to face his small squad. “There aren’t many of us, so we’ll have to make this count. You know the rebel yell?”
“Hoo-ah, Sarge,” Krueger said, readying his pistol. The deputies nodded in reply.
“Good. That’s what we’re going to give ‘em. That and every last damn round we have in our weapons. We’re not here to kill them all, we’re here to drive them out of their cover so our guys down the street can finish ‘em off!”
Thomas checked his own weapon, took a deep breath, and set himself in a runner’s stance.
“Ready?” he asked.
The three men with him nodded.
“All right. Good luck. Go! Go! Go!”
The four men leapt the short fence and ran straight across the street, screaming at the top of their lungs a battle cry that made the sprinters’ roar seem muted in comparison. They opened up on the raiders’ positions, firing as fast as they could pull their triggers. The rounds skipped off cement, embedded themselves in tree trunks and kicked up chunks of dirt, doing little real damage.
From the raider’s perspective things looked a mite different. Suddenly they were being assaulted from the side by several men, screaming like banshees and raining down fire on them. One or two of the raiders remained calm, trying to pick off the new targets, but the rest panicked, shifting their positions to try and avoid the bullets that Thomas, Krueger, and the deputies were sending their way. They succeeded in avoiding being shot by the flanking squad—and in the process, moved directly into the other defenders’ line of fire.
Thomas and Krueger finished their run, stopping with their backs to a thick oak tree, and reloaded their pistols. The deputies followed suit, and all four once again appeared out in the open, screaming at the top of their lungs and advancing on the raiders, firing nonstop.
Mbutu and Denton rallied the defenders, seeing that the raiders were being pushed out of their position.
“Come on!” Denton yelled, waving an arm over his head. “Let’s finish the bastards!”
The rallying cry was taken up all across the line, and defenders whooped and yelled, emptying their magazines into the attackers.
Raiders fell one after the other. Blood ran like red streams over the curb and down the gutters. Within minutes, the attacking force had been butchered nearly to the last man. Only a few remaining wounded were left, and those were in no position to fight.
Thomas and Krueger walked up on the raider’s position, the two deputies trailing closely behind, and inspected the carnage. The other defenders rose up from behind their cover and wandered out to see the effect of their fighting efforts.
Krueger kicked a rifle away from one of the wounded raiders, a tall, heavyset man who was clutching a stomach wound and gritting his teeth.
“You pissant motherfuckers,” he growled, wincing against the pain. “I’ll kill you all,
I’ll kill you—”
Krueger kicked the man lightly in the stomach, right where the bullet had entered, and the man howled, doubling over.
“That’s enough out of you, asshole,” Krueger said, taking aim at the man’s head.
Thomas put a steadying hand on Krueger’s arm. “Don’t. Betting Sherman and Keaton wouldn’t mind a prisoner or two.”
At the main gates, the tide of the battle had turned as well. Sherman and the men in the towers had succeeded in killing the shamblers that had remained inside the fenceline, and were now finishing off the few that were still wandering in the field outside. Infected corpses were everywhere.
The largest pile lay at the breach in the fenceline, stacked three or four thick in places. Most of those had been the sprinters from the initial attack. More lay scattered here and there inside the fence, slumped against a vehicle or facedown in a gutter. Several more were piled up at the base of the ladders leading up into the guard towers. Not a one had been spared.
It was relatively quiet now that most of the gunfire had slackened off, and Sherman was overseeing the sharpshooters as they took out the remaining shamblers.
“Lead him just a bit to the left, there, Wes,” Sherman said, leaning over the shoulder of the deputy with the rifle. “Remember to breathe . . . and squeeze the trigger.”
Wes fired, and halfway across the field, the shambler jerked and fell.
“Nice shot!” Sherman commended, slapping Wes on the back.
Deputy Willis looked up from behind his scope, eyebrows raised. “Damn, that must’ve been two hundred meters, easy.”