The Retreat #5: Crucible

by Stephen Knight

  “Aw hey, Foster! You’re in luck!” Murphy said while manning his M4. “You don’t have balls, so you’ll get a free pass!”

  “It’s all right, your sister’s a lesbian and she goes down on me every night,” Foster shot back.

  “That was his sister? Man, I know the women in Murphy’s family are ugly, but I coulda sworn that was his dad going down on you, dude,” Sienkiewicz said.

  Foster shook his head. “I’m about to die, and to think that’s going to be the last thing I heard.”

  “Nah, it’ll be this,” Murphy said. He then ripped off a long, loud fart.

  “Well. Thank God for MOPP,” Lee said, “though that’ll probably be the last time I say that.”

  The fighting position wasn’t much—a couple of layers of hastily filled sandbags, some razor wire, and tanglefoot wire hurled out ahead of it. There was precious little in the way of natural formations to use to mask the emplacement’s position; it was essentially just a sandbagged revetment in a clearing. Grenade sumps had been dug, which would theoretically allow for any enemy grenades to roll away from the troops manning the position and fall into holes two feet deep. The grenades would still detonate, but at the bottoms of the holes, which while noisy would spare the men. Vehicles were in overwatch positions with mounted weapons, and those could be surged forward to add suppressive or concentration fire as required. Both Murphy and Foster had M203 grenade launchers attached to their rifles, so they could hit the approaching enemy with indirect fires. McAllister had dug out a position for his SAW’s bipod, so he could more easily fire to both the front and oblique positions. Essentially, the fighting position was Army basic, and it would have to do.

  More shapes poured through the forest approximately three hundred yards from the fighting position. They didn’t try to hide, didn’t try to execute any particular envelopment procedures—they just charged headlong toward the clearing where the company was set up, firing on the move, cackling and jeering and whooping it up as if they were bursting onto the biggest Mardis Gras party of all time. McAllister’s SAW spat expended cartridges as he opened up, chopping down attackers before they cleared the tree line. The klowns fell, writhing and laughing even as they choked on their own blood. One of them actually exploded as she dropped over a hand grenade she’d been intending to hurl at the fighting position. Body parts flew through the air.

  “Damn, McAllister! Great shooting!” Foster said.

  “Hell, watch this!” Murphy said. He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger on the M203 mounted below the barrel. The forty-millimeter projectile left the launcher with a sharp clap, arced across the field, and impacted somewhere inside the barrens. The explosion was like a thunderburst, and more klowns went down, screaming with pain-fueled laughter. Just the same, more gunfire rippled from the pine barrens, and soon rounds were slapping into the sandbags encircling the fighting position.

  “Wizard Five, this is Six.” Lee pulled in his rifle and pushed himself up, targeting a crazy wearing full body armor. HERE TO MAKE YOU BLEED was written across the front of his armor in blood. He wore a necklace of ears, and a crest of severed fingers had been attached to his helmet. Lee fired a single shot in his face. The klown’s head snapped back and he fell forward onto his face. All his armor hadn’t saved him from a perfectly aimed shot.

  “Six, this is Five. Uh, go ahead and, ah, send it. Over,” came the response. Walker’s voice was muffled, and he sounded out of breath.

  “Need to know you’re set up and operational, Five,” Lee said. He sighted on another target and brought it down. McAllister’s SAW hurled out another blast, then stopped. Lee liked that. Even now, after seeing and causing so much death himself, he still felt a sense of satisfaction every time a klown went down with a sucking chest wound or a burst of bullets to the face. To Lee, they were irredeemable. Devoid of humanity. There was nothing of the original person left behind, only an animatronic ghoul filled with laughter and a thirst for murder.

  McAllister grabbed for one of the magazine boxes lying beside him. He was already surrounded by expended cartridges, and they clinked beneath his body as he moved. He slapped the fresh box into the SAW’s magazine well, hit the rearm switch, and was back on the firing lane in less than three seconds. Lee was impressed. Foster was up and at it again, while Murphy slid a fresh forty-millimeter grenade into the M203’s breech.

  “Six, this is Five. I, uh, we need another couple of minutes. We’re close. Over.”

  “Five, need you to establish commo with Raptor as soon as possible,” Lee transmitted back. “Advise when that’s been done. Over.”

  “Roger, Six.”

  Lee got back on his rifle and popped another klown. This one was in full military battle rattle, and on top of that, MOPP. He didn’t hesitate. There was virtually no way one of his own men could be in the middle of that pack of killers, and he knew it was a ruse. The klowns were crazy, but they weren’t stupid. While they’d run right into zeroed machine-gun fire on occasion, tittering away merrily as they were blasted into bloody ribbons, there was no chance the enemy would remain forever convinced of its invulnerability. They were adapting, resorting to the tactics of deception and force protection they had known before they went over the fence and landed in the middle of Crazyville. From his left, heavier-caliber gunfire rang out. Lee risked a glance over his left shoulder and saw a clutch of men in a mixed melange of civilian duds and tactical gear. Tackaberry’s Geezers. They were spraying hate downrange, and a lot of the oldsters slung 7.62-millimeter weapons. They had attached themselves to another fighting position, and they were giving the klowns all the what-for they could. Someone broke away from that position and came pounding over on legs the size of tree stumps. Despite the MOPP gear, Lee had no problem telling who it was. Command Sergeant Major Doug Turner, at long last off the leash and in his environment.

  Turner crashed into the emplacement behind Lee and hauled himself forward on knees and elbows. “Colonel?”

  “It’s me, Doug. Go ahead,” Lee said as he rose up and resumed firing.

  “Listen, sir. Those old guys, they still have troops out past the forward line. They’re reporting seventy-plus klowns rolling up on us, most infected military. I really need you to shift Thunder’s fires our way, at least for one or two volleys.”

  “Have Tackaberry’s people relay the grid,” Lee said.

  “Tall order, sir. We didn’t issue them comms gear. Has to be relayed.”

  Lee continued firing. “Then relay the grid, Sarmajor!” he shouted. “Have Tackaberry contact someone out front and tell us where to put the rounds!”

  “Sir, those guys don’t have maps—they’re flying by the seats of their pants. I know they’ve got skills and all, but I kinda doubt they can quarterback indirect fire and not take some hits themselves.”

  “They went out there,” Lee said. He kept firing, not pausing in his defense of the engagement area. “They’re going to have to take their lumps with the rest of us. If they can’t do that, have Tackaberry pull them back as fast as he can. Seventy infected is a lot for us to hold back without indirect fires. You get me?”

  “I get you, sir. Will see what can be done. I have to know, since I’ll be asked—what if those guys are cut off?”

  “Then they can choose to die like men or like laughing klowns,” Lee said without hesitation. “That’s the best I can do, Turner.”

  “Roger that, sir. Roger that.”

  Over the crackle of small arms fire and the thump of grenades, Lee heard something else stirring in the distance. Splintering wood, rock being crushed, a high-pitched turbine whine. He moved to the front of the fighting position and looked into the pine barrens beyond. The klowns were still coming, but there was something else stirring in the distance. As he watched, a tree shuddered, then fell forward as something monstrous shoved up against it.

  An M1A2 Abrams battle tank. And beyond it was another. And another. And yet one more.

  “Get the trucks out!” he shouted t
o Turner. “Move the vehicles to the far edge of the clearing and get them ready to roll! Then get that information from Tackaberry’s guys immediately!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT.

  The operation was working, First Sergeant Weide Zhu decided. The klowns couldn’t contain themselves; as soon as he’d opened up with his lone rifle, raking the insane creatures below with bursts of fire, they’d immediately stopped doing what they were doing and rallied to attack. That only one weapon had fired was of little importance. The response was almost Pavlovian. Uninfected were in the area, and even if it was just one man, all the klowns had to respond.

  They charged in Inveigle’s general direction, a pulsating mass of semi-dressed madness moving like one gigantic organism. Zhu egged them on, firing from a defilade position, dropping two, then three, then four and five klowns leading the advance in rapid succession. As the corpses fell to the ground, the rest of the horde surged forward. They rolled right over their fallen brethren without even thinking to stop and offer aid.

  And that was when Inveigle’s mission succeeded.

  “Open fire!” Caruthers shouted, almost on the border of panic. “Fucking fire, you damn gorillas!” Obeying his own order, he shouldered his rifle and opened up, tearing into the front of the approaching enemy on full auto, blasting through a magazine in less than three seconds.

  Thirty other rifles opened up then, and the thunder of the retorts slashed through the pine barrens. Birds exploded into the air, taking wing at violence’s sudden volume. More klowns fell, kicking, writhing, and laughing explosively as a storm of 5.56-millimeter rounds struck them almost instantaneously. In a matter of seconds, forty enemy had been dropped, and the sheer mass of the bodies caused the remaining force to temporarily bottleneck. Laughing and cackling, the klowns continued surging forward, picking their way over the wounded and the dead. They started firing back now, and in the trees beyond the torture area, Zhu saw more shapes streaming into the engagement area.

  Caruthers called for grenade fire before Zhu could, which was a great sign—he was over the initial shock and was leaning forward into battle. From various points around Inveigle’s firing line, the claps of M203 grenade launchers sounded. A moment later, the klowns were treated to a storm of forty-millimeter grenades landing in their midst. Most were concentrated on the enemy’s advancing line, but several went deep, causing some confusion as well as welcome fatalities. That there were uninfected in that zone was something that would cause Zhu concern only after the fighting was over, presuming he survived it. At this point, the civilians and soldiers who were in the process of being turned could only hope for a speedy death, and if Inveigle’s fires provided that, then it would be a good day. There was no chance of rescuing them, and even if Inveigle could somehow conduct such an action, there would be no way of keeping them whole long enough to evacuate them to a safe area. And judging by the continuous din deeper inside the post, death was everywhere.

  That was underscored when a battered Humvee decorated with severed heads rolled into the engagement area, sporting a fifty-caliber machine gun in its cupola. Zhu shouted a warning that was mostly lost in the gunfire, then had to duck as big, heavy rounds ripped right across his position. The soldier to his left virtually exploded as he caught two or three bullets that were a half-inch wide and almost three inches long in his upper body. His chest protector did nothing to save him, nor did the layers of MOPP gear. The soldier collapsed into a disjointed mess, his left arm separated at the shoulder.

  “Enemy Humvee, two hundred meters in the clear!” Zhu shouted. “Rocket! Rocket!” As he bellowed out the command, hoping his voice could be heard over the crash of combat and through the damned mask he wore, Zhu pushed himself up, pulled his rifle in tight, and started hosing the vehicle. There was little chance his counterattack would amount to anything. The klowns didn’t know fear, and even if he managed to injure the gunner in the cupola, it would just make him laugh.

  He was right. The gunner slewed his machine gun back for another pass, shooting right over the heads of the klowns in the advance. More bodies fell to Inveigle, but the presence of the fifty was giving the crazies the pause they needed, and they started eating up the ground. With hoots and hollers and jeers, the stinking infected charged forward. Three of them launched objects, hurling them into the air. Two were balloons filled with liquid, a noxious brew that was rife with the Bug. The third was a grenade, and it went off in an airburst downrange of Zhu. He heard lightfighters scream as the hot fragments slashed through them, tearing open their clothing and protective gear. Then the balloons landed. While their explosions were virtually soundless, the chilling prospect that they might deliver their cargo struck more fear into Zhu’s heart than any grenade.

  “Back blast area clear!” he heard a soldier yell, followed almost immediately by, “Rocket!”

  Thunder erupted as an AT-4 discharged, sending its projectile streaking toward the Humvee. First the vehicle was there, then it was gone, disintegrating in a clap of fire and expanding dust. The report of the explosion rolled over the troops an instant later, just as loud as the AT-4’s launch. Chunks of metal whirled through the air, and a moment later, black smoke billowed into the sky as the Humvee caught alight. Fifty-cal rounds began cooking off like M80 firecrackers going off.

  “Watch for infected in the ranks!” Caruthers shouted. “Pour it on, people, pour it on!”

  Zhu did just that, ignoring the blood that covered his left arm. It wasn’t his, and even if it was, there was no time to stop and address it. He sighted on a klown and killed it with one shot. Then another, and another. And a fourth—this was a woman, totally naked, battered and bloody, but still outwardly human in appearance. The lack of cuttings and scars and post-apocalyptic body art told him all he needed to know. She was a fresh convert, taking foot and headed for the lightfighters in the trees and brush. The only weapon she carried was a craggy rock in one hand, but her smile was wide and her eyes were bright. Zhu shot her in the head and she went down, the rock tumbling from her grasp as she twitched and died, puking up a stream of bile before her soul departed.

  He fired until he had exhausted his magazine, then pulled a grenade from his harness. “Frag out! Airburst!” he cried as he pulled back and got to his feet. Bullets snapped past him as he pulled the pin. Pull, twist, pull! The safety pin came free in his non-throwing hand. Turning with his upper body, he hurled the explosive high into the air over the approaching enemy. As the safety spoon popped off, he did a graceless face-plant back into his original fighting position, trying to make himself as small as possible. The grenade tumbled as it arced over the enemy’s forward line, and just after four seconds of flight, it detonated. The leading edge of the approaching klowns was pelted with metal fragments from the grenade’s body that slashed and tore.

  Laughter rose.

  Zhu slapped a fresh mag into his rifle and rose up again, getting back into the fight. Inveigle did occupy nominally higher ground than the klowns did, and the rise in the terrain served to slow them slightly. So did the hail of rifle-fired forty-millimeter and hand-thrown M67 grenades. Already, at least a hundred infected lay dead or dying below. It was a good start.

  Then, swimming through the black smoke rising from the burning Humvee, more figures swarmed forward. Cascading forward like water after a damn break, the klowns streamed into the engagement area, screaming hysterical war cries. Zhu figured there were at least eight hundred of them, a force that was sure to overwhelm the lightfighters of Inveigle. Zhu wasn’t frightened. He kept it up, firing round after round, alternately hitting those attackers up close while reaching out and putting some death into those deeper in the zone. Bodies fell.

  Something roared behind the oncoming mass of lunatics. Three Strykers plowed through the smoke, driving over those klowns unfortunate enough to be in front of them. People writhed on their slanted armored bows, bleeding from multiple cuts and various mutilations. The crew-served, remote-operated weapons on all three vehicles opened up.
Two were machine guns, but the third was the Mobile Gun System, equipped with a 105-millimeter cannon. While the weapon was designed for anti-armor use, high-explosive rounds would definitely put a hurt on the lightfighters.

  “Three enemy armor, two hundred meters in the open!” Zhu shouted. “Rockets, rock—”

  The big cannon on the third Stryker opened up, and the hillock Zhu was lying behind shifted upward in an explosion of thunder, stone, soil, and fragmented trees. Zhu was lifted a couple of feet into the air, and came down right on the edge of a four-foot wide crater. It was an anti-tank round, which meant most of the destructive force had been discharged into the earth below him, but men around him writhed in agony. They’d taken hot metal fragments. Machine-gun fire began raking the forest then, and twigs and branches snapped as fifty-cal rounds slashed through them. Zhu got back on his weapon. He had only a few rounds left in his magazine, so once it was expended he dropped back.

  “Captain, time to bug out!” he yelled to Caruthers. The captain was on the radio, and he turned back to Zhu.

  “Take out those Strykers!” he shouted, then went back to his conversation with Wizard.

  Zhu was about to shout again for more rockets, but an AT-4 roared. A second later, an explosion tore through the near distance. Not soon enough—a greater detonation occurred to Zhu’s immediate right as the 105 got off another shot. It impacted at the base of a tree, obliterating the outgrowth’s base. A hailstorm of splintered wood, rock, and earth blasted through the air, and Zhu was knocked off his feet as a heavy stone crashed right into his chest. He felt the punch, even through his ballistic armor and the metal plate. Machine-gun fire bellowed once again. Zhu rolled away as the rounds tore past, kicking up small bursts of dirt as they impacted all around him. He caught a glimpse of Caruthers flailing for a moment before collapsing beside his RTO. The soldier grabbed the captain and dragged him off deeper into the brush.