by Josh Hilden
“Sir, they know we are here.” James McCoy said. He did not seem concerned in the least. The man had become more dignified and proper with the crimson sigil on his brow. As much as he was able Baker liked and respected the man.
“Let’s smash them and east their livers!” Arn Jacobson growled. Unlike his mentor, the former mayor had become feral and animal-like after accepting the Mark of God.
Baker smiled again. Soon there would be blood and feasting for all. The Army of the Dead marched forward to their destiny.
Chapter Four
1
Atop the Walls of White Harbor
November 29, 2012 AD (Day Forty Two)
6:50pm EST
The town of White Harbor was a flurry of activity for the two days since they’d lost its electricity and their army marched out to meet the Dead. The defenders were given one task, to hold off the enemy and allow as many of the civilians to escape as possible before they were overrun.
It was going badly.
In the second assault they’d lost Sgt. Sanford to a piece of flying metal which sheered one of his legs off. Half a dozen of the Militia fighters had risked their lives to retrieve the man, and he had been airlifted to the Island for medical treatment. The last word from Isle Royale was that he was stable.
The moans of the wounded and still living filled open areas behind the defenders who stood high upon the walls. The fires in the distance burned bright, and cast an orange red glow on the ramparts of the town, the last sanctuary of the living in the North.
They’d thrown the Dead and their turncoat masters back from the walls four times in the last two days. Every time the Army of the Dead and The Razors reached the parapets of the town the Militia, backed by the I-75 Rangers and the Wolverines, repulsed them.
The last report via shortwave radio from the Island confirmed the transfer of personnel and supplies was proceeding. But they needed to hold the perimeter for a while longer. The sounds of the enemy rallying outside of the range of the defenders filled the air.
Jennifer walked down the line of defenders perched behind the shelter walls. She stopped every few feet to talk with one scared warrior after another. With so many involved with the evacuation she’d been given command of the defense line, although she hadn’t asked for it. Three attack waves later, and even the crustiest of the Yoopers had begun calling her Ma’am with a capital M.
“Ma’am,” a hushed voice, and decidedly not crusty voice, called from one of the pneumatic firing positions. Jennifer dispatched one of the kids she’d been using to run messages around town to see about more ammo, and to check on the compressor stations to make sure the hard points would remain so.
“Yes,” she replied as she worked her way over, keeping her pike at her side. There was no way to tell how closely they were being watched, but Rich Paulson had sent a squad of Wolverine Scouts out to see what could be seen. Most of the defenders were White Harbor Militia or resident volunteers, the bulk of the I-75 Rangers and the Wolverines were out there in the Dead zone, trying to get behind the Army of the Dead and draw their fire from the town.
“The Sheriff’s plan better fucking work!” she thought to herself as she squatted next to a kid that couldn’t be more than 16. Her balance was a little off. There was no fooling herself that the baby was in there. She smiled quickly and then thought of her husband out there with her brother and her stomach went cold. Please God, protect my Ben…and Kye. She thought. The kid stared at her with eyes as big as saucers, eyes that had seen too much in his short life. From the mish-mash uniform he was wearing, she wasn’t surprised to see his was one of the Militia.
“Ma’am, they’re coming again, aren’t they.” He said.
She nodded before speaking, “I think as soon as the sun sets.”
He lifted his head above the lip of the shelter wall and stared at the far away mass of the Dead. Then he turned back to her and tears were running down his face.
“What’s your name?” she asked placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Riley Ma’am, Riley Skeels.” He was shaking. She recognized the face well enough to know that he’d been on the line since the first assault. The kid was tired, but he obviously had guts. “I wanted to go outside with my brother Jamie to help fight, but my Dad said no.” Even after everything he had seen, he still sounded disappointed that he had not been able to go with his brother into the suicide fight behind the enemy.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here with us.” Jennifer said and she smiled at him. She wasn’t naïve, and she knew that her smile always had an effect on the members of the opposite sex. Riley’s face lit up as she smiled at him.
“You mean it?” He asked, and she knew that her earlier estimate was wrong, the kid was maybe nearer to 14 than 13 but that was it. It broke her heart.
“Yes I mean it.” She would have said more, but that was when the bullets began to fly again and the Dead began to advance.
2
7:10pm EST
“Alright people, this is it!” Jennifer screamed.
All up and down the line men and women, girls and boys, everyone who could be armed and plugged into the gaps, rose and aimed their weapons. Every 50 or so feet, the sounds of the compressors grew louder, and the pneumatic cannons were brought back on line. They’d saved the day twice already, but Jennifer doubted they would be able to pull off the trick again. There just wasn’t enough ammunition. But they would take down as many of the stinking pus bags as they could before they were forced to give up the high ground, and retreat back into the town.
The night was getting colder and the sun had dipped behind the western tree line. The fighters on the line were deathly quiet. Jennifer was sure she was going to go insane in all the quiet. She was a fighter, not a leader, granted she’d been comfortable enough as Kyle and Liam’s right hand as they had advanced up the Peninsula. This was different, there were almost 200 people here, waiting for her to tell them what to do, waiting for her to send them to their deaths in other words.
Just as she was about to go crazy, a clear and achingly sweet tenor voice sang out from the position occupied by Riley Skeels. It started out hesitantly but then grew stronger and more confident.
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery Gospel writ in burnished rows of steel;
“As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal”;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel,
Since God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Since God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free;
While God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! While God is marching on.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is wisdom to the mighty, He is honor to the brave;
So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of wrong His slave,
Our God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Our God is marching on.”
Tears blurred Jennifer’s vision. She would have guessed the vision of most of the fighters on the line was the same. A lump grew in her heart and traveled up her throat, as every American on that artificial ridge line finished the song in bright unison. She stood up and bullets fired by the milksops who’d joined the enemy whizzed by her, but they all missed. She was mad, fuck that she was enraged! These things were coming to kill her, her family, her friends, and her child! She lifted her fighting pike high and screamed.
“DO YOU THINK WE’RE AFRAID OF YOU? THIS IS OUR LAND, THIS IS OUR WORLD, AND WE ARE GOING TO SEND YOU MOTHERFUCKERS STRAIGHT TO HELL!” The line erupted in cheers. Then unbidden and as a group the warriors of White Harbor, the last Americans in the Upper Peninsula and maybe in the world, came out from behind their protective barricades and charged the enemy.
3
White Harbor, “The Battle of the Perimeter Line”
7:15pm EST
Jennifer felt possessed as she charged down the hill. Her pike was braced forward. She charged for the front rank of the slobbering slouching mass. Everyone without a long range weapon moved forward. The plan had been simple enough: engage the Dead in hand to hand combat, and hope that the living warriors of the Army of the Dead couldn’t get a clean shot. Meanwhile, the troops left on the ridge would cover them with rifle fire, and if they were forced to fall back, the pneumatic cannons would shred as many of the Dead as they could before they had to be abandoned.
It was easy enough to identify the allegiances of the fighters by their hand to hand weapons. I-75 Rangers to a man and woman carried one of the Fighting Pikes they’d been making since Findley. The Wolverines tended to favor the heavy bladed, long handled Machetes they’d acquired in Hession. The things looked vaguely Chinese to Jennifer, and she wondered just who in Hession had started making them. The Militia and Civilian volunteers carried a hodgepodge of blunt weapons from steel pipes and baseball bats to crowbars and fire axes.
Jennifer reached the leading edge of the wave of the Dead and brought the heavy blade of the pike down on the nearest head. It split like a rotted cantaloupe and Jennifer then swung the butt around and smashed the ball on the end into the skull of another ghoul. It would have been obvious to anyone watching the dark dance in front of White Harbor that the I-75 Rangers had spent a lot of time practicing with their pikes as rank after rank of the Dead fell under their assault.
The Wolverines were not to be outdone as they slashed their way into the Dead. Heads were cleaved from bodies with the blade edge and smashed inward with the flat of what they understandably called their “Fangs”. Even the people of White Harbor, who had a lot less experience with this kind of combat, were acquitting themselves well. But Jennifer knew they needed to pace themselves they were outnumbered by tens, maybe hundreds, to one. The goal was to delay the Dead not stop them. They didn’t have the manpower or materials to accomplish that goal.
Despite their best efforts and skills the survivors had honed since the Rising caused the fall of the old world, the defenders of White Harbor were taking casualties. Every few seconds there would be a cry of pain as yet another of her warriors fell beneath the dirty hands and rotted teeth of the Dead. Each loss was like a spike in her heart, but Jennifer forced herself to compartmentalize the pain and push on. They knew that this was a possible suicide mission. She slashed and hacked at the Dead, and was all but consumed with the battle frenzy. She heard the sounds of rifle fire and was gratified when the curses of the enemy became audible, the country boys and girls were crack shots. She was sure a disproportionate number of the living enemy was falling under the guns of the Militia.
When she’d judged they had inflicted as many losses as possible Jenny screamed, “Fall back to the line!” Her people turned and sprinted back across the gore smeared field and up the ramparts to the shelter of the line as the enemy gunners began to return fire. She knew she lost a few more to those guns that might not have died if they’d stayed below, but all things considered their losses were surprisingly light.
But below the Dead marched ever forward.
“Air gunners, FIRE!” Jennifer screamed.
For the fourth time in two days the bulky hodgepodge pneumatic cannons opened up on the Dead. The ball bearings, nuts, bolts, and random pieces of metal stuffed into the plastic sleeves smashed into the Dead and tore them to shreds. As before, wave after wave of the Dead were decimated by the withering fire, but unlike the last assaults the ammunition did not hold up. One by one the ingenious weapons that Craig Maynard crafted and Kelly Hodges improved fell silent and roared no more.
Rifle and small arms fire began to pepper the Dead as they slogged up the manmade berm. The defenders knew they had nowhere near enough ammunition to even slow down the wave of rotted flesh. For five full minutes they held the Dead back. Then by ones and twos they reached the top and had to be dispatched in melee combat. Jennifer looked at her blood encrusted watch, and hoped that she’d bought Rich enough time, because she had no intention of allowing her people to buy it up here on the hill.
“All right people, fall back into town, you know the plan!” She yelled this as she brought her pike down on a ghoul’s head. The plan was break into squads and work their way to the docks to make their stand on the pier while the evacuation continued. She prayed they would make it out.
4
White Harbor, “Headquarters of the Army of Ast-Murath”
7:50pm EST
General Baker stood on top of the command truck’s cab and watched as the Dead advanced on the positions. It was still awkward for him to hold his binoculars in only one hand. His stump itched maddeningly. It had taken the better part of the day to overrun the defenders, but finally the breakthrough was occurring. He knew he should be excited about it, but all he felt was coldness. Ever since he’d received the blessing of his Dark Master he felt less and less.
In the back of his mind he knew this was not right. That he’d once been a good man. But that did not seem to be important. What was important was that everyone who’d taken the mark directly from the Master had changed in a different way. Barton had become slimier and more silver tongued, while Jacobson had become ever more savage and violent. McCoy had become dark and scary yet filled with a dignified evil, even to Adam who had always been a difficult man to frighten.
With Lord Clarke sequestered in private with the bitch, General Adam Baker was nominally in charge of the Army. In theory the other commanders answered to him. In reality they were all working toward their own purposes. Barton made no secret he was amassing as many followers as he could, and giving them the lesser mark to secure his own power. McCoy was being very secretive and keeping his own council. Adam was beginning to wonder if he should do something about him. The only problem was that the Razors were all loyal to their leader, and they would likely come after Adam if something happened to McCoy. And Jacobson was obsessed with destroying his former home and killing everyone inside.
“They fall back, but they are not running scared.” He said to Ashley, she had been his lover back in Royale Oak, but now she was his top Lieutenant. She had lost all interest in sex after taking the lesser mark, Adam counted that as a sad thing, but in the wider scheme nothing of note.
“Yes sir, should we pursue, or allow the Dead to handle it?” She asked.
He had to think about it for a second, this wasn’t like Hession. When it had become obvious to the people there they were going to be overrun, they’d retreated out of the town and m
elted into the hostile wilderness. In the end they had killed very few of the people there and none had taken the mark. He still wondered what had become of the almost 1,000 people.
Finally he gave the order that would seal the fate of White Harbor. “Order our people to hold off for 10 minutes and allow the Dead to occupy the town. Then we’ll enter. And remember Ashley, no prisoners.”
She did not hesitate for an instant as she picked up the radio and gave the orders. Again thoughts about life before the Rising entered his head. Ashley had been a Sunday school teacher before the Dead Rose. She’d fought tooth and nail at the church to defend the children, but now after taking the lesser mark she was as cold and calculating as an SS trooper in a death camp. He wondered what it meant for him, since he was one of the four that had taken the greater mark. But the issue was secondary.