by Joshua Guess
Instead we gave them bows and told them to man the arrowslits. They were happy to comply.
About half my people had shields of one kind or another, most of them made from old stop signs. You can't beat a stop sign for strength, weight, and ease of use as a weapon itself. Patrick makes sure the bottom edge of every one of them is sharpened, and reinforcing strips added to keep them from bending when cutting through a neck.
Those with shields took the front, forming a loose wall leaning up against the wooden portion of the breastworks. Every man held a short weapon--hatchet, hammer, most commonly machetes made for us by the good people of North Jackson. Behind them, the women who had volunteered for guard duty held spears. Most of the women from New Haven have had some spear training with the little group we call our Spartans. Not to be confused with the people of Sparta, who provide much needed fuel.
Well, shit. I've used up all the time I've set aside to write this. Looks like I'll have to continue this tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Ground War (Part Two)
Posted by Josh Guess
We stood ready, waiting for the zombie swarm to show up in force. From the breastwork it was difficult to tell how many there were, but the lookouts higher up in the silo shouted out estimates. As I stood in my place on a far side of the raised circle of earth, I wondered if it would have been better to try to run. We could definitely have gone faster than the undead in our vehicles, but that brought its own set of risks. One mistake and an overturned vehicle could block the road. That would have been a death sentence.
I was tucked in one of the corners where the silo and the breastwork met. As the zombies coming from the direction of Shelbyville grew closer, a second group came over a hill from the direction we'd been heading. Damn. The New Breed had split their forces, left an ambush waiting.
The main force got close enough for the ladies manning the arrowslits to see things the undead were trying to hide. I heard one of them yell out that the approaching swarm--appearing to be at least a hundred and fifty strong--was dragging several large logs with it. I'd seen that tactic before.
The smart thing to do, the cautious thing, would have been to wait for the enemy to close and fight them from as strong a defensive position as possible. We would figure out a way to neutralize the logs, which would surely be raised vertical and then dropped over the breastwork to make a breach and an easy path upward.
We totally didn't do that.
Whoever was leading the center unit called for firebombs, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a dozen small flames come to life. Disposable lighters are a survivor's best friend. The firebombs, small glass spheres filled with a homemade napalm Becky created, are delicate. They're kept in small bags lined with bubble wrap. No one is allowed to carry more than two. Not that we we've been able to make a lot of them, since we have to make them ourselves and glass-blowing is hard.
A dozen arcs of flickering light sailed over the breastworks, the resulting spread of flames disrupting the ranks of the dead. A round of fire arrows followed as the few archers we had focused on setting the logs aflame before the undead could use them. A few of our braver men stood right at the edge of the defenses, hurling their remaining firebombs at the flaming logs.
It was luck as much as planning that saved the day. Without their logs to use and panicked by the sudden spread of fire among them, the main force of the New Breed lost much of their cohesion. They came at us, but without the typical calculation that makes them such a threat. Our people were ready, turning the edge of the breastwork into a meat grinder.
As the main force crested the breastwork, the spearwomen behind stepped forward, thrusting their weapons forward with precise motions. At least in my section, every point met the target perfectly--through the bottom of the chin, upward into the cranium. Our spears lack barbs, the heads designed to pull out smoothly. Those women did their part splendidly, helping repel the initial waves and then setting their weapons at an angle, butt against the ground, between each man on the wall. New Breed zombies are smart enough to recognize the danger of a pointy stick, and avoided them. Which funneled the undead right in front of men with shields and weapons, and the will to use them both.
All through the initial assault, archers picked targets beyond the breastworks. Flaming zombies were the first to take arrows, as we couldn't allow them to set fire to the defenses. Based on the number of arrows we recovered from the ground after, there were a fair number of misses, but archery is difficult even under ideal circumstances. Out of three hundred arrows fired at the main force, we counted thirty clean headshots. One in ten. That's pretty damn helpful, from my point of view. Fully a fifth of the attacking waves were brought down from a distance.
Despite that, those of us on the walls grew tired after a few minutes. We'd enraged the New Breed by using fire, and their greater strength and speed was on full display. It was a good thing we'd hauled rifles along with us. Bless the troops from North Jackson for having military-issue assault weapons. Hated to use the bullets, but really--could there have been a better time?
Four people above fired single shots, one after another, picking their targets. A bullet, unlike an arrow, will slow a zombie down if it misses. It's a funny thing about the New Breed in particular: unlike regular zombies, who ignore any damage that doesn't incapacitate them, the New Breed will pause to reorient themselves when they get hit with a bullet or an arrow. I imagine it would work with anything, rocks or whatever.
With snipers and archers pecking away at their forces, lots of the undead were stopping for a second to face the direction the impact came from. Hell, less than a second. That's all the time our people needed. Surprise a zombie by hitting him in the arm or chest or leg, watch him freeze, then put one in his brain pan. Next target.
We'd whittled the main force down by at least half by the time the secondary group hit us. I'd have expected them to get there sooner, but one of the shooters told me later that they'd stopped once they saw the fire and the ensuing mayhem. Even when they finally did choose to attack, only half of them came forward, and they focused exclusively on the small corner where I was stationed. The idea had to have been to force a breach by smashing us as hard as they could in one spot, and it worked. My section of defenders put down ten or fifteen of them in quick succession, but the bodies formed horrible stepping stones for the remainder to use like a ramp. Three of them launched over the breastwork before we could reform our ranks, a heavy push forcing us back and apart.
Those New Breed tried to tear into the people they found standing in the middle of the semicircle of dirt. Tried and failed.
As the defenders at the breastworks slashed and stabbed with renewed vigor, fueled by rage and self-preservation, as the shooters cleared more and more undead from the field, those three zombies got the worst of it. Our reserve, a unit of eight people held back to plug any holes in the defenses, hit them all at once. Two held long spears, two held short ones, two held large shields, and two had guns. I'd stepped back from the line for a few seconds, a nasty set of claw wounds across my forearm where a zombie struck out even as I put my hatchet into her face. As I turned, I saw two long spears transfix undead through the chest, the two shorter spears hit the third zombie, who was in the middle, in the same leg. The gunmen stepped forward behind the guys with shields, carefully firing into the heads of the undead. Three shots, three kills.
It was so smooth I was almost embarrassed for the enemy. Almost.
The remaining undead eventually had the idea that backing off might do them some good. The other half of the secondary force never did attack, just watched us from the sidelines. I'm sure they've got a good amount of information on us, but we can't do a thing about it. We'll just have to evolve our tactics to match.
Of the original force that hit us, only forty or so managed to get away. Once the retreat began our people stopped firing. Waste not, want not and all that folksy wisdom.
We lost no lives. Plenty of
us took wounds, but quick action to clean them and sterilize them as best we could should hopefully prevent any serious infections. My own injury doesn't look terrible. Well, it looks terrible because it's a set of bloody gouges, but it doesn't look infected.
I'll be honest, I'm surprised we didn't have any fatalities. You kind of expect them, but our people were meticulous and steadfast, had the high ground, and fought brilliantly. Keeping the enemy off balance was a key to our success, and nothing throws you for a loop like having a shield bashed into your face. We did good.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Neighbors
Posted by Josh Guess
We're experiencing one of those rare calm periods at the moment. Since our fight at the silo, not a lot has been going on around here. We've had a trade caravan come in, that was fun. Becky and Will have been working on ways to take advantage of the New Breed weakness to heat. I've been basically working as Will's assistant full time since I got back. I still manage our experiments with the captive zombies (no new findings there) and deal with the errata that the other community managers need help dealing with. Mostly coordination stuff.
But yeah, mostly helping Will do his job, which is to run this place.
When we came back the other day, exhausted and injured but with our spirits high at not losing anyone, Will made an interesting observation: at least in New Haven, no one seems to take any joy in fighting. Or even in winning against an enemy.
That's kind of big. I mean, you'd think at least the feeling of victory would bring out an uncontrolled reaction. Whooping, high fives, the occasional slap on the ass. I'm probably too much of a nerd, but my thoughts go to Star Wars here. Think about the reaction the Rebels had when they achieved a victory over the empire. God help me, I can't believe I'm using this as an example, but remember the final scenes in Return of the Jedi. Ewoks and our heroes, feasting it up on the forest moon of Endor. Dancing and singing.
Yeah, we don't do that. It's not like anyone is unhappy about winning a battle so much as people around here seem to have a different viewpoint on fighting. Zombies, no matter how vicious and clever, are inherently a little sad. It's hard to hate them when you think about what they were. Where they came from.
Same thing with fighting living enemies. There's really not a lot to be cheerful about there. Marauders especially are a reminder of how bad human beings can be. Killing them even in defense of our home is more of a task that has to be done rather than an event to be celebrated.
Which is a good thing, I think. Violence has always been a big part of human nature, as has hatred in many forms. It's always reassuring to see people understand and control those reactions.
Case in point:
A small group of New Breed tried to attack the Exiles yesterday. The fallback point has undergone some radical changes in recent weeks. They've got some guard stations set up along the beginnings of a wall that encloses a good chunk of area. We've got watchers in various places across the river. One of them saw a trio of New Breed making their way along the river bank, below the line of sight of the men in the nearest guard tower.
When the undead crept up in the long shadows cast by the sunset, they were in a perfect position to surprise the men in the guard station. It was only a raised box with high sides, the floor of the thing about four feet off the ground.
So, when the zombies went to make their move, one of our watchers fired his rifle.
At first the Exile guards thought it was an attack. They spun around and looked across the river, probably searching for a puff of smoke or the next blare of muzzle flash. It was only then that the guards noticed the remaining two zombies that had worked their way up to the station. Even as one of the attacking New Breed leaped over his fallen brother to attack the closest Exile, our watcher fired again. One shot, one kill. Right through the zombie's ear.
The guard at the back of the station pulled himself together and fired his weapon at the remaining zombie, then made sure his partner was alright. They looked across the river for a while, apparently searching for the shooter who'd taken out two of the three undead.
The watcher told me all of this, witnessed through the scope of his gun. He told me how he couldn't help but smile when the two Exiles raised their hands as if to wave, then saluted their unseen savior.
The funny and interesting thing about new neighbors is that you never know what kind of people some of them might turn out to be.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Éirinn go Brách
Posted by Josh Guess
I've never been a heavy drinker. I mean, when I used to drink it wasn't often. When I did partake, it was usually enough to blind most people. My ancestry is Irish, German, and Welsh with a smattering of other nationalities. I can hold my booze.
Since The Fall, though, I've barely touched the stuff. I certainly didn't plan on starting my day with a glass of expensive Irish whiskey. Jess had other ideas. I don't know where she got it, but I had to drink it. Not because it's St. Patrick's day, though that was why she surprised me with booze. Because it was cold. Ice cold.
Yeah. Actual ice. The novelty of having a very cold drink was enough to entice me into drinking four ounces of Jameson Gold Reserve on an empty stomach. It felt good.
As a rule we try to limit how much the giant refrigerator Dave built is opened. We use it for long-term storage of food, and the less traffic the better. Jess managed to sneak in an ice cube tray. Since she's quickly assuming the role of Grand Poobah of food supply, no one held a little indulgence against her.
It's enough to make me wonder if she read the morning reports before I did, and knew I might need a drink.
We've had scout teams going to Shelby county once a day since our battle with the New Breed there. They do a wide circle to see if any large gatherings of zombies are on the move. Yesterday the scouts did a more intensive round after discovering the stronghold of the people we brought here from Shelbyville in ruins. It was a very secure building, and the ladies locked it up tight before they left. The New Breed still managed to get in and utterly destroy it.
The one weak point was the ladder on the back. It's one of those slide-down deals that has to be snagged with a long hook to pull it down. The New Breed must have piled up to reach it. And though the emergency access on the roof was still padlocked when our scouts found it, the skylight was another story. The cap of plywood was shredded, covered in claw marks and streaks of blood and flesh. God only knows how many New Breed are walking around with useless fingers now.
Once they were inside it was basically game over. It wasn't hard for the zombies to figure out how to remove the bar from the main door and open it up for their buddies to come in. The whole thing is a frightening display of problem solving skills.
Our scouts decided to do a more thorough check of the surrounding areas. You know, since the New Breed had ravaged a safe place and weren't anywhere to be found. Zombies, even smart ones, aren't inclined to do things that indicate emotion. There was no gain for them in destroying the home of our allies. There was no food there. Our team thought that was strange, and so the the rest of us.
Because it looks like an act of rage. Zombies are dangerous for a lot of reasons, but being pissed off has never been one of them.
The team didn't come home empty-handed. They found a large mass of New Breed to the south of the ruined stronghold. Our people watched from a distance as groups returned to the main horde hauling or leading groups of old school zombies with them. I say hauling because the scouts report that many of the old school undead appeared afraid of the New Breed. As if they knew something bad was going to happen to them.
Some of them were eaten straight away, while others were simply surrounded and kept from running away. My guess is that the old school zombies who became happy meals were those who hadn't begun the change into New Breed for whatever reason. Maybe an immunity. Maybe lack of exposure. The scouts didn't stay long enough to see any change take place in the sequestered undead
, but I'd bet my last dollar (which is meaningless as we use paper money for tinder now) that the New Breed will have a few new members shortly. Might already have made the change.
I'm planning a few quick tests with Gabby and Evans today to see if we can figure out exactly how the New Breed can tell zombies apart. Almost definitely something to do with smell, but I'd like to know if we can isolate what that is. If we can, then I have a few ideas...
All the signs point to this large group heading this way. I can't believe that the New Breed in Shelby county took the time and effort to destroy an abandoned human settlement and are recruiting more numbers without a reason. We're the largest group nearby, and I doubt they even know about the smaller and newer communities that have cropped up. Those folks are a long way off as the zombie walks. It's got to be us these undead are coming for. It's gonna be a long, long day.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Empty Cages
Posted by Josh Guess
My post yesterday acted as a call for help, apparently. We have allies in decent numbers not far away, but I don't talk about them a lot. One, because while geographically we're near each other, in real terms the survivors in Louisville and New Haven aren't that close. Two, they don't like to be talked about. I had to ask permission to write this post.