by Micah Gurley
Fourteen of them were shooting. For this stage, they'd been given six magazines, with twenty eight rounds apiece. They'd just used a little over 2,300 rounds. Didn't seem like a lot, but they didn't have a lot.
"Move them," Kyle said to James.
James, his voice deeper and richer than Kyle's, cried out, "Move positions. Drop your magazines here and take your rifles to the next position. Patrick, stay here, use the extra rounds for the magazines and fill in the holes of the mound. Let's go!"
Except for Patrick, all the defenders of Macon picked up and started moving back towards the center of the fort, then pushed past it and continued on to the far side, almost opposite their previous position.
The group dropped down at pre-arranged positions, grabbing the waiting magazines and took a breath, waiting for the signal.
Kyle nodded to James, who gave the order and the firing started again. Kyle, feeling confident James knew what to do, took a position next to Edmund and began to fire."
"I'm so bloody scared, I believe I pissed my trousers," Edmund yelled. Kyle thought his yell a little extreme since they were right next to each other, but realized he was letting everyone know. Light chuckles replied along the line of shooters, their firing never stopping.
"If I smell correctly, it was more than pissing," answered Old Ben in a raspy voice. More laughs. Kyle took it as a good sign.
"Aim left. Five yards!" James shouted from behind him. Kyle finished his magazine, hit the release and inserted another one. He stood up to view the earthworks of dead, its size growing as he watched. Soon, it would cover the whole right side of the field. It was a five foot tall wall of dead.
Jasmine, her purple tinted hair blowing in the cold wind, joined Kyle, handing him a full magazine. "Kyle, why didn't we just stand in the middle of the fort and kill them as they came in?"
Kyle glanced at her, his eyes never leaving the threat still advancing on the fort. "I considered it, but that would have created a mound of dead in the middle, with the diseased splitting on both sides of it. I didn't want our focus split in different directions. This is about us controlling the battle, not them.
Kyle was facing her when Patrick ran up, and he couldn't help but notice her eyes light up in relief at the sight of him. Patrick made it to them, his rifle tucked under his arm, and threw a bag of empty magazines on the ground. For the battle, Patrick had perfectly formed his Mohawk, which stood straight up, it's yellow clashing with the blue paint he'd found to color half his face. "Ran out of rounds. Hey, sexy."
Jasmine gave a toothy grin. "Hey stud, how's it going over there?"
"I tried to build the mound, it should hold for awhile." He took a breath and leaned closer to Kyle. "The problem is, when we switched sides the line of zombies just flowed forwards, not moving where we wanted them to."
"I know," said Kyle, "couldn't be helped. The moat will stop them, until we can deal with them. The ones exiting the tree line will be the ones we target. How many are trapped in the moat now?"
"I'd say, easily a thousand."
Kyle grimaced. Too many. He hadn't expected the move to cause that many to keep coming forward. A mistake, and a big one.
"Aim left. Five yards," James called out.
"Alright, we can't let them clump in one spot. We need to spread them out." Kyle looked down at diseased in the moat, he had a plan for them, but hadn't wanted to use it yet. He would improvise. "Okay, take Edmund and go back in the other direction, getting the ones in the moat to follow you. When you're on the back side of the fort, start taking them out. They'll be out of the way back there."
"Got it."
"Use handguns, you'll be close. Have Edmund run back and forth, keeping them from-"
"I got it Kyle. Edmund, you're with me," Patrick yelled, dropping his rifle and grabbing extra magazines for his Beretta. He took a quick step forward, gave his wife a kiss, then took off in the other direction.
"Aim left! Five yards!" James called again. Kyle laid down, flipped off his safety, and finished off another magazine, trying to fill the holes in the mound.
The calls of "out" ran among the group as the ammo for their guns ran out.
"Drop your rifles, pick up new ones and head to the stage three area." Kyle yelled, getting up and throwing his rifle down next to the others being dropped. They had a surplus of AR-15s, just not the ammo to go with it. This, at least, helped them to have clean rifles, not ones that would jam with fouled barrels. They could clean them later, if they were still around.
The group grabbed their new rifles, and headed to the next rally point.
***
Patrick and Edmund, yelling like Indians, moved along the inner wall, making sure to go slow and keep the diseased focused on them. They reached the back of the fort, its wall barren, as the fighting raged on the far side of the fort.
"Okay, stop here," Patrick said to Edmund, who was singing some British song at the top of his lungs. "We have fifteen rounds in each magazine. We'll both empty one here, then move farther down so they don't pile up."
"Copy that Commander," Edmund called back, pulling out his black Beretta and taking aim.
"Head shots, "said Patrick. "It shouldn't be too hard hit them at this distance."
"Copy that Commander."
"Stop that."
"Mate, you're a lot more fun when you're not in charge."
Patrick ignored the comment and pulled his own Beretta, looking down at the swarm of diseased below them. It was one thing firing at them from a distance, but here, this close, it was an entirely new experience. A Nightmare.
The diseased pressed against the wall, their pasty, claw like hands scraping it in an effort to reach the two men on the wall. Though only dead days, drastic changed had occurred in the diseased.
Their skin, only a few days ago normal looking, now resembled a ghost from a bad Halloween special. Their whitish skin had changed, causing them to look more like plastic wrap, which accentuated their frosty eyes. Eyes that now leaked red like a water tap. Not just their eyes, but their noses and mouths bled also, leaving dried blood caked on their faces.
The diseased still seemed unsure of themselves when they walked, like a new born horse, but that also seemed to have gotten worse. What hadn't change; their moans. The cries, moans and screeches of the diseased was, to Patrick, the most unsettling thing about them. If not for the sound, he could almost imagine they were just dead zombies, but some of the sounds seemed all too human, as if they were in pain. It sent shills through Patrick, and he had to focus to do what needed to be done.
Patrick pulled the trigger and the head of a diseased snapped back, the bullet hitting it right in the forehead. In less a minute, Patrick had unloaded his magazine into the mob of rotting flesh beneath him. He couldn't tell any difference.
"Let's move," He shouted to Edmund, who had also emptied his magazine.
The two ran down the wall ten feet, inserted new magazines and repeated the process. Ten more times the two repeated the process.The diseased, with nowhere to go, died.
"We've done bugger all," said Edmund when he finished with his last magazine. "I can't tell the difference!"
Patrick looked over the hundreds of diseased still below him, the sheer amount of them sapping his courage. "We need more ammo. Drop back a few paces from the wall, then go get some from the other side of the fort. I'll keep them distracted."
"Brilliant," said Edmund, then he backed up. "I mean, copy that general." He laughed, then took off running.
Chapter 17
Minutes later, everyone arrived at their new positions, their original positions, loaded the waiting magazines and prepared to fire. Two long mounds now existed on the land in front of the fort. The mounds were over twenty yards long with a gap of ten yards between them. Kyle didn't waste time, the diseased hadn't stopped coming. "Fire between the middle of the two mounds already made, ten yards behind it. We need to create a large mound there. Again, don't worry about the ones that get through, Patric
k and Edmund are taking care of those."
"Fire."
The barrage of 12 AR-15s crashed against the sound of the wailing coming from the diseased trapped below. Kyle picked his binoculars up and examined the death of the diseased. He frowned at the errant shots not making a difference. He reframed from commenting, as a head shot at a moving object well over one hundred yards away wasn't easy at all, especially to those new at shooting.
"Good Job," he said instead, "keep it up."
He could see the mound building, if not slower then he would have liked.
"Kyle!"
Kyle whipped his head in surprise. Edmund came running back, throwing a grocery shopping bag of empty magazines on the ground.
"We ran out of ammo," Edmund explained.
Kyle pointed at the reserve magazines, "Take the bag and deal with them." He looked back to his shooters laying on the ground. "Grace! Grace!"
Grace heard her name, stopped firing and found Kyle motioning to her. She got up and joined them, her breathing fast.
"Can you go with Edmund and help take care of the diseased behind the fort?"
"Sure," she responded with a smile, which at any other time would have sent Kyle blushing like an eight year old on the playground. Just not today.
"Thanks," he said, smiling foolishly. Well, mostly not today. Kyle had a suspicion that Grace's rounds were wasted down range anyways, so might as well put her where she would do good. Of course, he didn't plan on telling her that.
Edmund grabbed the magazines and started to turn.
"Edmund, take those with you," Kyle said.
Edmund followed the finger of Kyle to the hundreds of diseased that were in the moat in front of them, more dropping every minute. He looked up in irritation. "You're taking a piss, mate. We've got hundreds still back there."
"You get, boy, and take them devils with you," commanded Eric from the line, never taking his eyes from his rifle.
Edmund shrugged his head apologetically to Kyle, grabbed Grace and moved to the side of the wall, where he started yelling obscure British obscenities at the diseased.
Kyle smiled and turned back around, his momentary mirth disappearing at the neverending line of diseased still pouring out of the woods. Soon the real fight would begin. He just hoped they had enough to survive.
The third mound, behind and in the middle of the other two, already sat two feet high with diseased still stumbling over it. Half of those trying to climb it were killed by the defenders of the fort, their bodies collapsing, making the wall of dead higher. In minutes the wall was four feet high, and became too tall for the diseased, who simply walked around it. Kyle saw the change and called for the next part of the plan.
"Group A, extend the middle mound. Group B, fill the holes in the mound.We need it to hold."
Eric ran up, his expression confused. "Are we going to close the gap?"
Kyle yelled back, "Soon, another few minutes."
"Copy that."
Eric rejoined the shooters and started picking of the diseased making their way through gaps in the earthworks of dead. Soon Kyle would create a choke point for the diseased. He wanted it big enough for them to try and fit through, but small enough that they could be dealt with when they came. The other group would extend the middle mound farther out at an angle, so the diseased had to walk back and forth just to reach the choke point. It was about crowd control and buying time; simple as that.
The diseased grew louder, their whales and moans becoming volcanic in feel. Though eardrum ending, Kyle was grateful for the noise of the rifles, it kept him and his friends from listening to the sound of their own mortality.
Minutes passed as the two groups fired into their assigned spots, both mounds growing, their shape and size varying due to the building material: the diseased. They fell, in death, at odd angles and in unknown ways. Kyle didn't focus his eyes on it, they looked too much like people in death.
"Kyle!"
Kyle turned at his name, Jasmine appearing beside him. "Ammo?"
"Yes, we're down to a few thousand rounds. Everything we have left is behind us, already loaded into magazines." Jasmine seemed almost guilty saying it. "We still have a thousand rounds for the handguns, and the ammo for the shotguns also."
Kyle nodded. "Thanks, Jasmine."
"Kyle?" Fear reflected from her eyes. Fear for her herself, her husband, but mostly for her kids. They were her life and dying like this would be too much.
He looked down at her, his expression calm and reassuring. He placed a hand on her arm. "We're going to be fine Jasmine, but I promise your kids won't die to them."
She covered a sniffle, nodded her head up and down, then looked up. "Thanks, Kyle."
"Go help Patrick on the back side of the fort, we need to get rid of those diseased back there."
She smiled, grabbed her rifle and started running around the inside of her fort. Kyle faced the line of diseased, looking hard to see if it was thinning. He could imagine all he wanted, but they were still pouring in, thousands joining the thousands that already besieging the fort. Kyle pushed his doubt aside, it would kill him long before the diseased would. They wouldn't go down, not today. Macon would live.
***
Grace ran after Edmund, her arms shaking from watching the line of zombies heading towards them. She knew they were real, the diseased, or she thought she had known, but seeing them like this, in these numbers, had her heart racing. She wanted to drop the rifle and hide, but she wasn’t a quitter. Besides that, no one else did.
When the dead people had first walked through the trees, she’d taken a look at everyone else, just to share her fear with others, her utter helplessness with those around her. It didn’t work. Everyone seemed to be calm and collected about the whole thing. She knew they were protected by a high wall and moat, but there were thousands and thousands of the things.
But seeing them calm, with no fear on their faces, had done it for Grace. If they could do it, then she could do it. She’d always built confidence that way. She knew it wasn’t the best way, but she decided if others could do it, then she could. She’d gotten through boot camp the same way. Every day she’d wanted to quit, but there was no way she was going to quit when others didn’t.
To top it off, after she’d taken a look at the others, she turned around to see Kyle, something he noticed. What shocked her more than anything was that he winked at her. Winked. They were in the apocalypse, fighting for survival, under siege by zombie like creatures and he gave her a wink. She didn’t know whether to be enraged or start laughing.
She decided to laugh, though it could have been a delirious one. She hadn’t figured Kyle out, not yet. When she first met him, he seemed kind and gentle, not like a soldier at all, definitely more like a professor. Then, she’d seen him almost break when his brother died. She watched him, tears in his eyes, hold his brother as he died. She’d seen him talking to Abe, his words soft and unheard by anyone except his brother. It was terrible, and she saw such vulnerability in him.
Then he rose, face like stone, pronounced a man guilty, and shot him like a dog. It happened so fast, she didn’t know how to react, still didn’t. Everything she knew was gone: laws, society and the courts system. But what did that mean? That man was guilty; there was no doubt of that, but to judge him like that. She just didn't know what was right.
She had watched Kyle disappear in this room, spirit crushed, and wondered if he’d be the same. Then, the morning came and Jasmine had dragged her into his room, where a communal breakfast seemed to be happening. She hadn’t wanted to see him, her feelings confused, but he seemed the same mellow Kyle she had first met, if not heartbroken.
He wore a small smile, genuine but almost superficial. He seemed to thrive, to rebound from the attention of his friends, this strange group of survivors. Company seemed to be what he needed and she wondered if they had known that.
Grace watched the others in the camp, especially those closest to Kyle, and saw how they acte
d around him. Comfortable, ready to listen to him, to follow him, though not in any way submissive or afraid. Kyle carried a quiet confidence like a mantle. He didn’t try, he just was. These people were his friends, but more than that, they trusted and followed him.
Now she was running behind a young British guy no bigger than a straw, who danced and waved his hands in the air, all the while singing some soccer chant she'd never heard before. From looking at this guy, you wouldn't know they were all about to die.
"Come on lady," Edmund shouted, "we can move down now, I got most of them looking at me. I think I do, who bloody knows if they can even see?"
Edmund turned and ran farther along the wall, continuing his strange dance. Another few minutes brought them to Patrick, who was waiting with exaggerated patience.
"Took long enough," he grumbled, giving Grace a small bow. Grace laughed at the man. She couldn't help staring at him. Who would take their shirt off in December and paint himself blue?
"I had to bring along this lot didn't I? The professor said so. Anyways, we've got a lot of ammunition for the guns."
"Great," Patrick said, taking a magazine Edmund handed him and loading his Beretta. Edmund dropped the bag, loaded his own handgun and turned to look at grace.
"It's easy, just shoot them in the head. They don't move much, so you can almost hang off the side if you want, just don't pile them too high."
With the bag handed off, Edmund turned around and began to fire gleefully into the moat below.
Grace shook her head and stood beside Patrick, who had also begun to fire into the moat. She pointed at Edmund. "Jasmine told me that you used to work with Kyle at the plant, but where did you get him?"
Patrick fired the last of his magazine, the sound making Grace flinch. "We found him at a country store, a punching bag for some rednecks. Been with us ever since, though I guess that wasn't that long ago. Just feels like it."
"It was brilliant," Edmund said, coming back to get another magazine. "Kyle came in and did a quick draw, just like an American cowboy."