These Dead Lands: Immolation

by Stephen Knight

  More ghouls rushed up and slammed into the rows of wire. All around Guerra, troops were firing. The entire line was opening up, dropping targets as soon as they got within range, while the snipers did their best to hold back the main body. Even with the mortars and the 40-millimeter grenades, it was a tall order.

  After five minutes, the reekers emerged from the tree line in force. They stepped over the bodies of their fallen and continued toward the creek, moaning and shambling through fields of fire that would have eradicated any human attacker. Conceptually, Guerra was impressed with the reekers for walking through such heavy firepower. They didn’t have the common sense to change tactics. They just kept on going until they took a fatal hit or got hung up in one of the wire barriers. Despite the noise and their brethren falling around them, they remained focus on getting a hot meal.

  Down the line, some kid cried out as the barrel blew out on his M4. Guerra glanced down to ensure the soldier would be replaced. He was. But Guerra noticed that the barrels of several rifles were starting to glow cherry red. Empty magazines were piling up, and reloads were slow. The firing began to diminish as shooters ran out of ammunition.

  “Aw, this ain’t good.” Guerra climbed to his feet and yelled, “Hey, Captain! Captain!” He waved his arms, trying to get the officer’s attention.

  The company commander was speaking into his field-radio handset. Wilkins finally looked up at Guerra, annoyed. “What the fuck do you want, Guerra? I’m busy!”

  “Ammunition! We need ammo up here!”

  “It’s coming!”

  “Fuck that shit, Captain! Bring the damn ammo up here. Screw the reloading behind the line. Get the shit up here where we can reload ourselves!”

  Wilkins shook his head and went back to his radio. Guerra checked his personal load-out. He had three mags in his vest and one in his rifle. The others were all empty. Reader and Stilley were probably burning through their munitions just as quickly, and the Guardsmen, who had less experience fighting the dead, were missing as often as they hit. Turning to the battlefield, he saw that one of the wire barriers was already being pushed flat in some areas, and reekers were writhing about, ensnared by the tanglefoot wire in the gaps between razor wire barriers. That was true not just at the end of the bridge but all along Swatara Creek. He even caught glimpses of zombies splashing through the water.

  Guerra reached down and slapped Reader on the shoulder. “Mike!”

  “What do you need, Sergeant?”

  “Go to the supply area and bring back four cases of five-five-six and drop them off here. Then go back and get four more. We can’t be caught standing around, holding our dicks, and pissing on these things to hold them back.”

  “Hooah,” Reader said. He rose to his knees and ejected the magazine from his rifle. He slapped in another then pulled the rest from his vest and dropped them next to Stilley. Guerra didn’t think that was wise, but before he could protest, Reader turned and virtually catapulted down the ladder behind them.

  “Oh shit, Sergeant G!” Stilley shouted. “Check it!”

  Guerra turned, and all he could see was heads, thousands of them, swaying from side to side as the zombies marched across the field. He heard a cracking sound off to his right, and he looked in that direction. The fence surrounding the Amish compound folded inward and collapsed, trampled into splinters by hundreds of ghouls. Deep, throaty percussions came from the compound, and muzzle flashes lit the upstairs windows. The Amish were opening up, probably with hunting rifles. He had to hand it to them: every time they fired, a reeker fell over dead.

  “Damn Amish are doing better than we are!” Stilley said. He laughing then got back on his rifle.

  Boom! Boom! Boom, boom, boom, boom!

  One of the reekers had pushed through the wire at the far side of the bridge, and someone had set off the first set of claymores in response. Though the reeker was turned into a fine mist of pureed black gore, no others were hurt. That was a lot of firepower to unleash on a single zombie. The detonation had occurred much too early.

  “What the fuck?” Guerra yelled, pushing up from his fighting position again.

  Down the line, Wilkins was virtually beating a young Guardsman across his helmet, screaming at him. He yanked the soldier away from the claymore triggers and assumed the position himself. His radio operator knelt behind him. The Guardsman who had been unceremoniously relieved looked scared out of his wits.

  “Shoot!” Guerra yelled at him. “Hey, shoot them, you stupid motherfucker!” He waved his arms to get the Guardsman’s attention then pointed at the bridge. “Shoot!”

  The guy stared at Guerra stupidly then unslung his rifle and stepped forward. The fighting line was full, so he leaned his leg on a prone soldier and fired over him.

  With a curse, Guerra dropped back into his own fighting position and peered through the scope on his M4. He fired. A reeker fell. Fired again. Another reeker down. His third shot hit a screamer right in the mouth, and the small zombie was somehow held up in the press of bodies behind it. The diminutive corpse waved back and forth, head lolling, caught up in the advance. Guerra shot two more zombies around it, then a third, and a fourth. Finally, the dead kid slid out of sight and into the waiting tanglefoot wire below.

  On the horizon, more black smoke roiled into the sky. Whatever was happening on the interstate wasn’t getting any better. A Shadow UAV buzzed past at an altitude of a thousand feet. It made a quick orbit of the area then winged on toward the rising smoke.

  Guerra burned through another mag then swapped it out with a fresh one. He had only one left in his kit. No runners had appeared with reloads, so it looked as though he and Stilley would be splitting Reader’s magazines. He went back to firing. He didn’t have to hunt for targets. The enemy density was so thick, he just needed to hold his rifle in one spot and wait for pallid faces to appear in the scope. He figured out that he could fire one round every two seconds and score kills as easily as he could by hunting around for reekers to shoot.

  “Let them come to you, Stilley,” he said.

  “Yeah, roger that. I’m already doin’ it,” Stilley responded. “Nice of ’em to line up like this for us, huh?”

  “Peachy,” Guerra said. He heard another volley of gunfire from the Amish compound, but he kept eyes forward until he had exhausted his magazine.

  While reloading, he took a quick glance at the house. He saw substantial movement in all the windows. The place had been overrun. A woman wearing a skirt and a dirty white blouse tried to step out onto one of the eaves. She didn’t make it. Filthy ashen hands grabbed her and pulled her back through the window while she kicked and screamed.

  Game over for the Amish. He slapped his last mag into his rifle, slapped the bolt release, and got back in the game. Movement behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder. Reader had returned, lugging four cans of rifle ammunition. His lip was bleeding, and his right cheek was scraped.

  “What happened to you?” Guerra shouted.

  “Had to convince the guys down below to give up the goods,” Reader said, dropping the cans nearby. “Gotta tell you, Sergeant G, these Guard guys sure have glass jaws. Hope you guys like your M eight-five-five on stripper clips.”

  “Start reloading,” Guerra said.

  Reader opened one of the cans and pulled out a handful of cardboard boxes. Each was loaded with stripper clips, small metal rods on which ten 5.56-millimeter cartridges were mounted. Taking the speed loader from the can, he attached it to one of the empty magazines then pushed the clip into it.

  Guerra returned to his method of setting up and waiting for faces to appear. He fired regularly and accurately. Every now and then, one of Stilley’s expended cartridges would bounce off his helmet or body armor. He was thankful he’d buttoned up his collar. The last thing he wanted was to have red-hot brass rolling around inside his uniform.

  “Hey, this looks familiar,” Reader said as he tossed full mags to the deck between Guerra and Stilley. “It’s the George
Washington all over again.”

  “What’s going on behind the line?” Guerra asked.

  “They’ve got forty guys working on reloads, and the gun trucks are out,” Reader said. “I guess the relief company is doing all the logistics right now while the rest fights.” He tossed another loaded mag onto the pile, and Stilley grabbed it immediately and slapped it into his rifle’s mag well.

  “They’re gonna need a lot more than forty guys at this rate,” Guerra said.

  “Sergeant G, you want me to keep reloading, or do you want me to get more ammo?” Reader asked.

  “Reloads,” Guerra said. “When you’re done, go back and get more cans. Try not to kill anyone, buster.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Reader said, “but I’m not really very good at that sort of thing.”

  “Your soft skills do suck,” Stilley said.

  *

  “The fucking fire is killing us,” Ballantine said, leaning into his rifle as he fired.

  “Yeah, it’s not much of a help,” Hastings said as a drone blared past overhead. He was still shooting mostly downward, though he had to pause every now and then until more ammunition was brought up.

  The runners were getting tired, and there weren’t enough loaders to keep up with the demand. Soldiers and Guardsmen were on the verge of panic. The smoke had reduced visibility so much that they had to wait until the reekers got close to the container walls to open up on them. Hundreds of bodies were stretched out over the HESCOs and sandbags below. The claymores had done a great job, but they’d had to employ them much earlier than expected. So they were down to shooting the zombies between the eyes.

  Hastings blasted a reeker in the head when it turned its colorless face toward him after climbing up on one of the HESCO barriers. The zombie sagged, but to his surprise, it didn’t fall. Instead, it seemed to rise up toward him as if floating on some invisible gas. Then, he realized that it was being borne upward by the press of bodies behind it as they climbed up the HESCOs. A large portion of the reeker horde was hidden behind the acrid smoke. Hastings’s eyes were tearing up inside his mask. The filters just weren’t designed for blocking so much smoke.

  He continued firing into the growing mass below. “Carl, this is going to get fucked up pretty quickly,” he said.

  “Tell me about it, sir!” Ballantine leaned over the edge of the sandbag wall, firing downward as well.

  “Get on that MBITR and call Kay. Have her put Everson on, and give him a direct update on what’s going on,” Hastings said.

  “You sure, sir?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll save your place in line.”

  *

  As soon as the sirens had gone off and the shooting started, Bill Everson rounded up the rest of the civilians and confined them to the barracks. He handed out all the weapons, helped with last-minute organization of packs and supplies, and posted lookouts on all four corners of the building. The van they had provisioned from the motor pool was parked outside, full of gas and in good running condition. He advised those not on guard duty to take the time to eat, use the latrine, and take care of any last minute items.

  “How will we know it’s time to go?” Walker asked. Despite his size and fearsome appearance, the big man looked scared to death.

  Kay Ballantine thought it was kind of funny that a man so physically imposing should be the one most frightened. Even her sons were holding up better than Walker. Kenny was even doing fine, despite the noise. As long as the stream of jalapeño cheese spread and crackers kept coming, nothing bothered Kenny, not even wailing sirens and gunfire.

  “We wait for Hastings and the others,” Everson told him. “We’ll take our direction from them.”

  “Yeah? Well, what if they don’t show up?”

  Everson looked at the bigger man, his eyes cold and clear behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Even though the long-haired man was well in his sixties and looked as though he could have been a guitarist for the Grateful Dead, there was nothing soft about him. There was still a Marine beneath the beard, the black Harley-Davidson T-shirt, worn jeans, and scruffy work boots.

  “We’ll pay attention to our surroundings, see how things turn out. If things make a big U-turn, we’ll likely see the troops withdrawing, heading back for the train. When that happens, we’ll fall back with them.”

  “That don’t seem like much of a plan,” Walker said.

  “Well, if you don’t think so, you should consider staying here,” Everson told him. “In fact, I invite you to do just that.”

  Walker scowled. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  Everson cocked his head. “I mean you’re kind of a pain in the ass, Walker. You try and bigfoot everyone to get your way, and then when someone stands up to you, you turn into a crybaby pussy. You don’t have anyone’s back, and that bugs me. A lot.”

  “Screw you!”

  Everson shook his head. “Now, now. Not in front of the children.” He nodded toward Curtis and Josh, who were watching the debate from atop one of the upper bunks.

  “Well, screw them, too!” Walker snapped.

  “Hey, Walker. You better cowboy up, guy. Otherwise, you’re no good to anyone. Not even yourself.” Diana sat down on the bunk next to Kenny. The small, hard-faced Asian woman reached out combed the boy’s hair with her fingers. Kay smiled. Diana was learning to deal.

  “Sound advice,” Everson said.

  Walker opened his mouth to say something, his face clouded in anger. Before he could get a word out, the radio Carl had given Kay chirped.

  Carl’s voice came across its speaker, shrouded by gunfire. “Kilo, this is Charlie. Over.”

  All heads swiveled toward the radio. Kay practically leaped off the bunk, smacking her head against the upper one. She reached for the black handheld radio but succeeded only in knocking it to the floor.

  “Kilo, this is Charlie. Over!”

  “Missus Ballantine, you need help working that?” Everson strode toward the bunk, waving the sentries to get back on lookout as he did.

  Kay snatched up the radio and pressed the push-to-talk button. “Charlie, this is Kilo. Over.” She released the button.

  “Hey, Kilo, listen, things are going pretty poorly up here,” Ballantine said. Some of his words were hard for Kay to understand because of the sounds of combat that threatened to drown him out. “I’m good, and the rest of the guys are good, but it’s hotter than we thought it would be. You guys need to get ready to fall back to the train. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold this position. Over.”

  Kay pressed the button again. “Um, okay. I mean, roger, Charlie. Over.”

  “Kilo, are you guys good? Over.”

  “Yes, we’re good. There’s fighting going on around the fort, but we don’t know much about where. Sounds like it’s coming from around the main gate area. Over.”

  “Kilo, is Everson on site? Over.”

  Kay raised her head and found Everson standing right over her. He smiled and held out his hand. She hesitated a moment then handed the radio to him.

  “Charlie, this is Devil Dog. Over.”

  “Devil Dog, this is Charlie.” Ballantine sounded slightly amused. “At least you didn’t designate yourself A Jay Squared Away. You hear my SITREP? Over.”

  “Roger, Charlie. Can you describe the engagement? Over.”

  “Devil Dog, this is Charlie. We’re going to have to fall back to the second line. We’ve got a heavy smoke condition here that’s not improving with age. Are all the civilians in place and accounted for? Over.”

  “Roger, Charlie. Everyone is here. You have instructions for us? Over.”

  “Devil Dog, negative at this time. Message is informational only. What can you tell me about the contacts at the Gap? Over.”

  “Charlie, this is Devil Dog. Contact was intermittent until about twenty minutes ago. Sounds mid-intensity right now. Continuous firing, some arty, and those tree mulcher things are ripping away pretty much all the time right now. Not seeing a lot
of troop movements around our area, but the soldiers holing up in the barracks down the way have relocated to the line. Over.”

  “Roger that, Devil Dog. You have security posted? Over.”

  “Charlie, security is out. Over.”

  “Outstanding. Pass the MBITR back to Kilo, please. Over.”

  Everson handed the radio back to Kay, and she keyed it. “Charlie, this is Kilo. Over.”

  “Kilo, listen to what Devil Dog says. If things break down before we can make it back, he’ll get you guys to the train. I left spare batteries for the radio in your bag, in the outside left pocket, just in case. Keep the radio on, and listen in for updates. Over.”

  “We will, Carl. Charlie. Whatever. Over.”

  “Mom! Can I talk to Dad?” Curtis asked, leaning over the bunk and peering down at her.

  Kay shook her head. “Not now, hon.”

  Curtis flounced back on the bunk.

  “Kilo, this is Charlie. I need to get back in the fight. I’ll contact you again as soon as I have something to report. Charlie out.”

  With that, the radio fell silent. Kay looked around and saw that everyone in the room was staring at her. Only Kenny’s attention was elsewhere. He had risen from the bunk and was waving his hands in the air, watching their fluttering movements.

  “Okay,” Everson said. “We all heard it. The guys are all right. They’re going to have to fall back to another position, and it’s a tough fight, but they’re good to go. No one get too worried just yet.” He paused and shifted his M4. “But no one get too comfortable, either. We’re probably not going to be staying for very long.”

  *

  More ammo was dropped off at Hastings’s position. He was practically floating on a sea of expended cartridges, and his rifle’s barrel was glowing red from the relentless rate of fire. He’d only seen that once before, after blazing through five mags on full auto while repelling a jihadi attack in Afghanistan years ago. He’d pretty much pushed his weapon to the same limits, only by firing on semiautomatic. And less than five feet below his position, reekers swarmed.