“Uh, Sergeant G?” Reader asked, still firing.
“Grab your shit, and let’s go!” Guerra said.
Guerra, Reader, and Stilley made a mad dash to abandon the container top. They fired as they retreated, pausing to take aimed shots. Many of the Guardsmen running with them reverted to training and tried to use suppressive fire. It was ineffective, and several of the Guardsmen went down, disappearing beneath piles of zombies that tore at them, ripping them apart. The fallen gave the rest a chance at life. The zombies zeroed in on the caught prey, giving the rest of the troops just enough time to clear the container and head for their vehicles. The troops manning the rearm stations didn’t have much time to pack up, and Guerra wondered how much ammo was going to be left behind as he watched the troops begin throwing everything they could into the back of a waiting five-ton. Behind them, zombies were already leaping off the container, crashing to the ground and snapping legs, backs, and necks. But they kept coming, even if it was at an elbow crawl. M2s and grenade launchers boomed as troops in armed Humvees opened up, racking the top of the container with rather impressive fire. But it still wasn’t enough. As Guerra led Reader and Stilley to their Humvee, he saw the last of the razor wire barriers fail beneath a mass of reekers that had come across the creek.
One of the dead was the old Amish man, missing his hat, half of his face, and most of his right arm. His long beard was torn and bloody, hanging from the scraps of his cheek and chin. His white shirt was dirty and torn, exposing deep rents gouged from his flesh. The Amish man turned dead eyes to Guerra, moaned as if in recognition, and headed toward him.
Madre de Dios! Guerra pounded up to the Humvee and tore open the driver’s door. He leaped inside and slammed the door behind him. With shaking hands he managed to get the vehicle started as Reader and Stilley joined him.
“Man, this is all sorts of fucked up!” Stilley shouted as he sprawled across the backseat, floundering on the drivetrain cover.
“Can’t believe I agree with you,” Reader said as he slammed the front passenger door shut. “What’s the op, Sarge?”
“We get the fuck out of here,” Guerra said, shifting the Humvee into gear. “We’ll probably pull off every now and then to try to thin out the herd before it gets to the Gap, but I’m not expecting a lot to come from that.”
*
Everything was falling apart.
Victor watched the displays that showed the feeds from the UAVs buzzing across the entire battlespace. The contact at the perimeter of Fort Indiantown Gap hadn’t gained much traction, despite that fact that the zombie horde coming up from the south was well over twenty thousand strong. The forces there, commanded by the cavalry officer, Lieutenant Colonel Gavas, were able to hold back the reekers. While it was more than only slightly troubling that the installation was under attack, the gravity of that situation paled to virtual insignificance when compared to what was going in the east. Almost all the barricades erected along the high-speed avenues of approach had been overrun or were about to be, as in the case of the second-tier barricades on I-78. The amount of fighting there was almost awe-inspiring, with a thousand soldiers and Guardsmen duking it out with millions of zombies. While the soldiers were well trained and equipped, the zombies had numbers on their side. Fort Indiantown Gap was going to be crushed.
“Colonel Jarmusch,” Victor called, keeping his eyes on the screens.
“Go ahead,” Jarmusch said. The garrison commander was a couple of tables away, working with some of his Guard team.
“Is that train ready to roll? We might need it a lot sooner than we thought.”
Jarmusch looked up at him. “Lieutenant Munn and anyone else who has train experience are on it. When the time comes, we’ll be ready.”
“Once that main body gets here, we’re not going to be able to hold them off,” Victor said. “We’ve already lost most of our fighting positions, except for the one up north. Let’s get Senator Cornell and his wife aboard that train and keep it guarded.” Even though Cornell was likely the new president of the United States, Victor found he had difficulty conferring the title on the man. “Do we have vehicles loaded up on the flat beds for the road movement from the Naval facility?”
“We do,” Jarmusch said. He studied the screens. “But do you really think that—”
“Fort Indiantown Gap is going down, Alex,” Victor said. “We’re going to have to recall the troops still holding the line. If we don’t, they’re going to be cut off by the reeker formations that have crossed the Swatara. We need every joe we can get, so we can’t wait. If they get trapped, we’ll never get them out.” Victor spun in his chair to face the comms team. “Contact Vogler and have him retrograde all his elements out of there immediately. They’re to return to the Gap ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
*
Hastings was still waiting for a turn on the firing line when Vogler appeared. The tall, broad-shouldered officer looked wild-eyed. Hastings thought that was odd, since he felt almost numb from all the shooting, the smoke, and the carnage.
“We’re being ordered out!” Vogler shouted. “Let’s fold up the tents and get the hell out of here!”
“Why’re we pulling back now, sir?” Ballantine asked. He pointed at the gap separating the two container walls. Thousands of dead zombies lay in it. “In another couple of minutes, we’ll have that thing filled to the top, and then they’ll be able to walk right across.”
If Vogler thought the comment was even remotely funny, he didn’t let it show. “We’re going to get cut off. A few thousand reekers are moving on us from the Swatara. We don’t have enough guys to fight two engagements at once!”
“What happened to the bridge barricades?” Hastings asked, thinking of Guerra and his other men.
“Overrun, I was told.” Vogler gestured at the logistics area behind the container wall. It was already full of activity, troops packing up and readying to roll out. “I’ll call everyone off the wall in ten minutes. Listen, I’ll stay up here. You guys go down and take charge of the retrograde operation. Captain Vega is in charge down there. Go ahead and tell him I’ve given you oversight.”
“Sure thing,” Hastings said. “But remember what happened last time. If those things make a pile and gain access to the top of the container, things are going to go tits up in a major way, and fast. Don’t forget—some of the reekers can run.”
“Roger that,” Vogler said as he turned away.
“Okay, let’s get off the wall,” Hastings told Ballantine.
He and the NCO scaled a ladder down to the ground. After some searching, they found Captain Vega. He was a man of medium build and dark complexion, with some rather severe acne scarring on his face and a genuine unibrow across both eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved in about three days, and his vague, pinched expression told Hastings the guy had been run through the wringer a couple of times and was just barely holding on.
Just like the rest of us, Hastings thought. “Hey, Vega?” Hastings called as they approached.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Vogler told us to swing by and help you get things squared away. I guess he figures he needs you to get your company stood up. Sergeant Ballantine and I will take over the loading operation from you. You good with that?”
Vega nodded like a bobble-head toy. “Yeah… yeah, that’s great, man. Thanks.” He pointed at the three five-tons a few feet away. Soldiers were humping food, water, and ammunition over and loading the beds. “We’re doing it by class, one class per truck.”
Hastings turned to Ballantine, but the big sergeant was already on it. The NCO started organizing them into a delivery line, making the soldiers line up and hand off materials to each other like a living conveyer belt.
“Cool, Vega. We got it,” Hastings said.
“Hey, you one of the guys from the 10th?” Vega asked.
“Yeah.”
“Shit, man. Heard you guys went through the tough shit. Was it like this?” Vega j
erked a thumb toward the barricade, where the soldiers atop it were slugging it out with the dead. The racket was incredible.
Hastings stared at the barricade for a moment. Smoke drifted past overhead, but it was nowhere near as thick as it had been up front. At least the guys on the container wall weren’t choking to death. They had a chance. “Worse,” he replied. “But it’s still the same shit. Just a different day.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I hear you,” Vega said, but his tone was vague, and his eyes looked a little wild.
Hastings stepped closer to him. “Vega, listen to me.” When the captain continued looking all around, Hastings waved his hand. “Dude, do I have your attention?”
Vega finally focused on Hastings. “Yeah, what?”
“Get ready to organize your men into a defensive perimeter. Make it like a skirmish line. Nothing fancy, just guys standing next to each other, maybe with another echelon behind them. Talk to your NCOs about it now, because when the dead come over the wall, there’s not going to be a lot of time to get organized. You hear me?”
“Hey, wait. What do you mean, ‘when the dead come over the wall’?”
“There’s a couple million of them out there, Vega. They’re going to roll over us as soon as they get sufficient mass. We don’t have a lot of time, and we have to get ready so we can pull our guys back under fire, rescue any wounded, and then get our asses out of here before we get cut off. You following me, Captain?” Hastings figured Vega was a few years younger than he was, so he was probably pretty new in grade, a fresh company commander who was acting like a newly minted second lieutenant who just got handed a rifle and shoved into combat.
“Yeah, I get you, Hastings,” Vega said, but his head was back on a swivel. He was nervous. Worse than that, he was losing his self-control.
“You can let your men see you sweat, Vega, but don’t let them see you lose your nerve.”
Vega jerked upright, as if Hastings had just pricked him with a pin. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
Hastings dropped the mentor act and cut to the chase. “You look like shit, you have no idea what’s going on, and we’re about to have a few hundred thousand of our best reeker pals join us back here. Pull your shit together and get with your NCOs and senior staff. Brief them on defensive operations. Vogler didn’t ask us to come down here and be nice enough to lend a fucking hand; he asked us to come down and take charge. I’m giving you a chance to get your shit together. I recommend you listen to what I have to say and get on with it. Questions?”
“Hey, lightfighter? Go fuck yourself!” Vega slammed his thumb against his vest. “I know what I’m fucking doing here. You? Your entire fucking division got wiped out. Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do, shit cake?”
Hastings stepped forward, rolling up on Vega so quickly that the smaller man back up, eyes wide. “Vega, go find someplace to sit down and suck your thumb for a bit. You couldn’t even get your men organized enough to effectively load three trucks, so it’s pretty obvious you aren’t going to be able to ready a defense. Don’t worry, though. I’ll take over.” He pointed at one the five-tons. “Go on and take a seat in one of the trucks. Crochet yourself a new happy sock. I’ll take over from here. Thanks for nothing, fuck face.”
Hastings walked over to where Ballantine was monitoring the men. “Keep at it, Carl. I’m going to go talk to the company XO and see if we can’t get a perimeter plan together for when the reekers come over the top.”
Ballantine looked over at Vega, who was still standing in the same spot, staring at Hastings. Ballantine shrugged and shot Hastings a thumbs-up. “Roger that, sir.”
Hastings found the company executive officer loading mags with a couple dozen other troops. “Hey, you the company XO?”
The first lieutenant glanced up then continued pushing stripper clips of ammo into metal magazines. “Yes, sir. What’s up?”
“Stop doing what you’re doing for a second. We need to have a chat.”
“Say what you need to say, sir,” the young officer said, not looking up again.
Hastings admired the dedication, so he didn’t call him on it. Instead, he took a knee beside the man. “Listen, the reekers are going to come over the top in just a few minutes. I want you and your men to be ready to form a defensive perimeter and buy the guys up top enough time to get off the wall and mount up. The first few dozen reekers won’t be very effective after they’ve fallen twenty feet, but a lot of them will still be able to fuck up anyone who gets too close. After that, more will come down and land on the first ones. Those might be more or less okay. They’ll need to be taken down fast, especially the runners, because this is flat terrain here. They’ll be able to move.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I’m with you on that, sir.”
Hastings spotted a pair of Strykers pulling security. They were armed with evil-looking GAU-19 .50-caliber Gatling guns. “I’m going to have the Strykers roll forward a bit,” Hastings told the XO. “Maybe some gun trucks, too. We’ll want to use the heavy weapons as soon as we can, and it looks like the GAUs will be able to mess up the initial reeker advance. You guys will need to be mindful of that. Don’t step into their lanes of fire. When you retreat, bound back and keep each other covered. Got it?”
“Pretty basic stuff, sir. I got it.” The lieutenant raised his head long enough to yell, “Hey, you guys! Listen up. This is what we’re going to do if the zombies come over the wall!” He shouted out the orders almost verbatim, all while continuing to load up magazines. The kid had his shit together. Hastings liked that.
From overhead, the tempo of the firing changed. It became wild, a bit sporadic.
“Okay, this might be it,” Hastings said, rising to his feet.
The lieutenant glanced up then went back to loading. “We’ll line up like you told us the second they come over the wall.”
Hastings slapped the man on the shoulder then dashed over to one of the eight-wheeled Strykers. Up in the cupola, the soldier behind the impressive-looking GAU-19 leaned toward him. The guy wore dark sunglasses that hid his eyes and a combat vehicle crew helmet with additional facial armor that made him look like a storm trooper from Star Wars.
“Hey, soldier, I want you to contact your buddies over there”—Hastings pointed at the other Stryker several yards away—“and move up to flank those soldiers over there.” He waved in the other direction. “We’re about to have reekers coming over the wall, and I want your GAUs up front.”
The gunner straightened up and looked past his weapon. “You want one unit on either side, right?”
Hastings nodded. “That’s correct. On the double.”
The gunner gave him a thumbs-up and began speaking into the boom microphone behind his facial armor. Hastings jogged back to the five-tons. Vega had joined one of the lines passing cargo.
When Hastings got close, he called, “Hey, Ballantine, stop humping MREs. We’ve got enough. Let’s concentrate on water and ammo.”
“Roger that.” Ballantine bellowed the order to the rest of the men then looked up at the container wall. “Looks like the boys are having a bit of a problem.”
Hastings turned and saw the soldiers rising out of their fighting positions. They were no longer firing straight into the approaching zombies. Some of their fires were directed toward the flanks. Through the swirling smoke, Hastings could make out reekers clawing their way over sandbags.
“Okay, here it comes,” Hastings said. “Stay with the reloading op. I’m going forward to the defensive perimeter. If things get too hot, saddle up and move out. All right?”
Ballantine frowned. “What? Without you, sir?”
“I’ll catch up,” Hastings said.
After a short hesitation, Ballantine shrugged. “Hooah.”
Hastings headed back to the lieutenant. On the way, he pushed through a knot of Guardsmen hauling gear back to another set of trucks—medical equipment, it looked like. The lieutenant and his men were still working on the ammunition, but two wer
e on their feet, M4s held at low ready, faces turned toward the top of the container wall. The pair of Strykers pulled forward and came to a halt twenty yards behind the troops. Hastings made eye contact with the gunner he had spoken to earlier and waved a hand in thanks. The soldier nodded back, his hands on the grips of the fearsome-looking GAU-19.
The tempo of combat atop the container wall changed drastically. Hastings saw soldiers pulling back and not in the most orderly fashion. They were heading for the ladders. He heard Vogler shouting orders, but he couldn’t make out the words. A few reekers shambled across the top of the barricade, stumbling and flailing. As the soldiers gathered around the ladders, they turned and fired on the zombies.
“Lieutenant, get your men on their feet,” Hastings said. “Form a single line, and get ready to open up.”
The lieutenant dropped the magazine he was fiddling with and leaped to his feet as if his legs were spring loaded. He shouted for the rest of the troops to line up, and the collection of thirty or so soldiers did as they were ordered. There was no need to be fancy about it—the zombies wouldn’t give a damn what formation they were in.
Atop the container, a soldier suddenly went down, falling over some object Hastings couldn’t see. The reekers attacked immediately, grabbing his feet and pulling themselves along his body as he kicked and struggled, firing his rifle into the sandbags at his side. Other soldiers rushed in, firing on the move. Several reekers fell. A bunch fell on the stricken soldier, and the rest pushed on toward the advancing soldiers.
“Holy fuck,” the lieutenant said quietly.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Hastings said.
The soldiers began climbing down the ladders, moving as fast as they could. One slipped and jumped off, taking the next man with him. They both landed badly with cries barely audible above the gunfire. Two medics ran over and dragged the guys away from the container wall. The firing picked up in intensity. A zombie fell over the side, crashed to the ground, and lay motionless, its head savaged by a bullet. Another came over the side and slammed to the highway. It thrashed about, trying to rise on shattered legs. The soldiers in the line opened up, hitting it a dozen times and sending it flopping around. Hastings could see rounds bouncing off the cement and steel container.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 47