by James Cook
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Ethan heard Holland’s Boston accent behind him. “Hey Zeb, you know another way across this river? ‘Cause no fucking way am I walking over that bridge.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Zeb’s deputy, Hedges. “We’ll show you the way.”
Branching off where the highway met the river, Ethan noticed a footpath curving down around the ravine. At first glance, it didn’t look as though it led to anything except a narrow beach at the water’s edge. But after looking for a moment, he saw what Hedges was talking about—another bridge.
Smaller and narrower than what had once spanned the river, it was nonetheless sufficient to support the weight of the horses, although they would have to ride single-file. The smaller bridge was built in the shadow of the larger one, lower along the embankment, and covered at the edges with camouflage nets. The span in the middle had been painted to resemble the water with remarkable attention to detail, while the edges were surrounded by a small forest of cattails. If anyone happened by and didn’t know what to look for, the bridge would be easy to miss. So the suspension bridge above is just a decoy. A trap. Clever. Makes me wonder if the main gate is really a gate at all.
There were a few infected splashing around in the water as they crossed. The river flowing below them was low, only coming up to the walkers’ waists. Upon seeing Ethan’s party, they began to shamble forward, tripping and falling below the surface only to rise up with water pouring from their open mouths. So much for refilling our canteens.
“Hey bossman,” Hicks said behind him.
Ethan turned. “Yeah?”
“Want me to kill them walkers?”
“No. They’re trapped; it’s not worth the ammo. Besides, we’re gonna have our hands full once we get across the river.”
Hicks grunted, and they moved on. Ethan stayed well back from Hedges’ mount and its constantly whipping tail as they walked along. The horse was nervous, clearly not happy about being so close to the undead.
Soon enough, they crossed the water and began traversing a set of switchbacks that led up to Broken Bridge’s service entrance. Above them, ragged, wheezing moans began drifting down from the top of the embankment. Ethan drew his axe from its harness and turned to his men.
“All right, guys. Hand weapons only for now. We need to conserve ammo. Hang back for a bit and let Zeb and his men clear a path, then fill in the gap and start busting heads. Wear your PPE, and don’t forget to maintain intervals. And for God’s sake, give Cole room to swing. I don’t want to have to radio for a medevac.”
The big gunner grinned as he reached a hand over his shoulder and drew his bar mace. He had purchased his massive, medieval looking weapon from a blacksmith who plied his trade near Fort Bragg. Cole’s mace had cost him 200 rounds of 9mm ammunition and a case of bourbon—an exorbitant sum—but by his own admission, it had been more than worth it. When armed with his heavy three-foot weapon and given room to work, he was a human engine of destruction.
Ahead of them, Zeb reached the top of the ravine, spurred his horse, and sprang forward with a shout. His wicked blade rose and fell as he sped by a walker, splitting its head down the middle like a melon. He tore his weapon free and guided his horse toward the next target. Behind him, Hedges and Michael split up, both drawing weapons similar to Zeb’s cleaver. In a few seconds, all three were out of sight over the hill, but Ethan could hear their shouts and the dull thuds of steel striking dead flesh. Ethan tied his scarf over his mouth and nose, slipped his goggles over his eyes, and looked behind him. His men had already done the same.
“Up the hill!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled. “Time to go to work!”
They increased their pace, breaking into a jog. As they cleared the rise, they saw the three riders circling the main force of the horde, closing in toward the center in a whirl of horseflesh and steel. Around and around they rode, arms rising and falling rhythmically, each stroke smashing a walker’s head and sending it tumbling to the ground. Ethan was momentarily impressed at their practiced coordination, but the feeling dimmed when he realized the horses would be useless in the close confines of the town. Picking up speed, he ran to his right, angling toward a smaller group of undead closing in from the north.
“Hicks, you’re with me. Cole, you and Holland break left. Make sure Zeb doesn’t get blindsided.”
“You got it.”
Hicks gripped his heavy, short-handled spear and followed Ethan as he ran toward the eastern wall. There, a loose knot of about a dozen undead waited for them. Slowing his pace, Ethan spun his axe around and swung the spiked end at the lead ghoul’s temple. It connected with a satisfying thunk, making the walker go stiff for a moment before collapsing. Beside him, Hicks ducked under a walker’s reaching hands and thrust his spear upward, moving with the casual grace of long practice. His weapon pierced the shallow skin under the ghoul’s jaw, penetrated upward through its soft palate, and cleaved its rotten brain until the point stopped against the top of its skull. With a quick downward jerk, Hicks freed his spear and turned to look for his next victim.
The two of them kept at it, Ethan killing ghouls with wide swings of his axe, and Hicks dispatching them with quick, precise spear thrusts. Every few seconds they backed off, circled their undead assailants, picked new targets, and moved in to put them down. All the while, they kept in mind the golden rule of fighting the undead: keep moving, and don’t get greedy.
As they fought, Ethan took note of the walkers’ condition. The corpses were fresh, probably not dead more than a day or two. Their clothing was in relatively good shape, as were their shoes, and their wounds were still red and raw, not blackened and crusty. Townspeople, he thought. The horde that killed them must have moved on.
From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw another small horde emerge from the town’s shattered service entrance and start toward the circling horsemen. Holland and Cole moved to intercept, weapons at the ready. Cole carried his heavy bar mace as if it weighed no more than a twig, while Holland, unable to wield heavy melee weapons due to his slight build, deftly spun a pair of long-handled hatchets.
When they reached the walkers, Cole began swinging his mace in a steady figure-eight pattern, each downswing cracking an infected skull like an eggshell. Slowly, he plodded along, keeping his weapon moving and leaving a trail of grisly, twice-dead corpses in his wake. Holland circled to his right, his hatchets whirling. Unlike Cole’s juggernaut brute force, Holland relied on speed, disabling the walkers with fast, precise slashes to knees, ankles, and hamstrings before dispatching them with overhand blows to the backs of their necks. When other walkers got too close, he knocked them over with a display of kicks that would have made his old Tae Kwon Do instructor beam with pride.
After a grueling few minutes of fighting, Ethan and his men had eliminated the smaller hordes that wandered out of the ruined town, while Zeb and his riders had cut down the main force. Once the first wave was down, Ethan ordered his men to back off, take some water, and catch their breath. Zeb’s crew followed, giving the secondary horde time to clear the gate, and giving their horses a chance to rest.
“You boys doin’ all right?” Zeb asked. He was still fresh, having done his fighting from horseback. Ethan’s men were winded and sweating, but far from finished. Hard living and harder training had kept them all in good shape.
“We’re fine,” Ethan said. “Nobody got hurt. Let’s try and keep it that way.”
The trailing edge of the second horde began to thin out, indicating that most of the ghouls who were capable of finding the gate had already done so. Ethan and Zeb held their men back, letting the walkers gain distance from the wall and congregate on open ground. Ethan had learned through hard experience that fighting in the open played to the strengths of the living—mainly speed and mobility—whereas close quarters combat gave an advantage to the dead. Just as he was opening his mouth to order an attack, Hicks held up a hand.
“Hey, hang on a minute boss,” h
e said.
Ethan stopped, and looked at him expectantly. The stringy Texan’s gaze drifted over to the ravine, a slight smile forming on his scarred face.
“Zeb, you mind if I borrow your horse for a minute? I got an idea.”
The lawman glared skeptically, then shifted his attention to Ethan. “Sergeant?”
He shrugged. “Hey, your horse, your call.”
Zeb frowned, but dismounted.
“All right, what’s the plan?” Ethan asked.
“Y’all just head for the woods and hide. Zeb, keep an eye on me. When I signal, one o’ y’all ride out and take this horse back to the trees with you.”
Zeb looked at Hicks, then at Ethan, then back at Hicks. “Son, I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hicks gave him a grin, handed his spear off to Ethan, and swung into the saddle. As he rode toward the horde, the others turned and made for cover behind the treeline.
Hicks spurred his borrowed mount in a wide circle around the ghouls, keeping the horse’s speed at a low canter. In a few minutes, he managed to bunch the majority of ghouls into a cluster in the field between the wall and the ravine, then slowly began circling wider and wider, leading the horde toward the river. Ethan realized what was happening and grinned.
When the horde was within a few yards of the ravine’s edge, Hicks slowed his horse to a walk, leaned forward, and whispered soothing words to calm the creature’s ragged nerves. Raising a hand, he signaled to where Ethan and the others waited behind cover.
“I got it,” Michael said, urging his mount forward. He broke cover and galloped toward the river.
Hicks dismounted, keeping an eye over his shoulder, and handed the reins over when Michael reached him. As the horses were led away, he maintained a brisk walk until the animals were out of sight. When he once again had the full attention of his audience, he began making his way down toward the water, waving and shouting as he went. Doggedly, with faces slack and arms outstretched for their prey, the infected began to follow him. Hicks quickly went out of sight, sliding down the hill with close to two dozen undead trailing after him. Ethan noticed that many of the walkers, unable to maintain their balance once they started down the hillside, toppled over as soon as they stepped over the edge.
Three times the crack of Hicks’ rifle sounded, each time from a different location. From the reports, Ethan surmised that Hicks was moving closer to the bridge. When no more shots sounded for more than a minute, he began to worry. Images of Hicks being overwhelmed by ghouls and dying in agony gnawed at his mind, but he shook his head and dismissed them. If Hicks had been caught, they would have heard the screams. So he waited. And waited.
And waited.
Finally, just as Ethan was about to break cover and move in for a closer look, Hick’s topped the rise at a sprint, clutching his M-4 and sweating despite the cold. Ethan let out a breath. He motioned to his men. “Let’s go. Switch to your rifles, and stay alert.”
Hicks walked over to the others as they broke cover. “They’re all in the ravine, boss,” he said. “Ain’t gettin’ out any time soon.”
“Good work. We’ll have to remember that trick. Okay, everybody check your weapons, make sure you got rounds chambered and safeties off. Fingers off the trigger until you make contact. Hicks, you and Holland pair up. Cole, you’re with me. Zeb, you know this place, right?”
The old man nodded. “Yep. Been here many a time.”
“You mind taking point?”
“Not at all.” He drew a big .357 revolver from hip and gestured to Hedges. “Chris, I believe it’s your turn to watch the horses.”
The deputy frowned but reached for the reins. “Be careful in there, Sheriff.”
“Always am.”
Michael sheathed his massive cleaver and drew a lever action rifle from behind his saddle. He checked the chamber, dismounted, and walked over to his uncle. “Ready when you are.”
“All right. You boys stay behind me, and watch where you point them damn rifles. Any stray fire will be returned. Understood?”
Ethan smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.”
Zeb grunted, and began walking toward the shattered entrance to Broken Bridge. Ethan had his men fan out in a diamond formation and followed. As they walked, his heart began to beat faster, and he felt a cold metallic taste form on the back of his tongue.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said, more to himself than his men. “Maintain visual on each other at all times, and don’t fucking go anywhere alone. We don’t know what’s waiting for us in there.”
Cole chuckled. “Shit, man. When do we ever?”
Ethan looked up and saw the sun clearing the horizon to the east. A low bank of clouds hung over the hills in the distance, turning the sky the color of rust. Already the vultures were circling, indifferent to the men walking amongst the dead husks that would be their next meal.
As they grew closer to the wall, it seemed to rise up and loom over Ethan, heavy and forbidding. He remembered what it had felt like charging up the hill at Singletary Lake, bullets whipping past his ears, the undead groaning loud enough to rattle his teeth, men around him screaming as they fell, all the while wondering when it would be his turn, when a stray bullet would catch him and send him spinning to the ground.
Taking a deep breath, he focused his thoughts and cleared his mind as best he could. The old fear quieted, but stayed where it was, cold and gnawing. His father’s voice drifted back to him from across the years, deep and strong. Son, when you got a job to do, it’s better to get it done than to stand around fearing it.
Gritting his teeth, he squared his shoulders and walked on.
FIFTEEN
As Ethan suspected, the main gate wasn’t really a gate at all.
Formed of several tons of concrete and steel, it was nothing more than a false front designed to fool attackers. It was, in fact, the strongest point of the town’s defenses, heavily reinforced and bristling with machine guns. The purpose of its design was obvious: lure the enemy here, distract them by defending vigorously, and then flank the shit out of them. From the bullet holes, scorches, and scars along the outer defenses, Ethan guessed it had been an effective strategy.
Until now, at least.
After making a circuit of the inner perimeter, Ethan didn’t spot any other entrances. He did, however, see plenty of rope ladders and primitive cranes, indicating these people had an escape plan, and at least some of them got away. His hopes of finding survivors began to grow.
What few infected they saw within the walls were mostly crawlers, along with a few crippled walkers too slow to make it out with the rest. Not wanting to waste time, Ethan and Cole killed them with headshots and left the corpses in the streets.
All around them, they saw the destruction left behind by the horde. Hundreds of dead bodies littered the ground—most of them obviously long dead—which made sense, considering the horde outside the gate had been mostly townsfolk. But what happened to the rest of them, the horde that breached the town to begin with?
It just didn’t make sense. If this town was attacked recently, why weren’t there more ghouls still wandering around? Usually, the infected stuck around for a few days after a kill, too distracted by the scent of fresh blood to move on. And in this case, it would be especially hard for the horde to escape because the shattered service entrance was the only way out. So what lured them away? Ethan gripped his rifle tighter, and kept moving.
Finished with their patrol, he and Cole returned to the entrance to find Zeb waiting for them. The old lawman was examining the shattered gate with a flashlight, shining it on broken hinges, twisted steel doors, and the singed archway. He spotted the two soldiers approaching and motioned them over.
“Sergeant, I need you to look at this.”
Ethan stepped closer. “Sure. What do you got?”
“Look here.” Zeb pointed at the bent and blasted remains of a three-inch steel plate. “You see those scorch marks, the shape of the
distortion?”
“Yeah.”
“This door was blown inward from the outside. Look at the arch. Those hinges weren’t just broken, they were torn away. Whatever took this gate down, it ripped through three inches of steel and made it look easy. What kind of weapon could that, you reckon?”
Ethan blew out a sigh, not liking what he was hearing. “I’m not sure. RPGs wouldn’t have been strong enough. Artillery, maybe, but the angle isn’t right. Whatever hit this door, it did it straight on, like a bullet. Anybody pushing a cannon close enough to hit the gate at this angle would have been spotted.”
He walked over to the other half of the door and squatted next to it, tracing a hand over a blackened, half-moon shaped hole in the middle. He thought back to Singletary Lake, and the large marauder compound the First Recon had raided there. Another squad had taken down the main gate, but he remembered what it looked like after they destroyed it. He was on the run at the time, and under heavy fire, but the memory stuck out clearly.
He also remembered the weapon that did it.
“If I had to guess,” he said. “I’d say this was done with a LAW rocket.”
Cole searched the scene, taking it in. After a moment, he ran a palm over his bald head and sighed. “You know, I think you might be right, man. If somebody got close enough, and had enough infected with them … but you’d have to be one crazy motherfucker to try it.”
“Well,” Zeb said, standing up. “This gate didn’t blow itself up. Somebody did this intentionally, and with malice aforethought. If they used a rocket launcher to blow the gate, then that begs an obvious question.”
Where did they get it, and do they have more? “There’s another problem,” Ethan said. “The infected we fought here are almost all townspeople. The corpses they killed in the fight are all older. Way older. How many people used to live here, Zeb?”