Dead America-The Northwest Invasion Box Set | Books 1-6

by Slaton, Derek

  The Sergeant smiled. “Appreciate it,” he said. “One more thing, how is Wade doing?”

  “He’s still firing twice a minute, like clockwork,” the sniper replied. “So unless he’s found more ammo somewhere, he’s gotta be running low.”

  Copeland shook his head, pursing his lips. “You figured out a way to generate some noise for me?” he asked.

  “Got a couple ideas,” Kowalski replied, dragging out the words. “Just not real thrilled with implementing them.”

  Copeland nodded in understanding. “Hopefully it won’t come to that, but if it does…”

  “I’ll be ready,” the sniper promised.

  “I can see why the Captain likes you,” Copeland said, sincerity in his tone. “Copeland out.” He put his radio away and readied his assault rifle. “You ready to do this?”

  Raymond nodded, steeled for battle as he checked his own gun. “What’s the plan?”

  “Run like hell back to Johnson’s truck,” Copeland replied. “Weapons hot, so don’t hesitate to light them up, and hope Kowalski continues being a kick-ass shot.”

  “Good enough for me,” Raymond replied with a nod, “lead the way.”

  Copeland opened the truck door and hopped down onto the pavement, quickly raising his weapon and firing a couple of shots towards the back of the truck. Several zombies fell limp, having been crawling out from under the back end of the vehicle.

  Raymond immediately drew his weapon, eyes widening, but the Sergeant gently inched the barrel down with his hand.

  “Couple of them crawling,” he said, pointing. “Not sure if we knocked them down or they were actually crawling. Come on.”

  They took off running as soon as Raymond hit the ground, tearing across the bridge. They were careful to avoid the zombies on the ground, as even if their backs were broken they could still deliver a lethal bite.

  Shots from the hardware store continued to go off, and still-standing zombies dropped like flies in front of them as they ran. They skidded to a stop in front of a group of eight, and raised their guns, side by side.

  “I got the right,” Copeland said, and then opened fire. Raymond followed suit, and they took down all eight with bullets to the face.

  The truck was forty yards away, with only a few zombies standing in their way, easily dispatched with well-placed bullets. When they finally reached Johnson’s truck, the Private stood casually against the hood.

  “About time you got here, Sarge,” he said.

  Raymond’s chest heaved, but Copeland didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat from their sprint.

  “Status?” the Sergeant asked.

  Johnson motioned to the truck. “Got this truck wedged in pretty good, as you can see.” It stretched across both lanes, not quite touching the barrier, leaving only a sliver of space. “Schmitt got his too, just at the opposite angle. So if any of those things do squeeze through, they’ll have to figure out to go to the other side of the bridge in order to get through.” He grinned. “Frankly, I don’t think they’re that smart.”

  Before Copeland could reply, several gunshots fired from the southern part of the bridge.

  “Let’s move,” he said, and the trio quickly crawled under the truck, darting towards Schmitt.

  At the south end, five soldiers stood, taking aim and firing sporadically into the neighborhood where dozens of zombies poured out.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” Copeland barked.

  The men complied, lowering their weapons.

  “Best we can tell, Sarge, one of those car alarms stopped going off, so they got drawn to us,” Schmitt explained, motioning to the threat that was still fifty yards away.

  Copeland pulled out his walkie talkie and clicked to a different channel. “Dawson.”

  “What can I do for you, Sarge?” the Corporal replied.

  The Sergeant kept an eye on the emerging zombies. “Need more decoys up here by the surface street bridge,” he instructed. “Double it up, this time.”

  “Next two set of drivers that get back will head that way,” Dawson promised.

  Copeland nodded. “How many decoys have you been able to deploy so far?” he asked.

  “Got thirty or so, spread out around the city, about six or eight blocks apart,” Dawson replied. “We’re filling in some gaps now to thin them out even more.”

  “Good,” Copeland said. “Keep doing what you’re doing, but be ready to move en masse. We might have a situation brewing on the interstate.”

  “Ten four,” the Corporal replied firmly. “We’ll be ready.”

  Copeland put the walkie-talkie away and readied his assault rifle. “Let’s clear ‘em out,” he declared, and led the charge.

  Everyone spread out in a firing line and unloaded single shots into the horde. The bullets found their targets, dropping the corpses quickly and efficiently. As they stood to admire their handiwork, the walkie-talkie buzzed against the Sergeant.

  “Copeland,” he greeted.

  “Hey Sarge, Kowalski,” the sniper said. “You might have an issue.”

  Copeland’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on your truck,” Kowalski replied, “and I’ve already seen a dozen or so of those things crawl under. They’re on the bridge now and wandering towards you.”

  The Sergeant sighed. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said.

  “You want me to clear them out?” the sniper asked.

  Copeland tilted his head back and forth. “If you’re so inclined,” he replied. “We have to take them all out eventually.”

  “On it,” Kowalski said.

  Copeland replaced his walkie-talkie and looked around at the houses on the other side of the bridge. Spread out over a block, he spotted several sedans, and then checked the crawl space under the truck. He turned to his team.

  “You two,” he barked, pointing at the two soldiers nearest him, “start clearing a path through these corpses. Rest of you, start pushing those cars over here, we gotta plug this hole,” he declared. “Isn’t going to be perfect, but when we start clearing out this part of town, it should limit surprises. Let’s move.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ten minutes later, Copeland watched as the final car wedged underneath the truck. It wasn’t a perfect solution, as there were still a few small gaps, but it was extremely unlikely that even a handful of corpses would be able to squeeze through, no matter how much noise the soldiers made. If anything, they’d probably get stuck and add to the barricade.

  Johnson and Schmitt stood in the middle of the road running parallel to the river, scanning for zombies. Johnson caught one with his night vision scope and fired, dropping it.

  “Damn, I didn’t even see that one,” Schmitt muttered.

  Johnson shrugged. “Yeah, when they get into the shadows like that, they can be tough to see.”

  Copeland’s walkie-talkie vibrated, and he lifted it to his lips. “Copeland.”

  “Sarge, Sarge!” Kowalski cried in a panicked voice. “We got problems!”

  The Sergeant’s brow furrowed. “Settle down, soldier,” he said as calmly as he could. “What is it?”

  “Wade’s out of ammo!” the sniper gushed. “And a lot of those things are starting to move towards the bridge!”

  Copeland grunted in displeasure. “You make that noise,” he instructed. “I don’t care what you do, just do it quick.” He put the radio away and turned to his team. “Our bridge boys are in trouble, so we’re gonna double time it! If it isn’t in your way, you ignore it.” He waved at them. “Now let’s go!”

  He turned and took off at a brisk pace, all seven soldiers keeping up with him. They moved swiftly along the moonlit road, the light reflecting off of the water. It was a mile run to the bridge, and as they got closer, they heard a worrisome sound in the distance.

  Gunfire. And lots of it.

  If they’re firing, then it’s bad out there, Copeland thought bitterly, and pushed harder, picking up more speed an
d pulling away from the other troops. Despite giving it their all, they just couldn’t keep up with the beastly Sergeant.

  The group finally reached the frontage road, stopping before crossing it. As the rest of the men showed up, they found Copeland staring down at the interstate away from the bridge.

  “What…” Johnson huffed, “what is it, Sarge?”

  His superior just continued to stare, letting out another displeased grunt. Johnson leaned over to see a few hundred zombies coming up the interstate towards the bridge.

  Raymond clustered in behind them, and his eyes widened. “Not sure we have the ammo for that,” he warned.

  “We don’t,” Copeland confirmed, “but we need to slow them down.” He pointed to a quartet of his team members. “You four, on the interstate. Start picking them off, thin them out as much as you can. Use every shot if you have to.”

  They didn’t even bother responding, simply running off as the gunshots intensified on the bridge.

  “Anybody here know how to hot-wire a car?” Copeland asked.

  Raymond raised his hand. “I got you, Sarge.”

  “Good,” Copeland replied, and pointed back the way they’d come. “Find the sturdiest one you can in the Super Center parking lot and get it ready to go. Bring it to the front. Schmitt, you cover him and make sure nothing sneaks up. Johnson, you’re with me.”

  The four of them tore across the highway, glancing over at the bridge barricade. There was a complete line of creatures on the barrier, with the four men frantically running back and forth, using blunt objects to cave in heads and occasionally firing off a shot if one or two toppled over the cement barricade.

  Things were frantic, but the soldiers appeared to be holding their own.

  Copeland and Johnson rushed into the Super Center, tearing in with reckless abandon. As they came around the corner past the front entryway, they encountered a trio of zombies. The Sergeant didn’t even break momentum, just picked up the first one, pile-driving it into the other two and sending all three to the ground past the cash registers.

  Johnson raised his gun and quickly fired, taking them all out in quick succession. When he looked up, he’d lost Copeland, and ran deeper into the store.

  “Sarge?” he called. “Sarge?”

  “Aisle eighteen,” Copeland called back.

  Johnson squealed around a corner and spotted the Sergeant looking at automotive accessories. He finally picked up a handful of road flares and held them out.

  “I’m getting duct tape and a weight,” Copeland said. “I need you to find the propane tank keys.”

  Johnson started to run up to the front, hoping that they were at the customer service desk, but stopped as he passed the hardware section. He checked an end cap and spotted a gigantic pair of bolt cutters, picking it up and smiling.

  “This should do just fine,” he said to himself, and ran outside, where Schmitt and Raymond were just pulling up in a giant eighties Cadillac. It was big as a boat and weighed twice as much. “Where the hell did you find this hoopty ride at?” Johnson drawled.

  Schmitt just smiled. “Amazing what’s still on the road, huh?” he asked.

  Johnson waved for him to follow him. “Come on, gonna need help with the tanks.” He led his partner to the tanks and peeled it open, digging out the canisters. They quickly hauled every single can they could to the car, packing it tight.

  Copeland nodded as he approached, holding his tools. As they finished loading the trunk, he threw open the car door, climbing into the back seat and using his knife to carve out a hole in the back seat. He punched through to the trunk, leaving a three-inch wide hole.

  “You get this car up to the road, and when you do, open up every canister in the trunk,” he instructed. “Throw the road flares into the front seat, throw the weight on the gas, and let her rip.”

  The three soldiers exchanged worried glances.

  “That…” Raymond began, “that doesn’t seem safe.”

  Copeland pursed his lips. “It’s either this or you grab a baseball bat and start whacking zombies.”

  Raymond shook his head, raising his palms in defeat.

  Copeland nodded. “When you get it done, join Johnson and I on the bridge.” As the boys drove off, the Sergeant turned to Johnson. “Come on, our boys need help.”

  As they sprinted, the Private spoke through gasps, trying to keep up. “What… what about… Dawson?” he huffed.

  “Already called him,” Copeland replied, as if he weren’t even breaking a sweat. “He’s on the way.”

  They reached the interstate and ran up towards the line, and the scene was chaos. The four soldiers had been forced to retreat into the center barrier, with a couple dozen zombies completely surrounding it. On the main line, ghouls lined up shoulder to shoulder, hundreds in view and easily thousands behind them.

  It was a sea of moaning and flailing, the corpses trying to figure out how to traverse the obstacle in front of them to get to a fresh meal. Every so often, one would flip over, stagger to its feet, and then join the others at the center barrier.

  Copeland and Johnson stopped about twenty yards from the action, with not a single zombie paying them any attention. The gunfire coming from within the barrier ceased completely.

  “How many mags you got?” the Sergeant asked.

  Johnson checked. “Five, fresh.”

  “Give me two,” Copeland said.

  The Private handed them over, and Copeland grabbed two of his own, putting all four in his giant hand before yelling, “Bridge team, ammo incoming!” He stepped up and underhand threw the four mags. They hurtled through the air, landing perfectly in the center of the ring. “We’re on the flanks, don’t shoot us!” he added loudly, and then he and Johnson broke to either side of the bridge.

  They took aim and fired at the zombies closest to the main line, making sure no soldier was in the line of fire. As they continued to shoot, several zombies turned their attention away from the trapped men, and to the fresh meat.

  One corpse, dressed in military gear, turned and spotted Copeland, and immediately broke into a dead sprint. The Sergeant aimed and fired, but the bullet tore into the creature’s throat. Before he could aim again, the runner was on him.

  Copeland dropped his rifle and pushed against the soldier, gripping its vest and whipping it to the side. He used the momentum to shove it towards the edge of the bridge. It snarled and bit, with far more vigor than an older zombie, and Copeland avoided it as best he could, slamming it into the concrete barrier. He lashed down and grabbed its leg and flipped it over the side.

  As he turned around, he came face to face with four creatures that had broken ranks and closed in on him. One by one, they dropped to the ground, bullets ripping through the side of their heads. He blinked and saw Johnson standing near the middle of the road, aiming in his direction.

  He gave the Private an approving nod and then retrieved his gun, the two of them going back to work. The trio in the center took careful aim and hit zombies at near point blank range to conserve ammo, while Copeland and Johnson delivered decisive strikes of their own.

  After a few minutes of intense battle, grunting, and sweating, and hard beating hearts, the threat on the soldier’s side of the barrier was wiped out. The three men jumped out of the barrier, and one immediately began tending to the line, keeping the creatures at bay.

  The other two walked up, one limping and leaning on the other.

  “What happened to you, soldier?” Copeland asked.

  The young man, no more than twenty-two, turned his leg to reveal a large bite wound on his left calf. Johnson shook his head and swallowed hard, but then spotted a zombie tumble over the barrier, so he ran off to deal with it.

  Copeland raised his chin. “Can you stand, soldier?”

  The young man looked at his friend and nodded that it was okay. He leaned on his own leg and motioned for his companion to get back to the line. When they were alone, Copeland stared straight into the young soldi
er’s pained eyes.

  “You know what the standing orders are, don’t you, soldier?” the Sergeant asked.

  The kid nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”

  “You tell me how you want it,” Copeland said gently.

  The soldier clenched his fists, letting out a frustrated grunt and then looking over at the line, watching his three companions fight hand-to-hand with the sea of creatures. “If it’s all the same to you, Sergeant,” he said, eyes blazing as he turned back to Copeland, “I still have a little fight in me.” He glanced down at his leg. “What do you say we don’t report this wound until we have the bridge under control?”

  Copeland smiled at the young man, proud at his force of will. “I think that can be arranged, soldier,” he replied. “Get on the line.”

  The kid saluted. “Yes, sir.” He hobbled off toward the line, ready to fight. As he went, there was a large explosion on the interstate, startling everyone except for Copeland.

  He simply turned towards it and smiled. “All right Dawson,” he said as he readied his weapon, “the route is clear. Now we just need Kowalski to do his job.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kowalski looked out over the interstate bridge battlefield, seeing the horde stretched across the four lanes and back hundreds of yards. Copeland had just given him the order to make noise, and now he had the pressure to draw enough zombies away from the bridge and towards the snipers safely on the roof.

  He ran to the front of the store, looking straight down at the doors. Zombies pressed into the opening, disappearing inside.

  “Damn, the door is open,” he muttered.

  Doyle shrugged. “Not sure why that’s a bad thing, they can’t get up here,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, but I gotta get down there,” Kowalski replied.

  Martin blinked at him. “Man, you’re crazier than we thought,” he said.

  “Got my orders,” Kowalski replied. “And besides, if we don’t do this, our bridge team is gonna get overrun, which means this whole day was a waste.”

  Hurley sighed. “So, how do you want to do it?”