A chorus of cheers rose up and out of the surrounding group, and Pete couldn’t help but grin. “I don’t think volunteers are going to be a problem. Piper, how about it?”
The warehouse manager rubbed his balding head and thought about it. “Pretty sure we’ve got at least three, maybe four ammo cans full. Figure out who’s going and what they’re carrying. We’ll cut through the warehouse and hook them up with all the rounds they can carry.”
“Any chance I can talk you into swinging by the clinic to pick up my daughter-in-law and the others?”
“We can do that,” Hanratty agreed.
Pete grimaced as another thought occurred to him. “Adam, what about getting back into the vehicle? We didn’t exactly clear the area when we left.”
Hanratty gave him a long flat stare, then murmured, “Pete, as soon as you step out on that catwalk and start ringing the dinner bell, do you think they’ll be wasting time trying to claw through a steel building?”
Pete blanched. “Yeah. Good point.” He patted the musette bag at his side to reassure himself that it was still there, checked the action of the Garand one final time, and gave Charlie a direct look. “You ready? Let’s do this.”
Chapter 37
The roof seemed to heave below Miles as Ross lit off the first wave of claymores. For one heart-stopping moment, Miles thought Ross had frozen, but he was demonstrating a cold-blooded level of patience that Miles could never have duplicated.
The press of bodies behind the now-breached door scrambled over the bodies of the fallen as they caught sight of Miles and the SEALs.
It was quieter than such a moment should have been, quiet enough that Miles heard Ross’ bark of, “Fire in the hole!” before Foraker grabbed him by the neck and pulled his head and upper body down.
The boom of the anti-personnel mines was a bit like a pair of massive shotguns going off. He was close enough that his ears were still ringing when Foraker shook him roughly and screamed, “Up and at ‘em!”
Miles lifted his head and got his rifle back into line. They’d angled the claymores at an angle to sweep the area in front of the dual doors. Firing both off at once was nigh-cataclysmic. The claymores had shredded the initial horde of infected, with many decapitated or dismembered. A bulwark of dead flesh lay between the defenders and the opening. Though a few bodies jerked weakly, the majority were down for the count. Those who’d come through unscathed were quickly put down by aimed fire.
The results, unfortunately, weren’t all positive. The storm of ball bearings from the mines had punched into the shack after wreaking havoc on the attackers. The upper half of the metal doors resembled nothing more than metallic Swiss cheese. Another blast or two, and they were liable to fail completely.
Save for the weakening twitches of a few mangled bodies, all was still. “Anyone have a clear sight line into the shack?” Ross called out.
“I got nothing but shadows,” Foraker called out.
“Zip,” Janacek added.
Miles licked his lips. Come on. In the old days, any survivors would have rushed them mindlessly. The four of them might have been overrun by the sheer force of numbers, but at least they would have known what was coming.
“Anyone else want to recon?” Foraker joked. “I had my turn.”
“Stow that, Chief,” Ross said and eased himself to his feet. He moved forward in a half-crouch, with his rifle shouldered and aimed toward the doors. He hesitated a beat, then stepped back. “Here they come.”
They’d either learned from the initial rush or they were trying something different. The infected ducked down as they came out of the door and attempted to use the bodies of their fellows as cover.
“Hold fire, left,” Ross barked. “Janacek and I.” The two fired as one in evenly-timed single shots that could have the product of a machine.
A decade of combat in this world, plus whatever training and experience they’d had before — Miles doubted they even had to think about aiming. “When we switch,” Foraker murmured, “you take the ones coming out of the door. I’ll go for any you miss that get behind cover.” Miles nodded.
Janacek’s heavier rifle had a lesser capacity than Ross’s, but shortly after the enlisted man’s gun clicked empty, the Lieutenant’s fell silent as well. “Reloading,” Ross barked, and Foraker began firing.
Miles missed his first five shots before he adjusted to the different motions of the infected. It was as if they knew that their heads were their weak point, so they ducked, hunched, or bobbed their heads back and forth as they moved. Once he grew comfortable, it was smooth sailing at this range. His bullets were heavy enough that any hit on the head was sufficient to take them down, whereas Foraker’s lighter bullets needed to be perfectly placed. With the Chief, it didn’t matter. If anything, his accuracy was more preternatural than that of his compatriots, despite the growing mound obscuring the doors.
Miles and the Chief clicked empty within a few moments of one another, and Janacek and Ross took up the defense again as the other men reloaded.
“Take a drink, kid,” Foraker said and hauled out his own canteen. “This is going to be an endurance race.”
Miles nodded and took a drink. It was a good recommendation — he hadn’t realized how parched he was, and even lukewarm well water tasted like Heaven going down.
“Out,” Janacek reported, and Miles took up his own rifle. A heartbeat later, Ross reported, “Reloading,” and Miles and the Chief began firing again. Everything blurred into a pattern; lay the dot of his sight on a head, squeeze, verify the hit, and repeat. He only missed three shots this time, but as he dropped his second magazine, Miles couldn’t help but frown.
“This is too . . .” He began. He was going to say ‘easy’, but a sudden impact slammed him to the roof, and the sudden, squirming weight on his back told him that their position hadn’t been as secure as they thought.
“Flankers!” the Chief roared, and the volume of fire exploded.
Miles rolled onto his back, shoving the weight off to one side. The naked and hairless infected had lost the flesh on one side of its face at some point. The death’s head grin left it devoid of any identifying features that might have proclaimed that it had once been human. It staggered, caught its footing, and lunged for him.
He got his arm up and wedged his forearm into its throat. He tensed the muscles of his arm and held the snapping teeth a few bare inches short of his face. He had enough time to note the new wound on its head — they’d hit it, but not straight on. Had it played possum and crawled around to climb up onto the solar panel array? Had this been their plan all along? He heard a sound of impact on the other side, and one of the SEALs shouted, though the sound quickly faded away. He started to turn his head to look, but a renewed assault on his chest reminded him that inattention was fatal. He jerked his head back around.
The infected clawed at Miles’ jacket even as it tried to push his arm down and get to exposed flesh. His left hand found the grip of his pistol and he jerked it out of the holster. He was a lousy — hell, terrible — shot with his left hand but that made no difference at all as he jammed the barrel into one of its eyes and pulled the trigger. As he did, he instinctively turned his head and closed his mouth.
“Not today,” Miles muttered.
He threw the body aside and got up on his knees. Two of the SEALs were dumping rounds downrange as fast as they could; Janacek was nowhere to be found, and Miles realized with a sick feeling what that fading scream meant. “Huddle up!” Ross shouted. “Fire in the hole!”
He squeezed the clackers on the second set of claymores, and the roof shook again. Miles didn’t have time to appreciate the effect of the explosives. He’d turned to the left and spotted the half-dozen infected crawling on top of the solar array in their direction. Their motions were disconcerting; spider-like, jerky, scuttling. He clicked the safety selector on his rifle to FULL and held the trigger down as he let the recoil pull his point of aim to the right. His wild fire took dow
n four of the infected, but before he could reload, the Chief stepped up beside him and fired two bursts down range to take the last two.
“You all right?” the older man shouted. “No scratches?”
“I think so,” Miles said, his voice shaky. He hadn’t even taken the time to check himself. I’d know if I’m infected, wouldn’t I? Celia had known, so many years ago, and warned him away. Even if the infection had changed, could it change that much?
It didn’t matter — there was no time for introspection. He slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle and noticed that he only had three left. Doubt we’re going to have time to load them, either. He glanced to the right.
The second line of claymores had stopped that charge from the center, but they’d also done a number on the doors. Both were down, now, with massive chunks torn out of the surrounding frame of the shack. The infected had a huge gap out to pour through. As Miles watched, they moved to either side as even more picked their way forward through the debris of the first few assaults.
“Concentrate on the sides!” Ross shouted. “Once we build up enough in front of us, I’ll hit the last line.”
Where Miles stood, he didn’t have a good angle on the infected before they were actually on top of the solar array. They seemed to recognize this fact, and more and more began to move over to that part of the roof, although the panels remained clear.
“They’re going to hit it en masse,” Foraker muttered. “They figured it out last time.” He glanced at Miles and said, “It’s been real, kid.”
“Fire in the hole!” Ross announced, and triggered the last set of mines. By now Miles was almost inoculated to the concussion of the blast. He shouldered his rifle and waited.
“Turtle up, boys,” Ross said evenly. “Let’s show them how hard a frogman dies.”
“Hooyah, Mikey. Let’s do this thing.” Foraker said and stepped over to press up against Miles’ side.
The three remaining men compressed into a pseudo-triangle at the edge of the roof. The frantic rush that had overtaken the infected had faded. Their movements were slow and unhurried, now. More and more of them cascaded out of the elevator shack. As the roof in front of Miles began to fill, climbers moved up onto the solar array. A line of attackers crept their way.
Ross began to fire single shots, picking off leakers on his side. Miles took that as a sign. He flipped his own rifle back to semiautomatic and began engaging the advancing line. Foraker alternated, taking a few shots to Miles’ side, then turning and directing fire to the front.
Miles licked his lips and wished he had time for one last drink. It was funny, really — as a kid, he’d hated the smell and taste of well water and now, on the brink of death, it was all he wanted. He smiled to himself and dropped his empty magazine. Two more and he was down to pistol. He hit the bolt release to chamber a round, then frowned.
The roof was shaking. Were that many on the roof, that . . .
He heard it.
The staccato boom of engines. The thump-thump of rotor blades whipping through the air.
The sound of . . . . trumpets?
With a roar and the rush of wind, the single-largest helicopter Miles had ever seen swept over the elevator shack. Every head on the roof turned to look at it, even the undead ones. Foraker whooped in exultation as the helicopter slowed and banked. The massive, slate-gray helicopter looked like a Greyhound bus with wings, and Miles cheered himself as the massive machine gun sticking out of the open door behind the canopy opened up. The weapon had the familiar boom of the wall-mounted Browning machine guns on the walls back home, but the rate of fire felt like double or even triple compared to what the M-2s could put out. Debris flew as bullets slammed into the roof and the ring of infected.
If anything, the sound of trumpets got even louder as the music cascaded into a familiar tune. Even as Miles recognized the song he took note of the massive, cylindrical speakers under the helicopter’s wings.
“Is that . . . Ride of the Valkyries?” Miles managed, and Foraker just laughed.
“Got to love crazy Marine aviators, kid!”
The gun on the side fell silent, and the helicopter rotated in place. A hydraulic ramp descended from the rear and revealed another cannon, manned by a helmeted soldier. Miles and the SEALs hit the floor as the gunner swept the barrel from side to side, clearing the roof. As he fired, the helicopter descended, and Foraker yelled in Miles’ ear. “Shift forward, kid, or you’re going to get crushed!”
The lip of the ramp slammed onto the edge of the roof. Ross yelled, “Let’s go!” and crab-walked up the ramp, keeping under the gunner’s line of fire.
Miles glanced back; the fire from the helicopter had shredded most of the infected, not to mention the elevator shack, which was collapsing. The rubble settled for a moment, then continued to fall as it trickled down the elevator shaft. One way or another, the way blocked. Moments ago they’d faced certain death; now, salvation was at hand.
He turned away and scrambled up the ramp with Foraker as though it might disappear at any moment. He sprawled out on the deck, and the whine of hydraulics filled his ears as the ramp lifted back up and the helicopter pitched forward and away.
“We did it,” Miles whispered to himself. I’m going home.
As soon as they’d begun, the strikes on the surgery room door ceased. Whether the infected discerned that there was no way to get in or the press at the door was too tight to allow for movement, Tish didn’t know. In a strange way, she hoped for the latter. A mass of dumb, unthinking monsters was easier to contemplate than intelligent and cunning ones.
Tish turned away and moved to Frannie’s side. “Why don’t you lie down,” she suggested. “I think I should be able to scrounge up enough in here to get that cleaned up and stitched.”
Frannie gave her a wan smile. “Sounds fun, especially since the painkillers are in the other room.”
Something thumped against the wall, away from the door. Tish turned back and frowned. They were in the exam room. She moved over to the wall and put her ear up against it. She expected the pounding of fists against the wall, but what she heard was far different.
What are they doing? Tish gasped after she listened long enough to identify the noise. She stepped back to her dad.
“Dad, you helped build the clinic, right?”
He pulled his hand away from his eyes and blinked at her. “Yeah, why?”
She pointed. “How solid is that wall?”
He grimaced and glanced at it as more thumps sounded. “That wall and the opposite wall in the patient room, those are the internal bearing walls. Sixteen inches on center.”
Tish rubbed her forehead. “The walls are plywood, at least. That’s something. It should slow them down.”
Larry frowned. “Slow them down?” He trailed off as she grimaced.
“They’re clawing through the walls, Dad.”
Pete cursed himself for a fool as soon as he stepped out onto the catwalk. The walkway was little more than a narrow strip of perforated steel planking bolted on top of the pipes that had once carried soybeans and corn between silos. Vertical supports sprouted every few feet and supported a pair of flexible wires that served as hand rails.
It reeked of danger if you had two good legs.
“On the bright side, I just have to cover you,” Pete muttered to Charlie as the other man closed the hatch they’d just passed through. He pounded a fist on the surface. The scrape of metal on metal was just audible as Trey and Jenny slid the interior crossbars back into place.
Charlie assessed the path and grimaced. He started to move, then stopped and pointed.
Pete had thought the security covers on the ladders would have been more of a barricade, but these advanced zombies had just shifted to the outside of the safety cages. As he and Charlie watched, the first in a line that stretched all the way to the base of the silo grasped one of the horizontal support cables and began to pull itself onto the catwalk.
He bit back a curse and
leaned back into the dome of the silo. He wedged his damaged leg against the nearest vertical support to give himself some support. Pete shouldered the Garand, ready to start shooting, but Charlie had already rushed forward, blocking his line of fire.
“Damn it, Charlie!” Pete yelled, but dropped his point of aim to the lower climbers and started pulling the trigger.
Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d been afraid to die. Not having to worry about biter bites was one thing. Looking down and seeing that stomach-wrenching space between you and the unforgiving ground? Altogether different.
He almost froze, but when the first climber reached the catwalk, a surge of anger pushed the fear away. In his rush, he didn’t even bother to grab for one of his weapons. He stutter-stepped across the narrow walkway, yelling an inarticulate roar the entire way.
The climber was on its feet and headed toward the ladder to the Crow’s Nest when Charlie began his run. He didn’t know if it was the sound or the shaking, but it hesitated and turned toward him. He lowered one shoulder and slammed into it. The thing was more robust than the norm, but for all that he still out-massed it by more than two to one. The impact sent the biter sprawling backward. Its thighs slammed into the support wire and flipped it over. It plunged headfirst to the ground.
Eight stories down, bone met the concrete pad and splintered into ruin. He would have smiled, but there were more where that one had come from. Across the bridge, Pete’s rifle pinged as he emptied the magazine of his big rifle. Another quartet of bodies was down at the base of the ladder courtesy of the old man’s shooting.
Another reached up and took hold of the catwalk. Despite the denial of the high ground, they came on in utter disregard of individual safety. Maybe they’d learned to climb, but they were stupid as hell. Or maybe they just realized that their biggest strength was their numbers.
A Place Outside The Wild Page 51
