by James Cook
The space was too tight to lead with my rifle, so I unslung it and laid it on the floor with the handle toward me. If I needed to, I could hop up, grab it, and bring it to bear. But I hoped I wouldn’t need to.
With one hand, I drew my pistol. With the other, I unhooked a couple of chem-lights from my vest, popped them, crouched over the hatch, and tossed them into the yawning darkness beyond the ladder. Sliding forward, I hung upside down through the hole and swept the room below me with my pistol. No movement. I had expected to see a storage room piled with cases of liquor and boxes of bar napkins, or maybe an underground utility shed. But the basement was neither of those things. In the eerie green luminescence of the chem-lights, the room was wide and open, with wood-paneled walls, tastefully arranged oil paintings, darkly stained tables and chairs, and a wet bar at the far end. The bar was flanked by a desk supporting a money counting machine, and another desk with an array of envelopes, lockboxes, and duffel bags. Whatever this place had once been, I was guessing at least some of its operations had been less than legal. I was tempted to climb down and have a look around, but more pressing matters required my attention.
I sat up and keyed my radio. “Sierra Lead, Sierra One. How copy? Over.”
“Loud and clear, Sierra One. Over.”
“Give me a sitrep. Over.”
“Sierra Two and Sierra Three both report targets engaged and apprehended. One enemy casualty. Headshot, courtesy of Sanchez. The other three are alive and well. Request to commence extraction. Over.”
I sighed. I had been worried how the other, less experienced teams would perform, and here I was with two wounded men. Some leadership.
“Proceed with extraction, Sierra Lead, but make it fast. I have two wounded. Repeat, two wounded. As soon as everyone is on board, proceed to my twenty for medevac. Over.”
“Acknowledged, Sierra One. Will commence extraction and proceed to your twenty for medevac. ETA thirty mikes. Will advise Hotel Romeo to prepare for casualties. Can you advise as to the extent of the injuries? Over.”
I hopped up on the bar, swung my legs to the other side, and made my way over to Eric. “Assessing now. Stand by.”
“Copy. Standing by.”
Eric still lay on his back, leg in the air, hands pressing gauze pads to his wounds. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead emitting ghostly steam in the frigid air. His lips were pressed into a hard blue line, face pale with agony, breathing rapid and shallow. Blood soaked the gauze, but the bleeding had slowed from a pour to a drip.
“Okay, buddy. I need you to move your hands for a minute. Gotta let me see what I’m up against.”
Slowly, he released his leg and lay his arms down at his sides. I peeled the bandages away and shined my flashlight on the damage. It looked as though the bullet had entered just outside the center muscle of his calf about eight inches below the knee, traveled through the muscle at an angle, and exited less than half an inch from his fibula. Smaller caliber, maybe a .380. The exit wound wasn’t much bigger than the entry wound, indicating the bullet had not deformed significantly before exiting. Must have been a copper jacketed round, passed through him too quickly to tumble. A lucky break. He had lost some blood, and the tissue damage would keep him sidelined for at least eight weeks, but with time, and a little physical therapy, I figured he would make a full recovery. I told him as much.
“Great. Sounds wonderful. Now can you put a bandage on it and get me some goddamn painkillers, please?”
As I started dressing his wound, I called over to Cole. “How are you looking over there?”
The big man had sat Fuller up as straight as he could go and was busy wrapping a pressure bandage around his ribcage. “First round hit the trauma plate. Busted it, but didn’t get through. The second looks like it hit the thin part of the Kevlar and deflected a little, but it still tore a hole through-and-through a few inches below the armpit. Looks like he might have a couple of broken ribs.”
“Might have broken ribs?” Fuller wheezed. “I feel like there’s a knife in my side every time I breath.”
“Anything life-threatening?” I asked.
Cole shook his head. “Not if we can get him to a doctor in the next few hours.”
“Good enough. Hicks is en route with the transport. We just have to keep it together until they get here.”
I reached a hand toward my radio and advised Hicks of Riordan and Fuller’s injuries. He informed me he would pass the information on to Hotel Romeo—phonetic initials for Hollow Rock—where Doc Laroux would be waiting when we got back. She was going to be pissed at me for letting Eric get hurt. Something told me the Safety Third argument wasn’t going to help in this case.
Finished dressing Eric’s wound, I started back toward the bar to search the dead bodies. The wind outside howled louder than ever, whipping through the open door and sending up choking plumes of thick dust.
“Cole, when you get done with Fuller see if you can get that damn door shut.”
“No problem,” he replied.
My back was turned, but I heard him stand up, and the rustle of his gear as he walked to the door. Then there was a strange crunch-scrape, crunch-scrape.
My heart leapt in my chest.
“Shit!” Cole yelled.
I tried to raise my pistol, but the big man was in the way. His leg came back and then shot forward with tremendous force. There was a clack of teeth slamming together, and I saw the body of a small child flip end over end out the door, the back of the head cracking loudly against the top of the doorjamb as it spun through.
“Walkers!” Cole shouted, reaching a hand over his shoulder for his bar mace.
I heard several moans coming from the doorway, maybe four or five of them. Cole strode forward, lifted his mace high over his head, and swung it downward. Skull bones crunched and brain tissue splattered outward against the walls. Cole raised his leg and booted the body out of the doorway before following up with another overhead strike. And another, and another, each one punctuated by a booming front kick—standard technique for keeping a doorway clear when attacked by the infected. At the edges of his bulk, I saw limbs flailing and pale, ragged bodies thrashing against one another. My hands itched to draw my short sword and join the fray, but there wasn’t enough room. Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Cole pulled a rag from his pocket and began cleaning his mace. He turned and motioned me over.
“How many out there?” I asked.
He moved to one side. “Come look.”
I walked over and peered through the door. “Shit,” I said, succinctly.
A horde was gathering outside.
A big one.
SIX
“They must have been nearby when we got here,” Cole said. “Maybe scattered around, blinded by the storm. Came when they heard the commotion.”
“You’re probably right,” I replied. “No way we can fight off that many. Let’s see if we can get this door shut.”
Eric asked, “Hey, what do you want us to do?”
I looked over my shoulder. He had struggled to a sitting position and was reloading his rifle.
“Try not to bleed too much,” I said. “If Cole and I get killed, shoot as many infected as you can, but make sure you save one bullet for yourself. In the meantime, look around and see if you can find a bottle of something strong. I could use a drink.”
“You’re fucking hilarious. Really.”
He and Fuller dragged themselves further inside, groaning and making plaintive little hissing sounds until their backs were against the bar. Then they laid their weapons over their laps and waited, eyes closed, drawing deep breaths, clearing their minds against the pain. Possibly praying, in Eric’s case. He did that sometimes when things looked bleak. A foxhole Catholic if I ever saw one.
I stopped praying a long time ago. Figured out no one was listening.
Cole and I stepped outside and tried to lever the door shut. The heavy-duty hinges were warped, steel collars twisted against bent pins. Lo
oking it over, I figured we could get it shut, but only by pushing from the outside and booting it into place. Once closed, it would take two men with crowbars to get it back open. Or a few breaching charges. The infected had neither.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” I said. “You go back inside, keep an eye on Riordan and Fuller. I’ll jam the door in place, wait for the transport from a good safe distance, and try to lure away some of these walkers. I’ll hang on the radio. When I spot the transport, I’ll give them my position. If I can’t get to the transport, I’ll catch up with you down the line.”
Cole looked at me like a third eye had suddenly sprouted on my forehead. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? To hell with this door, man. This place has a basement, right? Let’s get down there and wait for backup.”
“No. We don’t know the full extent of Fuller’s injuries. Broken ribs can do all kinds of nasty things to internal organs, and if we try to get him down that narrow ladder, we’re only going to hurt him worse. We can’t risk moving him until the transport gets here with a stretcher and proper medical equipment. Besides, if you hide in the basement, the smell of all that blood is going to draw the infected like flies. They’ll pack in there tight as sardines, and the moans of the ones inside will draw the ones outside to the door. They’ll gather so thick against the entrance it’ll take a bulldozer to move them out of the way. How is Hicks supposed to rescue you through that? Shoot them all? We can’t waste that kind of ammo, and there’s the risk of somebody else getting hurt. I can’t have that, Cole.”
“Look, Gabe, what you’re saying makes sense, but-”
I cut him off with an upraised palm. “This is not a negotiation. This is what we’re doing. End of discussion.”
He frowned at me, eyes intense. He was an inch shorter than me, but outweighed me by thirty pounds of solid muscle. And he was quick. Damned quick. If he decided to make an issue of things, I doubted I would be able to stop him without causing both of us serious harm. From the look on his face, I could tell he was thinking about it. I raised an arm and pointed at the walkers. There were nearly a dozen within thirty meters of us.
“Cole, we don’t have time for this. When you signed on to my crew, you agreed to follow my orders. Did you not?”
The intensity wavered. “Yeah. But come on, man, this is crazy as hell. You gonna getcha self killed.”
“No, I won’t. I’ve done this kind of thing before, Cole. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
He took half a step back, tension draining, shaking his head. “Famous last words, man. Famous last words.”
He stepped inside and walked over to his SAW. Picked it up. Looked it over. Placed it on a table and sat down in one of the many chairs. “Good luck,” he said. “You gonna need it.”
“Just hang tight. We’ll be out of here in no time.” I grabbed the door, planted a boot against the wall, and heaved with everything I had. The hinges cried a despairing screech. I shoved with my shoulder and cursed the door in three languages until it was just a few inches from the jamb. Then I backed off, took three running steps, leapt into the air, and applied all my weight into a two-footed dropkick. The heavy steel slammed home with a bright clang and the pop of several hinge collars breaking. My satisfaction lasted as long as it took me to rebound from the door and land flat on my back. The snow offered some padding, but it still hurt.
Getting back to my feet, I looked around at the converging infected, trying to estimate their number. The wind had shifted, making visibility a little better than it had been earlier and allowing me to see thirty or forty meters through the stinging snow. Even in that small expanse of real estate, there were at least fifty undead.
I had deliberately left my SCAR in the strip club, as I was down to my last three full mags for it, and I didn’t want to waste them on infected. I still had my Sig .45, but only thirty-six rounds of spare ammo in that caliber. Forty-five ammo was even harder to find than .308, so I didn’t want to use it either. I dropped my assault pack and unzipped a compartment on the side. Within was a Sig Sauer Mosquito—a small .22 caliber pistol—and a screw-on silencer.
Because it is small and light, .22 ammo is perfect for use against large numbers of undead, assuming they are within twenty-five yards. I had a brick of 750 rounds, which would probably be enough to deal with the horde confronting me and then some, but then there was the problem of reloading. I had five full magazines including the one in the pistol, but that only accounted for fifty rounds. The only solution was to make every shot count and reload on the run. I fished out the 750 round brick, poured a portion of its contents in an empty pouch on my vest, re-stowed the ammo, zipped the pack, slung it over my shoulders, and drew my falcata.
My best bet was to get back to the highway, follow it south where the transport was coming from, and try to find some high ground to defend. The pistol in my right hand and the sword in my left were a comfort, especially the blade. Swords might not have much range, but they never run out of bullets. That said, when there are infected nearby, a gun is never a bad idea. I knew as long as I had those two weapons, I could hold out for a very long time.
I took a few moments to read the horde and determine a route through them. Threading one’s way through a crowd of the hungry dead is much akin to mountain climbing. One does not just go at it without a plan and a clear sense of direction. If you do, the end result will most likely be a painful, screaming death.
The easiest way to plot a course through a horde is to observe the terrain. Walkers follow the path of least resistance, which is why they are so often found on highways and game trails and the clefts between hills. They generally stick to flat, level ground, they tend to circle large land formations unless there is prey at the top—in which case they will climb relentlessly to reach it—and they seem to abhor large bodies of water. Not that they won’t wade into them, they will, but it takes a lot to get them to do it. Whatever it is that keeps the ghouls ambulatory, it does not like being submerged.
Western Tennessee is very flat. There are hills and even the occasional deep ravine, but for the most part, manmade structures or trees are the only ways to take the high ground. The snow was coming down way too thick to see any tall buildings, and since I had not been down this particular stretch of road before, I couldn’t call the location of one from memory. So I did the only thing I could do.
Start moving, and kill anything that gets in the way.
The snow was deep on the road, making it hard to tell where the asphalt began and where it ended. A biting wind pushed hard against me, sending clattering snowflakes dancing across my goggles. My breath formed an icy fringe on my scarf, creating a scraping circle of cold on the lower half of my face. The drifts had piled up well over my ankles, making for tough going even on flat ground. I was already a little fatigued from the strain of the day’s events, and I knew I only had a few miles, five or six at the most, before my strength began to flag. I needed to find a place to hole up, and I needed to find it fast.
My path brought me straight into a cluster of six infected, all of them torn, naked, and barely recognizable as human. Probably dead since the Outbreak. As they came closer, a voice came unbidden to my mind from a time long in the past. A voice with a name I had not thought of in years: Lundegaard. No first name, no mister, just Lundegaard. No accent either. National, regional or otherwise. The most bland, boring voice you can imagine from a bland, boring man. A man who wanted his lessons to stick, but be otherwise completely forgettable.
“You will find that no matter how much extra ammunition you carry on your person, it will never be enough,” he said, all those years ago. “There will almost always be more infected in areas with significant outbreaks than there will be bullets to deal with them. Therefore, it is important to manage ammunition expenditure carefully. One of the most effective ways to do this is to alternate between firearms and non-ballistic weapons. Each of you will have your own preference for non-ballistic weapons, but at the very least, it should be
something you can use at close range, something you have a fair amount of proficiency with, and something that can withstand damage from frequent violent collisions with very dense human skulls. Research and Development is working on designs for new weapons that may be issued in the future, but for the time being, we leave this choice of equipment at each operator’s discretion.
Now, let us discuss the philosophy of use as it pertains to the aforementioned alternation between what I will henceforth refer to as simply ‘guns’ and ‘bludgeons’. Please note that bludgeon is a generalized term that includes both edged and non-edged weapons.
Whenever a tactical situation permits it—always bearing in mind that personal safety is of paramount importance and you must defend yourself in the manner you deem most expedient—you are wholeheartedly encouraged to utilize bludgeons to dispatch revenants whenever possible. Doing so reduces ammunition expenditure, which, in addition to reducing costs to the company, increases your long-term chances of survival should you become stranded during a mission and extraction is not immediately practicable.
A simple tactic, one that each of you should be able to master with very little difficulty, is to assess how many revenants you can dispatch with your bludgeon and never attempt to exceed that amount in close combat. In other words, shoot them down until their number is sufficiently reduced before you proceed to splitting skulls.”
Six infected was usually no problem for blade work, but in this case, it would be dangerous because they were packed closely together. The dynamics of fighting a horde change depending on the distances between walkers. If there is a lot of space, say twenty feet or so, it is not necessary to engage at all. Just serpentine through the ranks and make sure to stay away from grasping hands. At ten feet, assuming you have the right weapon, you can kill a straight line through a horde at a brisk walk and, as long as there aren’t too many of them, emerge unscathed. At five feet, your best bet is to try to find a way around. Your chances of winning through are slim, but improve if you have a team of well-trained, well-armed fighters helping you. At less than five feet, you are walking into certain death no matter how many friends you have. If a horde that tightly packed surrounds you…well, like I always say. Save the last bullet for yourself.
