They all knew that Lance’s intent was for them to remain inside their compound, doing their best to secure the passage of civilians but without compromising their own security. They also knew it was a hopeless cause. Lance knew that, too, but he also knew that it would be risking everything if his men were to move outside their fenced perimeter. He didn’t want to risk his men’s lives so long as viable alternatives existed.
“Ten figures moving, 40 meters, reference shop, 2 o’clock, row of hedges... two targets behind silver SUV...” Target indications were being rattled forward and back between those along the fence. The marksman and machine gunner on the roof tried to orientate onto them and, where possible, engage. The SCAR was firing a round every minute – a slow rate of fire, but with the riflemen forward able to engage most targets, it was good discipline to keep the heavier firepower in reserve. Likewise, the Mark 48 machine gunner was trying to hold his fire and only engage when his rate of firepower would be able to make a difference. The gunner knew that his fire was adding to the distress and panic of the civilians beneath him and above all they needed the column to continue moving.
Lance glanced back. He was grim. “Tell higher that we need reinforcements. We’ll be witnessing a blood bath out here later tonight, unless we get another call-sign to reinforce us.”
Dan relayed it, but without luck. “Lance, everyone’s strung out. We’re to do our best and hold our position.”
“Ack,” Lance said, turning back to the street. He had expected that response but felt compelled to try anyway. His voice was firm and devoid of emotion. Beneath them the line continued to move. The squad was firing two, maybe three rounds a minute which seemed like a slow, uneventful rate of fire for soldiers trained to win a fire-fight on the modern battlefield. They would struggle to sustain even their current, slow rate of fire for more than twelve hours. They’d taken all the ammo they could get their hand on but it was never going to be enough – it wasn’t even close to being the standard ‘first line’ load out they were used to carrying into combat.
If this was the start of the storm, then they were under-equipped.
***
Lance stood on the rooftop, motionless, as the scene continued to unfold. The flow of refugees had actually slackened off since dusk, but continued to file past them at a steady rate. From the pieces of information the Rangers could gather in between shouted questions and replies, they had all been moving south in vehicles before they hit the traffic jams. The smashed, abandoned vehicles hadn’t served as suitable protection from the night before. Moving was the only possible protection once in the open, so they were leaving their vehicles and hitting the streets, dragging what little baggage they could with them. So far the civilians had passed by their position safely, but they both couldn’t sustain their current rate of fire and they couldn’t sally forth. And, from what they were hearing, the foot traffic to their north was attracting more and more attention from the beasts.
“I can get onto the corner and make a bigger difference from there,” the Mark 48 machine gunner called out at one point. “I can keep them moving and provide suppressive fire onto the other side of the road.”
“Hold,” replied Lance. He knew that the gunner was right, Dan could tell that by the way he nodded his head, but he didn’t want to risk putting soldiers out on their own. He also didn’t want to over-extend his force. He was trapped, chained to the compound if he wanted his force to survive but in doing so he would have to be prepared to watch a number of civilians get slaughtered just out of their sight, if not directly in front of him. If instead he let them head out he was taking a great and grave risk with the lives of his men. It wasn’t just their lives, either. In a world where uncertainty reigned, the ability to monopolize violence was everything. Lance and his men and the skills and capability they represented could be valuable to the future of Colorado Springs, but only if he could keep them alive.
Lance stepped back and took the handset from Dan. He listened to the intermittent traffic for five minutes. The situation along the road was in hand, just, and wasn’t escalating. It was a question of sustainability though. They were all stretched thin, and if they held on tonight they would need an urgent ammunition resupply come the morning. Whether the higher headquarters could pull that off remained to be seen.
“More movement, reference point dumper,” – the Rangers had standardized some of the key reference markers in their arcs to make target indications easier – “50, two figures behind cover, throwing rocks.” The SCAR fired as one of the indicated figures moved into view before the marksman dropped to his knee and replaced his magazine. They’d burnt through 28 rounds of 7.62mm ammo already, in just over an hour. Dan didn’t know how many mags the marksman carried but judging from the pouches on his vest it was four to five. The gunner knew the drills as the marksman threw the empty mag at him. As the SCAR continued to cover the streets the gunner reached into one of his pouches and unclipped some of his 7.62mm belt ammunition. Pulling it free he started to unlink each round, putting it into the magazine as it came free. The SCAR-H would function much better with properly designed, match-grade 7.62mm rounds made for precision weapons, but at a pinch the battle rifle could cycle through the rougher, coarser machine gun ammo. It was a trade-off. While the SCAR would fire less accurately, it would foul faster, it would start to mis-feed and jam and the barrel’s life would be drastically shortened, but it would still kill and that was what counted for the immediate future.
Dan’s attention was dragged back to the street. A strange throb was becoming audible from the north side of the Nevada Avenue bridge. “Bikes!” As soon as the word registered in Dan’s mind he recognized it. The unchained throb of the Harley Davidson engine was obvious.
There were ten or so bikers who crossed over the bridge, causing the civilians on foot to jump out of the way.
“Fucking stupid, ignorant sonsabitches!” cursed Lance, with malice. They were riding past - through - the line of civilians and families, causing mayhem and confusion in the column amongst the refugees. As they crossed over the bridge and entered the street in front of the compound the lead biker saw the Rangers to his left and swung his bike onto the median strip and raised his hands. The bikers behind him closed up and they dismounted, kicking out their bike stands as they shuffled onto their feet. All of them had weapons – rifles and shotguns, a couple of Kalashnikovs and, bizarrely, a hunting bow– on their backs. The first biker unclipped his helmet visor and half-waved, half-saluted the soldiers.
“What the fuck?” The marksman’s epithet mirrored Dan’s own thoughts. What were they up to?
Something from behind the bikers and across the road from the compound caught their attention. The bikers were slowly advancing in a shambolic line towards the edge of the road. They reached the far side, a full hundred meters away from the forward most Ranger, and started to fire into the darkened row of buildings and gardens.
“Look at them, the fucking stupid, ignorant, beautiful sonsabitches!” Lance pretty much hooted in nigh-on laughter.
Their fire was excessive, poorly disciplined and unnecessary. It was also, as Lance had said, goddamned beautiful. The lead biker stepped back, calmly, to the fence as he fished into his vest and took a deep swill from a hip-flask. These crazed bastards are probably as drunk as a freaking sailor on shore leave, Dan thought.
“We’ve tried our best to keep everyone safe on the way in here. But we’re almost out of ammo,” the biker called. “We’ll keep doing our best, but we are going to be down to stamping on these mother-fuckers soon. We couldn’t do anything further back – it’s getting ugly out there, man.”
Lance shook his head, grinning. “Best damned bunch of cursed gangbanging bikers I ever did see,” he muttered quietly.
“We can take over down there,” the machine gunner called. “Let me go, we can better hold both the street and provide protection further away from the ground.” Some of the Rangers down below had already started moving to their h
umvees. The bikers had just confirmed what was happening to the north, and they felt obliged to fore-stall it. They all knew the situation as it stood, but staying inside the compound would have meant failure of their mission. Not their explicit mission to screen and report, but their assumed and enduring mission, to do their utmost to defend their fellow citizens. Lance didn’t want to hold them back any more.
“Ack that,” Lance said, then barked out a new set of commands.
“Rodriguez, leave two men on the fence in over-watch and take the rest onto the street. Stay mounted in your wagons; at the very least RIGHT next to them,” he stressed over his radio. “Do your best, but hold a position that we can support at all costs. Command will stay up here with the SCAR in over-watch. And someone shake that mad bastard biker’s hand for me. If they can provide some security between this position and the next call-sign to the south for as long as they’ve got ammo, they’ll be doing great.”
Three humvees rolled out and took up positions opposite the compound, replacing the bikers from their skirmish line. The first hummer that turned to the northern end almost swiped one of the parked bikes – if it had, Dan thought, we’d probably be fighting those bearded lunatics as well, judging by how one nearly panicked when he thought his bike was going to get trashed. It wasn’t even a Harley but a Honda or a Yamaha. God forbid if they put a bullet-hole into one or somehow smashed one of the Harleys out there.
Within a few minutes the bikers were on their way further south. Dan called their movement in, so at least the checkpoints further south wouldn’t get jumpy when they saw a crowd of Hell’s Angel’s lookalikes come riding at them out of the gloom.
The machine gunner had moved with the Rangers onto the street, so it was just Lance, Dan and the marksman still up top. Dan was feeling increasingly nervous as the events of last night played through his head again and again. Their situation was still secure, but was becoming very, very fragile.
***
At midnight Lance moved to the street to do a round of his men. The Rangers were still in contact, and had been since eight o’clock, firing one to two rounds a minute. It was draining for Dan from his position on the roof trying to keep track of what was happening but it would be even worse for the men on the ground. The refugee foot traffic was now intermittent. Clusters of twenty to thirty civilians moved through as a tight group, pressed in to one another closely, relying on the few that had weapons in their group to keep them safe. From the snippets of information getting relayed back to Dan’s location the scene to the north wasn’t pretty. The foot traffic was no longer being harassed by the hunched figures in the shadows – they were now being rushed and attacked.
For some reason they never heard the first screams or shouts. Perhaps their hearing had been muted form the bursts from the Mark 48 machine gun, or perhaps the refugee groups had learnt that screaming only attracted more of them. Regardless, the first the Ranger’s knew of the change in the situation was when the orderly groups shuffling through was replaced by a wave of individuals running at them. Only when they came over the bridge, back onto the flat of the road and around two empty vans could they see the military vehicles and it was at that point they started yelling. Further up! They’re attacking, they’re everywhere! A few distraught figures jumped at the humvee’s, pointing desperately up the street, screaming that a loved one was left behind. The wave of running, alarmed people continued to sweep past the Ranger’s, but the numbers had thinned out. There were maybe a few people every hundred meters now, and the math was easy – at least half the civilians weren’t making it through any more.
The beasts started to follow the running civilians into the sights of the Rangers. They must have started to chase them down either as the bridge started or on our side of the floodway gap, Dan thought, as he watched the first of the hunched, ape-like run of the ghouls merge amongst the survivors. Two of the humvees were now facing the incoming wave of runners, with Rangers having stepped outside their vehicles, leaving the doors open as they sought targets. It was mayhem as the runners merged past the vehicles, with short, sharp flashes and the subdued crack of their HK416’s letting Dan know that they were upping their rate of fire, dramatically. He had trouble making out details in the light at the distance he was at, but a number of figures were being dropped by the gunfire. The men standing in the turrets seemed to have a better platform to identify from and were firing the fastest of all, their rifles smoothly sweeping across the road, their muzzles lifting and resettling on a new target at least every ten seconds. Off to their flank the Mark 48 machine gun ripped into life, dwarfing the sound of the suppressed rifles in six, long bursts. Glowing red tracer arced from the barrel of the gun into the surrounding streets.
“The activity, it’s pulling more of them to us,” Dan yelled at the marksman, who grunted in reply. He was having a hard time finding targets through his SCAR-H’s scope now that the Rangers had pushed their front line forwards. “Shit.” Dan couldn’t do anything but listen in on the radio. The units to their south were holding, and right now it was only the Ranger’s facing the onslaught.
Lance leapt onto the roof of the Humvee and then pulled himself onto the conex, alongside Dan. He had returned to his command position, tearing himself away from the chaos on the street so he could gain command and control from a position of over-watch. He didn’t stay next to Dan but paced straight to the edge of the building, muttering “shit, shit, shit,” over and over.
“I’ve got nothing, I can’t do anything from up here,” the marksman called to Lance. His voice was frustrated and a pleading could be heard in his tone – please, let me get down, next to my comrades. Lance grunted again.
“More coming!” was called back from one of the two Ranger’s standing on the platforms next to the fence. Scattered survivors continued to sprint or stagger past them, heading south, running as fast as their legs could carry them but clearly exhausted. A small number of beasts continued to chase them down, only to be bowled over by the Rangers and their bullets. They were too late for one woman to their front who was seized and dragged down by an unseen figure, barely thirty meters from the forward-most hummer but hidden from sight behind one of the abandoned vehicles. Her screams weren’t hidden, though, and as one of the beasts commenced its brutal battering her high-pitched, agonizing yell burnt into the ears of all the men on the position.
“Fuck it!” growled Lance.
“Rags, I’m turning you free. Send your Mark 48 back to the compound, then take the three humvees and do what you can to hold back those bastards. Your limit of exploitation is one kilometer north, no further. And stay mounted, for fuck’s sake.” Lance was going to try and cover the street in front of them with half their force while the other half, and most of the hummers, would sally forth. The first hummer started rolling forward, then a few seconds later stopped at the point where the woman had been dragged down. Her screaming had stopped before they arrived, but the Rangers wanted to settle the score. It was the driver who opened his door and advanced two meters, his HK416 carbine in his shoulder. He paused, aligned the barrel at the unseen target and fired, twice. His barrel followed the target down into the ground. He fired another round, and then returned to his vehicle. Dan’s attention was drawn back to the compound behind him as the machine gunner returned inside, dragging the chain-link fence shut as he moved to the conex. When his view moved back to the vehicles, all were disappearing towards the bridge, the gunners in the turret scanning ahead.
“Channel one!” Lance barked at Dan. Dan switched the SINCGAR radio over and could now hear the voices of the Rangers in the hummers as they coordinated their movement. His SINCGAR was still linked, by a long cord, to the hummer and its antennae and would be able to pick up their communications further than the small antennae on Lance’s MBITR radio on his vest was capable of. Dan could see that Lance was pained. He’d hoped to avoid this course for as long as possible, and he had only sent his men forward when no other alternative was available. Every
thing was on the line now. They would almost certainly run out of ammunition by morning, and half their team had just sallied forth into the chaos.
***
The men were tired, but sleep could wait. Their lack of bullets couldn’t. The Rangers along the fence were getting desperately low on rifle ammunition. Even though they were only engaging only one target a minute – often in the street-line opposite their compound, but sometimes either side of their compound, too – they had been going through a mag every hour, at least. It wasn’t competition shooting conditions and frequently they had to re-engage the same target over five or ten minutes before they were able to drop the threat. The creatures moved low and darted unpredictably, and the Rangers were having to fire between the refugees to keep the harassing forms at bay. A figure would dart out, a Ranger would take a shot but more often than not could only place a round near the cursed, hideous man-like figures. The round would scare the figure back into cover. Rinse and repeat, minute after minute, hour after hour. They were hitting their targets in the end, but it was costing them precious rounds. If they tried to hold fire too long, though, the figures would get dangerously close to the refugees.
The Mark 48 gunner was firing his gun in regular bursts alongside the riflemen. Even Dan and Lance had started to fire against targets on the far side of the street, in an attempt to let the other Rangers preserve their ammo. The intensity was ramping up, and nearly a hundred bodies of the vicious ghouls lay scattered in their arcs. Most had being felled as they exited the line of trees and vegetation on the far side, but a number had made it onto the road. The ever-present trickle of refugees often stumbled over the dead enemy. It was a miracle, Dan thought, that they’d been able to prevent any of the fleeing civilians being dragged away or butchered in front of them, given the speed at which everything was moving.
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