These Dead Lands: Immolation

by Stephen Knight

  “Fuck, it’s like New York all over again!” Ballantine shouted as he leaned forward, blasting away at squirming, tumbling bodies.

  There was almost no chance to reliably score head shots. The tableau of moving carcasses was always shifting. Hastings aimed at one pale face and fired, striking it in the mouth. He sighted on another, but the ghoul writhed and turned as another body fell across it. Hastings’s shots went into body mass instead of a skull.

  Below, the first row of razor wire barriers collapsed beneath the weight of trapped bodies. The reekers walked over their fallen brethren and into another field of tanglefoot wiring. That slowed them enough that Hastings was able to get back to work, taking measured aim and dropping zombies with single head shots. Ballantine did the same beside him, not reacting to anything other than shooting, even when a few expended casings from Hastings’s M4 bounced off his helmet.

  The bodies began to pile up again, forming bulwarks across the field of tanglefoot wire. Hastings cursed. Once again, the dead were collecting into undulating masses, making head shots difficult to obtain. The machine gunners raked the top of the tide cresting over the traffic obstacles, blunting the reeker advance for a few seconds in a bid to give the soldiers manning the container wall enough time to thin out the herd in the engagement area. Hastings ran another magazine dry. As he swapped it out with a fresh one, he looked down the line. Vogler stood behind the line of sand bags, staring into the kill zone. He held an M7 trigger in his hand, ready to detonate one of the lines of claymores.

  “Not yet!” Hastings shouted. “Vogler! Not yet!”

  “Don’t fucking worry about me!” Vogler yelled. “Keep firing!”

  Another huge wave of the dead crashed across the barrier. Hastings fired into it, even though he knew the shots were ineffective—he was hitting bodies, not heads. Something exploded behind the line, sending body parts flying in a puff of smoke. The sound of the report was dulled by the press of bodies. Another explosion followed then a third.

  “Is somebody using grenades?” Ballantine shouted as he changed magazines.

  Hastings looked up again. Several soldiers were firing 40-millimeter grenades into the oncoming reekers, using the M203 launchers slung under their rifles to pop the projectiles over the front lines in a bid to break up the attack. Hastings doubted it would do much good, but at that point, anything was fair game. He returned to firing, drilling one zombie through the head and blasting necrotic brain matter over the ghoul behind it.

  After a louder explosion, a fireball suddenly blossomed as one of the vehicles behind the obstacle blew up. Orange and yellow flames burned brightly, giving off a huge plume of black smoke. The men on the line cheered as zombies walked right into the flames. Their elation quieted when the ghouls emerged on the other side of the fire. Even though they were aflame, the grotesqueries continued their slow progression toward the container wall.

  A car’s fuel tank exploded, peppering the zombies with shrapnel that did little to deter them. A pickup truck went up a moment later, adding to the conflagration. The flames quickly spread, leapfrogging from vehicle to vehicle, scorching the creeping dead. Some of the reekers were completely immolated after they walked directly into the fires. Hastings was momentarily encouraged by that, but his enthusiasm was short lived as he realized he had to search for targets through the smoke. Ballantine yelled something, but Hastings couldn’t make out the words.

  “Say again!” Hastings shouted.

  “The fucking smoke! We can’t see them through the fucking smoke!”

  Through gaps in the wafting black clouds, Hastings saw the reekers flattening the second tier of razor wire. All that stood between them and the HESCO barriers at the foot of the container wall were two fields of tanglefoot and one row of razor wire. He rose to his knees and leaned over the sandbag revetment so he could fire down onto the amassing horde. From the corner of his eye, he saw other soldiers doing the same.

  Then the wind changed direction, blowing thick clouds of noxious smoke over the container wall.

  “Masks!” Hastings shouted. “Get your masks on!” As he spoke, he put down his rifle and started rummaging through his rucksack. He pulled out his M50 gas mask. It wasn’t a full respirator, so its utility in defeating smoke inhalation was limited at best, but it was preferable to choking to death while trying to fight off the dead. He yanked off his helmet and slipped on the mask, pulling the straps tight around his skull. Beside him, Ballantine did the same.

  All around them, soldiers began coughing and choking as the thick smoke rolled over their fighting positions. Visibility dropped. Even with his mask on, Hastings couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his nose. The rifle fire diminished as soldiers paused to either put on their masks or wait for gaps in the smoke to find a viable target. Reekers were milling about close to the HESCOs at the base of the container wall, and Hastings opened fire on them. Ballantine joined him, as did several other soldiers who had managed to get their masks on. Other soldiers succumbed to coughing jags, and their shots went wild. Hastings fired round after round into upturned faces as the ghouls below looked up at him, moaning hungrily as they crossed over the last field of tanglefoot wire, reaching for the earth-filled HESCOs. Fuck!

  “Vogler!” Hastings pushed away from the sandbags. He couldn’t see the tall southerner through the wafting black smoke. He yanked his mask up, exposing his mouth. “Vogler! Captain Vogler!”

  “Here!” came a coughing reply.

  “Detonate daisy chain one in ten seconds!”

  Either Vogler didn’t hear the entire command, or he elected to ignore it. The first line of claymores immediately erupted in a thunderous, syncopated ripple of explosions that were deafening. Hastings recoiled from the sudden cacophony, falling against Ballantine as the big soldier ducked down behind the wall of sandbags. All around them, soldiers hollered in shock.

  “That stupid fuck!” Ballantine screamed, his voice muffled by his mask.

  Hastings got back on his rifle. Through the swirling smoke, he saw a field of bodies, many dismembered, dozens lying absolutely still, and dozens more writhing about, trailing their guts like rust-colored streamers. The reekers continued their attempts to make it to the container wall, ignoring the gruesome injuries the mines had caused. And behind those, hundreds more were surging forward with a collective moan, trampling each other in their haste to dine on fresh flesh.

  Hastings dropped his mask over his face and resumed firing, even though it was a forlorn gesture, at best. “Fire daisy chain two!” he shouted. When he didn’t get a response, he ducked down behind the sandbags. “Captain Vogler! Fire daisy chain two!”

  “Roger!”

  More thunder ripped through the air, and Hastings heard the thousands of ball bearings tearing through metal an instant later as they passed through the zombie horde and into the wall of motor vehicles. He leaned out over the sandbag line and peered into the smoke. Thousands of bodies lay strewn around the engagement area, some motionless but most still moving.

  And thousands more continued to pick their way across the field of the dead. The corpses were piled five deep, over which walked an undulating carpet of necrotic flesh that surged toward the container wall like a rotting tide.

  “Stand ready to retrograde to the second wall!” Hastings shouted.

  *

  Guerra heard the gunfire and explosions from the highway overpass, even though it was over a mile away. Guerra stood in front of the CONEX container at the foot of the old bridge across Swatara Creek, rifle slung across his chest. Above him, several National Guard troops manned the fighting positions, while several other Guardsmen finished placing claymores in the bridge’s superstructure. The mines, once triggered, would deliver their payloads directly on top of any reekers that tried to cross the bridge.

  “Sounds like there’s a regular war going on over there,” Stilley said loudly, even though he was standing only six feet from Guerra. His voice was like an air horn going off at tw
o a.m. on a Monday morning.

  “Yeah, well, stop talking so we can listen to it,” Reader said. He stood off Guerra’s left shoulder, M4 held at low ready. He pointed at the wood line on the other side of the Amish family’s cornfield. “Movement over there.”

  Guerra raised his binoculars as Reader and Stilley raised their rifles. Several reekers were slowly bumbling through the brush. They were probably overflow from the highway, which meant the ghouls had broken through the razor wire that had been put in place by Ballantine’s team.

  Damn. That was quick. Guerra lowered the binoculars and looked toward the Amish compound sitting peacefully behind its large fence. He saw no movement, no indication that the people there were preparing for fight or flight.

  “Sergeant G, you see them?” Reader asked, glancing away from his rifle’s scope. When he saw Guerra was looking at the Amish farmhouse, he scowled. “Shit, why do you even care about those people? They had their chance.”

  Angry, Guerra glared at the soldier. “Because they’re still alive, Reader.”

  Reader snorted and went back to glassing the tree line through his scope. “Yeah, well, not for much longer.”

  “Hey, that’s a lot of reekers out there,” Stilley said.

  Guerra brought the binoculars back to his eyes. Stilley was right. Only moments before, maybe ten zombies had been shambling through the brush. But dozens more were emerging from the woods, walking out into the Amish farmland. One started stumbling toward the bridge, where the Guardsmen were making their final preparations.

  “Looks like they see us,” Stilley said with a trace of nervousness in his voice.

  “Yeah, like that’s never happened before,” Reader replied.

  Guerra took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Okay, boys. If you aren’t ready for contact, it’s too late. Get ready to embrace the suck.”

  “Man, this is a bag of dicks,” Stilley muttered. He lowered his rifle and turned it toward him slightly, as if to verify the dust cover was still closed over the ejection port.

  “Your favorite meal, right?” Reader kept his rifle shouldered, watching the approaching reekers through the scope.

  Stilley put on an almost comically stern expression. “Man, why you always riding me lately?”

  “Because you’re a fucking moron,” Guerra said before Reader could reply.

  A thick column of black smoke rose into the air over where the highway overpass was located. A second later, the volume of weapons fire in the distance diminished drastically. From the corner of his eye, Guerra saw both Reader and Stilley look toward the smoke as it climbed higher and higher, trailing off to the west.

  That doesn’t look very good. Guerra glanced at the Amish farmhouse one last time—still no activity behind the fence that he could see. He considered trying to make his way through the wire and sandbag barriers that stretched across the mouth of the bridge to talk to the Amish again, but he knew there was no point. They weren’t going to leave until they were convinced they had no choice, and by then, it would be too late. He didn’t like it, but other than attempting to force them out at gunpoint, that was how it was going to be.

  The reekers emerging from the tree line had grown to number in the hundreds, and almost all of them were turning toward the bridge. Guerra didn’t know how good the zombies’ vision was, but it was apparently good enough to detect men standing more than five hundred meters away.

  Guerra made a snap decision. “Okay, let’s fall back behind the barricade. Those things are definitely headed our way, and I know standing around and waiting for them isn’t high on my personal bucket list.”

  Reader lowered his rifle. “Hooah.”

  “Stayin’ alive,” Stilley said with a nervous smile.

  Guerra rolled his eyes and led them back to the small ingress that had been left open so the troops working on the bridge could retreat. The lightfighters were the last ones behind the line. After verifying no more friendlies were in the kill zone, the National Guard captain, a tall black captain named Wilkins, ordered the opening sealed. Several Guardsmen erected a sheet of steel planking buttressed by HESCO barriers that effectively closed off the small passage. They then took their positions atop the HESCOs, using the steel planking as a shield.

  Guerra led the others up a ladder to the top of the container. Behind them lay the motor pool and some bare-bone shitters that had been set up, along with resupply and rest areas—not that anyone was going to be catching a nap anytime soon. As Guerra reached the top of the container, he looked over to his left. Wilkins was shadowed by a tiny female radio specialist with flame-red hair and fair skin that spoke of Scottish ancestry. She lugged around the backpack-sized combat net radio that Wilkins used to stay in touch with War Eagle Six. Guerra had already caught Stilley trying to chat up the woman, who apparently had functional Mark I eyeballs and enough good taste to rebuff him. That made her a Grade-A soldier in Guerra’s book.

  Guerra joined Wilkins and pointed to the thick column of smoke rising in the middle distance. “Sir, you know what’s going on over there?”

  “Vogler’s units are in contact,” Wilkins said. “Heavy contact, I ought to add.”

  “I figured that much, sir. Any word on how they’re holding out?”

  Wilkins shook his head. “Not much, other than they’ve got a bit of a fire situation along with a few thousand reekers. They’re doing what they’re supposed to do, Sergeant Guerra. Don’t worry about them.”

  Guerra snorted. He wasn’t worried a bit about Hastings and Ballantine; they could handle pretty much anything the deadheads threw at them. But fire wasn’t part of the plan. No one wanted toxic battlefield obscurants making the fight any harder than it had to be. And from the mass of reekers marching across the field on the other side of the bridge, the battle was probably plenty tough already. “Okay, sir,” he said.

  Wilkins waved toward the reekers. “Looks like we have some problems of our own. You’re supposed to be the combat-hardened vet here. Any last minute tips?”

  Guerra was surprised at the question. “Sir? You’re asking for my advice?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m asking.”

  Guerra barked out a laugh even though there was nothing remotely funny about an officer asking him what to do at this stage of the game. “Sir, my advice is to start shooting the fuckers in the face as soon as they’re in range!”

  Wilkins turned to a pair of soldiers manning Barrett M82 .50-caliber rifles. Originally designed for sniping missions, the weapons were generally used for the precise demolition of equipment, filling the role of anti-material weapons. But they were still efficient killing devices, capable of sacking a human being at ranges in excess of a mile. “Open up at five hundred meters!” the captain barked.

  From behind him, Reader said, “That was like a hundred meters ago.”

  Guerra didn’t have the opportunity to comment. The Barretts began booming, hurling big projectiles downrange. He didn’t need his binoculars to see the zombies at the head of the advancing formation drop to the ground as their heads exploded. Watching the reekers behind the fallen stumble over the suddenly motionless corpses was mildly amusing, though.

  As Guerra hurried to his fighting position, the Barretts continued pounding out the fire, taking down reeker after reeker. A moment later, the M2s and MK19 grenade launchers opened up as well, raking the field with fire. They weapons were less precise and, as a result, generated fewer kills, but they did serve to break up the reeker advance somewhat. The exploding forty-millimeter grenades seemed to actually confuse the zombies, causing several of them to start walking in wide circles that caused even more of their fellows to trip and fall.

  Stilley cackled. “Look at ’em. They’re doing the reeker shuffle!”

  Guerra had to admit that their confusion was a bit humorous. And it was peculiarly effective, serving to bottle up the reeker advance while the Barretts and other weapons worked them over, chopping down dozens. The respite was short-lived, as the
wayward zombies either got back on track or were simply knocked to the ground by those behind them. Before he had much chance to celebrate, the reeker advance was on again. And the ones emerging from the trees now numbered in the thousands.

  “Oh, this is gonna suck shit,” Guerra said. He could barely hear his own voice above the din.

  In New York, things had been different. While the streams of the dead were endless, they were confined to the streets, channelized directly into fields of fire that managed to hold them at bay for days, even an entire week, before supply issues, overruns, and breakthroughs led to unavoidable withdrawals. But looking over the tops of the sandbags, Guerra could see activity all across the field, and the threat of more burgeoning in the woods beyond. Some of the corpses had managed to make it within a hundred meters of the first razor wire barriers before being gunned down.

  Soldiers began opening up with their rifles, hammering the dead and dropping dozens with every volley. But the field was too wide, and their positions were too centralized. Even though gun trucks roamed the country highway behind the barricades, the soldiers they carried couldn’t concentrate their fires everywhere at once. There would be breakthroughs, and for one horrifying instant, Guerra felt he was back on the George Washington Bridge, wondering just what the fuck he was going to do when the reekers encircled his position.

  “We got runners!” Reader yelled.

  Guerra peered out across the battlefield. There were runners, not just one or two but dozens. And there were screamers, too. The little kid zombies let loose pealing cries that made his blood curdle. Guerra was used to being scared these days, but the screamers elicited such a cold rush of fear in him that he found it almost overwhelming.

  He raised his rifle as one of the runners somehow avoided all the snipers and got hung up in the wire at the far side of the bridge. Time to kill some reekers. He fired once, and the reeker went slack in the wire, one arm sticking straight up. Its face was already slashed to ribbons. It had tried to bite its way through the razor wire.