These Dead Lands: Immolation (63 page)

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.

More ghouls rushed up and slammed into the rows of wire. All around Guerra, troops were firing. The entire line was opening up, dropping targets as soon as they got within range, while the snipers did their best to hold back the main body. Even with the mortars and the 40-millimeter grenades, it was a tall order.

After five minutes, the reekers emerged from the tree line in force. They stepped over the bodies of their fallen and continued toward the creek, moaning and shambling through fields of fire that would have eradicated any human attacker. Conceptually, Guerra was impressed with the reekers for walking through such heavy firepower. They didn’t have the common sense to change tactics. They just kept on going until they took a fatal hit or got hung up in one of the wire barriers. Despite the noise and their brethren falling around them, they remained focus on getting a hot meal.

Down the line, some kid cried out as the barrel blew out on his M4. Guerra glanced down to ensure the soldier would be replaced. He was. But Guerra noticed that the barrels of several rifles were starting to glow cherry red. Empty magazines were piling up, and reloads were slow. The firing began to diminish as shooters ran out of ammunition.

“Aw, this ain’t good.” Guerra climbed to his feet and yelled, “Hey, Captain!
Captain
!” He waved his arms, trying to get the officer’s attention.

The company commander was speaking into his field-radio handset. Wilkins finally looked up at Guerra, annoyed. “What the fuck do you want, Guerra? I’m busy!”

“Ammunition! We need ammo up here!”

“It’s coming!”

“Fuck that shit, Captain! Bring the damn ammo up here. Screw the reloading behind the line. Get the shit up here where we can reload ourselves!”

Wilkins shook his head and went back to his radio. Guerra checked his personal load-out. He had three mags in his vest and one in his rifle. The others were all empty. Reader and Stilley were probably burning through their munitions just as quickly, and the Guardsmen, who had less experience fighting the dead, were missing as often as they hit. Turning to the battlefield, he saw that one of the wire barriers was already being pushed flat in some areas, and reekers were writhing about, ensnared by the tanglefoot wire in the gaps between razor wire barriers. That was true not just at the end of the bridge but all along Swatara Creek. He even caught glimpses of zombies splashing through the water.

Guerra reached down and slapped Reader on the shoulder. “Mike!”

“What do you need, Sergeant?”

“Go to the supply area and bring back four cases of five-five-six and drop them off here. Then go back and get four more. We can’t be caught standing around, holding our dicks, and pissing on these things to hold them back.”

“Hooah,” Reader said. He rose to his knees and ejected the magazine from his rifle. He slapped in another then pulled the rest from his vest and dropped them next to Stilley. Guerra didn’t think that was wise, but before he could protest, Reader turned and virtually catapulted down the ladder behind them.

“Oh shit, Sergeant G!” Stilley shouted. “Check it!”

Guerra turned, and all he could see was heads, thousands of them, swaying from side to side as the zombies marched across the field. He heard a cracking sound off to his right, and he looked in that direction. The fence surrounding the Amish compound folded inward and collapsed, trampled into splinters by hundreds of ghouls. Deep, throaty percussions came from the compound, and muzzle flashes lit the upstairs windows. The Amish were opening up, probably with hunting rifles. He had to hand it to them: every time they fired, a reeker fell over dead.

“Damn Amish are doing better than we are!” Stilley said. He laughing then got back on his rifle.

Boom! Boom! Boom, boom, boom, boom!

One of the reekers had pushed through the wire at the far side of the bridge, and someone had set off the first set of claymores in response. Though the reeker was turned into a fine mist of pureed black gore, no others were hurt. That was a lot of firepower to unleash on a single zombie. The detonation had occurred much too early.

“What the
fuck
?” Guerra yelled, pushing up from his fighting position again.

Down the line, Wilkins was virtually beating a young Guardsman across his helmet, screaming at him. He yanked the soldier away from the claymore triggers and assumed the position himself. His radio operator knelt behind him. The Guardsman who had been unceremoniously relieved looked scared out of his wits.

“Shoot!” Guerra yelled at him. “Hey,
shoot
them, you stupid motherfucker!” He waved his arms to get the Guardsman’s attention then pointed at the bridge. “
Shoot
!”

The guy stared at Guerra stupidly then unslung his rifle and stepped forward. The fighting line was full, so he leaned his leg on a prone soldier and fired over him.

With a curse, Guerra dropped back into his own fighting position and peered through the scope on his M4. He fired. A reeker fell. Fired again. Another reeker down. His third shot hit a screamer right in the mouth, and the small zombie was somehow held up in the press of bodies behind it. The diminutive corpse waved back and forth, head lolling, caught up in the advance. Guerra shot two more zombies around it, then a third, and a fourth. Finally, the dead kid slid out of sight and into the waiting tanglefoot wire below.

On the horizon, more black smoke roiled into the sky. Whatever was happening on the interstate wasn’t getting any better. A Shadow UAV buzzed past at an altitude of a thousand feet. It made a quick orbit of the area then winged on toward the rising smoke.

Guerra burned through another mag then swapped it out with a fresh one. He had only one left in his kit. No runners had appeared with reloads, so it looked as though he and Stilley would be splitting Reader’s magazines. He went back to firing. He didn’t have to hunt for targets. The enemy density was so thick, he just needed to hold his rifle in one spot and wait for pallid faces to appear in the scope. He figured out that he could fire one round every two seconds and score kills as easily as he could by hunting around for reekers to shoot.

“Let them come to you, Stilley,” he said.

“Yeah, roger that. I’m already doin’ it,” Stilley responded. “Nice of ’em to line up like this for us, huh?”

“Peachy,” Guerra said. He heard another volley of gunfire from the Amish compound, but he kept eyes forward until he had exhausted his magazine.

While reloading, he took a quick glance at the house. He saw substantial movement in all the windows. The place had been overrun. A woman wearing a skirt and a dirty white blouse tried to step out onto one of the eaves. She didn’t make it. Filthy ashen hands grabbed her and pulled her back through the window while she kicked and screamed.

Game over for the Amish.
He slapped his last mag into his rifle, slapped the bolt release, and got back in the game. Movement behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder. Reader had returned, lugging four cans of rifle ammunition. His lip was bleeding, and his right cheek was scraped.

“What happened to you?” Guerra shouted.

“Had to convince the guys down below to give up the goods,” Reader said, dropping the cans nearby. “Gotta tell you, Sergeant G, these Guard guys sure have glass jaws. Hope you guys like your M eight-five-five on stripper clips.”

“Start reloading,” Guerra said.

Reader opened one of the cans and pulled out a handful of cardboard boxes. Each was loaded with stripper clips, small metal rods on which ten 5.56-millimeter cartridges were mounted. Taking the speed loader from the can, he attached it to one of the empty magazines then pushed the clip into it.