Текст книги "The Darkest Place"
Автор книги: James N. Cook
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel
By:
James N. Cook
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished,
and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space,
rayless and pathless, and the icy earth swung blind
and blackening in the moonless air.
Morn came and went and came, and brought no day.
And men forgot their passions in the dread of this,
their desolation.
And all hearts were chilled into a selfish prayer for light,
and they did live by watchfires,
and the thrones, the palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
the habitations of all things which dwell,
were burnt for beacons.
Cities were consumed,
and the men gathered round their blazing homes,
to look once more into each other’s face.
–Lord Byron
Darkness
ONE
Hollow Rock, Tennessee
Caleb Hicks awoke to the sound of bells ringing.
This is getting to be a habit, he thought as he sat up and reached for his gear. Everything was exactly where he had left it the night before, which was the same place he always left it. If an alarm started ringing in the middle of the night, there was no fumbling around trying to locate his MOLLE vest, rifle, assault pack, helmet, and spear. It was always in the same spot, ready to go.
“For Christ’s sake, what the hell is it this time?” Specialist Derrick Holland moaned as he tugged on his boots.
“Probably more walkers,” Sergeant Isaac Cole said groggily. “Been getting a lot of those lately.”
Staff Sergeant Ethan Thompson, Caleb’s squad leader, stood up and addressed his men. “Whatever it is, it’s our job to deal with it. Let’s get moving, ladies. Time to go to work.”
The other men in Hicks’ squad quickly dressed and armed themselves. He looked across the VFW hall that had served as his platoon’s quarters for the last few months and saw forty-eight soldiers lining up for inspection. As usual, the platoon’s commanding officer, First Lieutenant Clay Jonas, a forty-something former master sergeant given a field commission after the Outbreak, was the first to be ready. His men stood at respectful attention as he looked them over.
“All right,” he said, satisfied with what he saw. “Squad leaders, form your men up and get ready to move out.”
The four staff sergeants of First Platoon answered with a chorus of yes sirs and turned to their men, barking out orders. Thompson took a few extra moments to make sure his squad’s gear and weapons were squared away, then had them form up with the rest of the platoon. Jonas took his place at the head of the formation and nodded to his platoon sergeant.
Master Sergeant Damian Ashman—all six-foot-six, two-hundred-seventy pounds of him—towered over the men behind him as he turned and addressed his troops, the hilt of his massive broadsword protruding over his right shoulder. If they had been back home at Fort Bragg, he would have given a crisp FORwaaaard, MARCH. But Ashman had been in the Army long enough to know that out in the field such things weren’t necessary. Instead, he simply tilted his helmet toward the door and said, “Let’s go.”
Hicks adjusted the tactical sling on his rifle as he emerged into the chilly morning. The sun was just beginning to burnish the eastern sky in shades of crimson and copper, a clatter of birdsong echoing through blooming tree-lined streets. If not for the urgent bronze cacophony rattling from the south side of town, the morning would have been idyllic.
Caleb felt an elbow nudge his side and looked to his right. “How much you wanna bet it’s walkers again?” Holland asked.
Hicks shook his head. Holland would bet on anything.
“I’ll take that bet,” Private Fuller said from behind them. He was almost as much of a gambling addict as Holland, and that was saying something. Hicks had a theory the two of them never actually gained anything over one another in their constant wagering, but instead simply traded their personal fortunes back and forth two or three times a month.
“I’ll put up two mini-bottles of Bacardi,” Fuller said. “How about you?”
Holland thought about it for a moment, then said, “Three MRE packs of instant coffee.”
“Make it four.”
Holland spun around and marched backward while he shook hands with Fuller. “You’re on.”
As his platoon marched closer, Hicks looked up at the towers on the south wall. The guards in the towers and along the walls did not look more agitated than usual, which was a good sign. Their attention was focused toward something on the ground below, outside the palisade of telephone poles and tree trunks. They gestured, and pointed, and spoke into handheld radios. Hicks recognized the shapely silhouette of Deputy Sarah Glover as she walked back and forth organizing the response to whatever crisis was occurring.
“That cop is a sweet-looking piece of ass,” Holland said, eliciting a few chuckles from the men around him. “Kinda MILF-y, but I’d still hit it.”
Hicks felt heat rise in his face, and before he realized what he was doing, he had seized two of Holland’s fingers and twisted them together, grinding nerves between bones. Holland gave a surprised squeak and stumbled to keep up as Hicks kept walking. The tall young soldier leaned over and said, “Her name is Sarah Glover, and she is a good, kind-hearted woman. So I don’t ever want to hear you talk about her like that again. Understood?”
Holland nodded quickly, unable to draw a breath against the pain. Hicks released his hand.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Holland complained, trying to work feeling back into his fingers. “Half my arm is numb. What the fuck did you do to my hand?”
“Don’t worry,” Caleb said. “It’s not permanent. This time.”
Sergeant Ashman brought the platoon to a halt while Lieutenant Jonas proceeded ahead to speak with Deputy Glover. The soldiers around Hicks shifted restlessly, grumbling quiet complaints as they awaited orders. After conferring with Sarah and the watch captain, Jonas turned on his heel and walked back to his platoon.
“We’ve got another horde on our hands,” he announced. Fuller groaned. “We’re headed for the north gate to meet up with the Ninth TVM and Second Platoon outside Fort McCray. Then we’ll proceed south and encircle the horde at company strength. Same drill as last time. You men know what to do.” He nodded at Master Sergeant Ashman.
“You heard the man,” Ashman bellowed. “About face, let’s go.”
Holland muttered, “I sure am glad we marched all the way down here.”
Caleb ignored him. He had long ago given up expecting life in the Army to make sense. Everything was hurry up and wait, and contradicting orders, and marching for miles to take position on a hill, wait there for days, and then get orders to march to another hill and wait a few more days for an enemy that never showed up. Hicks no longer complained. It was pointless, and changed nothing. He simply accepted.
The platoon crossed town, emerged from the north gate, and turned eastward. When the wall surrounding the town of Hollow Rock passed behind them, there was a subtle shift in the soldiers’ demeanor. Behind the wall, they had been poised and confident, marching with casual ease, hefting their weapons with the surety of long practice. Now, without the wall separating them from the wasteland of horrors their country had become, they grew tense, eyes shifting, hands tightening on weapons, helmets turning as they scanned the fields around them and the treeline in the distance. The designated marksmen in each squad raised their sniper carbines and peered through scopes, searching the landscape for walkers or signs of an ambush.
Raiders, marauders, and insurgents were fond of using hordes as a distraction while they launched an attack. The soldiers of First Platoon had long ago learned how devastating such tactics could be, so they watched, and fidgeted, and worried.
Except Hicks.
He observed his surroundings closely, dark-blue eyes constantly on the move, searching for signs of living people having disturbed the tall grass around him. He did not allow himself to worry. One of the first lessons he had been taught, so long ago the memory was dim and hazy around the edges, was to master his emotions. To not let worry and anxiety dictate his actions. A panicked man makes mistakes, his father had said. Mistakes get you killed.
Furthermore, on long marches, when faced with an unknown number of walkers and the very real possibility of an ambush, tension burned energy best used for fighting. By staying loose and relaxed, he could stave off exhaustion far longer than someone with less self-control.
Master Sergeant Ashman called the platoon to a halt at the rendezvous point, a Y-shaped intersection between Hollow Rock’s main gate and Highway 114. The men and women of the Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia were already waiting for them.
The militia was a stark contrast to the regular Army troops. Where Hicks and his fellow soldiers packed nearly sixty pounds of gear each time they ventured into the field, the militiamen carried hardly any equipment at all. Just a rifle, sidearm, melee weapon, MOLLE vest, spare ammunition, and a light assault pack. They even eschewed helmets in favor of ball caps, boonie hats, and in most cases, headscarves.
Since the other two platoons in Echo Company—2nd Battalion of the 1st Reconnaissance Expeditionary Brigade out of Fort Bragg, NC—had joined First Platoon, the Ninth TVM, who had once been the town’s primary defense force, had been repurposed as scouts and guides, working closely with the commanding officers of all three platoons to teach them the terrain, point out chokepoints and ambush sites, establish patrols along critical trade routes, and generally provide expertise and advice on how best to defend Hollow Rock and the surrounding area. The newly arrived soldiers had, at first, looked upon the militia as little more than civilians playing at being soldiers. This perception faded quickly when the militia demonstrated a level of training, discipline, and combat effectiveness rivaling that of Echo Company’s best soldiers.
Over the course of hundreds of patrols, dozens of skirmishes with marauders, and countless battles with the walking dead, the soldiers fighting side by side with the militia had found them to be tough, resourceful, stalwart allies. Gradually, the soldiers’ disdain faded to grudging respect, then acceptance as equals, and finally outright admiration.
At a gesture from Lieutenant Jonas, First Platoon broke ranks and walked out to greet their friends and allies. Sergeant Manuel Sanchez and his people made their way over to Caleb’s squad and exchanged a round of greetings.
“Man, I’m getting tired of all these attacks,” said Vincenzo, one of Sanchez’s men, as he bumped knuckles with Hicks. “It’s cutting into our salvage work.”
“It’s the weather,” Hicks replied. “The walkers trapped under ice during the winter have thawed out. With all the noise going on around here, we’re attracting them like flies to a pile of shit.”
Vincenzo looked toward the wall surrounding Hollow Rock. “Yeah, but life is loud, you know? What else are we supposed to do?”
“Aside from killing them? Nothing at all.” Hicks clapped Vincenzo on the shoulder and ambled away, casually stepping closer to the cluster of lieutenants and squad leaders near the edge of the clearing. He stopped a few yards away, back turned to them so as not to draw their attention, and listened in on their conversation.
“Where the hell is Second Platoon?” Lt. Jonas asked the Ninth TVM’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Marcus Cohen. Cohen was a former Marine infantryman who had been home on leave when the Outbreak hit. Rather than return to his unit, he had stayed in Hollow Rock to protect his family. There were a few soldiers in Echo Company who looked down on him for this decision, but they did so quietly. The last soldier to voice open criticism accepted a challenge from Cohen to disregard rank and settle things out behind the mess hall. Said soldier went to bed that night with two black eyes, bruised ribs, a missing tooth, and a broken nose. The rest of the company got the message.
“They’re on their way,” Cohen replied. “Lieutenant Chapman just radioed in. ETA five minutes.”
Jonas looked confused. “Well how the hell did you get here so fast?”
“We were already out on maneuvers,” Cohen said, grinning. “Unlike some people, my militia doesn’t hold banker’s hours.”
Jonas chuckled. “Keep it up, smart ass.”
“Sir,” Sergeant Ashman broke in. “Should I radio Lt. Chapman to catch up with us?”
There was a moment’s pause while Jonas thought it over. Ashman had a way of couching suggestions in the form of questions, a very effective technique when dealing with officers. “Yeah, go ahead,” Jonas replied. “We’ll assess the situation and instruct him where to set up.”
While Ashman got on the radio, Jonas shouted for the two platoons to shut their yaps and listen up.
“We’re moving out,” he shouted. “We’ll march south toward the railroad tracks and set up a perimeter around the southern wall. Standard crescent formation. SAW gunners and designated marksmen, grab one volunteer each and make your way to the woods past the tracks and conduct a thorough sweep. I don’t want any surprises while we’re dealing with the horde. Sergeant Kelly, turn your squad over to Sergeant Ashman. I want you to lead the recon detail. Any questions?”
Silence.
“All right then. Form up and move out.”
As they turned southward, Caleb felt Cole’s massive hand on his shoulder. “You ready to go huntin’?” the big gunner rumbled.
Hicks showed his teeth. “Always.”
The two men broke off from the platoon and headed to the edge of the woods where Sgt. Kelly was mustering the recon detail. They were joined by Holland, Fuller, and the other heavy gunners and designated marksmen from both First and Second Platoon. As for the the Ninth TVM, since they were not regular Army, it was standard procedure to remain with their federal counterparts during a walker attack.
“All right, men,” Kelly announced when everyone was assembled. “You all know the drill. Maintain five-yard intervals, radio silence, hand signals only. Move slow and quiet, and if shit gets real, stay in your lane. Questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s move out.”
Cole looked over at Hicks and grinned, his white teeth contrasting starkly with his dark brown skin. “Let’s do this.” He held out a huge fist, which Hicks bumped with his own. The young soldier felt the old familiar anticipation begin to course through him.
“You know me, brother. I live for this shit.”
TWO
The only reason Holland was Delta Squad’s designated marksman was because Hicks had never volunteered for the task.
Holland was well aware Hicks was the superior rifleman, but kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to lose the prestige of his position. Despite this, from time to time, Hicks found it necessary to flex his muscle on the subject.
Walking out on point, he peered through the scope of Holland’s sniper carbine—which he had traded for his M-4—and held a closed fist over his shoulder. The men behind him repeated the gesture until the recon detail came to a halt. Hicks turned slowly and made a few hand signals toward Sgt. Kelly.
Possible hostiles sighted. Hundred meters ahead. Dug in.
Kelly raised his hands. How many?
Three fire teams. Two straight ahead, one to the east.
Kelly acknowledged, carefully backed off until he felt confident he would not be overheard by the enemy, then keyed his radio and relayed Hicks’ information to Lt. Jonas.
“Very well,” Jonas said. “I’ll have First Platoon switch directions and cut them off to the west. You circle around eastward and make contact. Remember our ROE: do not fire unless fired upon. Over.”
“All right, you heard the man,” Kelly said over the radio. “Maintain the line, but swing it around eastward. We’ll come at them from behind. Be on the lookout, fellas, there could be more of them out there. And don’t forget to keep your eyes peeled for walkers. Two clicks to acknowledge, and for God’s sake, maintain protocol.”
Hicks listened to the clicking of radios until it was his turn, then pressed the button twice. When all fire teams had checked in, Kelly gave the order to advance.
Hicks threaded his way silently through the forest, Cole’s heavy footsteps close by. The big gunner stayed behind Hicks and a few meters to his right, scanning the forest with his SAW light machine gun. Hicks led the team on a wide arc behind the hostiles, moving within a hundred meters of the farthest targets and taking position under a cluster of cedars. He and Cole dropped to their bellies, positioned their weapons, and waited.
A few minutes later, the fire teams behind them moved into position and began passing signals down the line. Not for the first time, Hicks was grateful there weren’t many new people in Echo Company. All of the men on the recon detail were experienced veterans, many of them with pre-Outbreak combat experience. They moved swiftly and efficiently, staying low and quiet. There was no arguing or confusion. These soldiers knew the importance of stealth when closing in on an enemy position. One wrong footfall, one cough or sneeze, one dropped rifle, and the element of surprise would be lost. No one wanted that, and they were appropriately careful.
Hicks watched the other fire teams pick targets and signal each other their lanes of fire. Since he and Cole were on point, they were covering the easternmost group of targets with Holland and Fuller providing crossfire.
As he lay silently among the husks of dead cedar boughs, right eye an inch away from his scope, Hicks heard his radio crackle in his ear. “All stations in position,” Kelly whispered. “Remember, fingers off the trigger until they give us a reason to shoot. Engaging now. Stand by.”
From the corner of his eye, Hicks saw Kelly stand up and level his rifle. “You’re surrounded,” he shouted, voice echoing down the embankment. “Stand up and put your hands over your head. Do it now!”
One of the bundled shapes ahead of him responded by rolling over onto its back and opening fire in Kelly’s direction. The veteran sergeant dropped to his belly and returned fire as the men around him let loose with their M-4s. The offending gunman died in a hail of bullets, a few stray rounds striking the man next to him and eliciting an agonized scream.
“Okay, he’s down. Cease fire,” Kelly said calmly over the radio. The chatter of rifles ceased.
Kelly shouted, “Unless the rest of you want to die too, I strongly suggest you stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.
A moment passed as the gunmen looked around and realized how badly outnumbered they were. Heated whispers passed between them.
“We don’t have all day, kids,” Kelly said. “I’m going to count to five, and then my men are going to open fire. One. Two. Three-”
“All right!” a voice shouted. “We surrender. Everyone, on your feet.”
The remaining insurgents obeyed the command, rising to their feet and raising their hands.
“Move in, but be careful,” Kelly radioed. “If they try anything, shoot them.”
Hicks, Cole, Holland, and Fuller approached the two men nearest them. Hicks pointed at the man on his left. “Step that way until I tell you to stop,” he said.
The man complied, his ghillie suit dragging the ground in his wake. When he was far enough away from his companion, Hicks ordered him to a halt.
“Turn around and put your hands on top of your head. Good. Now get down on your knees and cross your ankles.” He moved forward until the barrel of his carbine was a few inches from the insurgent’s head, then nodded to Cole. The big man slung his SAW behind his back before quickly and firmly zip-tying the gunman’s hands. Holland and Fuller did the same with their prisoner.
Kelly keyed his radio and told the recon detail where to bring the detainees. Hicks kept his gun trained on the back of the insurgent’s head as they marched him over and ordered him to sit. Two other fire teams brought his surviving comrades to join him.
“What about those two,” Kelly asked, pointing in the direction of the men who had been shot.
One of the SAW gunners from Second Platoon shook his head. “Sorry, Sergeant. Both dead. The guy that shot at you looks like Swiss cheese, and the other guy took a bullet to the femoral artery. Bled out before we could do anything about it.”
Kelly let out a sigh. “Oh well. Two less assholes in the world.” He looked over at Hicks and punched him in the arm.
“Man, those guys were camouflaged like a motherfucker. How’d you spot ‘em?”
Hicks pointed behind him. “Picked up their trail while I was out on point. Saw there were at least six of them, passed through not long ago. So I asked myself where would I set up if I wanted to use walkers as a distraction and snipe me some federal types. I’ll give ‘em credit, though, they picked a good spot.”
Kelly looked in the direction the insurgents had been aiming and stepped closer to the treeline. There was a low knot of dense vegetation where the field met the forest, and then a broad, flat plain beyond. He knelt to stare through the brush at the undulating knot of infected pressed against the south wall.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “If First Platoon and the Ninth had set up in that field, those assholes would have had them dead to rights.” He cast an angry glare toward the prisoners. “Sneaky fucks.”
“Well, we stopped them,” Hicks said. “That’s the important thing.”
“Yeah.” Kelly inclined his head toward the horde. “Now for the fun part.”
*****
Hicks didn’t need the Y-shaped stand under his weapon’s foregrip, but he didn’t mind using it either.
It was a simple thing, constructed of three lengths of slender, interlocking aluminum pipe with a thin bungee cord holding them together. When not in use, it could be broken down and lashed to his pack, similar to the red and white collapsible canes used by blind people. Every soldier in Echo Company—and the Army, for that matter—had one. They were modular, making them adjustable to a particular soldier’s height. The stands increased accuracy rates so much that Central Command had made them mandatory equipment.
“You know, Hicks,” Holland said between shots, “you can give my rifle back any time you want.”
Hicks grunted and lined up another shot. The walker in his crosshairs had been a woman once. Her clothes had long since fallen apart, leaving her mottled gray skin exposed to the elements. Only her back was visible, but Hicks could tell she had been attractive when she was still alive. Early twenties, slim physique, well-muscled legs and buttocks, probably a runner or a fitness nut. He squeezed the trigger, felt a light jolt against his shoulder, and the walker fell.
“I don’t know, I kinda like it,” Hicks said. “It’s a little heavier than my M-4, but the extra weight reduces recoil. Scope’s not too bad either.”
“Very funny.” Holland shifted his aim, let out a breath, and fired another shot. “You want to take my job, go right ahead. I’m tired of crawling around in the dirt anyway.”
Hicks let out a sigh and raised his right hand. A militiaman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and took his place on the firing line. Holland followed suit.
“Here,” Hicks held the sniper carbine at arm’s length. Holland took it and gave Hicks back his M-4.
“Thanks,” Holland said. He looked toward the line of soldiers firing upon the horde forty meters in the distance. “I’m still pissed at you for fucking up my hand, but I have to admit that was good work you did earlier. You’re a hell of a tracker.”
“Thanks.” Hicks slapped him on the arm. “You might be annoying as hell, but you’re a good man to have around in a fight.”
Holland grinned. “Fuck you.”
Both men jumped a little when they heard Sergeant Ashman’s voice amplified by a bullhorn. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Weapons safe on the firing line!”
“Fuck me running,” Holland mumbled.
The next command was predictable. “Draw hand weapons and prepare to advance.”
“Here we go.” Holland drew his twin tomahawks and gave them a little twirl. Hicks reached over his shoulder and grasped the handle of his short, heavy bladed spear and drew it from its makeshift leather-and-para-cord sheath. Ahead of them, Cole stepped away from the firing line and gave his massive bar mace a few warm-up swings.
The commanding officer of Second Platoon turned to his men and raised his bullhorn. “Draw blades!”
Second Platoon, who had spent the winter exterminating infected in Kansas, all drew the Army’s new standard issue melee weapon: the MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. It consisted of a heavy twenty-inch blade forged from high-carbon steel, similar in shape to a bolo machete, and a twelve-inch plastic composite handle.
Designed to be wielded two-handed, the MK 9s could split a walker’s head in twain with a single overhead chop. Hicks had seen them put to hard use many times, and although he preferred his spear, he had to admit the big, ugly weapons were effective.
He watched Second Platoon warm up for a few moments, then turned to Holland. “Stay behind me and to my right,” he said. “Make sure any walkers you kill fall away from me.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Same thing we always do.”
“Makes me feel better to say it.”
To his left, Hicks saw Ashman raise his bullhorn. “Drop your gear except hand weapons and water. I don’t want to see anyone with a rifle except squad leaders. Don’t forget to don your gloves and PPE. When the fighting starts, make sure you pace yourselves. Remember to take long, deep breaths. We’re in for a long fight, boys, so be smart and look out for each other.”
Hicks and the other men in First Platoon put on goggles and wrapped thick scarves around their mouths and noses. Second Platoon switched from their Kevlar helmets to the Army’s new plastic helmets designed specifically for fighting revenants. Hicks thought they looked like the offspring of an aviation helmet and a plastic face shield, and from everything he had heard, they were horrifically uncomfortable. Hicks preferred the scarf-and-goggles method.
One of the Army’s new innovations he did like, however, were his armored gloves. Sewn from dense nylon with hard plastic plates woven around the knuckles and forearms, they extended from his fingertips all the way past his elbows and had a Velcro strap at the top to secure them in place.
The Army, after conducting research to assess how they could better protect troops from revenant bites, had discovered over ninety percent of bites were inflicted on the hands and forearms. Subsequently, after using one of their few remaining manufacturing facilities to turn out over a hundred thousand pairs of armored gloves, the casualty rates directly attributable to walker attacks fell to a fraction of what they had been before. Hicks flexed his hands a few times to loosen them up, adjusted the position of his plastic armor, and double-checked the straps above his elbows.
Good to go.
“All right,” Ashman shouted, holding his custom-forged zveihänder over his head, poised for a skull-splitting chop. “Form up.”
Hicks ceased his warm-up routine and fell in line. Cole stood to his left, Holland to his right. He brought his spear to the ready position and adjusted his stance, weight centered over the balls of his feet, legs braced at the proper angle.
The people on the catwalk in the distance continued beating pots and pans together and shouting at the infected, keeping them packed against the wall. Ashman stepped in front of the platoon, raised his sword, and opened his mouth to give the order to advance. But before he could, Lt. Jonas’ voice cut across the field.
“Hold up, Sergeant,” he shouted, radio in hand. “I have a better idea.”
Ashman, somewhat crestfallen, lowered his sword. Hicks watched him walk over to their CO before turning his attention back to the wall.
On the catwalk, Deputy Glover stood with her hands cupped around her mouth shouting something unintelligible at the people making noise. After a few seconds, the clamor stopped and the townsfolk slowly began climbing down.
“The hell they doin’?” Cole muttered.
Hicks shook his head. “No idea.” He kept his place in ranks, shifting restlessly, until a few seconds later the throaty rumble of a tank engine echoed across the field.
“All right, kids,” Ashman called out, grinning. “Make some noise.”
Hicks took off his right glove, pinched his fingers between his teeth, and let out a piercing whistle. The men around him began shouting a colorful tapestry of insults, threats, and general obscenity. Holland joined them by loudly clanking his tomahawks together. To Hicks’ left, he watched an M-109 Howitzer round the corner of the wall and roll into view.
Jonas gave the order to pull back but keep the infected bunched together. With the front ranks of infected only fifty yards away, the troops slowly led the undead toward the self-propelled artillery piece. When Jonas gave the order to break ranks and run, the horde had reformed into a teardrop shape pointed straight at the barrel of the Howitzer’s 155mm cannon.
Once safely out of the way, the soldiers and militiamen put in their earplugs and waited. Hicks watched the Howitzer’s six-man crew lower the vehicle’s spades and back up over them. Once the massive gun was stabilized, the crew loudly exhorted to their audience to get ready for a little Killer Junior action.
“Oh, this is gonna to be good,” Holland said, rubbing his hands together.
Vincenzo tapped Hicks on the arm and leaned in close. “What the hell is a Killer Junior?”
