padded across the open
ground. He entered the shadow cast by the towering church, crabbed sideways through
the gate, and scooted under the ornate wrought iron archway.
The patina of dirt and moss accumulated over decades of
changing seasons had left the cemetery’s name— Saint something or other, which was spelled out in an arc of flowing script atop the gate— mostly
unreadable to his military-trained eye. He had always been partial to the simple
blocky font The Big Green Machine —the United States Army to the
layperson—labeled everything with, and though he couldn’t tell whom the graveyard’s
anonymous saintly namesake had been, he was one hundred and ten percent certain
the man would be spinning over in his grave if he knew the undead were treading
on this sacred ground.
Dispelling the thoughts of who’s or what’s pertaining to the
church’s history he turned left, hobbled a number of yards in shadow, made another
left, and then shot a glance over his shoulder at the trailing creatures. The
carrion bottleneck that formed as they tried forcing their way through the gate
in unison would have been a funny sight if this were some stupid Super Bowl
commercial or one of those horror comedies that popped up every so often at the
local Cineplex, back when zombies were but figments of someone’s vivid
imagination and made real by a few talented makeup artists. But this was no
film shoot. There was no crew. No director. No sandwich wagon waiting to feed
the extras. This was life and death, not only for him but also for the men in
the Ghost Hawk, and he derived no pleasure from watching the clumsy creatures—wanting
nothing more than to strip the flesh from his bones—struggling with the
simplest of obstacles. In fact, he was grateful for the diversion that had allowed
him to gain a few more precious feet of separation.
Chapter 12
Cade reached the southwest corner of the cemetery with the
dead close behind and made a tactical decision. Before covering the open ground
to Jasper’s dusty truck, once again he took a knee and emptied half of the
little MP7’s final extended magazine into the staggering clutch. Putrid bodies
thudded to the dirt as the initial fifteen rounds, rocketing at 2,400 feet per
second, found undead flesh, bone, and brain. The next flurry of controlled head
shots added more dead Zs to the trail of twisted corpses outside of the fence
line. Three left , he thought to himself as he unclipped the smoking
weapon and dropped it near his feet.
Now free of the added weight of the MP7 he was able to move
a little faster. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he cast a quick glance toward
the helicopter. The simple fact that the perimeter around the downed craft was
clear of walking dead told him his ruse had worked. He flicked his eyes back to
the still-shambling cadavers and tore the Glock from his shoulder holster.
Deciding he’d only use the unsuppressed pistol as a last resort, he held his
fire and commenced a slow speed dash for the safety of the truck.
After gingerly traversing the minefield strewn with sun
ripened-bodies and bits and pieces of rotor blade and fuselage, he reached the pickup.
Dizzy and winded and sweating profusely—but relieved his grueling ordeal was
about to pay off—he grasped the handle, wrenched the door open, and flung his
body headlong onto the sagging, burgundy vinyl bench seat. Without a backward
glance he hinged up and slammed the thin-skinned door home, an action
accomplished mere seconds before the ghouls made its acquaintance.
Sharp reports of ashen palms slapping the window were followed
instantly by a trio of sneering faces. Teeth clicking against glass, the insatiable
Zs got an eyeful of the meat inside and instantly began to head-butt the
driver’s side window. Cade couldn’t believe what he was seeing as the trio
stepped back and flung themselves against the vehicle. Hollow thuds resounded
as each new impact caused thick black fluid to flow
ground. He entered the shadow cast by the towering church, crabbed sideways through
the gate, and scooted under the ornate wrought iron archway.
The patina of dirt and moss accumulated over decades of
changing seasons had left the cemetery’s name— Saint something or other, which was spelled out in an arc of flowing script atop the gate— mostly
unreadable to his military-trained eye. He had always been partial to the simple
blocky font The Big Green Machine —the United States Army to the
layperson—labeled everything with, and though he couldn’t tell whom the graveyard’s
anonymous saintly namesake had been, he was one hundred and ten percent certain
the man would be spinning over in his grave if he knew the undead were treading
on this sacred ground.
Dispelling the thoughts of who’s or what’s pertaining to the
church’s history he turned left, hobbled a number of yards in shadow, made another
left, and then shot a glance over his shoulder at the trailing creatures. The
carrion bottleneck that formed as they tried forcing their way through the gate
in unison would have been a funny sight if this were some stupid Super Bowl
commercial or one of those horror comedies that popped up every so often at the
local Cineplex, back when zombies were but figments of someone’s vivid
imagination and made real by a few talented makeup artists. But this was no
film shoot. There was no crew. No director. No sandwich wagon waiting to feed
the extras. This was life and death, not only for him but also for the men in
the Ghost Hawk, and he derived no pleasure from watching the clumsy creatures—wanting
nothing more than to strip the flesh from his bones—struggling with the
simplest of obstacles. In fact, he was grateful for the diversion that had allowed
him to gain a few more precious feet of separation.
Chapter 12
Cade reached the southwest corner of the cemetery with the
dead close behind and made a tactical decision. Before covering the open ground
to Jasper’s dusty truck, once again he took a knee and emptied half of the
little MP7’s final extended magazine into the staggering clutch. Putrid bodies
thudded to the dirt as the initial fifteen rounds, rocketing at 2,400 feet per
second, found undead flesh, bone, and brain. The next flurry of controlled head
shots added more dead Zs to the trail of twisted corpses outside of the fence
line. Three left , he thought to himself as he unclipped the smoking
weapon and dropped it near his feet.
Now free of the added weight of the MP7 he was able to move
a little faster. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he cast a quick glance toward
the helicopter. The simple fact that the perimeter around the downed craft was
clear of walking dead told him his ruse had worked. He flicked his eyes back to
the still-shambling cadavers and tore the Glock from his shoulder holster.
Deciding he’d only use the unsuppressed pistol as a last resort, he held his
fire and commenced a slow speed dash for the safety of the truck.
After gingerly traversing the minefield strewn with sun
ripened-bodies and bits and pieces of rotor blade and fuselage, he reached the pickup.
Dizzy and winded and sweating profusely—but relieved his grueling ordeal was
about to pay off—he grasped the handle, wrenched the door open, and flung his
body headlong onto the sagging, burgundy vinyl bench seat. Without a backward
glance he hinged up and slammed the thin-skinned door home, an action
accomplished mere seconds before the ghouls made its acquaintance.
Sharp reports of ashen palms slapping the window were followed
instantly by a trio of sneering faces. Teeth clicking against glass, the insatiable
Zs got an eyeful of the meat inside and instantly began to head-butt the
driver’s side window. Cade couldn’t believe what he was seeing as the trio
stepped back and flung themselves against the vehicle. Hollow thuds resounded
as each new impact caused thick black fluid to flow
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