nearly thirty feet. He landed as lightly as he could on the roof of a small dry cleaner's and kept on going.
Reaching the brick wall of the building next to the dry cleaner's, Kenslir grabbed at the brick wall. Using the small gaps between the bricks, the Colonel ascended quickly. Where the mortar was too thick and extended f lush with the bricks, he applied pressure, and the gray mortar crumbled beneath his superhuman grip.
In seconds, he had scurried up the wall to the roof of a four story brick building. He crossed the roof and peered over —just in time to see a minivan approaching.
The van was weighted down, with suitcases and boxes lashed to the roof. It drove cautiously, but not too slowly, right down the middle of the street. A family, trying to flee the city just a little too late.
A shape suddenly sprang from the shadows and jumped out in front of the van. The driver reflexively swerved to avoid a collision—missing the swiftly-moving figure, but colliding with an abandoned car along the side of the street.
More figures began to emerge from the shadows. Nearly three do zen—all highlighted in the head up display of the Colonel's tactical goggles. The display pulsed red as data from a satellite high overhead was merged with what he saw. Four glowing forms were in the van—their body temperatures slightly higher than those of the infected now swarming the vehicle.
The infected —called Risers by the media—began beating on the van, rocking it back and forth, eager to get at the people inside. The Colonel could hear a woman and two children screaming.
Placing a hand on the low wall running around the roof, he vaulted over, landing quietly on the wet sidewalk below. The growling, screaming horde of undead continued their banshee-like wails as they attacked the van, oblivious to his presence. They succeeded in breaking a window on the vehicle.
The Colonel already had his UMP pressed tightly to his shoulder. He stroked the trigger gently, firing off single shots in rapid succession as he moved from target to target. His aim was quick but deadly accurate. The mob attacking the van b egan to fall, one by one as .45 caliber slugs drilled into the backs of their heads.
Kenslir had dropped a dozen of the reanimated creatures before they even realized something was wrong. Several turned to face him, screaming even louder.
The Colonel dropped them with ease.
Now the attack on the van was forgotten, and what was left of the mob turned on Kenslir. He finished off the last few rounds in his twenty-five round magazine, then let the submachine gun fall onto his chest, held up by the strap aroun d his neck. Reaching back, he drew the two large Bowie knives strapped to his back, beneath the backpack of supplies he carried.
The remaining dozen undead reached the Colonel nearly as one charging mass. He slashed with his knives and kicked with one foo t, turning and driving his shoulder into the small mob so that the creatures were forced to flow around him. Two infected heads were sliced cleanly from their necks, while a third creature's chest was crushed by a boot striking with enough force to propel the former corpse back across the street.
The Colonel felt hands grabbing at him, but he ignored them. Spinning in place, lashing out with his knives and elbows, he was unstoppable. His strength was so far beyond that of the half-dead monsters they were no thing more than a mild annoyance. His Bowie knives again removed heads, his elbows smashed in faces. In just a few seconds, he had killed the lot of them.
The Colonel quickly slipped his knives back up into their sheaths, the handles hanging down to his b elt level, the knives held in place by strong magnets in the sheaths. As he crossed the street toward the crashed van, he switched out the empty magazine in his UMP with a fresh one from the leg carrier on his left thigh.
The people inside the van were co wering on the passenger side—a father and mother trying to
Reaching the brick wall of the building next to the dry cleaner's, Kenslir grabbed at the brick wall. Using the small gaps between the bricks, the Colonel ascended quickly. Where the mortar was too thick and extended f lush with the bricks, he applied pressure, and the gray mortar crumbled beneath his superhuman grip.
In seconds, he had scurried up the wall to the roof of a four story brick building. He crossed the roof and peered over —just in time to see a minivan approaching.
The van was weighted down, with suitcases and boxes lashed to the roof. It drove cautiously, but not too slowly, right down the middle of the street. A family, trying to flee the city just a little too late.
A shape suddenly sprang from the shadows and jumped out in front of the van. The driver reflexively swerved to avoid a collision—missing the swiftly-moving figure, but colliding with an abandoned car along the side of the street.
More figures began to emerge from the shadows. Nearly three do zen—all highlighted in the head up display of the Colonel's tactical goggles. The display pulsed red as data from a satellite high overhead was merged with what he saw. Four glowing forms were in the van—their body temperatures slightly higher than those of the infected now swarming the vehicle.
The infected —called Risers by the media—began beating on the van, rocking it back and forth, eager to get at the people inside. The Colonel could hear a woman and two children screaming.
Placing a hand on the low wall running around the roof, he vaulted over, landing quietly on the wet sidewalk below. The growling, screaming horde of undead continued their banshee-like wails as they attacked the van, oblivious to his presence. They succeeded in breaking a window on the vehicle.
The Colonel already had his UMP pressed tightly to his shoulder. He stroked the trigger gently, firing off single shots in rapid succession as he moved from target to target. His aim was quick but deadly accurate. The mob attacking the van b egan to fall, one by one as .45 caliber slugs drilled into the backs of their heads.
Kenslir had dropped a dozen of the reanimated creatures before they even realized something was wrong. Several turned to face him, screaming even louder.
The Colonel dropped them with ease.
Now the attack on the van was forgotten, and what was left of the mob turned on Kenslir. He finished off the last few rounds in his twenty-five round magazine, then let the submachine gun fall onto his chest, held up by the strap aroun d his neck. Reaching back, he drew the two large Bowie knives strapped to his back, beneath the backpack of supplies he carried.
The remaining dozen undead reached the Colonel nearly as one charging mass. He slashed with his knives and kicked with one foo t, turning and driving his shoulder into the small mob so that the creatures were forced to flow around him. Two infected heads were sliced cleanly from their necks, while a third creature's chest was crushed by a boot striking with enough force to propel the former corpse back across the street.
The Colonel felt hands grabbing at him, but he ignored them. Spinning in place, lashing out with his knives and elbows, he was unstoppable. His strength was so far beyond that of the half-dead monsters they were no thing more than a mild annoyance. His Bowie knives again removed heads, his elbows smashed in faces. In just a few seconds, he had killed the lot of them.
The Colonel quickly slipped his knives back up into their sheaths, the handles hanging down to his b elt level, the knives held in place by strong magnets in the sheaths. As he crossed the street toward the crashed van, he switched out the empty magazine in his UMP with a fresh one from the leg carrier on his left thigh.
The people inside the van were co wering on the passenger side—a father and mother trying to
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