newcomers, rolling over corpses, their bloating sacks of fat and gases popping and crunching like so much roadkill. Everyone vomited at least once, if not from the smell then the sound. It’s not one you ever forget, like the squeaking of a cassette tape when the play button isn’t pushed hard enough. Nails on a chalkboard.
As soon as the convoy was within seventy five meters, still just outside effective pistol range, Ethan got on the bullhorn. "Attention. Attention. This is the Sullivan Militia. Lay down your weapons and come out where we can see you and you will not be harmed.”
Amazingly enough they complied without a fuss. It was probably the machine gun in the turret that changed their minds, though they were slow to lay the guns down, and who wouldn't be? The terrified city dwellers never stopped making eye contact with Ethan as they inched closer to the ground to lay down arms. Ethan and a few others dismounted, carefully approaching with their guns pointed down, making it clear they really weren’t going to open fire first. For some reason, the men in the red gang colors seemed relieved they’d met someone who was willing to talk. A zombie that had been buried under the other zombies groaned near a deputy, startling him as he took his position for the encounter. A three round burst echoed across the valley, he’d blown its head off and was still screaming as he jumped away from it.
Confused and frightened, the gangbangers grabbed their guns and started shooting wildly, shouting racial slurs and about being betrayed. Someone managed to hit a deputy in the vest, knocking him down and out when his face hit the pavement. Others dragged him away in the confusion of shouts and screams. Ethan’s experiences in Iraq had been harsh, but they were never this gruesome. What transpired in the next ten seconds was something more becoming of an SS Extermination Squad than American Militiamen. The machine gunner, having seen it all from above and withholding his fire because his own men were below, took a ricochet in the helmet. He had tried to warn the gangbangers not to pick up their guns, but after picking himself back up from the massive impact to his head pulled the trigger and mowed the gangbangers down in a violent salvo that ate the entire belt of ammo and melted the barrel.
Perhaps killing zombies from a distance was something of a disconnect, like a video game that has no consequences and isn't real. Killing people at point blank range was messy and brutal, a different experience entirely and unimaginably horrible. Ethan was still standing in the midst of it, just below the gun’s defilade. The M240Bravo's 7.62mm rounds blew people almost in half, their blood and entrails sprayed in every direction, mostly on Ethan. He could feel the thumping concussion of every bullet that sailed just inches above his head, making a sickening thak sound every time they hit a person. Most of the deputies stopped firing after only a few shots, but the gunner didn't.
In the deafening silence where only your heartbeat can be heard, Ethan looked up the gunner, still clutching the trigger of the white hot gun for dear life. It was the rude kid's older brother. Black carbon and cordite covering his face as his hand held the trigger still, a stream of dirty tears running down his eyes and mixing with his own blood from a nasty gash on his head. Ethan and the others saw the damaged Kevlar when the kid sank back into the turret, holding his head and rocking back and forth.
“It’s okay, man.” Ethan stuffed the helmet in the trunk for evidence later, in case someone accused the boy of murder. Maybe it was murder, but for certain it was panic. Though what he’d done was terrible, it might have saved everyone there. Being shot in the head can have a profound effect on
As soon as the convoy was within seventy five meters, still just outside effective pistol range, Ethan got on the bullhorn. "Attention. Attention. This is the Sullivan Militia. Lay down your weapons and come out where we can see you and you will not be harmed.”
Amazingly enough they complied without a fuss. It was probably the machine gun in the turret that changed their minds, though they were slow to lay the guns down, and who wouldn't be? The terrified city dwellers never stopped making eye contact with Ethan as they inched closer to the ground to lay down arms. Ethan and a few others dismounted, carefully approaching with their guns pointed down, making it clear they really weren’t going to open fire first. For some reason, the men in the red gang colors seemed relieved they’d met someone who was willing to talk. A zombie that had been buried under the other zombies groaned near a deputy, startling him as he took his position for the encounter. A three round burst echoed across the valley, he’d blown its head off and was still screaming as he jumped away from it.
Confused and frightened, the gangbangers grabbed their guns and started shooting wildly, shouting racial slurs and about being betrayed. Someone managed to hit a deputy in the vest, knocking him down and out when his face hit the pavement. Others dragged him away in the confusion of shouts and screams. Ethan’s experiences in Iraq had been harsh, but they were never this gruesome. What transpired in the next ten seconds was something more becoming of an SS Extermination Squad than American Militiamen. The machine gunner, having seen it all from above and withholding his fire because his own men were below, took a ricochet in the helmet. He had tried to warn the gangbangers not to pick up their guns, but after picking himself back up from the massive impact to his head pulled the trigger and mowed the gangbangers down in a violent salvo that ate the entire belt of ammo and melted the barrel.
Perhaps killing zombies from a distance was something of a disconnect, like a video game that has no consequences and isn't real. Killing people at point blank range was messy and brutal, a different experience entirely and unimaginably horrible. Ethan was still standing in the midst of it, just below the gun’s defilade. The M240Bravo's 7.62mm rounds blew people almost in half, their blood and entrails sprayed in every direction, mostly on Ethan. He could feel the thumping concussion of every bullet that sailed just inches above his head, making a sickening thak sound every time they hit a person. Most of the deputies stopped firing after only a few shots, but the gunner didn't.
In the deafening silence where only your heartbeat can be heard, Ethan looked up the gunner, still clutching the trigger of the white hot gun for dear life. It was the rude kid's older brother. Black carbon and cordite covering his face as his hand held the trigger still, a stream of dirty tears running down his eyes and mixing with his own blood from a nasty gash on his head. Ethan and the others saw the damaged Kevlar when the kid sank back into the turret, holding his head and rocking back and forth.
“It’s okay, man.” Ethan stuffed the helmet in the trunk for evidence later, in case someone accused the boy of murder. Maybe it was murder, but for certain it was panic. Though what he’d done was terrible, it might have saved everyone there. Being shot in the head can have a profound effect on
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