SQUELCH!
Harry's knife plunged into the skull of an Infected clawing its way up. He booted the corpse back into the mass below, knocking down several more that had been climbing behind it.
A small mountain of bodies had accumulated in front of the buses. Even though most Infected attempting to scale the pile were picked off by soldiers on the adjacent rooftops, a few always made it through.
The soldiers couldn't risk firing at the bus roofs—too much chance of friendly fire. The ones up there had to handle these stragglers themselves.
Harry kicked aside his empty pistol to avoid tripping over it later. His hands trembled as he raised the knife again, dispatching another Infected that had been grappling with a soldier.
Nearly everyone on the rooftops was fighting hand-to-hand now. Ever since the corpses had piled high enough for Infected to climb, there'd been no time to reload. Only knives and fists.
But no matter how skilled and fierce the soldiers were, human endurance had limits. Against an inexhaustible tide of Infected, their strength was starting to fail.
Some on the rooftops had been scratched or bitten during the melee. But instead of fear, the knowledge of their certain fate had unlocked something savage. Their eyes went wild. They fought harder, more recklessly, with nothing left to lose.
At one point, when more than a dozen Infected swarmed up at once, one soldier simply spread his arms and threw himself off the bus, tackling them all back into the horde below.
Time lost meaning. Harry's vision blurred. He swung his knife mechanically. When he finally missed a strike and collapsed onto the roof, he realized no more Infected were coming.
None left to climb up. Somehow, it was over.
The town's perimeter had become an inferno. Infected set ablaze by Molotov cocktails had staggered into nearby buildings, igniting anything flammable. Within minutes, entire structures were engulfed, flames leaping to adjacent houses.
The hundreds of Infected trapped in that sea of fire couldn't escape their fate. They thrashed and writhed as the flames consumed them, collapsing one by one into charred heaps.
The fire had cut off the rear of the horde, preventing reinforcements. As the soldiers threw more Molotovs, even the distant buildings caught fire.
With nowhere left to go, the Infected still committed to the assault found themselves trapped between the buses and the burning buildings. Unable to advance, unable to retreat, they could only stand there while soldiers on the rooftops and buses methodically picked them off until they joined the carpet of corpses below.
Some Infected had broken off toward the north and south when the main route became impassable. But those flanking forces weren't large enough to threaten those defensive lines.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Seeing the tide turning, the soldiers roared with renewed fury, faces flushed red as they poured fire into the remaining horde.
Civilians took over bracing the buses and running ammunition and Molotovs. Some of the braver ones even used improvised pole-arms to shove corpses out of the gaps between vehicles. Everyone worked together, human chains of cooperation.
Gradually, the Infected at the buses had nowhere left to go. Stuck in the killing field, they were shot down one by one until they became just another layer of the dead.
The remaining Infected either peeled off toward other sectors or were blocked by the wall of corpses, forced to climb over while soldiers picked them off mid-scramble.
When it became clear they'd won, Harry finally gave in. His body tipped backward and he lay flat on the bus roof, chest heaving violently.
The other soldiers on the rooftops followed his example, collapsing where they stood. Smiles crept onto exhausted faces—the smiles of people who'd accomplished something impossible. Some, though, felt the pain from their wounds and their expressions darkened. They knew this was the end of the road for them.
After a while, Harry caught his breath. Something occurred to him, and he began frantically patting himself down, checking every inch of skin for scratches. Finding nothing, he exhaled in profound relief. He struggled upright and surveyed the scene.
Most soldiers had relocated to the rooftops on either side, taking turns maintaining fire to ensure no Infected could regroup against the buses.
The civilians, seeing the immediate danger had passed, organized themselves into groups and headed off to reinforce other sectors that needed manpower.
Harry's gaze fell on the soldiers still lying on the bus roofs. Pain and guilt flickered in his eyes. He knew some of them had probably been infected.
Soon, those soldiers were helped down from the buses by their comrades. Armed civilians took their places on watch.
Because of the infection risk, the rooftop fighters were gathered in one area to await scanning by medical personnel.
The dozens of them sat there, watching people pass by—eyes full of respect, but giving them a wide berth. No one complained. They just huddled together, staring blankly ahead, lost in thought.
After the infection scanner confirmed Harry was clean, he limped quickly into a nearby high-rise. The situation here was stable—now he needed to assess the overall picture.
He climbed to the top floor and took the binoculars a soldier handed him, gazing at the street below. The sea of corpses—Infected stacked like mountains—was staggering even to him.
The stench of blood, the reek of burning flesh, the sharp tang of gasoline—dozens of smells mingled into something nauseating. Everyone who caught a whiff clamped their mouths shut, refusing to breathe.
"What's the status elsewhere?" After staring for a while, he checked the time—nearly 3:00 AM—and turned to the communications officer.
"Sir, most sectors weren't hit by large numbers. Those that were are stabilizing under Lieutenant Colbert's command. North and south flanks report manageable numbers—no threat to the lines. West sector reports no contact."
"Also, just received word from Lieutenant Mullen of the sweep teams: most Infected that infiltrated through side routes have been eliminated. Some Stalkers remain hidden and are being hunted. Estimated thirty minutes to full clearance."
Good news piled on good news. Even the officer's lips quirked upward, his voice lifting. They'd weathered the storm. Mopping up was just a matter of time.
"Understood."
Harry raised the binoculars again, scanning the distant perimeter. Even through the billowing smoke that obscured his view, he could tell the Infected out there had thinned dramatically. Most must already be inside the town.
He did some mental math. They'd probably killed two-thirds of the horde so far. As the fires spread, that number would climb. Their main concern now was preventing the flames from reaching their position.
Just as everyone was breathing easier, a communications officer burst up the stairs, snapped to attention, and reported:
"Bad news, sir! Seven civilians infiltrated the east motor pool, stole a supply truck full of food and ammunition. One of our men killed, four suspects captured, one killed attempting to flee. Two suspects escaped in the truck, heading west!"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The supply trucks were irreplaceable—there were only about a dozen total, and they'd already burned through significant ammunition tonight.
They were barely a day out of Dallas. They'd need those supplies for the long haul ahead. And someone had decided to pull this shit while everyone else was fighting for their lives on the front lines?
SLAM!
Harry's fist hit the table hard. His temper—never mild to begin with—ignited like dry kindling. "WHO? Do we have IDs?"
The officer flinched but kept his voice steady: "The captured suspects say they're all from the group that was punished this morning for insubordination."
The room went silent. Everyone understood immediately. Harry's jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped. He ground out: "Notify the west defense—stop that truck. Damage it if you have to, but don't let them escape!"
...
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