Empire's End

Thirty-One / Soldiers

Three burn teams arrived in refurbished Jeeps to find hundreds of rotters clambering through the destroyed gate at Section Nineteen. All was chaos; they ran in every direction, the slavering undead, running for the cities just a few miles away.

Kill. Then eat.

The driver of the first Jeep was skewered by a pike, its point exploding through the fiberglass shield of his helmet. The Fakir pulled another pike from his thigh and rammed it through the driver’s chest.

The other men spilled out of their vehicles, pulling fuel tanks on over their orange jumpsuits and igniting flamethrowers.

Several undead came at them. They unleashed jets of liquid fire, bathing the rotters in scorching heat and sending them to their knees, blind and flailing.

The flames caught the attention of a dozen others. They ran into streams of fire and collapsed. But there were more behind them, and some made it through the fire and tackled the team members to the ground, clawing at their helmets, knocking the flamethrowers aside. One man managed to break free and, in his panic, fired point-blank into the horde. The flames swelled high and surrounded him; the flame-retardant suit could only do so much. Covered in thrashing, burning undead, he was broiled alive.

Shots rang out across the battlefield. It was Dalton, standing atop the Wall and picking off as many as he could before they could reach the burn teams.

The Strongman looked in the direction of the gunfire and spied Dalton. He ran for the ladder.

Dalton aimed straight down at the behemoth’s face and shot him between the eyes. Spoiled brain matter slopped out of the gaping exit wound, and the Strongman stumbled off the ladder, staggering into his brethren, his faculties scrambled by the injury to his head; and finally, with a weak swing of his hammer, he went down.

The remaining members of the burn teams had fallen back and once again had the upper hand. They’d brought down a few dozen rotters already. But the others were keeping their distance from the flamethrowers now, instead heading for the cities.

“Get to the Jeeps!” barked a team leader. “Chase them down!”

He turned to find the Fire Juggler standing right behind him.

The rotter crouched and, holding a torch before his lips, blew a fireball into the leader’s face.

The man was engulfed in flames. The Juggler had spewed some sort of flammable liquid all over him. It was adhering to the suit, the fuel tanks; the man fell to the ground and tried to roll. The tanks were too goddamn heavy, and searing hot, burning his back; then they exploded.

The rest of the burn teams were caught in the explosion. The force ruptured their tanks. Fire ripped across the open plain, lighting up the night sky.

Dalton watched in horror through the falling snow. One of the Jeeps was on fire. It went up next. It was deafening. And the rotters kept pouring through the gate. Hell had come to the Great Cities.

The dying screams of the burn teams had been transmitted via radio to a military post just outside of Chicago. There, Major Briggs and his subordinates listened grimly.

When all was static, the major rose from his chair. “Pull everyone you can off the Wall and send them to section nineteen. Then get on the public channel and tell everyone else to meet up with their units — here — and head out there. Tell them we’re dealing with a pack… an enormous pack.”

“The public will hear — they’ll panic—” one of his men began.

“We can’t worry about that right now!” Briggs snapped. “Panic in the streets is the least of our problems. The damn P.Os can handle it. We have to stop the rotters from reaching the cities. Clear?”

Briggs turned to another officer. “Open the bunker. I’m requisitioning everything, including the rockets. We’ll worry about the paperwork later.”

He’d always known this day would come. They’d spoken about it in whispers while the Senate sang their platitudes about the safety of the Cities. Those who had been out there in the field knew what the undead were capable of — and, perhaps more important, they understood the rotters’ hunger, a hunger that could never be satiated. Yes, they would come, and they would beat down the great Wall and they would head for the cities.

Following the withdrawal, the Army’s remaining weaponry had been stored in the massive bunker beneath Chicago. With God’s grace, they’d have enough to stamp out this pack. And then…

No, first things first. Briggs had to keep a cool head. He had to lead his men. Until his last breath, he was their commanding officer and nothing else.

“Someone radio Gillies,” he said. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the early days of the war — for this was a war — and of the angel in white who had restored him. It had been for this purpose, this very day, that she had done so. He might not be able to count on God tonight, but he’d do right by her.

Dalton descended the ladder and, drawing his.45, cut a path through the milling undead with surgical precision. A kneecap shattered here, a spinal cord severed there. One after another they fell until he’d reached one of the remaining Jeeps — and then the Strongman brought his hammer down through the windshield.

Dalton spit glass from his mouth and started the engine. The Strongman clambered onto the hood. Dalton stomped on the gas.

They sped into ever-increasing torrents of snow. Rotters struck by the bumper sailed past Dalton and were lost in waves of white. There was only the Strongman, clinging to the hood with one meaty hand and raising his great hammer with the other.

Dalton jerked the wheel to the right. The Strongman nearly rolled off, but righted himself. Dalton emptied the.45 into his face. The undead shook his head as if bothered by gnats; the pulp of his eyes slopped down his face. He let the hammer go and grabbed Dalton by the throat.

A hard left. The Strongman held firm. Already Dalton was seeing red, hearing only the thudding of his heart in his ears. Through a crimson haze he saw the Strongman’s head lowering, his bloody jaw falling open.

Dalton’s foot found the brake, and he pressed down with all he had left.

The Strongman dropped hard onto the hood, losing his grip on both the Jeep and the soldier, then flew off, landing twenty yards away in a puff of snow. Dalton fell out of the vehicle and pulled his rifle off his shoulder. Fighting to keep his balance, he came up on one knee and took aim at the zombie.

The Strongman’s head exploded in a scarlet supernova. His body sagged, hands grasping at the red mist in the air. Then he was done.

Dalton lowered the rifle. He hadn’t fired a shot.

A fleet of headlights appeared on the horizon. There were more gunshots. A headless rotter fell beside Dalton.

The cavalry had come. The tide was about to turn.