Better Lucky than Good (Records of the Resistance) (30 page)

"Doubtful, but I'd rather die..." Smith began, but was interrupted mid speech by a distant THUMP THUMP THUMP!

THUMP THUMP THUMP, THUMP THUMP.

"It's the LAV's!" Smith screamed, pointing off in the direction of the road, which was to be their point of escape.

The deep thumping stemmed from the firing of each of their twenty-five millimetre chain guns. The heavy armour piercing rounds driving deep into the reformed ranks of the horde, as lines of infected tumbled along the trajectory of the massive munitions. The sheer size of their projectiles almost negated the necessity of a headshot. ‘THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!’ sounded one gun after the next, obliterating any soft target touched by the rounds.

Foolishly, the rear ranks of the horde turned to face the two additional threats; beginning to separate from the rest of the horde. The LAV's responded in turn, as a crew member from each vehicle stood up from the top hatch and manned their turret mounted general purpose machine guns. Lines of bright tracers burning with magnesium streamed into the undead who advanced on the LAV's positions. The effect the two guns had on the slow moving, tightly formed undead was a sight to behold; their ranks being cut down where they stood and tracers soaring high into the air as they bounced off the asphalt.

Unanimously a cheer erupted from all of the vehicles, who were encircled by what was once a necrotic wall. Everyone with the exception of Melanie, who sat silently; her face streaked with tears and her hands gripping the steering wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, Smith saw the truck pushing hard against the undead attempting to bar its path. Clay had done it. It was time to move.

"There's the truck, let’s move!" Smith yelled to Kevin.

Melanie despised herself with all of her heart as she put the bus into drive. She was leaving Clay behind to die a painful and horrible death. But in the back of her mind, she knew that this is exactly what Clay would want her to do. The moment her foot touched the gas pedal, her tears resumed, and she was powerless to stop them.

O'Conner and Smith implemented their turret mounted guns as if they were a pair of can openers. The Corporal's fifty-caliber weapon literally tearing infected limb from limb as the pair carved a vehicle wide hole into the ranks of the horde.
 

*****

Clay released the chain, allowing the weight of the door to carry it onto the head’s of the infected who were flooding into the truck bay.

Stripping a pair of grenades from his vest, he pulled the pins and threw them over the rail into the packed truck bay. Their spoons released with a subtle ‘ping’, and tumbled through the air as the grenades landed hollowly on the floor. Clay dropped to the concrete, shielding himself from the blast. For the second time today, he felt a shockwave thump into his chest; the loud report of the explosives almost deafening him in the enclosed space.

He knew he had no chance of reaching the vehicles. Clay had made it clear that they were not to wait. Pushing himself up off the floor, he broke into a run. Not for the front doors in a futile attempt to escape, but for the stairs leading to the roof. In the wake of the vehicles’ departure from the main entrance, infected had begun flooding the store interior. Clay knew he was finished the moment he stepped out of the G-Wagen. He had no second thoughts about his choice to sacrifice his own life for those of the community... For Melanie. At this point all he desired was to witness with his own eyes, that they had made their escape. That they were free from the certain death carried to their doorstep by the horde.
 

The sound of Clay's steps rang through the store's interior as he ran up the steel stairs leading to the roof. The weight of his equipment began to feel heavier with every step, as he propelled himself up one stair after the next. Clay pinned his hanging rifle to his chest to prevent it from painfully bouncing against his knees as he ran, while using his other hand to pull his weight along the hand rail.

Clay flung the door open, feeling the warmth of the sun against his face as he exited onto the roof. His feet crunched loudly against the gravel as he ran towards the edge of the building. Clay's chest heaved deeply and his lungs burned as he pushed himself harder; intent on gaining the satisfaction of knowing that his people were making their way to safety.

Corporal Smith's voice could be heard over the roar of the undead army, who presented itself before him as far as his eyes could see. Clay heard the thumping of the big guns belonging to the LAV's, signalling their arrival, and the ripping of the G-Wagen turrets.
 

Clay doubled over, exhausted upon reaching the edge of the rooftop. He had made it. Clay watched as the column linked up, fighting it's way through the tight ranks of the horde. From his perch, he could see the muzzle’s of rifles poking through the open windows of the bus, as it’s occupants fired into the crowd. Struggling to regain his breath, he watched as O'Conner ceased his firing. Their gazes met, even from such a far distance. O'Conner offered to Clay a brief salute as the column drove between the two LAV's. Standing himself upright as he slowly regained his breath, he watched as the two LAV's ceased to fire their heavy guns and turned to follow the retreating column. Clay had done it. They were all safe, save for himself. The sound of the fleeing column was quickly drowned out by that produced by the endless infected who had invaded the town.
 

Clay considered his options. He could shoot himself and end the ordeal right now. He could pull the pin on a grenade when his pursuers flooded the rooftop. He could try to shoot his way out, until he finally ran out of ammunition.

The grotesque sounds of his hunters began to pour out through the open, access door. Clay knew they were almost upon him, as the hollow ringing of the stairwell echoed into the open air. Instead of panic, Clay found himself overcome with a sense of calm; a sense of closure. Few people in history had the luxury of deciding how they would exit this existence. Dying slowly in a hospital bed, had always been a deeply rooted fear in the psyche of Clay. He greatly preferred being here, even if it meant that death would come looking for him sooner than he'd like.

Clay turned towards the door, smiling as it came into view. He took a few short steps toward it, stripping himself of his rifle and laying it at his feet. He had decided how he wanted to die and he had decided that he would take as many of them with him as he could. Clay reached behind his back, drawing his tomahawk from its loop and gripping it tightly. On the chest of his vest had been sewn a sheath which held his knife. Clay wrapped his fingers around its handle and popped the snap securing it in place using his thumb. Slowly, he drew the knife from its home. Clay stood, his feet firmly planted; awaiting the outpouring of infected from the narrow doorway. He had been in this position before, once upon a time he recalled, as the first of the infected had arrived at the door. It paused briefly, scanning the rooftop for the location of its quarry. The man's gaze locked onto Clay's position; their eye's meeting. Clay recalled the bear in the woods and how their eyes had met in similar fashion. However, unlike those of the bear that had held life within them, those which belonged to the undead before him held inside their stare, the essence of death. Death which would soon befall Clay. But not before the undead challenging him presently.
 

Clay was momentarily entranced, the sounds of the horde fading into nothing. He no longer heard the wind, or the shrieking undead. He no longer felt the warmth of the sun on his face, nor the weight of his equipment bearing down on his shoulders. Clay didn't hear the approach of the Blackhawk, or the scream of the engines as its pilot swung its tail around and presenting the gunner a clear view of the roof's access door from behind Clay. He payed no mind to the dust and gravel being thrown violently into the air as a result of the helicopter's prop wash. The whine of the mini-gun spooling up went unheard by Clay, as he took a step towards the infected who was being pushed through the doorway by those behind it.

The mini-gun fizzled and whirred, spewing a stream of fiery lead into the doorway, at four-thousand rounds per minute. The frame folded under such intense fire, tracer rounds bouncing into the air as they ricocheted off of the steel.
 

Using his forearm, Clay shielded his face from the gravel and concrete that now pelted his body as the mini-gun tore the rooftop to shreds.
 

Clay looked behind him, finally acknowledging the imposing presence of the aircraft and recognizing the face of Captain Lavigne peering through the large side door; his hand outstretched towards Clay. Replacing his weapons, Clay bent down and scooped up his rifle as the Blackhawk pilot lowered the machine to a hover just above the rooftop.
 

The door gunner ceased his fire, allowing Clay to run safely toward the hovering Blackhawk. He ran, half bent and shielding his eyes from the twirling debris. Reaching the bay door, Clay flung out his hand and into that of Captain Lavigne who with the help of another soldier dragged him into the confines of the Blackhawk.

"Today, is not your day!" Lavigne yelled into Clay's ear, while slapping him on the back.

"You ready, Private?!" Lavigne yelled over his shoulder.

"Good to go, Sir!” came a response from behind Clay.

"Watch this!" Lavigne yelled again into Clay's ear.

The pilot lifted the Blackhawk into the air, slowly crawling forward. An arm protruded over Clay's shoulder, its hand holding a bundle of plastic explosives. Lavigne grabbed them, holding the package to his chest until the pilot expertly guided the helicopter over top of the large propane cylinder. Previously, it had been used by the big box store to fill the tanks belonging to customers. Now, it would serve a different purpose. Lavigne casually tossed the explosive package out of the large door, having it land within close proximity of the two story cylinder.
 

"Alright, get us out of here." Lavigne yelled over his shoulder to the pilot, who nodded in response.

Clay could feel the powerful engines roar to life in response to the pilot throttling the collective. The building became smaller and smaller, as the distance between Clay and his former refuge increased. Slowly, he began to fathom what had just happened; it having felt like a dream as it occurred. Lavigne looked over his shoulder again, nodding in response to a signal from the pilot which had gone unseen by Clay. Lavigne pointed his arm out in the direction of the big box store, indicating to Clay that he should watch.

Clay's eyes locked onto the store just as Lavigne activated the remote. A fireball rose silently in the air, flinging flaming debris along with it. It was a sight to behold. The detonation was so violent, Clay believed he had seen the shockwave pulsate outward from the blast. Seconds later, the sound of the explosion hit Clay's ears. He hadn't realized that he wore a grin on his face until Lavigne hit him in the back, while laughing triumphantly.
 

Lavigne regained his composure and pressed his headset hard into his ear with his palm, trying to muffle the sound of the Blackhawk. Clay watched Lavigne as he carried on a conversation that went unheard by him over the engine noise. Lavigne nodded, finishing his conversation.
 

Inching toward Clay, the Captain placed his hand on his shoulder and leaned towards his ear. "The convoy isn't out of the woods yet. We're going to escort them outside of the horde's reach." he shouted.

Clay nodded and watched as the soldiers readied their weapons and moved to the edge of the doors. Clay slid himself out of the way, working himself towards the gunner and patting him on the shoulder. The man turned slightly to acknowledge Clay, who responded by pointing to the opposing door gun which remained unmanned. The gunner nodded, unlatching his tether from the door frame. The man slid across the interior of the helicopter and loosened a lever which had held the gun firm and prevented it from flopping around.
 

"You only have sixty-seconds of ammunition before the gun runs dry, so make 'em count!" the man yelled in a thick southern accent.
 

Clay nodded in thanks and positioned himself behind the gun. Putting his hands on the weapon's mechanism, Clay tested the articulation of the gun; familiarizing himself with how it would move in his hands. When he was comfortable, Clay looked up from the weapon and in his peripheral vision caught the Captain watching him. Lavigne slid himself up to the edge of the door and with his arm held firm against his chest, offered Clay a thumbs up and a smile.
 

The helicopter dipped slightly and levelled off just metres above the treetops lining the road on both sides. The Blackhawk sped towards the rear of the convoy, in pursuit as it drove along the narrow road.

LAV. LAV. G-Wagen. Truck. Bus. G-Wagen. Clay mentally listed each of the vehicles from back to front, encouraged by the fact that they were all present. At first glance, the convoy looked as though it were already free from trouble. That was until the Blackhawk whirled to the head of the column. All weapons were firing into the wooded shoulders of the road, as the undead attempted to spill out and halt the convoy's escape. The pilot guided the helicopter along the road until he had positioned it ahead of the column.
 

It took a moment for Clay to recognize the threat, but upon doing so, it immediately occurred to him that they had arrived just in time. Through the trees, infected could be seen ambling towards the road ahead of the convoy. Although moving at a steady pace, eventually the vehicles would endure more damage than they could sustain and would quit amidst a sea of undead.