We tactically exited the store with Boomer taking up position in between the two of us. Fish scanned right as I looked to the left. Nothing except the ladder to the roof was there. I turned to the right and saw the shadowy outline of the garden area, but nothing was moving.
Fish shined his high powered flashlight toward the reinforced fence. Toward the southern end, you could see a piece of plywood halfway torn down, but the actual fence was still intact.
A rattle from the ladder caught my attention. Boomer growled and I looked up just in time to see someone’s barefoot step over the edge.
“Fish!” I whispered as I tapped him on the shoulder. Holding one finger up, I then pointed up the ladder. Fish nodded in understanding and motioned for me to stay put. He laid the 308 against the wall and then started to quickly climb the ladder. I was surprised at how fast and quietly he ascended.
I took up a firing position at the base of the ladder. Boomer was edgy, as if he knew something bad was in the area, but not sure where it was. I peered up toward the top of the ladder and saw Fish was already climbing over the edge with his .45 in his hand.
I froze as I heard Boomer snarl. With Fish’s flashlight gone, all I had was the one on my MP5.
I was about to turn the light on my shoulder harness on when I heard movement toward the garden area. I swung my weapon around to the right, focusing it on the picnic tables near the withering garden. There were a few piles of equipment, mostly composed of our farming supplies. Buckets, a few tables, water tanks, bags of soil, and more created plenty of places to hide.
I didn’t see anything, though. Boomer, however, knew something was out there. The light on my weapon was not nearly as powerful as the one Fish had, and covered much less of the area.
Boomer, who was crouched and continued to growl, was stalking forward toward the bundle of garden equipment.
After a few attempts from me to get Boomer to come back and failing, I slowly followed up behind him. I didn’t care if Fish wanted me to stay put. I wasn’t going to let Boomer go off on his own.
I scanned the area with the flashlight on my weapon. You could see the illuminated area shake with each beat of my heart.
Even with my eardrums pounding with every thump in my chest, I could still hear Fish’s muffled .45 discharge on the rooftop. What quickly followed was the scuffling of feet and gear being tossed around.
I wanted to spin around and look to the rooftop. It was more of a knee jerk reaction because I probably couldn’t have seen what was going on. I remembered how bad it was when I let myself get distracted earlier that day and was almost crushed to death by the rhino-zombie. There was nothing I could do about what was transpiring up there.
Boomer growled. There was a raspy hiss as a response. I wasn’t sure where it came from, but the awkward and inhuman sound made my skin crawl. Boomer stopped, and his snarl became more intense.
We were closer now, only about ten feet from the first pile of gear, and I could see what the canine was focusing on. There was a pile of PVC pipes on top of a table. Below it were four five gallon buckets filled to the top with dirt.
I focused the light of my MP5 on the area. Through the gaps, I saw something move, as if the shine of my flashlight had startled it.
I didn’t wait to see what ‘it’ was. I unloaded half of my thirty round magazine at the table. Pieces of PVC pipe splintered and shattered at the impact of the 9mm rounds. Boomer whined and ducked at the sudden suppressed burst from my submachine gun.
I wondered if the sudden spurt of gunfire scared the scab. I couldn’t see anything moving, but Boomer could still sense that something was there.
Boomer, snarling between sharp breaths, started to stalk his way around the right side of the table. I moved to the left, once I was sure Boomer wouldn’t stop and come with me. He was a smart dog, but let’s face it, the police tactics that were passed down from his mother had to be limited. I made sure to circle wide around the table. I really didn’t want to get into a hand-to-hand fight with a scab.
Unfortunately, my brain was telling me I was sneaking up on it, while Boomer was distracting the scab with his growl. But adrenalin has a bad habit of messing up the way you think. Anyone in their right mind would have realized that the light of my MP5 was letting it know where I was at all times. I, of course, was just trying to ignore the pounding in my chest as well as keep my fingers from going numb from terror.
As I rounded the table, I heard a heavy grunt. My light quickly lifted up, catching part of the scab. I remember wondering why it seemed as if it was off balance when a white blur flashed in front of my eyes. One of the five gallon buckets, full of soil, struck my chest.
I fell back, tripping over myself as dirt poured over my face and in to my mouth. I tried to regain my balance, but fell anyway. My butt slammed on something hard beneath me. Pellets of dirt had made their way into my eyes, forcing them to instantly water and cloud my vision.
I heard a thump and a growl, then a bark. I scurried backwards, fearing the scab was about to pounce on me. But just ahead, Boomer was already attacking it. Sounds of flesh being torn and two distinct growls of fury motivated me to get back into the fight.
I jumped to my feet, pointing my MP5 at the two with one hand while wiping my eyes clear with the other. Gunfire and screams erupted from the north side of the building, but I ignored them.
Finally, my vision cleared and I saw the two were in a ferocious melee. The scab was small, maybe only five foot six inches, but thick with muscles. He had on ripped up shorts, no shoes, and lesions covering his arms and face. The right side of his head had been stripped of hair, while the other side was left with black gangly looking patches.
I wanted to jump in and separate the two, but forced myself to regain my composure. Boomer had blood whipped across his fur, and I could see the damage he had caused to the scab. He was missing at least two fingers, and his skin had been flayed on his right forearm. I couldn’t tell how badly hurt Boomer was, though.
Taking a knee, I brought the submachine gun up and leveled it at the scab. I waited, almost too patiently. I let a three round burst fly at the scab as soon as I was sure Boomer was safely out of the line of fire.
It reared and howled. Not in pain, per se, but more in fury that I had joined the fight. I must have pissed it off, though, because before I could do anything, it grabbed Boomer and threw him in my direction. The canine bravely latched onto his arm, but the momentum tore him away. Boomer didn’t leave empty handed, though. Dangling from his maw was a four inch piece of flesh.
Boomer was thrown to my left. I fired off a few more shots, most of which hit him in the chest.
The scab stumbled back and took a knee. I raised my weapon again, intending to finish off the magazine, but my hesitation cost me a precious two seconds.
It grabbed a splintered PVC pipe from the table and hurled it at me. I ducked and instinctively fired off a couple of rounds in the processes. The pipe skimmed across the side of my head. I readjusted my aim and finished off the few bullets I had left in the magazine.
The scab was trying to stand when the first round hit him. He rocked back as four more rounds found his body. But the bastard didn’t go down. I knew I had more than one round go into his lungs, as well as one that I was sure had found its heart. But the savage creature felt none of it, even though he was sure to die in minutes, if not seconds.
The scab stood completely upright, though he seemed weak from loss of blood.
My own blood wasn’t helping either, as it carried mind-numbing adrenaline to my brain. Instead of quickly grabbing my Glock, my mind was focused on reloading the gun in my hand. Again, this was one of those instances that you’re cursing at the idiot on the TV screen who is missing the obvious.
I was fumbling for a magazine out of my vest when suddenly the scab’s head disintegrated in a violent explosion coinciding with a loud rifle blast from the roof top.
The commotion of Fish rushing down the ladder snapped me back to reality.
“Trent, keep your NVG’s on,” he called as he shimmied down. “Jenna, stay with him.”
Unconsciously, I was still changing the magazine of my MP5 when Fish jogged up to me. Movement to my left told me Boomer was back up. He was a little frazzled but seemed no worse for the wear.
“You okay, kid?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I returned.
“Check that,” he said, motioning to the side my head.
I put my hand up and felt a slight sting. I looked at it and could make out dark red liquid on my fingers. The PVC pipe must have sliced open my scalp, though I couldn’t really feel much pain at the time.
“I’ll be okay,” I told him.
“Good,” he said, quickly looking over the area. “Let’s get out front. Something happened out there.”
We made our way around to the north side of the store, with Boomer following close behind.
The fire truck and U-Haul were parked close to each other. The back of the moving truck was still closed, but the driver’s side door of the U-Haul was still open. Jada, Kat, and Leanne were standing guard outside near the rear bumper.
We hooked around the U-Haul to walk between it and Big Red. Along the fence I noticed a camouflaged figure and who I thought was Chad, walking around. DJ was still at the top of the fire engine scanning the perimeter, although, it must have been difficult with what little light there was.
We rounded the front of the U-Haul and froze.
Pinned to the quarter panel of the moving truck was PFC Vanerka. A stretch of rebar was protruding from his chest and obviously piercing the metal of the truck. On the other end was a small chunk of concrete. Half of his face had been crushed as well. The one eye that was left was closed. Even with the poor lighting from my MP5, I could tell all the color, and life, was gone from his face.
On the ground near him was the large scab I had seen earlier. Up close, I could see how big he really was. He had to be six and a half feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds, most of which was muscle. His dark brown, veiny skin had the tell-tale lesions that all scabs bore. I couldn’t tell what his face looked like, though. There were easily over twenty bullet holes from the jaw line to the top of the head. His body, too, was riddled with bullet impacts. I didn’t need a calculator to tell that everyone had emptied their magazines into him.
Later I learned that particular scab had gotten over the fence while the struggle happened on the roof. DJ hit it a few times, but it was able to make it to the U-Haul and take cover. That is when the scab ran into Vanerka. They told me the scab whacked the soldier with the end of the rebar that still had concrete clinging to it, then spun around and thrust it through the poor guy’s chest, pinning him to the truck. In retaliation, everyone with a gun converged on the beast and put him down.
It took a few minutes to detach Vanerka’s body from the quarter panel of the U-Haul. We decided to wait until the next day to take it out to burn. Campbell, however, ensured the deceased soldier would not rise again.
Specialist Combs was still in critical condition. Daniel said he had done all he could for him. He had removed the spear-like flagpole from his back and stopped most of the bleeding, but he said without a real doctor, he wasn’t sure if there was anything else he could do.
Twenty minutes after the battle, I was ready to pass out. The kids were still in the U-Haul. Campbell said it was best to keep them secure until morning. But we would never see the sun shine on the Ace Hardware compound again.
The smell hit us around the time Campbell came back from finishing up with Vanerka’s body. The sounds came soon after. Half of our group made it to the top of the building to see what we all dreaded was out beyond our perimeter.
Even with partial moonlight, we could see them. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of zombies. We could hear them starting to claw and beat at the fence line. At first, it was only a few small groups, but behind them were more. They continued to press against the fence, pushing and tearing at it. We could see it start to waver as more piled on top of each other, trying to break through to a feast they knew was inside.
We might have been able to get away with one or two gun shots that night, but the barrage we fired to kill the invading scabs had brought every zombie within a three mile radius to our location.
Fish turned to Campbell, who was still wearing the grief of losing Vanerka across his face. Now it was compounded with the awe of the mass of dead building outside the fence.
“It’s time, sir,” he said evenly.
“I know,” Campbell whispered in return.
This, I realized, was one of the reasons why Fish was not completely focused during the battle with the scabs. He knew the gunfire would bring the walking dead to us. I should have known. Hell, we all should have. Maybe we did, but we were more worried about dying from the scabs than what might happen afterward.
The other reason Fish was distracted… well, I will have to get to that later.
It only took a few seconds for Campbell to motivate everyone into action. We didn’t have an ironclad exit strategy, but we knew what the essentials were. Everyone crowded down the ladder except me and Fish. We stood there for a minute, staring at the reflection of moonlight bouncing off the legion of undead surrounding the compound.