St. George leaped into the air and came down in a cluster of exes stumbling through the middle fence. A sweep of his arms sent half of them sprawling and he snapped out a backhand that collapsed the skull of one more. Dozens of them shifted their awkward march, heading for him instead of into the base.
He grabbed a dead woman in tiger-striped camos and swung her into the crowd like a flail, battering one body against several. Her boots crushed a handful of chattering skulls before the shoulder he was holding pulled apart. He let the body’s momentum carry it off into the crowd. It knocked down another half-dozen exes as it soared away.
Off to his left, the head of an ex burst with the whine of a high-velocity round. The gunfire trailed off, and he heard shouts from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers looking at him.
“Don’t stop firing,” he shouted. “Don’t worry about me, just keep firing!”
An ex latched onto his wrist and tried to bury its teeth in his bicep. He flexed and cracked its jaw, then swung his elbow up to send it sprawling. Another one fell onto his back and he shrugged it off.
The snap and crack of bullets rose in the air around him again, matching the clack of teeth. One ex in a plaid shirt reached out for him and dropped when the top of its head vanished. The teeth of a dead man with a thick mustache snapped twice and then splintered away as a round tore through its mouth and out the top of its spine. A woman in a waitress uniform collapsed to the ground after the back of her head burst in a baseball-sized exit wound.
St. George spread his arms, caught a half-dozen exes, and marched away from the soldiers. The half-dozen caught four more, and another six got tangled in with those ten. By the time he reached the outer fence he was pushing close to forty of them. They flailed at his arms and neck and shoulders. Their fingers ran through his hair and over his scalp. One tried to snap its teeth on his cheek and pulled three of its incisors loose.
Just outside the fence line was a tall armored vehicle with a boat-like hull. It had part of the chainlink gate twisted beneath it. He got outside the boundary and threw the exes at the Guardian. Some of them crashed into the vehicle, others just stumbled back before they fell to the ground. More of the walking dead staggered around the vehicle and tripped over their fallen comrades.
The hero kicked a few bodies out of the way and managed to drag the outer gate about two-thirds shut. The chain drive on it snarled the whole way. He thought about forcing it farther but didn’t want to risk tearing the chainlink panel. He leaped back and did the same with the middle gate, but this one only went halfway.
“Guess we’re lucky those were already open,” said Pierce from behind him, “or that Guardian would’ve torn down all of them.” The sergeant had led the super soldiers into the fence line area while the rest of the men covered them. They moved through the bodies and paused at each one to ensure they were down for good.
St. George punched an ex making its way through the opening and it flew back into a steel post. “If this is the best luck we’re going to have, we’re in real trouble.”
They fell back into the base as the dead resumed their relentless march forward. The sergeant nodded at the exes. “Can’t you burn them all?”
“If we’re willing to wait the two or three hours it’ll take them to burn, sure. We need something to block this opening with, like a truck or something big.”
“Sergeant Stewart,” shouted Pierce. “Get hold of the motor pool and get us a truck or the Dragon Wagon over here pronto. Don’t worry about a full tank, just move it.”
St. George grabbed a dead man in a Marine uniform and hurled him underhand into the crowd like a bowling ball. “How long will it take them to get something here?”
“Three or four minutes if someone’s there,” said Pierce. “Maybe ten or fifteen if we send a runner. That’s if I send one of mine.”
“I’d do it if I were you.”
The staff sergeant nodded. “Guess until then it’s still a shooting gallery,” he said. He hefted his Bravo and hooked a new box of ammo onto it.
*
Danielle crouched behind the soldiers with her back against the wall. An under-manned squad had shown up and made a passable fire line, especially with the lone men in either tower picking off exes with sniper shots. She had the pistols Stealth had given her, but she couldn’t stretch her arm out to aim them.
There was so much open space around her. Open space and undead.
At the fence gap, the Driver did a fine job dealing with the exes one on one. She had to admit, the battlesuit moved in a fluid, natural way she didn’t even think was possible. It crushed skulls and batted exes away with a casual grace. It looked alive.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, the armored figure turned and stomped back to the fire line. Two of the soldiers dove out of the way to avoid being trampled. It stopped in front of her like an oversized puppy.