I aimed and fired, accompanied by a symphony of gunfire to my right.
“This is Bravo. We’ll pick up Sweeper as soon as you’re clear.”
I would’ve told Clutch to hurry the fuck up, but I didn’t want to take my hand off my rifle for even a second. I fired three more shots before a Molotov cocktail flew through the air. I noticed Tyler yanking a Dog to the Humvee. As soon as the Dogs were loaded into the vehicle, I switched my sights back to the herd, with the fire spreading.
Eddy was sending off long bursts behind me.
“Alpha is Oscar Mike. Clear out!”
I continued to fire until I had to reload. The gunfire to my distant right became sporadic.
“This is Bravo. Sweeper, we’re on our way, so be ready.”
I clicked the mag into place, and turned around to help Eddy. A couple dozen dark shapes were tripping over their fallen comrades on their way after us. I lifted my rifle and started firing.
When they closed in too tight, I backed up and fired at their legs to slow them down. Headlights came up the hill from behind me, shining light on the zeds. It was a sight that I knew would give me nightmares for years. Jaundiced eyes reflected light almost like cats. Zeds opened and closed their stained mouths like they were imagining what it would be like to chew on us. They reached out to us with clawed, gnarled fingers—those who still had fingers, anyway.
The .30 cal on Clutch’s Humvee cut down the first line of zeds.
I grabbed Eddy and we sprinted toward the Humvee. The back door swung open and we tumbled inside.
Griz sped off. Tack stayed at the .30 cal.
“You okay?” Clutch demanded from his position in the front passenger seat.
“We’re good. We’re not bit,” I replied before rolling off Eddy and leaning back.
"Zeds take the whole ‘you are what you eat’ thing way too seriously," Eddy chuckled then dropped his head back. “Jesus, that was close.”
“Yeah.” I sighed and eyed Clutch. “The information those two Dogs have better be worth it.”
****
“…The militias are struggling, but they’re still fighting the good fight. Keep them in your prayers.
In further news, I’ve yet to verify the rumors circulating that a centralized government is being organized and that new ‘super’ cities are being architected. I’ve asked Lt. Col. Lendt at Camp Fox for confirmation, but I’ve gotten no response. Same story, different day. But I’m going to keep asking. You hear me, Lendt? I’m going to keep asking until you give me an answer or send in your troops and shut me up.
Here’s my thought for the day: The zeds are the enemy, so why is Lendt withholding information that could save lives? My advice? Trust no one, my friends, whether they have a pulse or not.
This is Hawkeye broadcasting on AM 1340. Be safe and know that you’re not alone.”
“That radio jockey is a splinter in my sphincter,” Lendt said as he sat down at the table where Clutch, Jase, Eddy, and I were eating leftovers from dinner. Mutt was tearing into our scraps on the floor.
“Have you met with Hawkeye before?” I asked, twirling more spaghetti around my fork.
“He hasn’t even tried to contact me,” Lendt replied. “And I’m not exactly a hard person to find.”
Hawkeye’s transmission was a recorded broadcast, one that I’d heard earlier, but they replayed his daily transmissions every four hours at the request of the civilians on base. His voice had something familiar about it, yet I couldn’t quite place him.
Not yet, anyway.
“Well, are you withholding information?” I asked.