The other pontoon, led by Griz, was to distract the zeds’ attention from our movements until we were in position. Then, they’d land on the western shore, so we could burn the bridge bastards from both sides.
Clutch, the eternal pessimist, wasn’t so confident things would go that easily. He’d voiced concern about the fire weakening the bridge, which could mean we’d have to find another bridge to cross the river. He’d talked about how few explosives were needed in Afghanistan to bring down a bridge if they were placed right. He’d said that a hot enough fire at the wrong points of the bridge might do the same. Only problem was that we didn’t have a single bridge expert or engineer among us. So, the general consensus was that a gasoline-fed fire wouldn’t burn long enough to weaken the steel and concrete structure.
Tyler had made it clear that he was the boss, and if we didn’t like it, we could leave. Honestly, we were tempted. Clutch, Jase, and I had even talked about it last night. But Jase was adamant that Camp Fox needed us far more than we needed them. It was our duty to help.
Everyone craved to be free from zeds. Hell, I wanted it, too, but they were letting hope overshadow their logic. If we took out these zeds, there’d be more. There were always more.
When Clutch and Griz each gave their ready signal, our pontoon went east while the other went west. The island sat on the eastern half of the river, so our trip to the shore was brief. The pontoon hit the riverbank, and we all lurched forward. After regaining my balance, I looked over the side to make sure no zeds had washed ashore with us. Jase was the first to jump out, and I followed. Landing at the dock would’ve been far easier, but the bridge bastards would’ve seen us. Instead, Clutch picked out a heavily wooded area on the eastern bank a quarter-mile south of the dock.
“Let’s move out,” Clutch said in a hoarse whisper as he joined my side. “We need to be ready to go the moment the West team engages.”
Four men on my pontoon each carried a five-gallon gas jug. Both Jase and I had our hands free since we were on point to take out zeds in the woods. One on point was probably good enough, but Clutch always believed in being doubly prepared.
I had my rifle slung over my shoulder, and my machete held at the ready. Silence was crucial until we were in position. Jase and I led the four others through the woods, each of us with two men following behind.
The leaves had turned colors, and many had already fallen, allowing sunlight to reveal a zed lying next to a log. The zed couldn’t walk and was in pretty rough shape. Jase finished it off with two swings so that it couldn’t make noise and alert others to our presence.
We moved slowly, being extra careful to not slosh the gasoline. We came across a second zed, but it had been torn apart, likely by wolves or wild dogs. When the trees opened onto the road, we saw the devastation Camp Fox’s vehicles had taken while parked on the eastern bank. All had smears of zed sludge. A couple had been rolled over. A HEMTT sat askew in the road. Trampled zeds dotted the road.
For our pontoon, Kurt was going to drive the fuel truck while Joe, another one of Tyler’s trusted guardsmen, shot gasoline onto the zeds to make sure they’d burn to death. The five-gallon jugs were to set up a wall of fire at the end of each bridge to help hold the zeds in. As the fastest runner, Jase’s job was to light the fire. I had my usual job as sweeper to shoot any zeds that got too close to the scouts managing the fire.
The bridge was big. It spanned the width of the Mississippi, which made penning the zeds easier. Except that herding zeds was a lot like herding cats—a whole lot easier said than done.