“That’s a lot,” Dave said.

I hated that most of them wore military uniforms. Some carried rifles strapped around their shoulders and slung over their backs. Doubted they knew how to use them, fire back at us. Hell, they couldn’t even figure out how to open the door.

I took a knee.

“You a good shot?” Dave said.

“Don’t think I have to be. From here, we can just shoot into the group.”

“If they’re fast ones, they’ll come at us.”

I bit my upper lip. “The two of us shooting, I think we got it.”

“Think?”

“Got a better idea? Want to go in closer. Hand-to-hand?”

Dave raised his rifle, closed one eye. “Monkeys in a barrel.”

Think it’s fish. Not monkeys. The kids’ toy was those looped arm plastic red monkeys. They came in a barrel. Didn’t matter, was neither here nor there. I took aim, as well.

“If they charge, might be easier to shoot. They’ll be closer. Bigger target,” Dave said. “And right in front of us.”

Before I could answer, he opened fire. My ears rang. My head buzzed. Not wanting to be outdone, rather being told to Go Fuck Myself, I pulled the trigger.

They weren’t monkeys, and they sure as shit aren't fish. A cluster of zombies, and us maybe twenty yards away, we shouldn’t have missed as many as we did. Should have been a lot easier. The moonlight, the fire, it helped, but not enough, apparently. We sucked. The darkness, which was still too consuming made seeing difficult and accuracy nearly impossible. For us, anyway.

I hit one though. Was my bullet for sure. Took him in the gut. Watched thick blood spray. He went down. I thought, fuck headshots!

No sooner had I thought it, the mother got slowly onto all fours. Pushed his way up, and stood. I swear that fucker looked right at me, as if it knew I was the one that shot him. He spit out a mouthful of gunk. The bulk splatted into the mud. The rest dangled on a thick string of goo from his lower lip. When he charged, I panicked.

My hands fumbled on the rifle, needlessly. I felt my fingers loosen, grip, and then I brought the weapon up and aimed it as best I could before firing.

However, I hit nothing. Fired again. Nothing. It wasn’t my fault. Blame the mud. The thing did lose its balance, slid, but didn’t fall. My bullet must have just missed, whizzed by his head. That was my guess. What I was sticking to.

“Dave,” I said. A heads-up to the fact that the thing was headed right for us fast. The camouflage it wore didn’t hide shit. It looked like a brick house running straight for me.

I opened both eyes, blinked, and saw it correctly. Behind my giant soldier were the rest of the zombies. They must have realized they couldn’t open a fucking door to get at Marf, and that Dave and I couldn’t hit shit, so screw it, they’d follow the leader. And their leader was headed right at us.

“Run,” Dave said.

Run where, I thought. I didn’t want to get separated. “Into an apartment,” I said.

“What about Marfione?”

“He is on his own right now,” I said. “Now run.”

Getting up from kneeling, my foot slid. I used the butt of the rifle as a cane, pushing up, got to my feet and ran.

Dave fired off another shot. “I’m behind you.”

Behind me. Great. Where was I headed?

The next apartment was closer to the center and closer to the fire. Last thing I wanted was getting inside and then burning to death. I grabbed the door handle. The door opened and I dove in.

Dave’s word was true. He was right behind me.

The door was closing slowly. Too slowly.

“Close it,” I said. I couldn’t move. Dave was on top of me.

He skidded off. The mud made any traction difficult. We both kicked around. Dave crawled on his belly toward the door.

One of the zombies was at the entrance before we could shut the door.

“Shit,” I said. I wrestled with the rifle. The strap. Holding it correctly.

It walked up the last step.

“Chase!” Dave said. He could not get up. The wood floor was streaked as if covered in oil.

The zombie was missing most of its face. Clearly, something had bitten off its cheek. The exposed blackened gums and rotting teeth were all I saw when it opened its mouth. It stepped into the apartment, just as I got to my knees.

“Down!”

It wasn’t Dave.

I dropped, regardless. I held onto my rifle, but dropped with my belly flat on the floor.

A gunshot rang out. A hole instantaneously appeared in the center of the thing’s forehead. It stood there.

Dave kicked it in the chest.

It fell backward, down the two steps and splattered into a pool of mud. Dave did not waste time. He fumbled for the door, pulled it closed and locked it.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I panted and looked around. The apartment was dark. Far too filled with shadows, despite the windows and fire outside, to see who else was inside.

“Hello?” I said.

“Were either of you bitten?” A female voice asked.

“Who is there?” I said.

I heard a shotgun pump. “Were either of you bitten?”

“No,” Dave said. “No, neither of us was bitten.”

Silence. I tried to see in the darkness, to no avail.

“Hello,” I said, when I could take the silence no longer.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. That wasn’t quite fair, since I’d asked first. I deserved an answer first. Whoever she was, she had the advantage. Her eyes must be adjusted to the lack of light and she had a weapon obviously aimed at us.

“I’m Chase and that’s Dave. We came over with the Coast Guard and just got here, maybe an hour ago, but I’m not sure. Wasn’t long ago, though.” My hands were out, reaching, fingers stretching, looking to touch something. Anything.

“Stay still,” she said. “Who was the captain on the boat?”

“Keel,” Dave said. “Travis Keel.”

Chapter Sixteen

0410 hours

The four of us sat with backs to the wall.

“They got Barron,” Private Elysia Palmeri said. Her knees were up, her rifle standing between her thighs. Her hands gripped the barrel. It seemed like an actual part of her body. With ripped sleeves and dried mud covering her face, I could only imagine the battle that unfolded.

Private Christopher Saylor’s ankle was wrapped in a crude splint. Wood stakes were tied in place with torn bed sheets. I had no idea where his boot was. I didn’t see a rifle. He held his sidearm, his finger just outside the trigger guard. His elbows rested on drawn knees, head down.

“He okay?” Dave said, as if Saylor wasn’t even in the room.

Palmeri looked at her partner and then Dave, nodding slightly. “We rounded a corner. Nothing, right? So we moved forward. Figured the place was deserted. Hoped it was, you know? As we made our way toward the center of the camp, we could see the M.A.S.H. unit, the mess halls, and not one fucking zombie. Then Barron, who was behind us, screams. Not like he’s hurt, but like he’s surprised as fucking hell. Caught off guard. We both turned around, and saw two of them had him down. He lost his footing. Must have been easy pulling him onto his back. He screamed as he punched and kicked at the two that attacked him. Saylor was trying to get a shot off, but it was so dark. They were bucking and squirming around. There was no shot. And the whole time Barron’s screaming. Like a fucking pansy. He’s just howling. ‘Get them off me, get them off me.’”

We’d heard the screaming all the way at the boat, coming over the radio. He sounded as if he had been getting ripped apart. Shredded limb from limb.

“I told the sergeant. Said that Barron was down, you know? Don’t know what I expected. Truth is,” she closed her eyes, “I kind of panicked. Saylor couldn’t get a shot off, and those things were just freaking creepy. I can’t blame Barron. It was like he was covered with spiders. I hate spiders. God, I hate spiders. As much as I suffer from arachnophobia, these things are worse. No shit, right? So I don’t know. My training kicked in. I used my rifle and started smashing it into skulls. Swinging this bastard like an ax.” Palmeri lifts her rifle and drops the butt onto the wood floor. It tap-tap-taps.