Down the slope, the horde drew slowly, inexorably closer. A couple of minutes passed before Thompson’s voice cut the air.

“All are stations in position. Fire at will.”

Caleb leaned over his rifle, picked a target, and centered his ACOG reticle. The walker in his sights was female, clothes long since disintegrated, gaping black wounds visible on her arms, legs, and torso from where other infected had torn into her before she died. Caleb felt a pang of pity for the person she had once been. Judging by her wounds, she had literally been eaten to death.

Hell of a bad way to go.

He let out a breath, squeezed the trigger, and felt the rifle’s recoil. In his sights, a spray of black and red erupted behind the walker, painting the ghouls behind her with matted gore. Her body stiffened, gave a final shudder, and fell.

One down, about seven billion to go.

Despite the earplugs, the gunfire to his right was still very loud. He ignored the noise and kept firing, heartbeat steady, posture relaxed, leaning into his weapon, feet braced, a slight bend in the knees, the movements as familiar as breathing. It would have been easy to pick up the pace and drop walkers at double his current rate, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His father’s words came back to him, always compelling despite the passage of years:

Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. People will try to make a tool out of you. Bend you to their will. If they can’t win you over with charm, they’ll find some leverage, some way to hurt you. They will try to own you. Believe me, son. I know.

In the early days after joining the Army, he had shown off a few times. Couldn’t help himself. He had used his tracking and marksmanship skills to hunt game and supplement his platoon’s meager rations with fresh meat. It had won him many friends, but had also attracted the attention of Lieutenant Jonas.

While standing watch one night, eyes searching the forest around him for walkers, ears straining for footsteps, he heard the old soldier approaching. The lieutenant was trying to be stealthy, but he was as loud as thunder compared to Caleb’s father.

Caleb knew who it was by the tread, but because the night was pitch dark, he was expected to call out a challenge to anyone approaching the camp. When Jonas was close enough to hear him, he whispered, “Mockingbird.”

Jonas answered with the appropriate pre-arranged response. “Fireball.”

“Approach and be recognized.”

Caleb kept his rifle at the low ready as his CO stepped into sight. “Nicely done. You’ve got good ears.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The lieutenant stopped beside him and peered out into the forest. “Everything quiet?”

“Yes sir.”

“Any sign of walkers?”

“No sir.”

Jonas was silent a moment, then said, “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Private Hicks?”

“Sir?”

“Where did you learn how to track and shoot?”

Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why do you want to know?”

“You stalked a deer on foot today and brought it down with one shot from a 5.56. Any man can shoot like that is wasting himself as a regular infantry grunt. Might be we can find something else for you to do, if you’re up to it.”

Caleb looked down and shuffled his feet. “I don’t know, sir. I feel like I still have a lot to learn.”

The lieutenant nodded. “No pressure, son. Just thought I’d bring it up. Give you something to think about.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, right. My dad used to take me hunting a lot. Taught me how to recognize tracks, read terrain, find breaks in foliage, that sort of thing.”

“Hm. Your old man must have been a hell of a hunter.”

“Yes sir. He was.”

Jonas hadn’t bothered him about it since, but if Ashman’s prediction of his forthcoming promotion was correct, Caleb figured it was only a matter of time.

Nothing I can do about it right now. Worry about it when it happens, not before.

Caleb kept firing until his magazine ran out, reloaded, and began firing again. Despite the toll his squad’s rifles were taking, the bulk of the horde was still making progress up the hill. The walkers had bunched into a single mass, attracted by the cacophony of noise echoing above them—exactly what Delta Squad wanted them to do. The ones with fewer mechanical injuries outpaced their more tattered brethren, causing the horde to coalesce into the now-familiar teardrop shape. Caleb aimed his fire along their left flank, causing ripples in the horde where ghouls stepped over the bodies of their fellow undead. In his peripheral vision, he saw Thompson had stopped firing and was squinting into the eyepiece of a handheld rangefinder.

“All right,” he shouted over the noise. “They reached standoff range. Start piling ‘em up.” He then said a few quick words into his radio, stashed the rangefinder on his vest, and began firing again.

The first step in forming a shitpile, as they termed a large mound of permanently dead ghouls, was to drop the ones closest to the center of the horde until they formed a stack. As the flanks slowly caught up, Holland and Thompson would maintain fire on the center while the rest of the squad shifted fire farther down the flanks. The result was a gradually building wall of dead bodies at a set distance that slowed the progress of the horde to a crawl. As the bodies piled up, the walkers would naturally try to go around it rather than over it, which served to spread out the line.

Just as it was getting to the point Caleb couldn’t shoot fast enough to keep his section of the horde at standoff distance, he heard Alpha and Bravo squads open up to his left. A hail of bullets ripped into the horde from that side, preventing them from going around the rapidly building pile ahead of them. The slope of the hill compounded this difficulty, forcing the walkers to crawl up the middle. When their heads popped up over the pile, they were easy pickings.

The number of ghouls in Caleb’s sights began to rapidly diminish, which was good because he could feel the heat of his barrel radiating through the rail shroud. The smell of spent cordite was strong in the air, stinging his nostrils. He found it oddly nostalgic.

Just as the chamber latched open on the last round in Caleb’s magazine, Thompson gave the order to cease fire.

“Drop your packs, vests, and extra gear,” he said. “Hand weapons only. If you have a sidearm, bring it, but don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. If you do, maintain muzzle discipline at all times. And no fucking heroics; we fight as a team. If you get in trouble, call for help. Don your PPE now, don’t wait until we get there. Understood?”

The squad gave a round of acknowledgements. Thompson wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but they all knew it made him feel better to say it.

“We’re to move down the hill and attack on the right flank,” Thompson went on. “Alpha will hit them on the left while Bravo circles around behind. Charlie will stay in reserve and take out any walkers who make it over the pile. Any questions?”

There were none.

“All right. Let’s get it done.”

Caleb dropped his pack to the ground, followed by his MOLLE vest and rifle. His Beretta was in a drop holster on his hip, which he kept. His scarf went around his mouth and nose, his combat goggles went over his eyes, the armored gloves went over his hands and forearms. After drawing his spear, he followed Thompson and the rest of his squad down the hill. Beside him, Eric hefted a Y-shaped stick and a rapier-like sword. “Mind if I tag along?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Caleb replied. “I usually team up with Cole and Holland.”

“Works for me. Where do you want me?”

“Let Cole take point and kill anything that approaches on his right. I’ll move left with Holland.”