“You know, Hicks,” Holland said between shots, “you can give my rifle back any time you want.”

Hicks grunted and lined up another shot. The walker in his crosshairs had been a woman once. Her clothes had long since fallen apart, leaving her mottled gray skin exposed to the elements. Only her back was visible, but Hicks could tell she had been attractive when she was still alive. Early twenties, slim physique, well-muscled legs and buttocks, probably a runner or a fitness nut. He squeezed the trigger, felt a light jolt against his shoulder, and the walker fell.

“I don’t know, I kinda like it,” Hicks said. “It’s a little heavier than my M-4, but the extra weight reduces recoil. Scope’s not too bad either.”

“Very funny.” Holland shifted his aim, let out a breath, and fired another shot. “You want to take my job, go right ahead. I’m tired of crawling around in the dirt anyway.”

Hicks let out a sigh and raised his right hand. A militiaman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and took his place on the firing line. Holland followed suit.

“Here,” Hicks held the sniper carbine at arm’s length. Holland took it and gave Hicks back his M-4.

“Thanks,” Holland said. He looked toward the line of soldiers firing upon the horde forty meters in the distance. “I’m still pissed at you for fucking up my hand, but I have to admit that was good work you did earlier. You’re a hell of a tracker.”

“Thanks.” Hicks slapped him on the arm. “You might be annoying as hell, but you’re a good man to have around in a fight.”

Holland grinned. “Fuck you.”

Both men jumped a little when they heard Sergeant Ashman’s voice amplified by a bullhorn. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Weapons safe on the firing line!”

“Fuck me running,” Holland mumbled.

The next command was predictable. “Draw hand weapons and prepare to advance.”

“Here we go.” Holland drew his twin tomahawks and gave them a little twirl. Hicks reached over his shoulder and grasped the handle of his short, heavy bladed spear and drew it from its makeshift leather-and-para-cord sheath. Ahead of them, Cole stepped away from the firing line and gave his massive bar mace a few warm-up swings.

The commanding officer of Second Platoon turned to his men and raised his bullhorn. “Draw blades!”

Second Platoon, who had spent the winter exterminating infected in Kansas, all drew the Army’s new standard issue melee weapon: the MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. It consisted of a heavy twenty-inch blade forged from high-carbon steel, similar in shape to a bolo machete, and a twelve-inch plastic composite handle.

Designed to be wielded two-handed, the MK 9s could split a walker’s head in twain with a single overhead chop. Hicks had seen them put to hard use many times, and although he preferred his spear, he had to admit the big, ugly weapons were effective.

He watched Second Platoon warm up for a few moments, then turned to Holland. “Stay behind me and to my right,” he said. “Make sure any walkers you kill fall away from me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Same thing we always do.”

“Makes me feel better to say it.”

To his left, Hicks saw Ashman raise his bullhorn. “Drop your gear except hand weapons and water. I don’t want to see anyone with a rifle except squad leaders. Don’t forget to don your gloves and PPE. When the fighting starts, make sure you pace yourselves. Remember to take long, deep breaths. We’re in for a long fight, boys, so be smart and look out for each other.”

Hicks and the other men in First Platoon put on goggles and wrapped thick scarves around their mouths and noses. Second Platoon switched from their Kevlar helmets to the Army’s new plastic helmets designed specifically for fighting revenants. Hicks thought they looked like the offspring of an aviation helmet and a plastic face shield, and from everything he had heard, they were horrifically uncomfortable. Hicks preferred the scarf-and-goggles method.

One of the Army’s new innovations he did like, however, were his armored gloves. Sewn from dense nylon with hard plastic plates woven around the knuckles and forearms, they extended from his fingertips all the way past his elbows and had a Velcro strap at the top to secure them in place.

The Army, after conducting research to assess how they could better protect troops from revenant bites, had discovered over ninety percent of bites were inflicted on the hands and forearms. Subsequently, after using one of their few remaining manufacturing facilities to turn out over a hundred thousand pairs of armored gloves, the casualty rates directly attributable to walker attacks fell to a fraction of what they had been before. Hicks flexed his hands a few times to loosen them up, adjusted the position of his plastic armor, and double-checked the straps above his elbows.

Good to go.

“All right,” Ashman shouted, holding his custom-forged zveihänder over his head, poised for a skull-splitting chop. “Form up.”

Hicks ceased his warm-up routine and fell in line. Cole stood to his left, Holland to his right. He brought his spear to the ready position and adjusted his stance, weight centered over the balls of his feet, legs braced at the proper angle.

The people on the catwalk in the distance continued beating pots and pans together and shouting at the infected, keeping them packed against the wall. Ashman stepped in front of the platoon, raised his sword, and opened his mouth to give the order to advance. But before he could, Lt. Jonas’ voice cut across the field.

“Hold up, Sergeant,” he shouted, radio in hand. “I have a better idea.”

Ashman, somewhat crestfallen, lowered his sword. Hicks watched him walk over to their CO before turning his attention back to the wall.

On the catwalk, Deputy Glover stood with her hands cupped around her mouth shouting something unintelligible at the people making noise. After a few seconds, the clamor stopped and the townsfolk slowly began climbing down.

“The hell they doin’?” Cole muttered.

Hicks shook his head. “No idea.”  He kept his place in ranks, shifting restlessly, until a few seconds later the throaty rumble of a tank engine echoed across the field.

“All right, kids,” Ashman called out, grinning. “Make some noise.”

Hicks took off his right glove, pinched his fingers between his teeth, and let out a piercing whistle. The men around him began shouting a colorful tapestry of insults, threats, and general obscenity. Holland joined them by loudly clanking his tomahawks together. To Hicks’ left, he watched an M-109 Howitzer round the corner of the wall and roll into view.

Jonas gave the order to pull back but keep the infected bunched together. With the front ranks of infected only fifty yards away, the troops slowly led the undead toward the self-propelled artillery piece. When Jonas gave the order to break ranks and run, the horde had reformed into a teardrop shape pointed straight at the barrel of the Howitzer’s 155mm cannon.

Once safely out of the way, the soldiers and militiamen put in their earplugs and waited. Hicks watched the Howitzer’s six-man crew lower the vehicle’s spades and back up over them. Once the massive gun was stabilized, the crew loudly exhorted to their audience to get ready for a little Killer Junior action.

“Oh, this is gonna to be good,” Holland said, rubbing his hands together.

Vincenzo tapped Hicks on the arm and leaned in close. “What the hell is a Killer Junior?”

“Direct-fire fragmentation round. Nasty shit. Just watch.”

The horde was less than a hundred meters from the Howitzer. The soldier manning the .50 caliber machine gun held up a hand and counted down three, two, one…

BOOM.

The backwash from the blast slapped Hicks in the chest like a giant, invisible hand. A cloud of white smoke obscured the horde, then quickly dissipated. The shot cut a swath through the infected, reducing more than half their number to a maroon-colored mist. Hicks listened to the artillery crew shout back and forth while they reloaded, and then, when the horde recovered and resumed its previous teardrop-shaped approach, the Howitzer thundered again, leaving only a few dozen walkers in its wake.