The screams from the runners are unnerving, especially considering they appear to be coming from the pack on my back. I round the corner and my last hope fades. Standing around the base of the tower is a crowd of shamblers, who, at this very moment, seem very interested in me. There aren’t many, but they are there — completely encircling it. I think about using the buildings to defend myself, but a quick glance closes that option down as some of the walls have fallen in. My thoughts race for a way out, but coming up with a solution and enough time are at complete odds with one another.
So, this is it? This is how it goes down? I’ll expend my grenades and make sure there’s a pile of brass beside me before I’m taken. What I won’t do is become one of them. I’ll leave one grenade on my vest and just pull the pin — game over…quickly.
I turn toward the rubble of the buildings, thinking to at least have the higher ground, when I hear a voice rise above the screams behind me. Looking up, I see two people standing on the catwalk encircling the water tower. I can’t hear what they are saying, but it’s a human voice and not the screech of the undead. I continue to run and hear rifle fire.
I hope that’s not me they’re shooting at.
After all, I’m bringing a horde of zombies with me, and they may not like that fact. Or maybe I do hope they are shooting at me. Maybe they hope to end my misery.
Please be a good shot, I think.
Unpinning my two grenades, I arc them at the shamblers. The grenades go off one after the other with a tremendous blast. Although the explosions may not have taken the shamblers out entirely, it did create a hole. I turn toward it and the safety of the tower. More gunfire erupts, and it’s then that I notice a few of the runners on the ground. Whoever is above is picking them off my backside. It’s not enough to keep them from my back pocket, but it helps. Feeling a hand grab the pack I’m wearing, I feel the zip of something heavy and fast pass near my ear. The weight of the hand falls, only to be replaced by another. This time, the zipping sound by my ear is definitely a streaking bullet. I feel a thick spray against my neck and am again free.
Charging through the narrow corridor created by the grenades, I fire shots into the nearest shamblers, not caring if they are head shots. I just want the lane to be kept clear, even if that means only rocking the zombies back a little. The ladder draws near and I switch to a better grip on my M-4. The bottom rung of the ladder is about ten feet off the ground. Leaping into the air, I catch a rung with my free hand and start pulling myself upward — yes, a scratch from a night runner, in addition to the increased hearing and night vision abilities, has given me a little extra strength. Something grabs my heel and I kick out, feeling a solid connection.
I continue climbing until my feet connect with the bottom run. I’m out of reach from the ground. Looking down, I assure myself that the zombie runners can’t climb. Scaling a few more rungs to give myself more of a margin, I hook my legs in, leaning back against the metal shielding around the ladder. Adjusting my M-4 tightly against my body, I start my climb in earnest , resting halfway up. I’m just plain beat and it’s hard to catch my breath. Adrenaline is still coursing through, but that only provides marginal help. The fact that I’m still alive, when I had prepared my mind that it was all but over, makes the climb feel surreal.
I’m eager to meet my saviors. I just hope they are as eager to see me. I didn’t arrive in the best of circumstances, but they didn’t appear to have been in the best one either. If they aren’t friendly…well…I’m just too tired to do anything about it. The fact that they saved my bacon, and I have a lot of bacon, at least tells me they can’t be that bad.
Looking down, I see that I, and whoever is on the catwalk above, are surrounded once again. The screams and stench of the already dead rises and follows me on the climb. Looking up, the ladder seems to stretch for an eternity, but I’m also greeted by a couple of faces peering down. Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I climb.
Michael Talbot — Journal Entry 6
The zombies were able to interfere with most of the usurpers, actually catching a few as the howlers seemed more intent on eating us than saving their own skin. When a smallish horde closed off that avenue, the rest retreated, but we had been breached. I could hear the fuckers grunting as they climbed. Occasionally I could hear the twang of a cable or something striking a metal column as they came up. I got down on my hands and knees and stuck my head through the railing and angled down, I could just make out three or four forms as they ascended. They were a ways away, but it didn’t appear that gravity or acrophobia was going to deter them.
“We got howlers on the tower!” I shouted over to John who, for all practical appearances, looked like he was dancing to Fire on the Mountain by the Grateful Dead in an aisle at Red Rocks. You know the hippie dance, hands up in the air, head bowed down, lost in his mind as his legs flailed about wildly. Gotta admit he looked like he was having fun, his original mission all but forgotten.
“Tell them to grab some beer!” he answered without ever looking up.
“Howlers, buddy, not concert staff.”
He finally stopped, one leg still in the air, he lowered it slowly as he finally began to realize where he was. “On the ladder?” he asked, heading over to the opening and fishing in his pocket for the slingshot.
“On the cables.”
“Tricky ones, aren’t they?”
“Yup.” And then I smiled, Trip had given me an idea.
There was no way I could get a shot off by hanging over the railing, BUT, if I went down the ladder chute a little ways, that might give me some targeting vectors. I began to take in some deep breathes to calm a system that was already beginning to go into overdrive. John mercifully held on to the back of my shirt as I went over the edge, I really wasn’t in any danger of going over the edge because of the skirt that shrouded the entire ladder structure, but it was still a comforting gesture.
“Thanks, man,” I told him, I then quickly descended about ten feet. “Son of a bitch,” I said softly. There had to be ten of the little monkey mongrels swinging around down there.
They were almost at the halfway point. I rested my back against the shroud and made sure the crevice in my heel was planted firmly on the rung I was standing on. I lowered my rifle, took aim, and sent one of the fuckers plummeting to his untimely demise, or timely, just a matter of perspective.
The nine, in a freaky, synchronized unity, turned to look where the shot had come from, not to where their buddy had fallen. Another savage opponent less concerned with being killed than killing. They redoubled an already demented pace. The ones that could find a semblance of cover did so, making sure to stay out of my line of fire, the three that couldn’t quickly found themselves to be zombie chow. The last one I had shot in the knee. He had bent backwards awkwardly as his leg shattered when he flipped back over, he never took his eyes from mine as he plummeted to the ground.
“These guys suck.” I stayed a few moments longer, but when I realized that the ones still coming were not going to show themselves, I hastily climbed back up the ladder. “We’ve got about ten minutes, John. You ready?” I asked him when I got back up.