Chapter 51: Zombie Horde
Two o'clock in the afternoon. A small town lay under the lazy glare of the sun. The street was dilapidated — overturned cars, shattered shop windows, debris scattered everywhere — just like countless others in this post-apocalyptic world.
From the corner, a walker shuffled out. Its legs moved stiffly, its movements aimless and groaning. It wore a shirt faded beyond recognition, and half its face had been gnawed away, exposing dark red muscle and white bone beneath.
Bang.
The sudden muffled sound of the muffler filled the air. The walker's head exploded, a sickly burst of dark red mist spraying outward. It didn't even moan before collapsing to the ground.
"Ya-ha—"
On the second-floor roof of the convenience store, Merle Dixon sat in a folding chair, an AMW sniper rifle resting on its mount before him. Two dozen beers lay scattered at his feet. Dressed head-to-toe in black combat gear, with knee and elbow pads, tactical vest loaded with magazines, and his helmet tossed aside—messy hair and that ever-punchable scowl visible—he took a long swig of beer. Rock music pulsed through his headphones.
Another walker staggered from an alley. Merle raised his rifle, aligned the scope.
Bang.
Headshot.
Bang.
Another headshot.
He lowered the gun, leaned back, crossing his legs, eyes squinting as he watched his team below practicing. Ten men in black uniforms spread along the street, working in pairs. Machetes, axes, crowbars in hand, they fought off walkers appearing from every side.
Wu Fan's orders were clear: gun skills come slow, but close combat must be mastered. If bullets run short, knives keep you alive.
Merle spotted a rookie struggling—a missed strike had nearly landed him as walker food—until his teammate cleaved the creature's head open with an axe. Shaking his head, Merle took another swig. Newbies were always a mess.
He switched the track on his MP3 player. Closing his eyes, sunlight warmed his face, beer in his hand, music in his ears—and the walker framed in his scope—this life was damn good.
A movement at the woods caught his attention.
A few hundred meters away, walkers poured out like ants streaming from the ground. Merle snapped alert, raised his rifle, and took quick shots. Headshot, headshot—then a missed shoulder shot, followed by another headshot.
But more walkers emerged—not a handful, but dozens—streaming out from all directions: north, east, directly ahead.
Merle dropped his beer, grabbed the walkie-talkie, voice icy. "Everyone, evacuate. Get to the cars. Now!"
He bolted downstairs, heart racing. At the convenience store's door sat a modified Humvee. He slid inside, rifle leaning against the window. One minute... two minutes... the team wasn't back.
His knuckles whitened gripping the wheel. Then ten figures burst into view around the corner. Black uniformed, running desperately, chased by a dense, endless horde.
"Whatthefa!"
Merle cursed, slammed the engine, shifting into reverse. Tires screamed and smoked on the cracked asphalt. Swinging the wheel, the door swung open.
"Get in!" he yelled.
The first teammate grabbed the door handle and was shoved inside. More scrambled in—some hanging off the roof rack and sides—others sprawled on the hood.
Through the windshield, a figure lying on the hood blocked Merle's view.
"Move to the passenger seat!" Merle barked.
The man shuffled aside just as the nearest walker neared under ten meters.
The Humvee roared forward, smashing through two blockers and bursting out of town.
In the rearview mirror, the gray tide kept coming, but the distance grew.
Further down the highway, another Humvee idled.
Merle's vehicle stopped. The team clambered inside the other, and both roared down the road, tires burning.
He glanced back at the town.
The sea Merle knew from seaside trips stretched endlessly to the horizon, but this wasn't water—it was walkers—countless gray-white figures spilling from woods, fields, alleys. A tide of death creeping closer.
Through the mic, he barked, "Floor it! Back to base!"
"Captain! They're gaining on us!" came the panicked reply.
"We can't outrun them! They're too many!"
Sweat beaded on Merle's brow but he didn't respond. His mind raced with one terrifying thought—the source of this nightmare: Atlanta. The city where three million had turned. Now, the infected were flooding out.
The Humvee surged along the highway as the horde pressed on relentlessly...