Be ready,” Jennings hears through the radio.

The call pulls him out of his meandering thoughts. He checks his mag and ensures a round is chambered, sighting in down the road once again. He can’t see much past the lead company’s line, but can see the gunships open fire. Red tracers race downward at angles. Fire flashes sequentially from wing pods as rockets streak outward trailing flame and smoke. Light gray smoke hovers around Humvee turrets as heavy caliber rounds chuff into what Jennings can imagine is a huge line of infected following potential prey.

Looking along his own line, he watches the other members of his company readying themselves. Bolts are drawn back and Humvee weapons are swung around, but pointed skyward lest an accidental trigger pull send a round into the backs of the leading company. Gunships swing further outward, getting better angles to fire once the lead company falls through their position. It’s going to be another long day of planned retreats to thin out the mass heading their way, until every one of them lies dead in the fields and along the state highway named Y.

The company ahead turns as one and begins their run across the fields and along the road. The Humvees remain for a moment longer, slowly traversing backward and delivering fire into the midst of the horde to slow them down. The gunships do the same, slowly moving back while delivering rocket and Gatling gun fire. Jennings’s company makes lanes to allow the other company to pass easily through.

He sees tired, scared, and determined eyes through the masks as the company passes by him. The clop of boots on the pavement and the jingle of weapons and gear rise momentarily above the firing Humvees and helicopters. Then they’re through, and it’s his company’s turn to thin the herd.

Zoomed in, Jennings sees the same expressions he’d seen at Grissom. Grimy faces etched with rage, hungry with anticipation and need. The gray light of the cloud cover only adds to the grim scene. The dense line of infected covers every inch of the highway and pour out from the woods to the side. Those in the fields become momentarily hung up on fence lines, only to be pushed through by those behind. The company and supporting fire open up.

Through his scope, Jennings watches as the leading lines stagger and fall. Blood splashes in the air, splattering on those following. He centers the crosshairs on one only to see it spin to the side as a .50 caliber round smashes into its shoulder, shredding the joint in a spray of blood, a severed arm falling limply to the ground.

Moving the barrel a fraction, he pulls the trigger as the crosshair centers on one face among thousands of others. It explodes behind a mist of red. Jennings quickly transitions to another target, finding one face after another in quick succession. Semi-automatic 7.62mm rounds blaze across the fields and highway, sending one infected to the ground after another. He doesn’t take time to verify hits, just delivers round after round into his targets.

The volume of gunfire erupting along the line is deafening. Tracers streak across the fields, intersecting with the wall of charging infected. Explosions from rockets and mortars create holes in the lines that follow, sending bodies tumbling through the air. The relentless wave of bodies continues to surge forward.

Jennings slams a fresh mag into the well, shoving the spent one in a pocket. The radio call comes to disengage and retreat. The tracers, which once filled the decreasing space between the company and leading line of infected, quickly taper off.