They no longer have a visible target at which to direct themselves, giving the platoon a little room to breathe.

They catch glimpses of infected in the trees as they streak past trunks. They are winded, yet determined to use the last of their breath to break out of the tree line, hopefully to the safety of the other company…and their own.

With screams all around them, Jennings hears the sound of a firefight somewhere ahead. Approaching the tree line, the platoon skids to a halt. The bark of the outer trees is being shredded by rounds, the leading line of infected seen just on the other side. Those that were chasing them emerge from the trees a short distance away, merging with the larger horde.

“We came out too far from the lines. They may have pulled back some,” Jennings states.

The lieutenant directs them along the woods, away from ricocheting or stray rounds and the infected. In a ragged line, they break out of the trees. Ahead, Marines line a roadway crossing the main highway, firing into a thick line of approaching infected. The platoon commander leads them in an arc that brings them behind the engagement, and they join their lines.

With some kneeling in front of others who stand, the remaining Marines attempt to stem the oncoming wave. The front line of infected fall, only to be replaced. The fields are filled with rounds, thick enough to walk across. The horde doesn’t advance any closer, but neither is any distance created. It’s an immovable object versus an unrelenting force. Runners are sent to the resupply point and ammo is distributed along the line. Helicopters arrive, kicking crates out of the back end. If the Marines begin running short of ammo, the tide will instantly overwhelm them. More gunships arrive, delivering their ordinance before retiring to refuel and rearm.

Jennings is close enough to the company commander to hear him call for additional close air support. He wishes artillery was in place, but wishes are useless. They either have something, or they don’t.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Lieutenant Pritchard and her flight of four Super Hornets circle in a holding pattern above the thick layer of clouds. The bright blue sky with the sun in the west belies the weather that she knows is beneath them. This is her third sortie of the day, the first two delivering strikes against smaller towns surrounding the airbase. Below her, soldiers are slogging it out under gray skies and rain. Her current mission is to loiter and provide close air support if required. They don’t have a ton of fuel, but the external tanks provide for her and her flight to remain for a short period. If nothing is called for, then they’ll receive additional targets to unload their ordinance.

She’s currently monitoring radio traffic between a Marine company commander and combat controllers. Things sound like they’ve gone awry—her services might be needed shortly. The term “danger close” causes her to focus more on the radio traffic.

“Captain, that places them inside the minimum safe zone,” the combat controller radios.

“I understand. We can’t pull back or we’ll be overrun. We need help, and we need it now,” the commander replies.

“Are you making the danger close call, then?”

“I am.