He turned and took off at a brisk pace, all seven soldiers keeping up with him. They moved swiftly along the moonlit road, the light reflecting off of the water. It was a mile run to the bridge, and as they got closer, they heard a worrisome sound in the distance.
Gunfire. And lots of it.
If they’re firing, then it’s bad out there, Copeland thought bitterly, and pushed harder, picking up more speed and pulling away from the other troops. Despite giving it their all, they just couldn’t keep up with the beastly Sergeant.
The group finally reached the frontage road, stopping before crossing it. As the rest of the men showed up, they found Copeland staring down at the interstate away from the bridge.
“What…” Johnson huffed, “what is it, Sarge?”
His superior just continued to stare, letting out another displeased grunt. Johnson leaned over to see a few hundred zombies coming up the interstate towards the bridge.
Raymond clustered in behind them, and his eyes widened. “Not sure we have the ammo for that,” he warned.
“We don’t,” Copeland confirmed, “but we need to slow them down.” He pointed to a quartet of his team members. “You four, on the interstate. Start picking them off, thin them out as much as you can. Use every shot if you have to.”
They didn’t even bother responding, simply running off as the gunshots intensified on the bridge.
“Anybody here know how to hot-wire a car?” Copeland asked.
Raymond raised his hand. “I got you, Sarge.”
“Good,” Copeland replied, and pointed back the way they’d come. “Find the sturdiest one you can in the Super Center parking lot and get it ready to go. Bring it to the front. Schmitt, you cover him and make sure nothing sneaks up. Johnson, you’re with me.”
The four of them tore across the highway, glancing over at the bridge barricade. There was a complete line of creatures on the barrier, with the four men frantically running back and forth, using blunt objects to cave in heads and occasionally firing off a shot if one or two toppled over the cement barricade.
Things were frantic, but the soldiers appeared to be holding their own.
Copeland and Johnson rushed into the Super Center, tearing in with reckless abandon. As they came around the corner past the front entryway, they encountered a trio of zombies. The Sergeant didn’t even break momentum, just picked up the first one, pile-driving it into the other two and sending all three to the ground past the cash registers.
Johnson raised his gun and quickly fired, taking them all out in quick succession. When he looked up, he’d lost Copeland, and ran deeper into the store.
“Sarge?” he called. “Sarge?”
“Aisle eighteen,” Copeland called back.
Johnson squealed around a corner and spotted the Sergeant looking at automotive accessories. He finally picked up a handful of road flares and held them out.
“I’m getting duct tape and a weight,” Copeland said. “I need you to find the propane tank keys.”
Johnson started to run up to the front, hoping that they were at the customer service desk, but stopped as he passed the hardware section. He checked an end cap and spotted a gigantic pair of bolt cutters, picking it up and smiling.
“This should do just fine,” he said to himself, and ran outside, where Schmitt and Raymond were just pulling up in a giant eighties Cadillac. It was big as a boat and weighed twice as much. “Where the hell did you find this hoopty ride at?” Johnson drawled.
Schmitt just smiled. “Amazing what’s still on the road, huh?” he asked.
Johnson waved for him to follow him. “Come on, gonna need help with the tanks.” He led his partner to the tanks and peeled it open, digging out the canisters. They quickly hauled every single can they could to the car, packing it tight.
Copeland nodded as he approached, holding his tools. As they finished loading the trunk, he threw open the car door, climbing into the back seat and using his knife to carve out a hole in the back seat. He punched through to the trunk, leaving a three-inch wide hole.
“You get this car up to the road, and when you do, open up every canister in the trunk,” he instructed. “Throw the road flares into the front seat, throw the weight on the gas, and let her rip.”
The three soldiers exchanged worried glances.
“That…” Raymond began, “that doesn’t seem safe.”
Copeland pursed his lips. “It’s either this or you grab a baseball bat and start whacking zombies.”
Raymond shook his head, raising his palms in defeat.
Copeland nodded. “When you get it done, join Johnson and I on the bridge.” As the boys drove off, the Sergeant turned to Johnson. “Come on, our boys need help.”
As they sprinted, the Private spoke through gasps, trying to keep up. “What… what about… Dawson?” he huffed.
“Already called him,” Copeland replied, as if he weren’t even breaking a sweat. “He’s on the way.”
They reached the interstate and ran up towards the line, and the scene was chaos. The four soldiers had been forced to retreat into the center barrier, with a couple dozen zombies completely surrounding it. On the main line, ghouls lined up shoulder to shoulder, hundreds in view and easily thousands behind them.
It was a sea of moaning and flailing, the corpses trying to figure out how to traverse the obstacle in front of them to get to a fresh meal. Every so often, one would flip over, stagger to its feet, and then join the others at the center barrier.
Copeland and Johnson stopped about twenty yards from the action, with not a single zombie paying them any attention. The gunfire coming from within the barrier ceased completely.
“How many mags you got?” the Sergeant asked.
Johnson checked. “Five, fresh.”
“Give me two,” Copeland said.
The Private handed them over, and Copeland grabbed two of his own, putting all four in his giant hand before yelling, “Bridge team,
