Copeland was the first to the front door, approaching it cautiously in case of undead company. He stood in front of it, motioning for Johnson to throw it open so he could breach.
As soon as the Private opened the door, Copeland rushed inside, delivering a vicious kick to the torso of a zombie, sending it flying across the entryway. He whipped around and jammed his blade into an eye socket of another, and Johnson swept past him to stab the one that was on the ground.
“Trucks, go,” Copeland hissed.
Johnson, Raymond, and Schmitt rushed off down the side aisle of the store, pulling out flashlights to illuminate their path. As they reached the back of the store, they spotted five zombies standing in front of the loading dock door.
Johnson held the trio up, while putting his flashlight down to avoid the creatures coming their way. He glanced over, checking to see they were in sporting goods. He stepped into the aisle and grabbed an aluminum baseball bat, motioning for the other two to do the same.
Once properly armed, they rushed down the back aisle towards the creatures. Johnson delivered an overhead smash to the lead zombie, crumpling it, and held up the flashlight so the other two could swing away. After several batter-ups, the threat was eliminated.
Johnson motioned for them to follow him into the loading dock. He peeked through the small window in the swinging doors, seeing nothing close to it. They moved through and put up their flashlights, illuminating the entire area. There were three zombies at the far end, but nothing else in the sprawling area.
“You two, take them out,” Johnson instructed, “I’ll secure the back door.”
The two soldiers walked down to bash some skulls while Johnson headed to his destination. He removed the bolt lock and gently opened the door a crack, listening for noise. When he didn’t hear anything, he pushed it side open, seeing the back area clear. There were three transfer trucks backed up to the loading bays.
Something brushed up against his arm and he startled, whipping around, bat raised. Raymond and Schmitt backed up, hands out.
“Jesus jump-roping christ, don’t do that!” Johnson hissed, his heart rate tripled.
The two men chuckled under their breaths, muttering sorry in unison.
He let out a deep whoosh of breath and motioned for them to follow him. “Come on, check the trucks,” he said, “make sure the battery is good.”
Each of the trio picked a truck, making sure that nothing was waiting for them beneath the vehicles. Johnson swept the area and then clambered up into his, turning the key and relieved to see the dash lights come on. He checked the gas meter and saw it was a half full.
“That should be good enough to get us four blocks,” he said quietly, and then turned the ignition off and slipped out of the truck.
“My truck is good,” Raymond reported as he approached. “Battery works and full tank of gas.”
Schmitt shook his head. “Looks like I got gas, but the battery wouldn’t cooperate.”
“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Johnson replied with a shrug. “Come on, let’s go find the Sarge.”
The trio headed back into the main part of the store. There were footsteps, moans, and the sound of bodies hitting the floor echoing throughout the building. After a few moments, there were sporadic bellows of "clear”, and then quiet.
“Sarge, what’s your twenty?” Johnson called, cupping a hand around his mouth.
Copeland’s voice echoed in the store. “Aisle fifteen,” he replied.
The trio made their way over to the Sergeant, who was watching the soldiers running around the store. Some of them carried equipment to the front of the store to stage it, while a few others came up with various items of food and weaponry. Copeland gave a yay or nay to different items depending on need.
“Johnson, what you got?” he asked, as he gave a thumbs up to a case of tire irons.
The Private jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Three trucks in the back,” he replied. “Two are good to go, one needs a jump.”
“Outstanding,” Copeland said, nodding. “While we’re getting prepped here, you hit automotive and see if they have one of those emergency battery chargers. Hook it up, leave it running, then get back here. As soon as Dawson starts pulling some of those things to the south, we’re hitting the bridge.”
Johnson saluted him. “You got it, Sarge,” he replied and then headed off to automotive with Schmitt and Raymond in tow.
As they disappeared around the aisle, Copeland’s walkie-talkie vibrated. He picked it up and clicked it on.
“Sarge, it’s Kowalski,” the sniper came through. “We’re in position.”
Copeland nodded. “Good news,” he replied. “But I heard some gunfire earlier than expected.”
“Ah, let’s just say the interstate wasn’t dark,” Kowalski replied sheepishly. “Had to divert from the plan in order to get across.”
The Sergeant stiffened. “Situation?” he asked.
“Three on the west side of the interstate, four at the designated target,” the sniper reported.
Copeland sighed. Those numbers didn’t add up. “Who didn’t make it?”
“Carver,” Kowalski replied, voice thick.
The Sergeant shook his head, taking a moment to process. “You don’t lose anybody else,” he finally said, firmly. “That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” the sniper replied.
Copeland took a deep breath. “We’re at the Super Center, gonna be ready to move as soon as Dawson gets to work.”
“In the meantime, we’ll pull them our way,” Kowalski assured him.
“Heard,” the Sergeant replied. “Copeland out.” He put the radio away, crossing his arms as he watched his soldiers work. Come on Dawson, get it done.
CHAPTER FIVE
Corporal Dawson watched on as several members of his fifteen strong team stabbed and bashed in the skulls of a dozen zombies that had wandered out from a side street. It was the last one before the interstate, but the fourth major confrontation his squad had faced on the three-mile trek to the car dealership.
This worried him, because if they were encountering so much resistance on the residential streets, it not only made their
