"Let's go," the white man said.
****
They followed him, weapons in their hands.
On the main concourse, hell had erupted. Zeke and hisgroup emerged from the lower level of the concourse to find it overrun with thedead. Outside, helicopters were firing into a seething mass of the dead.Inside, the dead were advancing. Soldiers who had spent all of their ammo wereswinging their rifles like baseball bats. Refugees were pushing and shovingwith their hands, trying to keep the dead off of them. Some of them weresuccessful, most of them were not.
The group attempted to head out of the main doors, butthe mass of people there was too confusing, too mixed up with the dead. Theycouldn't even fire their weapons among all of the confusion. The emergencylights created shadows that made it hard to tell who was alive and who wasn't.They retreated in the other direction, heading to the backside of the Coliseum.Refugees and soldiers flooded around them, but the dead were not there yet.
Zeke looked for an emergency exit sign. All thoughts ofhopping in a Stryker went out the window the moment he saw the wall of deadthat were coming their way. How many were there? He had no time toponder the odds they were facing, as an emergency exit loomed ahead of them,its lights glowing red in the gloom of the concourse.
"Hey!" a voice yelled as Zeke reached the door.Zeke spun around, the automatic rifle he had confiscated at the ready. It wasPrivate Bryant. "Where are you going?"
Zeke smiled at the man. "Away from here. If you weresmart, you'd come with us."
Private Bryant thought about it, but Zeke could see theduty in his heart tugging at the logic in his mind. "I can't," hesaid.
"Suit yourself. Good luck," Zeke said as hekicked open the door to the emergency exit. With that, the group turned theirback on Private Bryant, and pounded down a stairwell. Lou gave the Private alone wave of thanks, and then the door clanged shut behind them.
Zeke felt sorry for Private Bryant. He was, like a lotof the soldiers dying in the Coliseum, a good man. He would have been useful.But that was life in the military. He had his orders, and he was going tofollow through on them. Zeke's only order was to keep himself alive. If hecould save some others in the process, well, then that was good too.
Chapter 34: Saint Bryant
Private Bryant's last moments were a nightmare. Hewatched as the group disappeared through the door, taking with them his lastbest chance for survival. Other refugees fled through the door, but the majorityran wide-eyed into the arena. He knew that staying in the Coliseum was a deathsentence, but he chose it anyway.
Standing on the concourse, he pulled his M4 up to readyposition as refugees flowed around him like a river. He called to soldiers asthey ran past, and flicked the selector on his rifle to semi-automatic. Bryantlooked down the sight of his rifle, and lined the red dot up with the foreheadof an Annie. He squeezed the trigger, and its brains exploded on the concretewall of the Coliseum. Another one took its place, and he fired again. Somerunning soldiers skidded to a stop next to him, and they did the same, his calmspreading to the soldiers around him.
He concentrated on his breathing. Though his heart wastrying to beat its way out of his chest, he breathed in through his nose andout through his mouth, squeezing the trigger on the exhale. Still the tideadvanced. The line of soldiers shuffled backwards now, the sound of rifle firesmacking off of the concrete walls, and he could hear nothing.
He saw the emergency exit slide by on his right as hemoved backwards. He should have gone with them; he saw that now. His rifle wasempty, so he pulled the magazine out and slapped another one home.
Private Bryant screamed and spun as he bumped intosomething behind him. It was another soldier. The dead had encircled the entirearena. The soldiers looked at each other, resignation in their eyes. On theother side of the soldier, another wall of the dead was approaching. They weregoing to be sandwiched between two masses of the dead. The soldiers funneledbackwards through an entrance to the arena floor, their rifles firing away.They shuffled backwards down the stairs as the Annies advanced.
If they had managed to kill with every single bullet theyhad, they might have had a chance, but they missed quite often. Bryant countedhimself a fair shot, but he was only taking one down for every two shots fired.
He looked over his shoulder as he backed down theconcrete steps that led to the floor of the arena. He imagined that this waswhat hell looked like. The refugees, what few there were left, huddled in thecenter of the arena with no place left to go. All around the arena, the deadstreamed in from the entrances. In the distance, they looked like trains ofslow moving ants.
Bryant and the other soldiers backed up, firing andkilling as many of them as they could, but he could see that it wasn't going tobe enough. His fears were confirmed when he pulled the trigger and nothinghappened. He felt his pockets for a fresh magazine, but he had used them allup.
The soldier next to him, tapped him on the shoulder andhanded him a magazine. He dropped the spent one and slammed the last one home.The dead were hungry. They wanted him. They wanted them all. Bryant looked tothe sky, begging for help from someone, anyone. God... the devil... a giantspace peanut, he would take assistance from anyone or anything. There was noanswer.
Bryant spun on his heel, the rifle in hand, and heapproached the refugees, leaving his brethren behind. "Who wants todie?" he yelled.
The refugees looked at him, fear on their faces. Tearsran down their faces. A child clung to his mother's jeans. Then it dawned onthe refugees exactly what he was offering. A woman raised her hand, and Bryantdid what he
