Chapter 21: Blood on the Ice
Allen rushed through the snow, dodging between the dead, his breath pluming before him. Epps ran to his right. Behind them, Tejada and the others came on, following their tracks.
The rifle shots had stopped now, but they still headed in the direction they had come from. There had been a lot of rifle shots. That meant a battle. That meant that there were people in trouble. Of course, they were all in trouble now, but it would be better to be in trouble together than alone.
He reached a small clearing and noted the trailers pulled into a circle. A trail of the dead led away from the makeshift compound in the woods, and for a brief second, he thought that they were too late.
Then he heard a faint sound in the distance, in the direction that the dead trudged.
"C'mon, Epps. Let's see what we got."
He paralleled the line of the dead, following their path while not actually having to go through them. Allen noted all the bodies lying in the snow. Whoever was making all that racket was certainly doing a good job of killing off Annies.
He tried not to think about Masterson as he ran. He tried not to think about the way he had fought and killed the Annies, even while his body was turning against him. When the Annies had all been dealt with, he hadn't said anything. He had just knelt in the snow, placed his handgun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. No whining. No goodbye. Just get the job done. Classic Masterson.
Allen broke free from his thoughts as he spotted a clump of Annies through the trees. This was the source of the sound. He heard the growls and groans of the dead. He heard bodies hitting the snow. But most of all, he heard the sounds of the living, swearing, releasing wild war cries into the air. He heard their grunts as they tried to survive, and he knew they wouldn't last for long, whoever was at the center of that mob. But maybe they could save a couple of them.
"Let's light 'em up," Epps said.
"You got it."
Allen took aim, striking at the edges of the mob. He couldn't take shots at the center mass, because the bullets would rip right through the Annies and into the survivors in the middle.
"Clear the edges, and then we'll go in with hatchets," Allen said.
"Sounds like a plan," Epps shot back after he squeezed the trigger of his rifle, one of the Annies falling dead.
Some of the dead turned at the sound of gunshots and headed in their direction, but most of the Annies stood their ground, content with trying to get the meal closest to them.
Allen feathered the trigger of his rifle, dropping all the Annies he had a clear shot at.
When he could see the survivors through the mass of the dead, he put up his rifle and pulled his hatchet free. "Let's save some people," Allen said.
Epps nodded, and they rushed across the forest floor, dodging in between trees and tripping and stumbling occasionally on roots hidden underneath the snow. They ran around the dead that had broken away from the main mob. Time was important here. Allen had some experience with fighting off the dead by hand. He knew how fast the human body tired out. Even now, the survivors at the center of the mob would be flagging, and then it would be all over from there.
He hit the mob at full speed, raising his hatchet above his head and bringing it down on the back of an Annie's skull. The noise was loud, and the Annie dropped. Some members of the undead mob turned towards him, and he backed up, trying to be as aware of his surroundings as possible. He didn't want any of the dead that he had passed to come sneaking up behind him.
Allen swung his hatchet again, aiming for the next Annie approaching him, its dead eyes and grasping skeletal hands inches from his face. The head came off completely. He knew how rare that was. As the head tumbled to the ground, he was already preparing another swing.
He chopped and worked, sweating and swearing along with the survivors surrounded by the mob. He hoped they could hear him. He hoped they knew it was not hopeless. He hoped the presence of himself and Epps gave them the courage to continue.
Allen spun around as one of the Annies approached from behind. He shoved the creature, its long gray hair blowing in the gusting wind as it cut across Allen's face. The Annie fell backward, and Allen fell on it, chopping its face in half. With one foot planted on what used to be its forehead, he pulled the hatchet free and spun to bury the blade in the side of another sneaky Annie that had thought to make a meal out of him when his back was turned.
The shockwave traveled up his arm, and then he was lost, screaming and shouting as he turned primal, turned into something less than a man, a being of pure instinct. He swung and pushed and shoved, screaming the whole way.
Then he found himself standing there in the snow up to his hips panting. It was but a brief respite. More of the dead filtered towards them from the compound, and the forest was dotted with Annies headed in their general direction.
"We gotta move," Allen said. He checked quickly to see that Epps was alright. He was bent over, his arm hanging at his side. Allen's own arm felt like rubber.
"I know you," a voice said from the group of exhausted survivors.
He turned to look at the woman. He never forgot a pretty face. "Holy shit," he said. The words just tumbled out
