Bullets riddled the face of the small terraced housing opposite the petrol station, shattering glass and ricocheting both inside and outside the building. Chips of brick, puffs of plaster dust, and splinters of wood clouded the house fronts and interior as sixty rounds ravaged the area they thought the sniper was firing from. The other men, in a panic, simply followed where the two ex-soldiers had fired, blasting off round after round from rifles, pistols, and shotguns in a tempest of thundering lead, desperately trying to end the ghostly assault of their hidden assailant.
“Fucking amateurs,” cursed Briggs aloud at them.
Another shot clipped one of the shotgun-wielding men in the hip, shattering the man’s pelvis and eliciting a lung-shattering scream of pain and panic as he collapsed in the thickening smoke. Again, a change of angle, and Connor cursed. The man had multiple firing positions pre-defined, and concealed movement between them. It was a nightmare; there was nothing a soldier hated more than a skilled enemy sniper that had carefully prepared his area of operation. Every move could be their last as the killer moved in shadows, those under fire never knowing where the monster would emerge next, or what cover was even viable.
As his rifle clicked dry, and with no time to reload the awkward bullpup rifle on the run as he sprinted for cover, Connor slung it to his back, drew his Glock, and started firing at where he thought Nate would be.
Then the bullet ripped through his guts, a roar of pain tearing from his throat as his legs collapsed beneath him and the Glock fell from his grip. It skidded away across the rough asphalt. The metallic smell of his own blood mingled with the pungent aroma of discharged ammunition, and the sense-scratching cloud of thick smoke from the sniper’s makeshift smoke bomb.
“I’m hit!” he cried out in reflex as he dragged himself the last few feet round the corner of a building.
Shaun tried a courageous run to Connor’s aid, ending in a bullet from the accursed gunman, but as soon as he went down, Briggs gave the order to retreat. Bastard.
The radio chatter was filled with the panic of the QRF, that had been hit on their exit from the grounds of his home, and no support was coming. The survivors, however many that might be, bundled into their vehicles, along with Mark in the tanker, and made their escape, leaving Connor alone with only the undead for company.
And Nate.
One, two, three, four. Clean, efficient, unerring.
The enemy rifle barked again and again, but this time its targets were not the living, but the shambling undead. Connor turned his head to see the dark silhouette of his killer phase through the dispersing smoke, the makeshift bomb all but burned out. His walk was a glide, smooth and steady, in perfect balance as he squeezed off single rounds to put Jamie’s men down for a second time.
Satisfied the area was clear of undead, Nate turned to see Connor staring in his direction, hands pressed to the belly wound, and turned the barrel towards him.
“Unarmed,” wheezed Connor, gesturing to the Glock lying in the road with his head. “Rifle’s empty, and I’ve not got long left anyhow.” He sighed. “Before you do what you have to, a word?”
Nate emerged out of the smoke and Connor saw him for the first time.
The man was early fifties, but he still looked in peak physical condition. His dark hair was likely kept short but was starting to lengthen at the top and sides, revealing a sprinkling of silver dusting. Brown eyes so dark they seemed black from a distance stared back at him, looking him over, ignoring a slight cut above one eye where a chip of stone or ricochet must have caught him in the barrage. It was a nasty scratch on any other day of the week, but in comparison to the hell he had unleashed upon Connor and his men, it was insignificant.
“Infantryman, First Royal Regiment of Fusiliers,” declared Connor. “Two tours of Iraq, last one just over a year ago.” He coughed, wincing at the stab of pain in his abdomen.
Nate’s expression softened and he lowered the barrel of his rifle, though it was still ready.
“Royal Marine Commando, and a stint in 22 SAS,” he replied.
Shit, mused Connor. Even his fucking voice has power.
“Knew you were more than just a grunt,” he chuckled, a wry shake of his head. He leaned his head back again with a sigh. “Nate, is it?” The man nodded once. “Connor Bancroft.”
Connor half expected his world to end the moment his named was heard, but Nate remained unmoved.
“I’m sorry all this shit had to go down, Nate. You gave my brother Johnny a chance to walk away, and he didn’t. That’s on him.”
Nate sighed and slung the rifle behind him, stepping a little closer and going to one knee, though his right hand rested on the Glock at his hip.
“We’re just trying to survive, Connor,” said Nate. “Your older brother is making that difficult.”
“He wasn’t always this bad, I swear,” sighed Connor, closing his eyes for a moment. “Something changed in him the day the world started dying, Nate. Day after day, I’ve seen the dark rising, snuffing out the last of his light.” He opened his eyes again, turning his head to face the former marine. “I’ve been trying to pull him back. The captives, the women, the violence; I fought against it all, Nate. I’ve tried, I really have, but he’s wandered into the dark too far and now? Now, he’s lost.”
Nate absorbed the information in silence, dark eyes fixed to Connor’s face.
“You know, after this fuel run, I was going to try a coup on my
