Backstory continued (Wouldn’t even fit in one post!)
I started a dead run, clutching my fully loaded SAW as huge explosions hit all around me. Men were dying left and right, zombies were everywhere. Instinct told me to run. As I ran, I saw a fellow soldier in a trench firing a .203 at the zombies which were crawling all over the surface of an intact Abrams. The tank fired, but the shot went wild and struck friendly forces.
I quickly eyed a zombie behind him, closing in on him fast. He was totally oblivious. I shouted:
“LOOKOUT, THERE IS A MOTHER-blam!- ZOMBIE BEHIND YOU!”
However, he turned to face me instead of turning to kill the zombie. It grabbed him and he screamed. I still remember that scream to the day… The zombie ripped his neck apart and they both tumbled into the trench as he made a horrific gurgling noise. I carefully lobbed a grenade into the area, and turned to continue running. I never heard it go off though; far too many larger explosions. I kept running. I was out of time.
Survivors were firing back at the Apaches now: They began exploding and falling out of the sky. One landed to the right of me, and a group of other soldiers that had appeared while I was trying to save the poor .203 gunner. The Apache careened into down into a Humvee, and they both disappeared in the explosion. Behind it, an Abrams fired and the shot flew overhead. Zombies rushed over the wreckage and into the tank. It’s entire surface was covered with them. This distracted me and I was only alerted to the danger when a soldier behind me began firing. Looking around, zombies were rushing in over the wreckage from the Helicopter crash. I fired, as did the other soldiers. The zombies began to drop, but not fast enough. They gained ground faster and faster.
The soldiers were shouting we weren’t going to make it. They were right. The G’s refused to be stemmed or routed. They kept coming in dozens. Some soldiers were running out of ammo. We briefly debated which route to take, shouting to each other over the sound of horrendous explosions, the constant hollow, dead moans of the G’s, and the occasional surviving Abrams mortar or Humvee’s .50 MG. We began to retreat back in the direction of the river.
Whilst we fell back, the soldiers were shouting a debate on which direction would be the best to escape, intermittently firing their weapons and conversing.
“The west is mother-blam!- swarming with them. All the noise from the vehicles moving into position must have drawn them in from Buffalo or some other -blam!–beyond all recognition infested area. West is NOT a -blam!- option.”
A calm and collected soldier, unlike the rest of us, shouted:“The best route would be to hook south around Pittsburgh, and from there head for the Rockies. They still are holding out there. I don’t know if D.C. managed to hold up against the -blam!- storm or not, I’d assume no, since Command never reestablished contact after the bombs hit. Not worth risking all our lives just to find out.”
A chorus of agreements came over the gunfire and explosions. Time to roll. However, the quickest way to get around and out was back through the mass of tanks, zombies, and clusters of survivors firing at each other, as well as other zombies. It looked like hell.
We moved into it. Burning wreckage and dead men were everywhere. Some were squirming on the ground. We were sure to put a round into their brains before they reanimated. Moving deeper in, it because terrifying. Blood was splattered everywhere. It was grotesquely splattered across the sides of destroyed tanks and overturned Humvees. Many dead still held weapons in the ready position, as if they never got the chance to use them. However, closer investigation revealed they were not dropped by zombies, they were riddled with bullet wounds. We continued south, through the sickening massacre from “friendly fire”, as well as the never ending tide of G’s.
An Apache swooped overhead, missiles streaking away from it. Explosions. Screaming. A second later, an Abrams 120MM shell accompanied by a massive BOOM! struck the helicopter dead center. It crumpled, and a second later violently exploded. Seconds later the Abrams that had fired into it exploded. No visible missile trail however, which didn’t quite add up.
A fully automatic 30-round burst came from what sounded like an M16. More fully auto fire. Screams. I wheeled around to find a group of Marines exchanging fire another group of Army guys further down. I was confused by the sight. I would’ve been concerned at any other time, but not then. We decided on a plan of action. A group of heavy MG gunners stayed about 25 yards back with their weapons hot while we went in. If any of the Marines so much as twitched in the wrong direction, they’d be riddled with bullets in seconds.
The other group of us slowly approached, weapons hot. I shouted:
“Why the -blam!- are you shooting at you’re goddamned allies?”
A Marine who was reloading an M4A1 grimly replied:
“The -blam!-s started shouting about divine salvation when the G’s started pouring in. Next thing we know the Apaches started bombing us to hell and they opened up into our backs. Killed 20 of us before we even knew what was happening. The survivors in my unit backed up behind this tank and fought back. I don’t know about the rest; it all went to hell in a second.”
I hollered back:
“Well, isn’t this one giant cluster-blam!-. Communications with Command are still gone because of the nukes, and we think that D.C. finally got overrun. We’re getting the hell out. You want to come?”
The Marine grimly refused, stating they were -blam!- beyond all help, but they were bringing the -Yoinks!- that tried to wipe them out with them. With that, he returned to firing at the enemy. We moved to the east, around the firefight. Through the burning and dead mass of man and machine. Back through the metropolitan area…
