The fourteen figures crouched low in the thick brush, only a few dozen yards from the fence of Wiltshire Estates. They moved carefully through the foliage getting close enough that the only thing that separate them from the walls of the community was the empty road.
Then the man with the scar on his face raised a hand.
"Alright, listen up," he whispered, voice rough and impatient.
The group leaned in. Faces young and old, dirty, tired, jittery. In their hands they held rifles, shotguns and pistols — whatever they managed to scavenge without the risk of being eaten alive.
"We're goin' over it again, because I ain't havin' any screw-ups."
He pointed to four of them .
The four people stepped slightly forward — thin, wiry, fast-moving types who carried themselves like they'd done this before. He pointed to each of them in turn.
"You four climb the fence. Two on the far side, two on the west. Get inside and start drawing the geeks out of the houses. Do whatever you know that works. Pull as many as you can into the streets."
One of the four nodded, clutching a small wrapped bundle of firecrackers.
"When there's enough of them moving," the scarred man continued, "Once they're movin', you light that thing and chuck it toward the soldiers. Don't drop it. Don't stand there watchin'. Throw it and run for cover. Attract the geeks towards them." His voice lowered even more. "Let the dead do the work."
The four nodded, tension visible in their shoulders.
He shifted his focus to the remaining nine — the ones who would go in with him.
"You all stick with me. And listen close — 'cause this is the part that matters."
He jabbed a finger toward the main gate of the community.
"When the geeks hit the soldiers, they're gonna be busy. Real busy. Maybe scared. Maybe tryin' to keep their buddies from gettin' chewed on." He leaned in, voice low and vicious. "That's when we hit 'em from behind."
A broad man holding a pump shotgun nodded grimly. "Long as they go down. That's all that matters."
The woman with the hunting rifle , let out a breath. "lright let's do this, as long those four don't screw up. There shouldn't be any problems. "
With that they turned their attention to the main gate . When they confirmed the gate area was clear, they crossed the short stretch of open ground between the foliage and the wall .
The scarred man then jerked his chin toward the fence.
"You four — move. You see any geeks, let 'em follow you. We'll be ready."
As the four climbers crept toward their positions, the remaining nine walked close to the main gate, hiding deeper into the bushes next to it , weapons raised, waiting for the first scream or gunshot that would kick off the chaos they planned to unleash.
···
The two men moved along the outer wall, keeping low and quiet. The bricks were solid, the mortar uncracked — a real wall, the kind built to keep the world out.
"Damn thing's taller than I thought…" one of them muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his upper lip.
"Quit whining," the other whispered. "We get over, steer the geeks, and we're out. Simple."
"Simple?" the first man scoffed quietly. "You ever try luring those things up close? One wrong step and your throat's gone."
"Yeah, well… i'm not worried.
The soldiers on the other hand. They're the ones who'll be screwed when the geeks hits 'em."
They reached a spot where they wouldn't be spotted when climbing in. On top of the brick wall was a metal fence made out of vertical iron bars, weather-worn but sturdy. Thankfully there were no spikes.
"There," the second man whispered, nodding upward. "Easy climb. Just grab the bars and pull."
"Easy, he says…" the first man grumbled, but he was already preparing to jump , hands raised towards the bars. Getting a good grip, he tested them. Solid. Cold.
He climbed first, boots scraping brick, fingers curling around chilly metal. It wasn't graceful — more scrambling than scaling — but the top was reachable. He swung a leg over, careful not to rattle the fence.
"Come on," he whispered down.
His partner climbed with more confidence, muttering, "If this crap falls, I swear—"
"It's not falling. Just get up here."
Seconds later, both men dropped down inside the wall, landing in crouches on unkempt grass. They didn't move, listening.
Nothing.
The street ahead stretched long and empty, homes lining both sides like they were still waiting for morning newspapers.
"Good," one of the men whispered. "We start at the far end. Pull 'em house by house. Give the others time to get in position."
"Yeah… and lead the geeks right to the soldiers."
The other man exhaled, nervously checking the bundle of firecrackers stuffed inside his jacket.
"Just hope this doesn't backfires, before that…"
" Hey , don't jinx it. Now let's go."
They started walking down the street, slow and careful, deeper into the quiet of the dead community — toward the houses at the far end of the community.
···
Captain Price stepped out onto the porch, boots crunching lightly over dried leaves. Behind him, Ghost dragged a cloth across one of his knives, scraping away the last flecks of rot.
"That last one was too close," Soap muttered, tapping the doorframe with his knife. "Didn't think to check the closet. Nearly walked right past it."
Ghost tucked the clean blade away. "You'd think the smell would've given it away."
Soap shook his head. "Whole bloody house smells like a funeral home. Hard to tell where it's coming from."
Price's gaze drifted down the street. Four of the five clearing teams were already entering the final houses on this lane, shields up front, soldiers behind them. The fifth team was off to the side, cleaning blades and shields, waiting for orders to move deeper into the estate. While the rangers mentained a lose formation along the road.
He swept his eyes left, toward the houses they'd already cleared.
Then he noticed something. Movement.
Two figures darting between the side yards — too fast, too deliberate to be walkers.
Soap stepped beside him. "Cap?" he asked quietly. "You see something?"
Before Price could answer, a sharp crack-crack-crack snapped through the air. Not gunfire — but something else.
Firecrackers.
A spray of sparks burst between the houses where the two figures had disappeared.
Price's stomach dropped. "Bloody hell…"
He spun to his team. "Ghost, Gaz — back to the vehicles. Now. This is an ambush."
Ghost didn't hesitate; he imidietly broke into a sprint.
But before they got more than a few steps—
Crack-crack-crack-crack!
Another string of sharp explosions snapped from their side of the street — closer, this time. A bright spray of sparks lit up the shaded pavement.
Soap's eyes widened. "They're trying to draw the walkers—"
"I know," Price growled, already grabbing and raising his rifle toward the nearest house. "Everyone — on me! Move!"
The distant moans began to swell from inside and around the homes, rising like a tide.
···
Entering the house, the riot shield line pushed forward first, boots soft and measured on the hardwood floors. Behind them came the soldiers with hatchets drawn for quiet kills — Ramirez one of them, nerves high but steady enough.
The living room opened up ahead, dim lighted. A smashed lamp lay on its side. Picture frames scattered. Furniture shoved at weird angles, like someone had put up one hell of a fight. Near the couch, a dark pool of dried blood soaked into the rug.
" Looks like they didn't go down without a fight…" Ramirez muttered.
Then two walkers staggered in from the far corner — one with a broken arm hanging uselessly, the other dragging a foot, with his throat bitten off.
"Contact, two front," one of the officers said.
The riot shields moved up, giving the soldiers room. It was quick — two wet thuds, the bodies hitting the floor almost at the same time. Ramirez wiped the blade on the shirt of one of the walkers .
"Upstairs next," Ramirez said, turning toward the hallway.
That's when the first pop cracked from outside.
Everyone froze.
Then the second. Then a whole string of them.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
"The hell was that?" someone hissed.
They moved back into the hallway—
And the house came alive.
A door upstairs slammed open. Heavy steps thudded down. A pair of walkers tumbled halfway down the staircase, hitting the riot shields with a wet, snarling weight. The officers holding the shields grunted, bracing hard to keep their footing.
"Contact! Contact!"
Another walker lunged out of the side bedroom, grabbing for the first exposed body it could reach. The soldier beside Ramirez barely managed to get his arm up in time, the walker biting hard in his arm protection, boots sliding on the floor as the thing clawed at him.
"Ramirez—!" the man shouted.
Ramirez didn't think. He simply reacted, his hand went imidietly to the holster , yanked his sidearm free, and fired point-blank.
BANG!
The walker jerked backward, releasing his buddy's arm.
Two more rounds — BANG! BANG! — put down the pair thrashing at the riot shields by the stairs.
"Clear!" the lead officer barked, chest heaving.
They all stood there swallowing air, adrenaline buzzing like electricity in the walls.
Then—
Gunfire erupted.
Short bursts, coming from outside the house.
"What now?" someone muttered, voice shaking.
"Move! Out! Out!" Ramirez shouted.
They rushed through the hallway and burst out the front door—only to skid to a halt.
Walkers. Dozens. Maybe more. Pouring from houses, around corners, spilling into the street like a flood of rotting bodies.
Every other clearing team was already backing out of the homes they were in, weapons up. Rangers further down the street were firing into the hoard, trying to slow the tide until they could form up.
"On me! Defensive line!" Price's voice roared from somewhere down the block.
Under Captain Price's orders the riot-gear officers snapped into position first, forming a hard barrier with their shields. Soldiers filled in behind them, the melee weapons sheathed, with the rifles and pistols snapping up into firing positions.
Ramirez swallowed, stepping into the firing position, and braced his weapon.
" Fucking hell . This went completely FUBAR…" someone shouted.
···
They huddled behind the overgrown hedges near the main gate, weapons clutched tight in their hands. The scarred man checked his watch, thinking of the four he sent in.
"Any minute now," he muttered.
A thin guy with a .22 pistol bounced nervously on his heels. "When this pops off, I'm callin' dibs on that machine gun," he whispered.
A woman with a double-barrel snorted. "You? You'll break your damn wrist tryin' to shoot that thing."
"Better than you blowin' your face off with that boomstick," someone else said.
A few nervous laughs. Everyone was jittery, tapping barrels, flexing hands, sucking in cold breaths.
Then — CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
The firecrackers at the far side of the neighborhood snapped through the air.
Heads snapped toward the sound.
"That's it," one muttered. "They're movin' the geeks."
The scarred man lifted a hand. "Hold. We go together. We—"
He didn't finish.
The jittery pistol man suddenly bolted from behind the bushes.
"HEY!" the scarred man barked, reaching out to grab him. His fingers brushed the man's jacket but missed. "You idiot! Get back here!"
But the pistol wielder was already sprinting straight toward the Humvee idling just inside the gate, eyes locked on the mounted machine gun like it was some prize waiting for him.
He skidded to a stop halfway there — because five soldiers stepped into view from beside a nearby house, rifles up, ready to move toward the commotion inside the community.
The man froze, eyes wide.
Then — impulse took over.
He jerked his pistol up and fired three panicked shots.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two rounds smacked into the nearest soldier's plate carrier, knocking him backward. The third tore into his shoulder. The wounded soldier cried out, stumbling backwards .
Before the pistol man could fire again—
CRACK!
A single shot from one of the supporting soldiers dropped him instantly, sending him face-down onto the pavement.
"Contact! Contact!" one of the soldiers yelled.
Chaos blew open.
Gunfire erupted from the main gate as the remaining insurgents who tried to stop the man, panicked and opened up. The soldiers dove behind the Humvee and the armored police van, returning fire in tight, controlled bursts, with the wounded soldier stumbling toward the armored vehicle.
The scarred man cursed under his breath, firing as he dragged himself behind a stone planter. "Dammit, I told you to wait—!"
Behind the armored police van, the wounded soldier pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder, muttering curses through clenched teeth as he tried to steady his rifle with the other hand.
Rounds pinged off metal. Dirt kicked up in sprays. The battle at the gate was officially on — loud, messy, and nothing like the scarred man had planned.