"Move it! Everyone get in position!"
Colbert's face was grim as he urged the soldiers into action. Two rows of buses had been pushed together on the street, blocking the intersection. Every door and window in the surrounding houses and shops had been sealed shut to prevent the Infected from slipping through and flanking their position.
They'd pulled back completely, abandoning the town's perimeter to concentrate their forces on defending the streets around the town center. Soldiers hauled crates of ammunition onto nearby rooftops. Some of the bolder ones climbed directly onto the bus roofs, ready to engage any Infected that appeared.
The remaining soldiers split into teams—some gathering glass containers to fill with gasoline for Molotov cocktails, others dragging sofas, cabinets, and other large furniture from the houses to plug every gap beneath and between the buses.
Explosions echoed from the town's outskirts. The patrol squads out there must have received their orders and were using grenades to draw the Infected's attention, buying time for the main force at the center.
Once he confirmed the defensive line was in place, Colbert allowed himself a small breath of relief. At least they wouldn't have to fight the Infected hand-to-hand. He turned to the communications officer beside him. "What's the status on the other lines?"
"Eastern defense is fully prepared. North and south sectors are almost ready!"
"SKREEEEE—!"
The words had barely left the officer's mouth when a blood-curdling shriek erupted from the darkness beyond the town's edge, followed by the thundering of countless running feet. Then they appeared—wave after wave of Infected with ashen faces and blood-red eyes, clawing and snarling as they surged into the light, crashing toward the buses at the end of the street like a tsunami.
Colbert's expression changed the instant he saw the horde charging toward them. There was no time for speeches. He sprinted to the window and bellowed at every soldier in earshot: "OPEN FIRE!"
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT—!
The air exploded with gunfire. Bullets ripped into the front ranks of Infected like hail, blood spraying as dozens collapsed onto the snow-covered ground in the space of a heartbeat.
The falling bodies tripped up the Infected behind them. Before those could struggle to their feet, the ones pushing from the rear trampled right over them, crushing the fallen beneath the relentless tide.
For every Infected that went down, several more stumbled and fell with it. Incredibly, more seemed to be dying from being trampled than from gunfire, and the horde's advance slowed slightly.
But these were bodies driven by Cordyceps—corpses with no concept of fear. They didn't spare a glance for their fallen comrades, just kept charging forward mindlessly, obeying the fungus's directive.
Colbert watched the shrinking distance between the horde and their position. He was a combat veteran, but cold sweat still beaded at his temples.
When the Infected were less than a hundred meters from the barricade, he shouted again: "GRENADES!"
At his command, soldiers who'd been waiting with grenades in hand pulled the pins and hurled them with all their strength toward the leading edge of the horde.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Dozens of grenades arced through the air and landed among the Infected. Explosions erupted in rapid succession, black smoke billowing across the street. Through the haze, countless bodies flew through the air—charred limbs and severed arms spinning upward before crashing onto nearby rooftops, still dripping crimson.
When the smoke cleared, the soldiers saw that the grenades had blown a crater into the street itself. The pit was filled with Infected—some dead, others with their legs destroyed, unable to continue the charge. The horde's advance had been momentarily halted.
At the same time, intense gunfire and grenade explosions erupted from adjacent streets. The Infected that couldn't push through the main road had started flooding down the side streets.
The soldiers' submachine guns never stopped roaring. The grenades were effective at slowing the horde and taking out significant numbers. But against this endless sea of Infected stretching as far as the eye could see, their efforts felt like trying to empty the ocean with a teacup.
The Infected quickly recovered. With another collective shriek at the hated humans, they climbed over their fallen comrades and charged forward once more.
Seeing the horde reform and resume its charge, Colbert knew direct confrontation was now inevitable. He turned and shouted to the soldiers behind the barricade: "Everyone on the bus roofs, get down flat! All soldiers, brace for impact!"
At his command, every soldier standing on the buses dropped prone onto the roofs. Their hands never stopped moving—smoothly ejecting magazines, slamming in fresh ones, maintaining fire on the Infected without wasting a second.
On the other side of the buses, furniture had been stacked to block every gap between the vehicles and the street. The soldiers there immediately dropped what they were carrying. Nearly a hundred men formed a line, pressing their shoulders against the buses and bracing for the collision.
The deafening thunder of running feet and inhuman screams mixed with the soldiers' gunfire and battle cries. Then the front ranks of Infected slammed into the buses with crushing force. The ones at the very front were pulped against the metal like bugs on a windshield.
The massive impact of thousands of bodies shoving forward actually pushed the double-parked buses back several dozen centimeters. The buses in the middle tilted, gaps opening between them—just wide enough for a person to slip through.
Several soldiers lying prone on the roofs hadn't anticipated such violent impact. They were thrown clear off, tumbling into the mass of Infected below. Their desperate screams echoed briefly before being swallowed by the horde.
Colbert stood at the window, watching the Infected held back by the buses. The tension drained from his face, replaced by cautious relief.
His greatest fear had been that the buses wouldn't hold against the horde's momentum—that they'd be smashed open, creating a breach. If that happened, their only option would be immediate evacuation, saving whoever they could.
His earlier orders to concentrate fire and throw grenades had been specifically to rob the Infected of their momentum before they hit the barricade. The situation was still dire, but better than he'd feared.
But just as he allowed himself that breath of relief, the Infected behind the front ranks began pushing forward with renewed fury. The parked buses started to tremble, inching backward. The gaps between the tilted vehicles in the middle grew wider with each passing second.
Colbert's pupils contracted. His brief calm evaporated. "HOLD THOSE BUSES! Get the Molotovs ready—throw them at the BACK of the horde! We can't let them keep pushing!"
The soldiers had seen what was happening to the buses. Those on the roofs had gone pale as paper, but none of them ran. Instead, they raised their weapons and fired furiously at the Infected squeezing through the gaps.
Soldiers on the rooftops to either side lit their Molotov cocktails and hurled them with everything they had toward the rear of the horde.
CRASH!
Glass shattered as the bottles smashed at the Infected's feet. Crimson flames engulfed everything nearby, setting dozens of Infected ablaze. One bottle exploded mid-air, raining fire down on the horde like a dragon's breath.
A sea of fire erupted in the rear ranks, illuminating the scene bright as day. Black smoke billowed skyward as the flames seared flesh from bone, spreading to Infected who hadn't even been directly hit. A nauseating smell of burning meat filled the air.
They weren't throwing at the front for two reasons. First, the buses' fuel tanks still held gasoline—an accidental ignition would collapse the entire defensive line. Second, if too many corpses piled up beneath the buses, the Infected would simply climb over them onto the roofs. That would be digging their own graves.
Better to target the rear, cutting off reinforcements and maximizing kills. If the surrounding buildings caught fire? So what—they were surrounded by Infected anyway.
But while the Molotovs set huge swaths of Infected ablaze, fire didn't kill instantly. The burning creatures still pushed forward with everything they had. Despite the soldiers bracing against the buses—faces red with exertion, drenched in sweat, straining with every ounce of strength—they couldn't stop the vehicles from sliding backward, couldn't stop the gaps from widening.
Colbert's eyes went bloodshot. He stared at the growing gap between the middle buses, gripping his binoculars so hard the casing creaked. A single thought echoed through his mind: It's over.
Just when despair had taken hold, the sound of rapid footsteps came from the street behind them. Hundreds of figures burst around the corner and threw themselves against the buses alongside the soldiers.
The fresh reinforcements, combined with the Molotovs cutting off the rear, brought the buses' backward slide to a halt. As everyone pushed together, they even started gaining ground.
Colbert stared in shock at the sudden arrivals. These weren't soldiers—they were the civilians who were supposed to be sheltering in the buildings at the town center.
Then he spotted Harry among them, and understanding dawned. His legs nearly gave out. He slumped against the wall, a smile spreading across his face that looked more like he was about to cry.
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