The horizon burns orange as the sun sinks slowly below the line at end of the world. With the flick of a switch, it all goes green. Night vision is the best way to find them. They don’t have much life left in them, but what little there  is, shows hot green in the scope. It’s like catching fireflies in summer. Except here when you catch that little blink, you put a bullet in the fuckers head and forget about the jar.

Two soldiers, silent and prone, pointing high-powered rifles over the lip of the five story building they have made their perch. Like hunters in a blind, they wait for their prey to enter the clearing.  The man on the left moves slightly, inching his rifle to change the angle of site. The shift is silent and subtle, twisting the double S emblazoned on his arm to a pair lightning bolts. U.S. Marine Corps Sniper Scout Sergeant Dak Meyer breaks silence with a whisper into his microphone.

“Eleven o’clock, two flies.” Break.

“Roger. Have marks in range.” Responds a voice. Break.

“Take em out.” Break.

Inhale and find the target, bring the target to center. Exhale, press cheek firmly against the butt stock, and squeeze the trigger of the M40A5.  Thunder muffled and funneled, quickly dissipating  into the night air. Once, pause… twice.

“Zed is dead… times two.”  Break.

“Roger. Nice shooting Hathcock. Time to move.”

There was a time, when after an extermination the remains would be marked with a laser beacon  for the sanitation burn squads, but that was determined to be too costly a use of resources. The numbers became too great, so now, the bodies stay where they lay. Food for the winged carrion and scavengers.  When burn squads were active the air was pungent and acrid with the reek gasoline, burning bodies and debris. Tonight the air is putrid with rot and decay.

Two silhouettes move across the roof top, through Door and down the stairs, five flights to street level. Moving from cover to cover, into nooks of shadow, as if under potential sniper fire, old combat  habits die hard. The current enemy has no weapons. No snipers or artillery, just teeth. They are slow moving, and clumsy, but they never stop.

One at a time they aren’t too hard to handle, but in large crowds, things can get nasty. It’s like a slow wave that never ebbs, it just creeps forward washing over everything on the beach. A bloody and putrid walking wave of filth. It was pretty bad in the beginning. Large population centers overflowed with them. Detroit was as bad as it gets.

Thousands crawled from the Detroit Windsor Tunnel after Canadian  Mounties and other law enforcement officials herded thousands of the dead onto a section of limited access highway where they hoped to contain and destroy. The required munitions for the task was vastly under estimated, the men panicked and there were accidents. An errant ricochet punctured a flamethrower tank, setting off a series of explosions. Soldiers, fearing the flames jump into the throbbing mosh pit of dead, others were thrown in from the blasts. A real Canadian shit show… Eh?

There are two things true about Zed. He loves to eat, and he hates fire. He will literally stop at nothing to get a bite of some warm body. Nothing but fire. The military doctors and scientist speculate that the so called fear of fire is simply a natural, and instinctual base reaction. A reaction that is seen in almost every species on earth. This “survival” instinct is similar to the instinct that drives them to eat. That is the official sentiment anyway.

So, down the concourse the mob of reanimated illegal immigrants moved south from the great white north. Not seeking asylum, or claiming refugee status, simply moving away from the flames and toward America, through an artery of concrete, under the Detroit River and right into the heart of the motor-city.

Well, that was then, and as they say, this is now. It seems like a lifetime ago, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t but  a hand full of years. The timelines have changed. The life expectancy rates among the surviving have been reduced dramatically. Within the military it’s even worse. Meyer knows what the turnover rates are all across the armed services. The SS have some of the lowest, and he has made it his mission to keep it that way. He has the football field rule. Any Zed that is closer than the length of a football field is too close.

The two Marines move down the street in strict cover formation. Meyers checks his GPS. They are right where they should be. He was instrumental is designing the Dart Board perimeter system the population zones use. Zones are set in rings like a dart board, expanding from a center population point. The first two or three depending on geography, topography, and geological concerns, are set up for civilian living. Beyond the outer civilian zone is military controlled. Meyer and his men are in the outer zone… the dead zone.

Crawford and Jennings should be nested two clicks north west on top of the meat packing plant. Another quick dash into shadow, serpentine, and silent up the street, down alleys, and across the vacant lot behind the large industrial building. Piles of bone, clothe and flesh litter the parking lot. The wind carries the sounds and smells of the undead while pushing tumble weeds of hair into the gutter.

“Crawford.” Break.

“Crawford.” Break.

He waits for a reply, but there is only silence.

“Crawford, this is Meyer. If you can’t speak, acknowledge with a click.”

There is no response from Crawford or anyone. He motions, communicating in hand signals, and the other figure moves toward the building, flanking the over-sized metal doors, preparing to make an entry. Meyer arrives checks the handle, opens the door and the two enter the building. The door slams tightly behind them sending an echo up through the five flights in the stair well. In one swift motion he zip ties the door handles together as an added security measure against the curious. The walls are painted concrete and the stairs are cold steel that resonates with every footfall and sound. They ascend soft and deliberate, pausing in unison, moving as one entity. Two, three, four… the numbers count in a backwards count down, increasing as the imminent approaches.

Rooftop Access is stenciled on the door in paint that shows bright in the night vision spectrum. The door is slightly ajar painted with the hand prints of those fighting to keep the doors closed, or open. The streaks told a chaotic story of struggle and defeat. The door now hangs, the lock broken, the small window a spider web of cracks, as the victors left it.

“Eyes wide. Mind our Six.” Break.

Do you come from a land down under?
Where women glow and men plunder?