“Looks like they’re just dropping their payload,” Ron said, looking as zombies were coming by the score.
Nicole came up to Ron’s side. “MJ wants to know if he should throw the switch.”
“Now would be as good a time as any.” Ron was still trying to bring his beating heart down to a manageable rate and not having much success.
The six-foot high chain link fence was swaying as more zombies walked into the impediment, the extra braces on the poles and the chain link section themselves would not be yielding anytime soon.
Perimeter lights flooded on just as the zombies touching the gate and fence stood bolt upright, a decent current running through their frames, enough to kill a man or at the very least incapacitate him. The zombies’ muscles were locked in place, and still more came pressing up against their stock still brethren only to join them in their rigidity.
“Is it killing them?” Tracy asked, hoping that was the case.
Ron grabbed his binoculars. “I can’t tell for sure. Travis, can you go down and tell MJ to turn the fence off for a minute, then back on? Thanks,” he added as Travis went by.
The first few zombies that had been the unfortunate first test zombies fell to the ground as the current let their muscles loose. More moved in to take their spot, but there were not yet enough that they blocked out the zombies on the ground as they stood and fought for access to the fence.
“Well that answers that question,” Ron said more to himself. He walked inside and yelled down the stairs. “Turn the fence back on.” Travis was already on his way back up and heading for the outside deck.
“Time to make them pay for their trespassing,” Tony said as he sent a bullet through the forehead of the nearest zombie. A plume shot out the back of its skull. Travis, Gary, and BT joined in the shooting.
“Take your time,” Tony told them. “One shot, at least one kill with them packing this closely. Bullets are going to get precious by the time this is all over.”
The first quandary surfaced about twenty minutes into the firefight. The dead zombies up against the fence hadn’t seen fit to fall away so that it would be easier targeting in on those behind.
Mad Jack had just come up from the basement to see how his handiwork was holding up.
“Going to need you to go back downstairs and turn it off,” Ron told him.
Mad Jack’s face fell. His face, which had a moment before been beaming, was now dejected.
“It works fine, MJ,” Ron said, picking up on the man’s feelings. “Probably too well. We can’t get the extra dead ones off the fence. Listen, shut it off for about a solid minute, keep it on for ten and just keep repeating the cycle while the zombies change out.”
Mad Jack had an extra swagger in his step as he headed back down.
Mrs. Deneaux was sitting on a lounger looking up at the sky as she enjoyed one of her cigarettes.
“You getting in on this?” Ron asked, preparing his rifle.
“When it counts I suppose I will,” she said after exhaling.
Zombies still flowed. The fence which encased the entire grounds was now at least ten deep at the minimum; the only thing keeping them from going deeper where the trees. The accumulated weight—no matter how strong the supports—was beginning to fold the structure in on itself. They had to keep revolving weapons out as they got too hot to shoot without damaging the barrels and still it would not be enough.
“Truck coming!” Gary shouted over the blasts.
“Want me to take out the driver?” Travis asked. “I’ve got a clear shot.”
“Let him come,” Tony said. “He’ll fill in the hole nicely.” And then I’ll kill him when he tries to run, Tony thought, trying to protect his grandson from the distaste of killing a man that would linger with him through his entire life like a rotten piece of food that would come back up for a second taste from time to time.
The truck started slowly down the dense, tree-lined path, then began to pick up speed. Tony thought that someone had surely drawn the short end of the stick as they barreled towards the fence line and ultimately the house. The trailer had been removed, giving the truck the ability to be more maneuverable and move faster. Tony could not see the driver as he sighted in. The straw had been short, but not short enough that they didn’t try to protect that driver. He was hidden behind what looked like a piece of steel.
“Might as well have some fun,” Tony said aloud as he pulled the trigger on his favorite weapon: a Remington 30-30, bolt-action hunting rifle with a Leupold 8-times scope. The bullet smashed easily through the safety glass of the windshield and hit the steel. The resulting gong could be heard over the roar of the engine. The truck swerved momentarily, nearly clipping a tree as the driver placed his hands over his ears. The steel was still vibrating when the front end of the truck began to dip down. The unsupported ‘bridge’ dropped out from under the truck, the front end smashing into the far side of the earthen embankment. The metal screeched as it took on its new form. Plastic and glass smashed, and once the truck engine seized, they could hear the driver moaning.
“Al, you alright?” someone yelled out from around a small curve in the road safely tucked away from any defender shots.
“My head, Kong, I’m bleeding…smashed myself on the plating. Get me out of here, man!” Al yelled frantically. He didn’t want to tell Kong that he had also broken his vial; the man would probably leave him where he was.
“Go hook up some tow cables to the back end of the truck,” Kong told the nearest driver. He though his name might be Scribner or Scrivener, he didn’t really care.
“Why me, man?” the guy asked.
“Because I said. Get someone to cover your ass if you need to,” Kong said
“Let’s just leave the damn truck there. It ain’t bothering anyone,” Scribner replied.
“It’s bothering me and fucking bad!” Kong yelled. “I want the damn thing removed so we can throw something over that hole and drive in if we want to. Plus, I sort of owe Al one. And if you don’t, I’ll kill you…enough reason?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Scribner walked back up the road to the staging area, which was basically just a road with trucks parked up and down the length of it. He got a tow line from his rig and grabbed two men sitting on their fender. They were the only ones with rifles on and if he was going to get cover, he at least wanted men that were armed.
“What’s going on?” the taller of the two asked. His name was Burkes, he had a moustache that made him look somewhat like a cowboy and he may have been able to pull it off, but instead of cowboy hat, he insisted on a golf visor, and instead of the signature leather boots, he wore Keds.
“The truck they sent in to bust down the fence got stuck and...” For a moment he thought about lying and telling the man that Kong had told him to get a man to hook it up, but Kong was still standing at the curve and would never let him get away with it. “...I have to hook this up to the rear end of it so we can pull it out.” He held the hook up.
“I’m not going near that house,” the shorter man replied. His name was Dobbs; he looked like a cross between an accountant and a construction worker. Small spectacles did little to re-shape his square head and jaw. Powerful arms were sheathed in a button-up shirt. Add to that the fact that he was wearing khakis and Hush Puppies, it seemed he was having great difficulty defining his cliché. “You hear all those shots? Sounds like a war up there.”
“It is a war, dip wad,” Scribner said. “And do you know what happens to soldiers that disobey orders?”
Dobbs’ eyes widened. He hadn’t really thought of it that way until just now. He checked his weapon.
“Three men heading towards the back of the truck, Pops,” Travis told his grandfather. The three men approaching the truck were bent over so far, they looked like the trio were all vying for the part of Quasimodo in The Bells of Notre Dame at the local dinner theater.