“I didn’t sign up for this,” Ben said aloud. “I really didn’t. It ain’t right.”
“Ain’t nothing right about the dead gettin’ up and tryin’ to eat ya. Pull it together, boy,” Sam warned. “The shit ain’t even started for us yet. Last night was nothing. Wait till you see a herd of those things, over a hundred or more strong, come tearin’ at ya. Then you’ll have a memory that’ll really haunt ya.”
“We’re gonna kill those bastards and send ‘em back to Hell where they belong. All of them,” Clint promised, gritting his teeth as he cleaned his rifle.
“This town, Canton,” Grant cut in. “Do you know anything about it, Sam?”
“Not much. Think a couple hundred folk called it home. It’s one of those towns that just sprang up in the rush west. The odds of us getting in and out of there alive ain’t too great, but like I said: at least there we’ll have somewhere to fortify and make a stand.” Sam sipped at his coffee. “You boys should be getting some rest. Our watch is over and I bet we’ll all be pressin’ it hard again tomorrow.”
The night passed with no sign of the dead, and just as Sam had predicted, the next day was filled with a rigorous march. As the squad drew nearer to Canton, their expectations of another attack rose, but none came.
Wayne himself was on point as the group entered the town. The place stank of rotting flesh and death. There was no question that the dead were lying in wait, and quite likely a large number of them.
Wayne surveyed the closest buildings and picked the one that looked the most secure. “Clint, Ben: go check out the jail. I want it secured as fast as possible. Everybody else, hold your positions and be ready to move in on their signal.”
Clint and Ben darted for the building and disappeared behind its door, which swung in the breeze.
Hank tapped Grant on the shoulder as they waited. “See that?” he asked, directing the journalist’s attention to the eastern side of town.
“I’ll be damned,” Grant muttered. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
“Wish I could,” Hank said, frowning. “It’s an orphanage all right. A big one from the looks of the thing.”
“You don’t think…” Grant couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“I sure do. The plague doesn’t give a crap how old you are.”
A gunshot echoed inside the jail. Five more rang out in its wake. Wayne was on the verge of ordering more men into the building, but Ben popped into the doorway and gave the all-clear sign. Almost en masse the squad sprinted for the cover of the building. Grant and Hank entered last, pushing the door closed behind them.
Hank spotted a heavy looking desk. “Gimme a hand!” he ordered. Grant and two other men helped shove the desk in front of the door, wedging it as tightly shut as they could. “That should at least give us some warning,” Hank said, satisfied.
Ben fought through the gathered men toward Wayne. “The place is clear, sir. We only found one of the dead in here, and it was locked up in one of the cells.”
“What were all the shots then?” Wayne asked.
“Ben panicked,” Clint replied, emerging from the rear of the building. “And we had a hell of time hitting the thing in its head, what with it slinging itself against the bars, trying to get at us.”
“What’s the plan?” Hank asked Wayne as he walked up.
The dead stirred in the streets outside. Their howls seemed to come from everywhere at once. The gunfire undoubtedly had alerted them.
Wayne stood in front of his men. “We have to hold this place if we want to stay alive. I want that door and the rear entrance better secured. Use anything you can find. Get them barricaded off!” After a brief pause, he said, “In the meantime, I want men on the roof. We should have a clear view of the surrounding area from up there and should be able to pick off the dead without actually engaging them face to face.”
Hank snapped into action, directing the men and making it happen. Only Grant stayed with Wayne, not taking part in the bustle of activity.
“That’s a good plan,” Grant said.
“No one asked your opinion.”
“I’d just like to point out the dead are going to swarm around this jail like flies. We may not have a way out of here when the time comes.”
“There’s always a way out,” Wayne said curtly.
Hank was the first to make it to the roof. He rushed to the edge and peered down at the streets below. The dead were coming out of the woodwork. He counted over a hundred before he gave up in frustration. “Get your asses up here now!” he shouted at the other men he’d assigned to the roof. Then he dropped to one knee into a firing position and splattered the brains of a former clergyman racing towards the jail’s main door. The other men joined him and soon the roof was a cloud of gun smoke, but the howls of the dead only grew louder and more numerous as shell casings showered the rooftop like rain.
Something thudded into the door of the jail so hard it shook the desk braced against it.
“They’re here!” a soldier shouted in warning.
The door began to shake as the things hammered on it from outside.
“Get the ladder to the roof taken down!” Wayne yelled. “Those men up there need as much time as we can give them! Be prepared to retreat into the holding cells. We can back ourselves in where they can’t reach us, but we’ll still be able to blow their asses to Hell. And damn well make sure someone thinks to get the keys!” he added.
Dead fists punched through the door with the sound of splintering wood, and the heavy desk was easily pushed aside under the weight of the mob. The men opened fire as the dead started to pour in, bottlenecked by the doorway; the soldiers didn’t even wait for Wayne’s command.
Grant scurried up to the roof and then kicked the ladder to the floor. There was no way in Hell he was going to lock himself away, surrounded by those things straining to get at him. Hank and the others were far too busy blasting the dead in the streets to notice him. Grant choked on the acrid clouds of gun smoke, which hung in the air all over the roof. “Ammo!” he heard someone yell.
“Ain’t no more, son!” Hank called back. He noticed Grant and snatched the journalist’s rifle from his hands. “Here!” Hank tossed it to the soldier. “Make it count!” To Grant, he said, “Get us some more ammo up here!”
“I can’t!” Grant screamed over the gunfire. “They got in! It’s a bloodbath down there!”
“Shit!” Hank paused to think for a second, then shouted for the men on the roof to hold their fire. The soldiers stared at him in confusion, and he peered past Grant into the jail below. The howls of the dead around the building were too loud for him to hear what was happening downstairs. All he could see through the hole was a surge of dead people pushing over one another towards the cells at the rear of the building. His face had become a mask of stone. “We’re dead,” he finally admitted.
“How many are left in the streets?” Grant asked.
“Too many. They’re packed half a dozen thick all around the walls of this place.”
“But they’ve stopped coming?”
“Just about. Guess most of ‘em are here by now.”
Grant raced to edge to see for himself. “We just need to get off this roof and make a run for it.”
“Through all of them?” Hank pointed at the sea of snarling faces looking up with hungry, hollow eyes.
“You gentlemen didn’t happen to bring along a Ketchum did you?”
Hank laughed. “No. Grenades aren’t safe to carry on a mission like this, but… I think we can make something that’ll work just as well as what you’re thinking. We’ll need a distraction though.”