Mike looked where I pointed and grunted approvingly. “Think you can haul my big ass up there?”
“We’ll manage.”
We broke into a jog; the infected were drawing close enough to be worrisome. Mike slid his rifle around to his back, leaned against the container, and interlaced his fingers at hip level. I stepped into them, hauled myself up high enough to grasp the top of the container, then pushed off his shoulder with my right foot. It was enough to get me over the top, and once there, I told him to send Sophia up.
After helping her up the container, I told her to grab hold of my belt, dig in her heels, and lean back as hard as she could.
“What for?” she asked.
“So your bear of a father doesn’t drag all three of us to the ground.”
“You ready up there,” Mike shouted, casting a worried glance at the steadily approaching undead.
“Ready,” I said. “Come on up.”
He backed off, took two running steps, and with surprising agility for a man his size, leapt up and seized the edge of the container. Then, feet scrambling for purchase, he pulled himself up until his chin was over the edge, at which point I was able to grip the back of his vest and haul him the rest of the way over. That done, we stood up and sorted ourselves out.
“Cut it close enough didn’t we?” I said, pointing at a ghoul who now occupied the space where Mike had stood a few seconds ago.
“They’re faster than they look,” Mike said. “The ones that ain’t messed up too bad can really move.”
“Yeah, I noticed the same thing.”
“Well, are we going to stand around admiring them all day,” Sophia said, “or are we going to kill the damn things?”
She stood at the edge of the container, rifle at port arms, eyes bright with anticipation. It seemed odd to me that she should be so eager to kill the undead. Sure, they were a threat, but they had been people once. Human beings. I had killed a number of them, but felt no elation or satisfaction at doing so. It was a simple matter of survival, of necessity. I derived no pleasure from it.
Watching her, I was reminded of everything I had read over the years about projection and catharsis. How some people have a need to externalize their fears and insecurities and purge their inner pain. They find a target, an outlet, someone or something they can point their finger at and say, That is bad, and feel better about themselves. Or in Sophia’s case, designate an object of contempt and diminish it so low on her scale of regard that killing it carries no more meaning than squashing a mosquito against her neck.
I have met a great many people who feel the same way. They have an unreasoning hatred for the undead and will go out of their way to kill them, even when it is dangerous or unnecessary to do so. These people see the dead, and they see the reason for everything they have lost, for everything the world has become, for all the death, and pain, and suffering, and all the shattered dreams and lives, and the screams of the dying that haunt them in the night. I can see how these people come to this conclusion, and I understand where they are coming from. But I do not agree with them.
When I look at the infected, I see victims.
When I put them down, it is not retribution. I am doing them a kindness. And God forbid, if I am ever infected, I hope some merciful soul will do the same for me.
“All right, Sophia,” Mike said, stepping next to her. “Remember what I taught you now. Stay relaxed, lean into the rifle, let out half a breath before you shoot, and make sure you squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”
“I know, Dad,” she said, motioning for him to back up. She took a breath, brought the rifle to her shoulder, sighted through the red-dot scope, took aim, and fired.
And missed.
“Shit.” She shuffled her feet, re-aiming.
“You’re too stiff,” Mike said. “It’s making you jump when you pull the trigger.”
“All right, all right,” she huffed. “Just let me get a few practice shots.”
She fired three more times. On the third, she managed to blast a chunk of bone, skin, and most of one ear from an infected woman’s head, but not enough to kill it.
“Son of a bitch.” She ground her teeth, took a deep breath, and readied herself to try again.
“Try this, sweetheart,” Mike said in a gentle voice. “Move your left hand further down the forearm, and relax your shoulders-”
“Dad, just stop. Okay?”
“But I’m just-”
I decided it was time to intervene. “I noticed something that might help,” I said, giving Mike a pointed look. He let out an exasperated breath and stepped back.
“Be my guest.”
As I took his place next to Sophia, the difference in her demeanor was immediate. Gone was the tension, the irritation, the shallow breathing of someone about to lose her temper. When I went to move her shoulders and arms, she became pliant under my hands.
“You want to relax here and here,” I said, touching the two sides of her trapezius muscles. “Just take a breath and kind of roll your shoulders around. Good. Now take this hand and move it forward. It’s too close to the mag-well back here, makes it hard to switch your point of aim. Having your hand farther down the barrel makes for a faster transition.”
Behind me, Mike sputtered and fumed. “But … but that’s the same thing I just …”
I glanced over my shoulder at him and shook my head. His shoulders sagged. He threw up his hands, walked over to the other side of the container, aimed his carbine, and began killing infected with savage enthusiasm.
There you go, big guy, I thought. Work it out.
“Okay, close your eyes, Sophia. Now take a deep breath. Fill up your lungs.” I kept my hand on her back, making sure she did as I said. “Now let it out slowly. When I say go, open your eyes, pick a target, and fire with both eyes open. Make sure the red dot is just a little bit high.”
Her ribcage contracted, contracted, and when it was at the halfway point, I said, “Go.”
Her eyes opened. They were clear, focused, no longer clouded with eagerness or frustration or anything else. The scope was slightly below her line of sight. Keeping both eyes open, she raised it, acquired a target, and squeezed the trigger slowly until the report caught her by surprise—exactly the way it is supposed to be done. Ten yards away, a splash of black and red spouted from the back of a ghoul’s head, and it slumped to the ground.
“Perfect,” I said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Start with the closest targets, then try to hit a few farther away.”
She spared me a glance and a white-toothed smile. “I think I got it now.”
“And be careful where you aim.” I pointed to where Dad and Blake had taken up position. “We don’t want any friendly fire.”
She nodded soberly and promised me she would be careful. I relocated to the middle of the container, split the difference between Mike and Sophia, and lay down in the prone position. The metal was hot underneath me from baking all day in the sun, but I ignored it. Firing from the prone position is the most accurate way to do business, and I wanted to conserve as much ammunition as possible. The high vantage point afforded by the shipping container gave me an excellent field of fire. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.
I dialed the magnification on my scope down to 2x and started taking potshots at the infected closest to the main building. Mike and Sophia were doing a good job eliminating the ones closest to our side of the parking lot, while Dad and Blake were steadily mowing down the undead on their side. Despite the progress they were making, it was obvious from my perch they would have to fall back soon. It seemed that for every infected they dropped, two more emerged from somewhere to take their place. I began focusing my fire on the periphery of the horde, trying to cut their numbers before they could reach the parking lot.
The reticle in my vision found what was once a man still wearing a torn and bloody business suit, tie flapping in the breeze, one wingtip shoe missing. The uneven footing caused him to lurch dangerously with every step, looking as though he were about to fall over before wheeling his arms around and righting himself. I timed his movements, noticing that when he stood up straight, there was a second of two of hesitation before he tried to make the next step. So I waited.