Two days had passed since the last walker in Wiltshire Estate was put down. In that time, soldiers and civilians had worked side-by-side, clearing streets and houses of corpses, and anything that could pose a threat. The community looked cleaner—almost normal—with people being slowly moved in, but the danger hasn't gone anywhere. Everyone knew it.
"Ramirez!" a sergeant barked as he strode across the yard. "Get your ass moving—we've got incoming! And that goes for you two as well. Let's go!"
Ramirez, who'd been halfway through a warm meal with two other Rangers, jolted upright as the sergeant closed in on them.
One of the Rangers pushed up from the porch, finishing the remaining reheated rations and shoved the packaging aside. "What's going on, Sarge? We under attack?"
The sergeant shook his head, already slinging his rifle. "Not. Scouts spotted a herd moving this way. Over a hundred at least, possible even more."
Ramirez let out a low whistle, grabbing his kit and racking the bolt on his rifle with a practiced flick. "Figures," he said, tone dipped in sarcasm. "After all the fireworks two days ago, I'd expect every deadhead in a ten-mile radius to come sniffing around. But showing up two days late? What, they stop to take a nap or something?"
The two Rangers snorted, tension mixing with the grim humor only combat vets understood. But they were already on their feet, checking mags, tightening straps, stowing anything that wasn't essential. Movements quick, efficient. No panic—just seasoned soldiers sliding back into the rhythm.
"Less jokes, more movement," the sergeant snapped. "Let's go."
They moved quickly toward the main gate of the estate, where a large group had already gathered. Soldiers in mixed gear stood shoulder to shoulder with police officers—four, maybe five dozen in total. At the center of it all, a Warrant Officer 1 was positioned beside a Humvee, a detailed map of the surrounding area clipped to a board propped against its door.
"Listen up," the warrant officer called out, projecting his voice over the low rumble of engines and murmured conversations. "The herd is approximately two and a half miles out and closing. We don't have an exact number but we believe to be close to two hundred."
That information sent shivers down the spine's of everyone present.
He tapped a finger against the map, tracing the route the walkers were taking before pointing to two marked positions farther out from the estate.
"We're establishing two defensive lines. First line here, at an overpass "—he jabbed the upper mark—"and second line here at a gas station we have already cleared out. The estate becomes our fallback and final line of defense if both positions fail."
He turned slightly, addressing the operators manning the vehicles.
"The .50 cals on the Humvees will provide overwatch and fire support for both lines. They'll also handle rapid extraction to the secondary position if the first line becomes compromised."
The crowd tightened around him, tension settling in like a physical weight as everyone listened the plan for what was coming.
The warrant officer continued outlining the plan, his tone firm but controlled. "Designated marksmen and snipers will be positioned here and here," he said, tapping two narrow rectangles on the map. "They'll provide additional long-range support and thin the herd before it reaches the first line. Trust their overwatch—they'll call out shifts in movement and help you maintain spacing."
He looked up from the board, sweeping his gaze across the assembled soldiers and officers. "And remember: keep yourselves composed. Panic wastes bullets. These things don't go down unless you hit the head, so steady your aim and make every shot count. Slow, controlled fire. Work your sectors. You hold your lines, and this stays manageable."
A ripple of nods moved through the crowd, the weight of the moment settling over them as they absorbed the instructions.
Ramirez jogged with the rest of the group toward the waiting vehicles, the gravel crunching under dozens of boots. The vehicles rumbled with idling engines, exhaust drifting in the cool morning air. The Humvees sat nearby, .50 cals already manned, gunners adjusting their grips and checking feed belts. Ramirez slung his rifle, grabbed the handrail, and hauled himself into the back of the nearest truck, settling onto the bench between two other Rangers. The canvas canopy overhead snapped in the wind as more soldiers and police officers piled in.
"Move it, move it!" someone shouted from outside—maybe a sergeant, maybe just someone with authority in his voice. The tailgate slammed shut.
The truck jerked forward, and the convoy rolled out through the estate's main gate. Ramirez braced a hand against the wooden bench as they hit the uneven road. The engine's steady rumble mixed with the soft clatter of gear, canteens, and rifles tapping against armor plates. Nobody talked much—just the occasional cough or the metallic click of a police officer checking the chamber of his weapon.
Ramirez peeked through the gap in the canvas as they passed through the outskirts. The gas station mentioned in the briefing slid by.
The overpass came into view about ten minutes later—a squat concrete bridge crossing a cracked two-lane road. Not much of a battlefield, but it offered something priceless: height. The convoy slowed, then peeled into position with practiced efficiency.
The trucks backed up until they were facing the way they came—ready to punch it the second fallback orders dropped. Ramirez and the others jumped down, boots hitting pavement hard. Dust rose around them.
" Everyone, on the bridge!" a staff sergeant barked. "High ground positions, spread your arcs!"
Ramirez jogged up the incline, rifle in hand. From the crest of the overpass, he could see the terrain stretching out ahead—flat fields, thin patches of trees, and beyond that, a faint moving smear in the distance. The herd. Still far, but definitely coming. The sight made the hairs on his arms lift.
Below, the Humvees rolled under the bridge into their positions, engines humming as they settled at the underpass—nose out, guns pointed down the road. The .50 cal gunners rotated their turrets, checking angles. A driver leaned out his window and shouted something Ramirez couldn't hear over the wind.
On the bridge, soldiers and police officers spaced out along the concrete barrier. Some knelt to set bipods. Others scanned the horizon through scopes. Ramirez took his place behind a chipped stretch of guardrail, adjusting his stance, breathing slow. He could feel the tension crawling through the line—anticipation more than fear.
The staff sergeant moved down the row, checking each position. "Remember," he called out, "we hold here as long as possible. First line doesn't collapse unless it absolutely has to."
Ramirez nodded without looking at him. His eyes were fixed on that distant smear—slow, mindless, relentless.
"Hell of a morning," one Ranger muttered beside him.
Ramirez smirked. "Could be worse," he said. "Could've missed breakfast."
But as he raised his rifle and settled into firing position, he knew the jokes would stop soon enough. The dead were coming, and this bridge would be the first place to greet them.
···
The waiting was the worst part.
Ramirez lay prone behind the concrete guardrail, cheek pressed lightly against his stock, watching the distant wall of bodies shamble closer. Time stretched thin—every second like a drop of cold water sliding down his spine. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears, louder than the wind, louder than the trucks idling behind them. Everyone felt it. The tension moved along the line like static, clinging to every breath.
Three hundred yards… maybe less.
The horde was unmistakable now—an uneven mass of staggering forms spreading across the field. Slow, but steady. Some missing arms. Some dragging legs. Some still wearing the scraps of their old lives—shirts torn down the middle, jackets soaked in dried blood, name tags still pinned to chests that didn't breathe anymore.
Ramirez swallowed hard. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath.
Beside him, a Ranger exhaled slowly. "Steady aim. Headshots only," he reminded himself, voice tight.
Ramirez adjusted his scope, centering on a walker in the front row—tall, with half its jaw missing. The soldier on the far end of the line whispered a curse. Someone else cracked their knuckles. A finger tapped nervously on a trigger guard.
Then the spotter called out:
"Two hundred yards!"
A current of tension rolled through the line. No more time to think.
The Warrant Officer lifted the radio and barked, "ALL STATIONS—OPEN FIRE!"
The bridge erupted in sound.
Ramirez squeezed the trigger, and the recoil thudded into his shoulder. His first round tore straight through the forehead of a walker leading the pack. It dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
All along the bridge, rifles thundered in a coordinated, punishing chorus. Muzzles flashed in tight rhythm. Dozens of walkers folded instantly, hitting the dirt as if a giant invisible scythe had swept through them.
But clean shots weren't universal.
Some rounds punched into chests, blowing out stale air but changing nothing. Others ripped through shoulders, necks, or jaws.
"ADJUST FIRE!" someone shouted over the noise. "Aim for the head—slow your shots!"
Ramirez steadied his breathing. Slow, measured. He tracked a limping walker whose skull looked half-caved already and squeezed again. Another head snapped back—down it went.
Shell casings bounced across the concrete, rolling near his elbows. Three positions over, a Ranger cursed as his rifle jammed. Farther down the line, one police officer fired in slow, deliberate intervals—each shot a clean, surgical kill.
Still the horde advanced.
They marched over their fallen, closing the distance with mindless determination, moans rising like the echo of a thousand rusted hinges.
Ramirez reloaded with practiced speed, eyes narrowing behind his sights.
"Keep it steady!" a sergeant shouted. "Control your breathing! Make every round count!"
Ramirez leaned back into the stock, heart pounding but hands steady now.
And he kept firing.
And firing.
And firing.
The fight had begun, and the bridge shook with the fury of it.
At first it felt manageable. Hard, loud, tense—but manageable.
Then something changed.
Ramirez saw it before anyone said a word. Down the center of the horde, a handful of walkers broke into an uneven, lurching jog. Not fast—never fast—but faster than the dead had any right to move. Their arms pumped weakly, their torsos swayed, and yet… they advanced at twice the speed of the shambling mass behind them.
"Contact—joggers!" someone shouted.
"Keep firing! Drop the fast ones first!"
Ramirez shifted aim, exhaled, and dropped two of the leading sprinters. But more followed. Five… eight… a dozen. Then the whole front edge of the horde surged in a grotesque, dragging, half-running wave.
The distance shrank.
Two hundred yards became one-fifty.
One-fifty became one-twenty.
"Jesus—why the hell are they speeding up?" a Ranger yelled.
"Doesn't matter!" the sergeant barked. "Aim higher! HEADS ONLY!"
Below the bridge, the .50 cals on the Humvees roared to life—an earthshaking, metallic thunder that drowned out everything else. The heavy rounds ripped through the front ranks like a steel storm. Walkers were cut in half, shredded into pieces. Limbs flew. Torsos split. Heads burst like kicked melons.
Even if a walker wasn't killed, being torn apart by a .50 meant it wasn't going to push forward anymore.
But the horde didn't care.
They just kept coming.
The line of the dead pressed forward around their fallen, climbing over bodies, crawling on shredded limbs, the rear ranks pushing the mangled front like a tide against rocks.
"ONE HUNDRED YARDS!" the spotter yelled.
Ramirez fired until the barrel smoked, until his shoulder throbbed from recoil, until brass casings piled under his elbows. His heart hammered in his chest—loud, nearly drowning out the gunfire.
The Warrant Officer sprinted along the line, shouting over the chaos.
"FALL BACK! FALL BACK TO THE TRUCKS!"
"MOVE, MOVE!" sergeants echoed.
The line began peeling away in controlled bursts, leapfrogging backward. Ramirez fired three more rounds, slung his rifle, and scrambled to his feet.
The .50s provided cover fire, tearing swathes through the advancing sea of corpses. Dust kicked up behind Ramirez's boots as he rushed toward the trucks, the roars of the heavy guns shaking the ground.
He climbed onto the tailgate just as the engine revved.
The last soldiers sprinted across the bridge, firing behind them as the walkers closed in.
"GO! SECOND LINE! MOVE OUT!" the Warrant Officer shouted from the Humvee.
The trucks lurched forward, tires skidding on cracked asphalt. The Humvees reversed out of the underpass, the .50s still blazing, mowing down dozens more walkers as they disengaged.
Ramirez gripped the rail of the truck bed, chest heaving, watching the horde spill onto the bridge behind them—hundreds of bodies moving as one ravenous mass.
The first line of defense had held as long as it could.
Now they were falling back to the second line—and praying it would hold.
The retreat was fast but controlled. The trucks bounced over cracked asphalt, engines growling as they sped toward the second defensive line—a gas station sitting just off the highway. Behind them, the horde spilled across the overpass, but the distance between living and dead widened with every second.
By the time they reached the gas station the dead were left behind.
The trucks skidded to a halt in front of the empty pumps.
"DISMOUNT! MOVE!" the Warrant Officer shouted from the lead Humvee.
Soldiers poured out, boots thudding on concrete. Several Rangers immediately climbed the ladder bolted to the side of the building, hauling rifles and ammo cans up to the roof. Others spread out around the two Humvees, stacking behind Jersey barriers, overturned dumpsters, even the rusted-out frame of a sedan.
A pair of police officers took up positions behind a cinderblock wall, adjusting their sights with trembling hands.
Ramirez vaulted behind a barrier, racked his rifle, and took a breath.
The dead were coming.
But what followed behind them was thinner, ragged, but still dangerous.
In the engagement at the first defensive line more than half the horde had been cut down.
The first shapes emerged from the distant tree line—slow at first, then faster, more confident, like the horde sensed prey nearby.
"CONTACT!" someone shouted.
Both .50 cals lit up instantly. Twin thunders hammered through the air, the Humvees rocking slightly from the recoil. Streams of heavy rounds tore into the front of the horde. Walkers were ripped apart—arms sheared off, torsos blown open, legs severed at the hips. Half a dozen were cut clean in half at the waist. Their top halves hit the ground with wet thuds… then began to crawl toward the sound of gunfire, dragging themselves by broken fingers.
"Jesus Christ…" one of the officers muttered.
"KEEP FIRING!" a sergeant barked.
Rangers and officers opened up. Muzzle flashes burst from the roofto. Spent brass rained from the gas station roof like metallic hail.
Ramirez took measured shots, dropping walker after walker. But the line wasn't perfect—there were gaps.
A rustling sound snapped the attention of a nearby police officer. She turned—and froze.
A walker jogged out of the tree line behind the station, moving with unnatural urgency. It slammed into her before she could bring her rifle fully up. She managed to jam the weapon sideways into its mouth. The walker's teeth scraped against the metal, snapping inches from her face.
She fell back, boots struggling for traction, the walker on top of her. She screamed—pure, terrified panic.
Two feet away, another officer spun around, eyes wide.
He drew his sidearm and fired twice—BANG! BANG!—the second round punching straight through the walker's skull. The body went limp on top of her.
"Got you!" he gasped, hauling the panicked officer to her feet. "Stay sharp! They're coming from the trees!"
Similar moments erupted along the line. A Ranger grabbed the collar of a private who'd tripped on loose gravel, pulling him away just as a crawling half-walker snapped at his boots. A police officer with a shotgun blew the head off a walker that lunged over a crushed trash bin toward a soldier. On the rooftop, one Ranger reloaded, whispering, "Too close—too close—" before dropping another fast-moving target with a clean headshot.
From the water tower down the road, two designated marksmen provided support. High-powered cracks echoed through the air as they picked off anything that slipped in. Every time a walker reached managed to get to close, its head burst from an unseen sniper round.
The fight lasted minutes that felt like hours.
Finally… the shooting slowed.
Then stopped.
Silence didn't return—but the gunfire faded into the soft moans of the few mutilated walkers still twitching on the ground. Legless torsos clawed weakly at pavement. A jawless head gnashed at nothing. One crawler dragged itself in a tiny, pathetic circle.
"Cease fire!" the Warrant Officer called out.
Smoke drifted across the gas station lot. Bodies— dozens of them—littered the road, piled on curbs, tangled in tree roots.
Ramirez lowered his rifle, chest heaving.
The second line of defense managed to held.
Every walker capable of moving was dead for good.
And those that weren't… were no longer a threat, just pathetic, twitching remains waiting for cleanup.
He exhaled slowly.
Another day survived.
But if this was only a fraction of what roamed the world beyond…
Then the real war hadn't even started.