“Out into the Plains?” Duster asks. “Then we’ll have to circle around for half a mile before we can get back in the city.”

  “Well, we aren’t fucking going that way!” Tiny D shouts and points at what stretches before them.

  The herd of Zs is the largest any of them have ever seen in their lives. For miles, the ocean of undead stretches back into Denver. Thousands of hungry zombies shuffle, stumble, stagger toward the platforms, led by the trails of blood left in the wakes of the sprinting amputees.

  “TL,” Diaz pleads. “One shot each. It will give us time to get the fuck out of here and circle around the herd.”

  “There has to be at least three, maybe four thousand down there,” Alastair says. “And that’s what we can see. We aren’t fucking circling shit, Diaz. TL is right; we exit out the front and go the Plains route.”

  “Jesus!” Diaz shouts. “Have you gone insane? It doesn’t matter which way we go! Look at all the fuckers! TL, please!”

  “Every person counts, man!” Tiny D yells. “I’m going down there and helping them inside! Then I’ll carry one and you get to fucking carry the other as we bug out of this death trap!”

  A scream pulls their attention to Runner Keith. His legs go out from under him and he falls head first. The sound of his skull cracking on the pavement echoes up to the Team and everyone winces.

  “We have another one!” Duster yells, pointing north. “She’s not going to make it!”

  “Diaz, Tiny D,” TL Lafferty says. “Get that gate open and help that Runner inside.” She looks up at Bobby. “Is the fallen one moving?”

  “No,” Bobby says. “Should I put one in his head? Just to make sure?”

  “No,” TL Lafferty says. “Save the round for the woman. When they catch her, show her some mercy.”

  Bobby nods and switches out scopes on his M-4.

  “Nothing,” Val says as she walks up to TL Lafferty. “The caches are empty. Whoever attacked took the ammunition with them.”

  “Shit,” TL Lafferty says. “Mate Breitenberg? Belay that order. We can’t lose even one round at this point.”

  The Team can hear the clanging of the ramp gate below, and they hurry to the stairs as Diaz and Tiny D carry the mutilated Runner up to the main platform.

  “Wingdon, right?” TL Lafferty asks as Diaz and Tiny D set him down onto the concrete. “I saw you break Strowbridge’s record a few years ago. You’re a fine Runner, son.”

  The man looks up at her with pained and panicked eyes.

  “I need to ask you some questions, okay?” TL Lafferty asks.

  Brian shakes his head and opens his mouth to show his lack of tongue.

  “I know, I know,” TL Lafferty nods. “Yes or no questions.”

  Brian nods in return.

  “Were the attackers cannies? Was it cannibals?”

  Brian shakes his head no.

  “Wasteland trash? Stragglers that got out of hand?”

  Another no.

  “TL, we have to get the fuck gone,” Diaz says. TL Lafferty holds up her hand, silencing him.

  “Crazies? Hopped up on something?”

  No.

  TL Lafferty takes a deep breath. “Cult? Brian, was it one of the cults?”

  Brian shakes his head no then nods yes.

  “I’m taking that is a maybe,” Val says. Brian nods.

  “Maybe? So maybe a cult, but you aren’t sure?”

  Brian nods.

  “What makes you think they might be a cult?”

  “TL!” Diaz shouts. “And don’t fucking shush me with your hand! WE HAVE TO GO!”

  The whole Team, except for TL Lafferty, watches as the herd descends on the ramps. The two facing the city are quickly overrun as the mass of undead slam into the steel gates. The sound of metal groaning and protesting can barely be heard over the moaning of the Zs. The Team can feel the platforms shaking from the pressure of the thousands and thousands of bodies wanting to get up to them.

  “Go,” TL Lafferty orders. “Get to the other side and get down to the Plains! Run far and wide, split up into two squads, and then double back to the city. The Bell Tower is the rendezvous point. Get your asses to the Bell Tower.”

  “Ah, fuck,” Bobby says. “Look!”

  They all turn and watch as one by one the pyres in the city go out. They all assume the worst.

  “Keep the plan!” TL Lafferty says. “The Bell Tower! Now go!”

  “TL?” Tiny D asks. “What about you?”

  “Get your fucking ass off these platforms, Peters!” TL roars. “GO!”

  The Team all nods and then turns and runs, hopping over rails and sliding down rope ladders to the platforms below, all headed for the ramps that lead to the Plains side of Denver.

  “I’m staying,” Val says, her M-4 up and aimed at the overrun ramps below. Zs have piled up against the gates and started climbing over each other. In seconds, they will tumble over onto the ramps. “Ask him what you want to ask. It’s obviously pretty fucking important.”

  TL doesn’t argue, just leans down to Brian’s ear.

  “Did they have eyes?” she asks and pulls back. Brian shakes his head no over and over, his own eyes wide with fear and pain. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “You know something, right?” Val says. “You know who these blind fucks are, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” TL Lafferty says, standing and putting her carbine to her shoulder. “If I’m right, then we are in deep, deep shit.”

  “How about we get out of some of this shit and book it off the platforms?” Val says, reaching out and tugging at TL Lafferty’s arm. “We can’t fight all of those Zs.”

  “We stay until Runner Wingdon passes,” TL Lafferty replies. “Every person counts.”

  “And we always remember,” Val says. “But we can’t remember shit if we’re dead! We need to leave him!” Val looks down at the shivering man and frowns. “I’m sorry, Brian. We can’t save you.”

  He nods again and again and then kicks out, his foot catching TL Lafferty in the calf. She refuses to look down at him and he starts to thrash until she relents, her eyes meeting his.

  “It’s dishonorable to leave a man,” TL Lafferty says.

  Brian rolls his head and looks over at the stairs that will be swarming with Zs any second. He looks back at TL Lafferty and shakes his head violently.

  “We stay, we die too,” Val says. “This man deserves some mercy, not more fear and agony.” Brian nods over and over. “I’m sorry, TL.”

  Val shoves her Team Leader aside and grabs her blade from its sheath strapped to TL Lafferty’s belt. In one quick motion, she stabs Brian right between the eyes. A final breath escapes his lips and then he is still.

  “BAPTISTE!” TL Lafferty screams. “You’ll hang for that!”

  “If I live that long,” Val says. She looks at her sheath. “I’m going to hang onto this. I think my time is probably done on DTA, so I could give two fucks about your field kit rules. But I do give two shits about whether or not I’m eaten alive. You coming with?”

  Val tucks her blade into her belt, then slings her rifle across her back and secures the strap as she sprints to a rope ladder leading down to the next platform. She quickly descends, not looking to see if TL Lafferty is following. A loud snap and shriek of metal tells her at least one of the gates has collapsed, which means the tide of undead has come in and is about to completely wash over the platforms. She lets the rope ladder slide quickly between her gloves and drops to the next platform.

  Far below, she can see the rest of DTA sprinting down the ramps. None bother to unbolt the gates; they just leap at the steel and clamber up and over, dropping down onto the dusty earth. She goes over the mental map in her head and decides that the ramp to the right is her direction. She can head out into the Plains, then circle back to 470 and enter Denver via South University Boulevard.

  “I’m with you, Baptiste,” TL Lafferty says as she drops down behind Val. “Lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Val says and takes off toward a rocking rope and wood slat bridge that connects the platform they are on and the one they need to be on to get to the ramp.

  They get halfway across the bridge when they hear the first snap. Then the next. The bridge sways and then slants dangerously to one side. Val and TL Lafferty grab onto the ropes, but as they look over their shoulders they hear a third and fourth snap, taking the bridge out from under their feet.

  The ropes and slats drop quickly, and each woman grits her teeth as she hangs on for dear life. They fly through the air for a split second, and then the ride comes to a jarring halt as the snapped bridge slams into one of the massive concrete support struts for the former interstate overpass. They both grunt from the impact, then look up at the climb they’ll have to make to get back up on the platform.

  “Down?” Val asks.

  “If you want to break a leg,” TL Lafferty says, looking down at the two-story drop.

  “Shit,” Val says. “Climb it is.”

  Above them, on the other side, hisses and snarls grab their attention as Zs get to the edge of the upper platform and see the suspended meals. Dozens start to jam together until the pressure of the ones from behind is too much and Zs begin to fall forward, tumbling off the platform to the pavement below. Their putrid bodies explode like rotten flesh balloons, sending offal and black blood spraying everywhere.

  The two women try to ignore the Zs and focus on the several feet of hand-over-hand climbing they have to accomplish. If it was just the climb, then they would be fine, but the Zs have other plans, intentional or not.

  Val cries out as the ropes and slats suddenly take a lurch downward. “What the fuck?”

  “We have company,” TL Lafferty says, seeing the problem under her.

  One of the falling Zs has gotten tangled in the bottom ropes and slats of the vertical bridge. It doesn’t have the intelligence or coordination to climb up after the women, but it does see the meals above it and starts to thrash with hunger. The thrashing quickly strains the ropes, and Val can see where normal, non-issue frays in the hemp begin to turn into very serious “shit’s gonna fall” frays.

  “Fuck,” Val says. “Gonna need all our hustle, TL.”

  One of the frays begins to unravel, a twirling spectacle of doom only feet from Val’s face. She reaches up, grabs a slat, and pulls, repeating the motion again and again until she’s eye level with the fray. It stops its spinning, and Val watches in horror as the last few strands of rope go snap, snap, snap.

  The bridge drops several feet and swings off to the left. TL Lafferty and Val both hang on tight, waiting for the swinging to stop, but too many of the Zs above stream over the edge of the platform, slamming into the tangled Z, keeping the bridge from stabilizing. More frays start to spin, and Val looks down at the Z covered pavement under them.

  “They may break our fall,” Val says.

  “Or break our necks,” TL Lafferty says.

  “We aren’t going to make it, TL,” Val says. “Maybe we can swing the bridge so it’s over the thickest pile. If we land just right, we won’t—”

  But she never finishes her sentence, as the remaining ropes securing the bridge to the platform all come undone, sending the two women falling onto a thrashing pile of undead.

  The night-shrouded landscape around Tiny D and Duster is a minefield of debris and potholes. They run as fast as they can, each praying they don’t snap an ankle as they work their way through the former suburban sprawl. There used to be hundreds of cookie-cutter houses that stretched for miles instead of hard-packed dirt, but they were gutted for supplies and razed many years ago. Most of the materials were salvaged for use in the Stronghold or to build up the rudimentary barricade that lines Highway 470.

  What couldn’t be used was left in the hopes of hindering any Z herds coming off the Plains or slowing down any human elements trying to sneak into Denver at night when the sentries can’t see them. Tiny D always thought it just made the place look like a post-apocalyptic mess, but as she is subjected to the never-ending near falls and stutter steps caused by the debris, she realizes it was a pretty good idea after all to leave the crap where it is.

  She just wishes she didn’t have to deal with it.

  Duster risks a quick look over his right shoulder and groans. The Zs have overwhelmed the platforms and are spilling out around them, pouring onto the Plains and barrens. He has no idea which way Diaz, Alastair, and Bobby are, but he sure as shit hopes they are putting some serious space between themselves and the herd. Anyone caught up in that will be eaten down to the bone in minutes. He’s seen Teams nearly overwhelmed by herds a quarter of that size.

  Tiny D whistles and points at 470 off to the right. Duster sees where she’s indicating and adjusts his course to follow. They quickly get to a weak point in the barricade and clamber up over the burnt wood and broken concrete. When they get to the top, they look off toward the platforms and see the herd still streaming out of Denver. The endless lines of undead roll up over the barricade as if it was a singly stacked sandbag in the face of a tsunami.

  The part that makes each of the Mates clench their guts is the branch of the herd that isn’t going over the barricade, but instead following the path of least resistance and shambling down 470. Right toward them.

  “Son of a fuck nut,” Duster says. “This is eleven kinds of fucked.”

  “Shut it, Duster,” Tiny D says. “Push them out of your head. There are miles to go before we rest.”

  “No poetry, TD,” Duster says. “This fucking night is bad enough.”

  The M-4 flies from his hands as Bobby’s foot slips into a deep hole, his leg snapping at the shin. He cries out and reaches down, praying it’s not as bad as he thinks. However, once he gets his leg free and sees the shiny white bone protruding through his uniform, he knows he’s fucked.

  “Keep going,” he hisses at Diaz and Alastair. “Run, you mother fuckers!”

  “We can carry you!” Diaz says.

  “Bullshit,” Bobby replies between gritted teeth. “You have to watch your own footing, dipshit. One of you’ll snap a leg like me if you have to carry my ass.”

  “Fuck that,” Diaz says and grabs Bobby under the armpits and starts to lift. Bobby screams and then clamps a hand over his own mouth.

  “Fuck,” Bobby pants. “Sorry.”

  “No worries,” Alastair says, his NVGs covering his eyes as he faces the herd. “They were coming right for us anyway.”

  “Not leaving you, Bobby boy,” Diaz says.

  “Yes… you are,” Bobby says and pops Diaz in the nose.

  “Ow, you fuck!” Diaz protests as he lets Bobby fall to the ground. “What the fuck?”

  “Grab my carbine,” Bobby says, maneuvering himself up against a loose stack of concrete chunks. “And leave me all of your frags.”

  “Leave you… oh,” Alastair says realizing what Bobby is going to do. He runs and snags the fallen M-4, with the frag popper attached to the bottom rail, and places it in Bobby’s hands. “You got balls, Bobby boy. They’ll write songs about you after this.”

  “Then you two better fucking live and make sure they do,” Bobby says as he starts undoing straps and stripping off his gear. He lays the M-4 across his lap and sets out the eight grenades he has into a row close at hand. “And make sure it’s up tempo. No death ballad or Hotel California shit. I want people to dance to it.”

  “Fuck this shit,” Diaz says as he unloads all the grenades in his pack and sets them next to Bobby’s. “Just fuck it all.”

  “That can be the title,” Bobby laughs, then grimaces as he shifts his leg. “Just Fuck It All.”

  “Just frag it all,” Alastair corrects, adding to the pile of grenades. “That would be better. I’ll see if the Taint Punchers will write it. I love those guys.”

  “No, not those fucking assholes,” Bobby says, dropping a grenade into the launcher and pulling the trigger.

  The explosive flies from the M-4, arching into the air and landing a few yards in front of the oncoming herd that has started to regroup after being split by the platform supports. The grenade explodes, sending rock and dirt flying high into the air.

  “Don’t’ you want to save those?” Diaz asks as he goes through Bobby’s pack and divvies up the magazines between himself and Alastair. “I don’t think you have to worry about the dirt coming to eat you.”

  “Gauging the distance,” Bobby says, loading another grenade. “I’ll make the rest count. Now get the fuck gone, you two.”

  Alastair grabs up the extra magazines and stuffs them into empty pockets on his vest that had been occupied by grenades just seconds before. He looks down at Bobby and salutes.

  “We always remember,” Alastair says.

  “Go fuck, Swancutt,” Bobby says. “Don’t let the last words I hear from you be Stronghold rah-rah crap.”

  “Fuck you, Breitenberg,” Alastair says.

  “That’s more like it,” he smiles, holding out his hand. Alastair shakes it and then Diaz. “Book it, kids. This is adult stuff and not safe for children. No, wait.” He reaches into his breast pocket and hands something to Alastair. “Give that to Val, will ya?”

  Alastair frowns as he looks at the book of ration tickets in his hand.

  “Okay,” Alastair says.

  “I would have used them for a date, but she shot me down,” Bobby says. “Maybe she can take that doctor out with them.”

  “You’re a strange one, Bobby Breitenberg,” Diaz says, “but a good one.”

  “Fuck off with the mushy shite,” Bobby says. “Go.”

  Diaz and Alastair each give him a pat on his shoulder as they take off into the night. Bobby just sits there, watching the herd that’s backlit by the still burning pyre on the main platform. He slowly counts out the seconds, waiting for his first shot.

  “Fire in the hole,” he says and pulls the trigger. The second grenade whistles through the sky, then bounces off the head of one of the lead Zs. A split second later, and the night air is filled with bloody mist and putrid flesh. “Bango bongo, baby!”

  He launches another and another, adjusting the angle slightly so he can penetrate the herd a little deeper each time. He creates fountains of blood and plumes of severed limbs. Undead parts and pieces fly into the sky then rain back down to earth.