Better Lucky than Good (Records of the Resistance) (11 page)

The walls of the balconies were constructed of simple, painted sheet metal. However, there appeared to be a gap of two inches between the concrete floor that jutted out from the wall, and the bottom of the panelling. Clay stared at the space, awaiting any hint of movement. Time seemingly ground to a halt, as Clay's thoughts drifted back to Melanie. Concern for her current state of mind proved unavoidable. From his position Clay couldn't see Melanie directly, however he could pick out the tree which he had left her under.
 

All the things that Melanie had wanted to experience or expected to accomplish in her life, were far removed from where she lay right now. During the initial outbreak, Melanie had no expectation that she would survive. She wasn't even capable of leaving her own apartment. Now, here she was. Concealing herself in a thin tree line, while participating in an attempt to rescue no less than twenty people from a three story apartment. The whole situation seemed too surreal for her to believe. Then again, she had been instrumental in completing the first phase of the operation and would continue to be integral throughout the remainder of its duration. Laying in the dirt, with a rifle trained on a man's head was so entirely out of the realm of her possibilities. Her character just seemed out of place in a situation such as this. That was, her character before she had met Clay. Who she was before meeting Clay had meant nothing to him. Who she would become on the other hand, was of the utmost importance to both his and Melanie's own survival. Although it seemed completely counter-intuitive that someone like her would be relied on so heavily by Clay, Melanie finally began to understand why he had begun to trust so much in her. It wasn't who she was, but who she could become. Survival and adaptation shared a symbiotic relationship; without one there was no other. To have one, was to posses the other.
 

Melanie could see Clay from her location. She watched him as he looked towards the horde and then back towards her. She understood the message which he was attempting to convey.

Clay could only hope that Melanie could see him, let alone understand that what they had come here to do was now at hand. He could see the toes of several pairs of shoes lining the edge of the balconies. Clay began going through the plan one last time in his head. Although, at this point, making any changes to it would be entirely impossible. If there were indeed any holes in it, he might at least be prepared for them should they occur. The possibilities were endless. Maybe the residents miscommunicated their current number of arms, or they could have little in the way of ammunition. Kevin had relayed to Clay that there were some elderly, as well as children among them who might fatally slow their egress from the building. The number of capable fighting men could have been over exaggerated by Kevin in hopes that by telling a seemingly small lie, Clay might be further persuaded to attempt a rescue. The most disturbing scenario that he came up with, without a doubt was Clay's own failure as a leader. His own plan may very well lead these people to their deaths. Clay let his imagination run wild for a moment before regaining his composure. He knew that allowing his own insecurities to interfere with his actions would certainly lead to failure.
 

Clay raised his arm high into the air from his position within the depression. He held it there for a moment, allowing the rest of the group a chance to ready themselves. This was it... Clay knew that once the signal was given, he couldn't wait for their reaction, but only trust that they would carry out the plan which he had carefully laid out.
 

Clay quietly reminded himself out loud, of his personal definition of leadership.

"To show the way, by going in advance." he whispered.
 

Clay whipped his arm down to his side, signalling that now the attack was to begin. He quickly postured up into a kneeling position and mounted his shotgun; levelling its bead with the heads of the infected to his front. Clay slapped the trigger of his shotgun with the pad of his index finger. The gun barked, releasing a hail of twenty-two caliber lead shot in the direction of the horde. Before he could cycle his own gun's action, those who had armed themselves stood up over the balcony and began firing down onto the tightly packed mass of undead. The initial volley alone had exceeded Clay's expectations. The wide shot patterns thrown by the guns of the elevated shooters fell directly onto the heads of those belonging to the sea of infected. The horde began to jolt and vibrate almost in unison, the moment the munitions made contact. Clay could see that one of the integral designs of their assault had come to fruition. The infected had begun falling all over one another in their confusion. Some crumpled to the asphalt, becoming devoid of any life while others fell due to spinal injuries; still clinging to their vitality. The volume of shotgun fire had created a hailstorm of lead. The pandemonium that ensued amidst the horde had been a direct result of the planned pincer attack; leaving the infected indecisive about where to direct their attention. The horde began to break up, losing it's greatest strength; their overwhelming numbers.
 

When a group of infected increased to a great enough size, they moved and attacked almost in unison, resembling a single massive organism. Clay loaded a round after each shot in an attempt to keep his magazine full should he need to tear down any advancing undead, while the elevated shooters on the balconies unloaded their weapons into the infected below them. Every individual who turned on Clay, dropped to the ground before he could bring the bead of his gun in line with their heads. Clay knew Melanie was in the fight.
 

The moment the guns of his allies had ceased, Clay inhaled a deep breath of air, filling his lungs to their fullest capacity.

"NOOOOOOWWWWWWW!" he yelled, as long and loud as he could manage.

He watched as three small metallic objects were tossed from the balconies into the tightest concentrations of undead. All of the balcony shooters took refuge behind the sheet metal walls of their elevated perches. Clay however, hadn't the same luxury. With Melanie's assistance, he continued to engage the infected encroaching on his position.

Three loud explosions rocked the horde, one after another. Luckily for Clay, the meaty wall had shielded him from the blast, just as he had anticipated it would. The improvised explosives had a devastating effect on the tightly grouped undead, sending the majority crashing to the ground while others tumbled grotesquely through the air. Only the fringes of the horde remained standing, whose movement was now severely hampered while making an attempt to navigate the landscape of now dead, or dismembered infected.
 

The balcony shooters stood once again and began to unload their guns into what remained of the horde. This time their shots were more precisely aimed, having targeted the infected that still remained standing. Melanie continued to engage the infected approaching Clay, who all the while was loading more shells between each shot. By the time the last of the infected threatening Clay had fallen, the shots stemming from the balcony had ceased and the shooters had disappeared.
 

Clay laid his fully loaded shotgun into the depression and drew his tomahawk from its home tucked within his belt. With his left hand armed with his brass knuckles and his right hand grasping the tomahawk he charged as hard as he could into the centre of the horde.

*****

Melanie knew what to do the moment the balcony shooters had emptied their firearms into the horde for the second time. She pulled the magazine from her rifle, stuffing it into her pocket and replaced it with fresh one. She stood, grabbing her pack on the way up and heaved it on to her shoulders.

She knew that the party would unite in the centre of the horde, engaged in hand to hand combat while those who could not fight, would make their escape through the building's front doors. With the remaining infected engaged in close quarters and Mel providing overwatch, the survivors would stand the greatest chance of success by making a run for Melanie's position.
 

Clay had explained all of this to her while he had iterated his plan in the department store. She knew what to expect, but watching Clay rush headlong into the fray armed as he was, still struck her with awe. The likelihood of his survival would depend on Melanie continuing to participate in the attack and she fully intended on doing just that. Melanie came striding out of the cedar row, with her rifle tucked tightly against her shoulder while running directly for the position which Clay had initiated the attack from.

The moment she sank into the hollow, Melanie reached down and pulled Clay's shotgun close to her feet. After peering through the rifle's optics, she immediately resumed putting down more infected with her well aimed shots.

*****

Black powder, upon burning left a uniquely thick and heavy smoke, which now saturated the area and hindered visibility. The success of the rescue depended now on maintaining a clear path through the horde, by which the non-combatants could make their escape. Clay's charge was directed straight toward the front door. The blasts had shattered most of the windows in the vicinity, along with the front entrance which had been composed almost entirely of glass, back by steel bars. If Clay couldn't intercept the infected who were now beginning to recover from the detonations, the whole evacuation could become irreversibly bottle necked at door. Clay leapt over bodies and threw aside any infected threatening to halt his approach. As he neared the door, several undead had already begun to encroach on it. He lowered his shoulders and slammed his body into one of the infected, sending both himself and the recipient of his charge, crashing to the ground. Clay rolled with the fall and shot up to his feet, while fluidly driving his tomahawk deep into the skull of an infected that he had sprung up beside.

The smoke had begun to clear, lifting the veil and revealing the formidable number of infected who still dotted the parking lot. The asphalt had become a battlefield, being littered with fallen undead, dismembered limbs and gore; all adorned over a surface freshly painted with blood. Clay's earlier concern regarding the potential over estimation of fighting men inside the building began to filter to the forefront of his mind. There were too many infected for him to even fathom handling on his own and Melanie would soon become occupied with directing the refugee's to safety, making her unable to support him from a distance. As he surveyed the number of infected, he could see Melanie had indeed taken up his previous location and the number of undead began to silently thin by her hand.
 

Clay waded again into a group of infected, leading with a metal laden punch and hacking away at limbs and skulls. If a killing blow was not feasible, he would disable his opponent and move on to the next; returning later for a fatal strike. Had there of been any onlookers observing Clay's onslaught, it would be obvious to them that his hands were intimately familiar with their armaments. Bodies of fallen infected began to pile around Clay in a semi circle. While intent on keeping the doorway clear of any undead, it was evident to Melanie that Clay was slowly being pushed backwards toward the building's entrance. Without assistance, Clay was sure to meet his end.

Cries of war erupted from behind him. Several men came pouring through the brick framed door, armed with baseball bats and metal pipes; falling in line with Clay. With the addition of the new combatants, the semi circle of fallen undead began to enlarge and expand outward from the door. Between crushing fatal blows, individual infected were thrown back from the line, creating enough distance for the men to continue to drive their long weapons down onto the skulls of their assailants. Clay maintained his dance, whirring among the infected and serving as inspiration to the other men on the line. They had all begun to punch, shove, parry and swing even harder; pushing the advancing infected back from the door.

Melanie could see that the small foyer of the apartment had begun to fill with women, children, and elderly, who were all adorned with duffle bags and back packs of various size and description. If Clay was planning on doing something to allow for their escape, now was a good time.

"Form a line!" Clay yelled to the men on his right, indicating with his tomahawk where the line should take shape.

The men fell into place alongside one another, perpendicular to the front of the building.
 

"Here! Form a line here!" Clay screamed to the men on his left side, who did so according to his second command.

The combatants now formed a column, with infected advancing on them from both sides. At the head of the column stood Clay who flitted back and forth from each side of the formed pathway, fending off any infected intent on infiltrating their ranks. Although they outnumbered the living, the effectiveness of the undead could not compare to that of an armed and coordinated living, combative effort.
 

Clay had essentially formed a hallway through the horde, by which the survivors could travel to make their escape. Melanie recognized that now was the time. Standing and waving her arms in the air at the people in the apartment foyer, signalling that they should run for her position.

A woman who wore a bag on her back, carried another and grasped a child's hand, yelled over her shoulder to those behind her.
 

"There! I see her! Follow me!" she yelled and broke from the door; a long line of similarly equipped individuals in tow behind her.

The survivors moved as fast as they could while struggling with the weight which they were bearing. Mothers dragged their children and those without children ushered along the elderly. They passed through the column without slowing, successfully reaching Melanie's position.