Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) (44 page)

As Evans watched, the last of Karsten’s men unhooked the bridge from the shore, walking out into the water with it to make sure it drifted away. All of Evans’ party members who had needed to cross, were now safely on the island. He would never tell a soul, but Evans was glad the gigantic horde of zombies had come. It had been stupid and foolish to allow Arman’s anger to whip up the others, to let them seek vengeance over a mistake and a misunderstanding. That had been the easiest route at the time; Evans had never been very good at persuading people to change their minds, especially ones so steeped in anger. Having met Karsten, and having seen how he organized his people, Evans knew that they never stood a chance in the assault. Sure, they would have managed to kill a few, but that would only have justified the container people’s potential slaughter of his party. He was glad that they were now working together, that a future friendship could be established. This would make a good camp at which to resupply during his travels, a safe place to rest. That is, if everyone survived this plan of theirs.

Once the dock man was satisfied that it was floating away, he slogged back out of the salt water and headed toward Evans. As he neared, Evans picked up the man’s bundle of weapons that had been left beside him to keep dry and handed them over. Together, they made their way to the ladder that had been left down for the two of them.

Evans climbed up first, not because he distrusted them to haul it up before he could climb up, but because he had farther to go once on top. He walked across the neat rows of containers, having to take long steps to reach the ones that had been placed sideways between them. Yesterday, when Evans was escorted to the holding container, he had seen that these were living quarters and knew that some of these containers had been recently moved to make travelling between them easier. They hadn’t been able to move enough, however, so occasionally Evans had to traverse ladders and boards that had been laid across the gaps. He crossed these slowly, unsure of his balance and the way they sagged in the middle.

There was at least one person, sometimes more, on every container and they were all armed. Evans wondered if some of them had more ammo than others, or if the bullets were evenly distributed. Considering he didn’t spot any ammo caches anywhere on the containers, he guessed that they had few enough bullets for everyone to be carrying them in their pockets. Here and there dogs wandered about: big dogs, little dogs, and the dogs that had surrounded Arman were standing and sitting amongst the legs of the people. All of their fur stuck out, many ears were flattened, and several curled their lips in silent snarls, not liking the zombie sounds and smells permeating the air. Several times, Evans spotted cats. They were huddled and bunched near the edges of the containers, some looking like they were trying to determine if they could jump down from that height. There were a couple of odd animals around as well. One man had a ferret wrapped around his shoulders; another woman stood beside a harnessed badger. Where the badger might have come from, Evans had no idea, but he kept his distance as most people seemed to be doing. He wondered how many more animals, how many more pets, were entrusted to the security of the containers. They would die slowly if the humans were killed. Evans briefly wondered where the horses were being kept, and whether that black and white cat was around somewhere as he hadn’t seen it since being released.

As he approached the container nearest the slingers—balancing across a ladder to reach it—he noticed a drop in the number of people. Spaces had been left for those still on the ground, but there also weren’t a lot of volunteers for the front line. Evans had volunteered; he wanted to see how the grenade throwing went with his own eyes. He also wanted to know the moment the zombies came over, if that was going to happen. Only two dogs were on this shorter row of containers: one of the dogs was the old, grey muzzled German Shepherd that had attacked Arman, while the other was younger, some sort of splotchy-coloured breed he didn’t know. They stood in his spot, as close to the slingers as possible. Looking at the line of grenade throwers, Evans spotted the man who had been defended by the dogs and understood why they were there. Not wanting to risk being snapped at, he placed himself next to the furry beasts instead of trying to move them.

Meeting eyes with Karsten, Evans nodded. As far as he was concerned, they were ready. Over his shoulder, his large sword hung sharp and ready, while in his hands rested his shotgun, extra ammo weighing down his pockets. The sun had finally made its way above the horizon, turning the eastern sky pink as Karsten touched the shoulders of those on either side of him. Evans noted that one of the other slingers was Boyle, the container yard’s second leader; Evans hadn’t seen him since being led into holding. Other slingers included the small group who had warned them of the zombies, and all three people who had been captured by Evans’ party. He guessed that because they were trusted and trained to go over the wall and deal with the zombies and people out there, they were trusted to handle this vital operation. The rest he didn’t recognize, although one man on the end stood out as he held a bow and arrow as opposed to a strip of leather. The line looked to Karsten, who held up his hand that wasn’t holding the sling. Tension filled the air, as everyone who could see it, knew what it meant. Then Karsten’s arm dropped.

Pins were pulled and slings whirred. The bowman drew back, pulling the pin out of his grenade with his teeth by tugging on a string that had been tied to it. They loosed almost as one, the grenades arching up and over the wall. The moment they were visible to the zombies beyond it, their sounds became more agitated. Evans wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been listening for it. They couldn’t be heard for long because the grenades all exploded with sharp cracks and rumbles. A gout of gore was flung into the air so high, Evans could make out body parts, one leg landing on top of the highest container and then bouncing and flopping over to the lower one like a dead fish.

The sound of the zombies was like nothing Evans had ever heard. He had almost gotten used to the constant noise they had been making out there, but that was only some of them groaning for the hell of it. Now, every dead thing outside that wall was creating a racket, screaming, groaning, moaning, and gasping, their instincts telling them to alert others that life had been found.

The second round of grenades was less organized, more staggered as they reloaded at different rates. A lithe black woman was ready far sooner than the others, her second grenade going up and over all alone. It was soon followed by the bowman’s second shot, and then a couple of the others. As they blew up, tearing the dead to pieces, the first of the distant fireworks screamed up into the air. Evans could barely hear it, and its fiery flower of light was diminished by the ever-increasing sunlight.
It’s too far
, he thought.

One grenade went awry. Evans didn’t know who had thrown it, but it hadn’t been freed of the sling fast enough, and didn’t have the same amount of power behind it as the others had. It cleared the top of the wall, but just barely, before it exploded. Instead of tearing zombies to shreds, the explosive force hammered into the containers right where two of them joined. The doors that had been barred between them were blasted open, making the wall suddenly shorter in that location, allowing Evans to see out toward the containers he had snuck through with his party. Any patch of ground he might have otherwise spied between there and the wall was covered with the dead, and all of them were surging toward him.

When the slingers were out of grenades, they ran for the edge of the row Evans stood upon. Only the bowman stopped at the corner, drawing a regular arrow to protect those coming after him if need be. A couple of people had three grenades and loosed them when ready; all but the black woman. She stood staring at the opening, her grenade resting in her sling with the pin still in place.

“Freya, come on!” Boyle shouted at her. He had started to retreat with the others when he saw she hadn’t moved.

The woman, Freya, waved him away, her eyes never leaving the opening. Frustrated, angry, and hating that he was doing it, Boyle turned and ran, knowing he’d be of more use on top of the containers than on the ground. Evans was so focused on what was happening in front of him, he didn’t notice when the dog man, Misha, lay down beside him with a rifle in his hands, or when a woman took up a similar position on his other side. He watched only the lone woman on the ground and the opening.

A zombie appeared, clawing its way up onto the container wall.

“Now!” Evans shouted, knowing he had a better view than Freya did.

She didn’t know him, but she trusted his outburst. Pulling the pin, Freya’s sling became an immediate blur. During the seconds that passed, the zombie struggled up onto its feet, with more quickly rising behind him as the dead learned to climb and piled up on top of one another. When she finally loosed the grenade, Freya’s aim was perfect. The small explosive zipped up to the opening, then perfectly arched down to bounce between the first zombie’s feet. It exploded right over the pile, shrapnel destroying the muscles of those who had managed to learn how to climb. The doors of the containers, already weakened from the first blast they took, dented and cracked, one of them shearing off to fall and crush even more of the dead. The force blew the standing zombie inward, its body tearing apart and scattering all over the ground below. Freya wasn’t there anymore, she hadn’t even watched where her shot had landed. The moment the grenade was away from her, she had bolted for the corner where the bowman stood.

Evans finally noticed the people who had stationed themselves around him. Without a rifle, he wasn’t expected to shoot the things as they came over the wall, but he took a kneeling stance to shoot anything that made it to the base of their container perch.

There were so many. Already, more zombies were finding their way up, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen. The first shot came from Evans’ left, from Misha, closely followed by a second shot from his right. Two zombies fell beneath the bullets, but they were quickly replaced by two more.

The fireworks are too far
, Evans thought again. Maybe, if they were lucky, a few at the back would be drawn off, but with gunfire so much closer, that wasn’t likely.

Shot by shot, the two flanking Evans took down the dead. At least the things were funnelled for the time being, but that wouldn’t last, and every shot that missed a skull meant one less bullet to take out the ones behind.

“Reloading!” the woman on Evans’ right shouted.

“I got them, Katrina,” another woman, who was farther right, told her, easily falling into the back and forth pattern with Misha. When Misha shouted that he was reloading, the young man on his left, the one with the katana, took over. This was something that had been planned.

A bullet struck a zombie’s torso, knocking it over but not killing it.

“Let it come,” Evans shouted to the shooters. “Don’t waste a second rifle shot on it, I’ll take care of that one.”

The thing flopped over the edge of the container wall, nearly killing itself by landing on its head. Sadly, the corpses of other slain zombies had fallen before it, cushioning the blow. Evans tracked it with the muzzle of his shotgun, waiting until it was close enough that he could be certain he’d take it down.

The roar of the shotgun was loud but effective as the zombie’s head was taken off. Evans pumped out the old cartridge, instinctively grabbing it and stuffing it into a rear pocket. He had no idea if he’d ever get to make it useful again. Not knowing how often he’d get to reload, Evans pulled out a fresh shell and slotted it into the shotgun. He intended to keep the weapon fully loaded whenever he could.

The five closest to the opening adopted a rhythm. Whenever one had to reload, the person next to him or her would take up firing. If a shot was missed, a second shot wasn’t taken: the zombie was allowed to stagger close enough for Evans to deal with it. Through their brief bits of chatter, Evans learned the other woman was named Yasmin, and the young man was Jon. All of them had been slingers, but were proving themselves better with rifles.

“Left side!” Boyle shouted farther down the container line, the call quickly repeated by Karsten and others.

Evans glanced left to see another pile of zombies had mounded up and over the top of the wall. More riflemen and women began to take care of them, the crack of their weapons adding to the cacophony of chaos.

More and more of the dead had to be left to Evans. They were surging over the wall now, being pushed by those behind, falling like a grotesque river. The opening was nearly entirely blocked by slain corpses, but more continued to crawl over them, heaved over the top by the masses below. The fully dead had formed a sort of ramp from the top of the wall to the ground inside. Rotting faces slid through blood and guts, occasionally hanging up on shattered bones, tearing themselves further in the pursuit of warm flesh. They were the slow creatures, the fast ones either trapped at the back or killed by the blasts, but the slick slide down gave them speed. It wasn’t always easy to tell which head belonged to which moving corpse; a few shots were wasted on those that had already been taken down. Evans found the amount of time he got to spend reloading was growing shorter and shorter each time, as the number of cartridges he expended grew and grew.

“I’m out!” Misha was the first to shout, sliding out of his shooter’s position, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and drawing a saw-backed machete. The other three continued to make do without him, each one getting less time to rest and reload before having to take up shooting again. It didn’t last long before Katrina shouted that she was out, followed by Jon and eventually Yasmin.