Chapter 10

Escape

Between the four of them, they managed a combined total of six hours of very good sleep. They had been living off junk food, sugar, caffeine and adrenalin and getting very little sleep for so long, it was all second nature to them. They fell asleep the moment they put their heads down, woke up the moment they had to. They carried the essentials, a few small personal effects and nothing else. "Pack it tight and cinch it down. If it doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, you won't get killed for it." Harsh words from the veteran that was nothing but the truth.

The condition of the safe room made it clear that this evacuation route had been open for quite some time. The warehouse may have been a treasure trove, and this was just the same. Francis, unwillingly, relegated Bertha to a more "supporting" role, slung across his back as he picked his way through the selection of assault rifles and submachine guns. Truth was, he hated most types of guns except for shotguns, and even then, he still preferred Bertha, to Bertha II. But the biker had acknowledged the need for something with a little more range, that could truly "reach out and touch the infected," as Louis had so aptly put it.

The biker had finally settled on a potent compromise: The MasterKey. Originally, the lead soldier in any squad was forced to carry; in additional to all the other equipment they were issued with, a shotgun to breach door hinges and locks. As the point man, this meant he was vulnerable for the few seconds it took to change weapons. The MasterKey combined the M16A4 assault rifle with an XM -26 Light Weight Shotgun mounted below the primary barrel, using the primary magazine to form the grip of the five round shotgun system. Francis, did not seem to hate it, or dislike it too much, having spent a few minutes with Louis's Swiss Army Knife temporarily purloined from Louis.

"You'd think there'd be a radio in here," remarked Bill, "To call that chopper…."

"It's probably on the roof somewhere, don't see why you'd want to have that whole fucking horde waitin' for ya." said Francis. Bill blinked. Considering the massive horde that seemed to follow the helicopter everywhere it went. "Feel any better?" asked Francis, carefully putting a hand on her shoulder.

She stretched and rocked lightly on her feet biting off a grunt of pain. He took her hand in his, and met his gaze, filled with concern, she flashed him a smile, "Ankle hurts… everything else just aches." He still hasn't let go of her hand.

"That's good, right?" he smirked and she wasn't sure whether or not to mention it, "Stay close out there."

"Yes," she replied, awkwardly, "Uh… Francis, can you let go now?" there was the faintest rosy tinge to her cheeks, and she could see it clearly in her reflection in his eyes. He dropped her hands like he'd been scalded and turned away. She was convinced that there were traces of a blush on his face, and Bill's gruff sort of laugh, and Louis's wide grin seemed to confirm her suspicions, that Francis was sweet on her –whether that was a good thing or not she still wasn't sure – but at least the bad ass biker, or rather, the real person beneath that persona, had an emotional range broader than the common tea spoon.

"Choke on your cigarette there bill?" asked Francis. Louis's smile vanished and Bill stopped laughing. Francis didn't need to look to feel the death stare he was getting from Louis standing at the door, "What?" things had taken a sudden turn for the macabre and he had no idea what he'd said. He hadn't done anything…. So it had to be something he said, "What'd I say?" he asked.

"Well, we are getting ready to go, so you ready?" snapped Louis.

"Whatever," grunted the still confused Francis, "Let's go." He pulled back the bolt and led them out, sending bullets ripping in to the infected as they ascended another floor in the tower of death that is Mercy Hospital: It was a long corridor, with at least a half dozen rooms on either side of it, "Stay tight," whispered Bill, "High and low at the corners and watch for close con…." The last syllable was lost as the unheard and unseen tongue coiled itself around Bill and yanked him back down the stairs they had just climbed. Louis gave chase.

From somewhere ahead of them, a high pitched shriek rendered the silence like a knife through butter and slammed Zoey to the floor as a Boomer rolled in hard on its heels, "Francis!" she screamed as claws parted her flesh, nearly to the bone. Blood splashed the wall and began to pool.

The biker roared in anger, too close to shoot the 300 pounds of mutated fat, the 185-pound Hell's Legion biker clamped his hand across the Boomer's drooling mouth and almost twisted its head off at the neck, shattering vertebrate to leave the Boomer staring permanently over its right shoulder. Moments after that, the Hunter was thrown against the floor, punned across the shoulders, its claws scratching desperately in to the blood soaked carpet. Fists drove down on to the creatures face. Flesh pulped. Teeth broke. Bones cracked.

Louis and Bill returned to find Francis standing over the ruined Hunter, his hands covered in gore, almost up to the wrists. He stripped the gloves from his hands and tossed them aside, not even bothering to try and save them. They were just another thing lost to the end of the world as far as he was concerned. He wiped his hands, as best he could on the hunter's clothes, getting most of the blood and chunks off his hands.

He wasn't worried too much about Zoey. The other two would see to her wounds, see to that cut on her arm. That was no scratch, and she was biting down hard on a wadded chunk of her sleeve as Bill stitched the wound close and pulled a layer of three ply bandage tight and fastened it, "That'll have to hold," he said quietly as she drained her canteen to help replace the fluids she'd lost. Francis dug in to his pack, and pulled one of the last few cans they had left and handed it to Zoey. He hated the stuff, but Francis had been carrying the can of fruit for more than a week. Now was as good a time as any to give it to her, "I hate pineapple," he said.

Louis was clearly impressed. Bill was giving him a grudging respect. He did not give a damn what either of them thought. It was the shock and fear in Zoey's eyes that sucked. He really cared, he realized, what she thought about him, "Gonna, scout ahead," he mumbled as he picked up his dropped weapon and headed towards the first pair of rooms away from someone who clearly rated a "one" on his "look out for number one" rule. He stayed ahead of them, but not far enough to be on his own

The corridor ended in a lift lobby, where the doors and from the looks of it, not even the cabling had been put in to place. They could see the service ledge on the far side of the yawning chasm, but none of them were foolish enough to even contemplate trying for an Olympic gold medal in the long jump. "Now what the hell do we do?" growled Francis.

Louis looked around the landing and found what he was looking for: construction blueprints. Letting his eyes scan across them, he finally found the right piece of paper. "There should be maintenance hatch or a vent that we can squeeze through. Once inside, there should be a ladder leading up to the thirtieth floor and then another one on to the roof." He looked around the lift lobby and found the recessed grate and Bill smashed it aside.

First through, Francis was crouched, sweeping the area ahead of and above them for any sign of the infected. Louis was the second through. Zoey scrambled through, and was still on her knees when the tongue whipped out, coiled itself around Louis and dragged him to the edge of the abyss. Still crouched, Zoey was quickest, like a sprinter off the starting block, exploding towards Louis, in time to tackle him to the floor but her weight was not enough to arrest the smoker's pull. Francis followed the tongue back to its source, two floors directly below them. "How the fuck did it get a shot at Louis?" the biker wondered as he grabbed on to Louis's pant leg as they continued to slide.

Bill came through and was greeted by Francis and Zoey almost sitting on top of Louis. "Smoker two floors below! I can't get a shot from here!" instead of chasing after the Smoker, the marine pulled his Kabar and slashed through the pinkish appendage. The three sagged with relief as the Smoker gave a coarse, high pitched cry of pain.

"Let's go hunt a Smoker!" growled the biker. With nowhere to run, it hissed at them once, and then popped like an overfilled balloon as bullets up its chest. The biker was about to clap her on the shoulder when he froze in mid motion, letting his hand fall to his side, "Nice shot Zoey." He studied the ugly green smoke cloud for a moment, as he heard her breathe out, trying to keep her cool. He hated the fact that she was scared of him.

"Back on solid ground," muttered Louis, "Thanks guys."

They made their way up the ladder and found themselves standing on the penultimate floor of Mercy Hospital, still the unfinished grey concrete that said construction in progress. The floor was wet, and so was the ladder. The storm had tapered off slightly but had not fully abated. The stars were hidden behind low hanging clouds, full of unshed rain, there was light, whether it was natural or manmade remained to be seen. They would have to get up there first, "Let's go ladies."

They spilled out on to the roof, and weren't sure what to make of it. There were infected, dead, butchered, and scattered virtually everywhere. Rain poured down, clouds partially obscured the moon. Lighting flashed and danced across the sky. "This is creepy," whispered Zoey, "Any infected down there?" Bill standing a few feet behind her, and Louis was standing next to him. Francis was already on the move, standing at the edge of the roof.

"All clear but it's going to be rough getting down."

"What?" she asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, ignoring the rain as far as was possible.

"We're gonna have to drop… looks about ten feet to a ledge, then another ten feet down to the roof itself. Looks like the ladder that was setup here, got the fuck beat out of it by the infected."

"Right, because Bill's trick knee and my screwed up ankle are going to let us do that," her voice was accompanied by a glare. Francis however had already dropped, and there was the thud of boots on concrete.

"Francis, you okay?" asked Louis as they stared down at the biker, who waved them forward, "Come on. Zoey: Your turn."

"Hell no!" she replied with a shake of her head, it wasn't that he was worried about whether he would catch her, or whether they'd both tumble of the edge and on to the roof, but whether she wanted to feel his arms, wrapped around her. She knew they were well muscled, toned, tanned and the fluttering in her heart was tempered by the fact that she had seen him kill with those same hands. "You gonna catch me?" she stalled.

"God damnit!" he growled, "Just drop already!"

She did, landing with an "oomph!" that knocked the air from his lungs. Despite the cold rain that continued to fall, it didn't help hide the feelings of warmth, safety and comfort. Fortunately, for the biker, and unfortunately for her, he'd learned his lesson and let go, to help the other two down, and she let her gaze study the roof top, splayed before them.

Honestly, she was no strategist or tactician. Her specialty, if she had one, was in blowing stuff up. But even she could tell that there were few places to hold out against a horde. They had come out of the elevator shaft, and the ledge they were on ran parallel to the ramp that lead up the chopper pad. At the opposite end of the roof stood a single squat low rise building, with the lights on and more importantly a mini gun standing on its roof. It was the most obvious point of defense, and judging from the scattered, bullet broken bodies, had been used more than once or twice in recent days.

She jumped directly to the landing pad and let out a quiet curse, the rear portion, perhaps a quarter of the chopper pad was missing. Either something had crashed in to it, or more likely, something had torn it off to use as an impromptu missile. Hopefully, that meant the Tank had also fallen off the side of the building. Nobody truly understands why the Witch cries, or why it only seemed to start its incessant wailing whenever a human gets close. She snapped her gun light off, and heard the distinctive clicks of three more lights being doused. "Well," muttered Louis, "That explains the lack of infected up here…."

There were a scattering of other mini buildings on the roof around. To the left of the mini gun bearing building was another small building, connected by a length of what was probably water or plumbing pipe. To the right was a tangle of pipe works and a flight of metal stairs which had paint flecking off. The foursome scanned around for the threat, "Does anybody see her?" Zoey hissed. Her head seemed to throb in time to her pounding heart.

Louis felt the same creeping fear. "I think she's on the other side of the pipe works, near the stairs," he whispered back. Naturally, it seemed that the witch would inevitable wind up in one of two places: directly in their path, or hidden enough to attract the attention of the clueless and curious, or the overly cautious who should know better than to look for one.

Gathered on the chopper pad, Bill was the first to take a cautious step towards the noise, "Just walk straight ahead, slowly." He had whispered the order and they all jumped when they heard the hiss of static from a radio, no doubt housed in the structure ahead, calling to them, and calling to survivors for rescue. A single infected lunged out from beneath the ramp: Two bullets struck it in the chest, and the third entered its mouth and exited, taking the rear of its head off.

The moaning, howling cries of the Witch ceased, as if someone had pushed the mute button on a TV remote. The rattling, warning growl that replaced the crying had them backing away from the general direction of the sound. "That Witch is not happy," Zoey whispered. Reaching Louis, she gave him a look and he could see he was wearing the expression of a man standing in a minefield.

Fortunately, they had only attracted its attention and not pissed it off as the crying resumed, "Where is she?" asked Louis. Finally having circled wide as possible to their left, Louis spotted the threat, "Base of the pipe works, blocking the stairs," he put his eye to the sniper scope and frowned, confirming what his eyes had already told him, "She's carrying something…"

Bill took another long drag, and flanked to the right as the heartbroken sobbing continued, the sound reverberating along, somehow swelling to occupy the entire roof top with a feeling of intense lonely hopelessness. He glanced up at the pedestal mounted mini gun and hoped it would have a good line of sight on the bitch.

The others retraced Bill's path, except for Louis, who was frozen, watching the rocking Witch. The creature was on her knees, the grayness of its flesh and skin so pale that it might as well have been alabaster white. Her dress covered much of her body, but somehow, left most of her bare, exposing the gaunt skeletal frame of a gulag or concentration camp prisoner. As always it were arms that were terrifying, not because they ended in wickedly curving scything talons, but because of the upper half of a little body it was cradling.

Louis shuddered and shuffle stepped back on to chunks of loose rock and stone, probably part of the missing chopper pad as he landed, hard on his back, his finger involuntarily tightening on the trigger with a death grip. The shot rang out, and the witch's eyes snapped open, and like a heat seeking missile, locked on to Louis.

He was trapped by the gaze of flaming orange, far different from those of the common infected, or even those special infected who still had eyes. The orange gaze revealed more. It revealed the loss of hope, friends, family, and loved ones. It showed everything she had lost when human and now also made plain that the gift of silent mourning had just been broken.

The pair moved at the same instant, Louis scrambling in to a crouch as it rose to its feet with haunting grace, leaving the body of the child sprawled at her feet as it launched itself, somehow more gracefully than a pouncing Hunter. Her eyes never left Louis's as she scythed back and forth in a rage, trying to shred Louis with every swipe of her clawed hands. He rounded the corner of the tangle of metal pipes, froze for an instant and then dropped in to a baseball slide. Behind him, the witch's claws would have given him a new hair cut – if he had hair to spare.

The Witch did not pause as bullets tore in. An arm was blown off at the elbow, her chest reduced to the consistency of Swiss cheese and her lower jaw was destroyed as Francis emptied the XM-26 shotgun in to its face. Blood dripped from half her face and her cries quieted to a high pitched whine, before she dropped to her knees, turned and began to crawl, dragging herself with one working arm, struggling to get back to her deceased child.

It was dying. And it was Louis, who surprised them all, as he made his way to the half corpse. The Witch growled or at least tried to as it reared upright, in to a sitting position. He matched the gaze and found that the fire had gone out of its eyes. Carefully, he used his rifle like a shovel and pushed the almost weightless remains closer to her. She reached out with her remaining hand, somehow able to scoop out the half body and pull it in to her lap. She didn't cry. She didn't moan. Or scream. Or growl. She merely looked at Louis, and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were strange, yellow amber color with a hint of a sparkle in them. The witch gave him the slightest of nods. Perhaps Louis imagined it but as it curled protectively over the remains of her son, and exhaled, silent, at peace at last.

"Deny it, if you want," remarked Bill, almost a whisper, "They're changing."

Shaken by their close encounter, they continued forward in to the small well-lit building, and the crackling voice on the radio that was either a very patient human, or a very tired recording set to loop to eternity. The space was about five meters square, windows on three walls, and a staircase leading up back to the mini gun mount. There was also enough weaponry and explosives stacked to outfight three or four squads of marines. Louis was actually wishing for a couple of squads of marines to back them up. He glanced at Bill, who had made contact with the chopper pilot, and turned the volume up so they could all hear both sides of the conversation.

The good news was that it was the Pennsylvania Air National Guard making the pickup, meaning that their pick up would come with some firepower. The bad news was that the tsunami of infected would be following the chopper, and they would have to be ready for the mother of all hordes, and a fight that would make the barbarity of urban street to street and house to house fighting thus far look like an imperial garden tea party. "Any ideas on how to defend this place against the super horde?" asked Zoey.

Quick discussions turned in to decisive action. Zoey and Francis placed several jerry cans of fuel and the tanks of fuel for cutting torches where they expected the horde to swarm in pairs. Ignite the gas bottle, and the fuel would burn, hopefully like a beer bottle Molotov. On the roof, despite the rain, the military pair were checking, loading and prepping as many weapons as they could. The worst time to reload is whenever you're in a fight for your life. Hopefully, with two dozen assault rifles, half as many combat shotguns at the ready, they wouldn't have to reload at all. "I tell you man," said Louis, "If we could get our hands on some claymores, we could bomb the bastards back in time."

Bill grunted. If you were going to wish for something, wish for a tank with enough shells and fuel to get them the hell out of dodge. The minutes ticked by, it was just after two in the morning finally when their preparations were complete, and they were ready. "Signal the chopper and let's get this over with!" shouted Francis, eager as always to get in to a good fight.

Bill pressed down on the transmit button, "Pennsylvania Air National Guard 014 - Mercy Hospital," he paused as the pilot acknowledged him, "PANG-0-1-4: You are green light for pick up."

"Mercy Hospital – PANG-0-14: Acknowledged your green light. Be advised. One - zero minutes from your location."

"PANG-0-1-4 - Mercy Hospital: Will hold pending extraction," said Bill gruffly, as he turned to his comrades, "Lock and load people!" They gathered around the mini-gun, Louis taking hold of the massive double grip handle, checking, for the umpteenth time, the gun's range of motion and field of fire. Bill had lit a cigarette. Zoey and Francis argued fiercely in hushed whispers, "Just, stay close to me."

"I can't do that, I'm a decent shot and we're going to need every gun we've got in this situation!"

"Guess I'll have to do whatever I can, to protect you then eh?" muttered Francis, "Just like the subway." The biker hated to admit that he could not tell her what he was feeling, did not have the courage to admit it to anyone else. At least he could admit it to himself. The last part said in a whisper almost lost over the distant howling roar of the frustrated horde. Their eyes strained in to the rain filled night sky for their ticket to safety, but could not make out any sign of it against the inky blackness.

It seemed a fitting end to what might have been a good story given more time. This could be either the depressing yet fitting end or the start of something new - she spared Francis a glance - something better in dying world thought Zoey. Something better…. That settled it for her: She was not going to lose it now, not after all they had seen, and done. The infection would not go away if they made the rescue, but at least, she could share whatever the future would bring with someone – even if she had to club him over the head with Bertha, Bertha II and Bertha III to get him to admit it.

Bill was saying her name, but she was lost in dark contemplation until finally the tone punched through, cocking her head in his direction, "Stay with us girl. If that sounds anything to go by, we're going to end up with more than we can handle. You ready for this?"

"I'm ready for it," she murmured in reply, she let her eyes wander over their impromptu gauntlet of defensive surprises, as she asked a question in reply, "What about you? You ready for this shit?"

He was now looking out at the building top, his breath irregular as he tested the air for something; his eyes were wide and his entire body poised to pounce. "I'm a Marine. I was born ready." Bill chuckled. The wind howled, almost as if in response, rain continuing to pound the building and the gathered survivors.

Louis slapped the marine on the shoulder, "Nah Bill, like all Marines, we're born horny and get ready during those emotional hormonal teenage years!" The moment of levity helped break the tension and bring it down just slightly. They still knew they were in for the mother of all fights.

They scanned the rooftop, and the skies, there was nothing but the cries of the horde, audible over the cracks of thunder and the howl of the gusting wind. Nine minutes. Their grips were tight on their guns, their breathing heavy. Louis found himself shifting from one foot to the other, swallowing a few times as he realized that he could hear the horde clearly over the sound of the storm.

Eight minutes, and she reached out, taking Francis's hand in her own. He gently shrugged her hand off his, and took her hand in hers. She tightened her hold; he hesitated, and then did the same. They did not have to say anything. All it took was a moment's touch to communicate to each other, what the other could not say. "Louis is going to give me hell for this," thought Francis… but he knew it would be worth it.

Seven minutes and the sheer size of the horde became apparent as Bill realized he was not hearing thunder or the storm anymore. He was hearing the footsteps, the sound of shoes and feet, stepping and splashing on the street thirty floors below, "My God, how many are there?" he thought. Then there was the scratching and scrabbling on the walls. Something clicked in his mind and he risked a glance over the edge of the building, "They're climbing!" he shouted in warning. Turns out that the infected may be too stupid to open doors, but they were also too stupid to realize that they should not be able to climb buildings by their exterior walls either.

It was a good news bad news scenario as the clock continued to tick down. The first Infected to reach the roof, boiled out like a volcanic eruption through the same hatch the four survivors had used. "Light 'em up!" roared Francis. Louis was quick off the mark, hosing down the area as the others held their fire. Whatever the mini gun failed to kill, half jumped half fell on to the roof. Bill engaged them, snapping of short bursts, chaining gunfire left and right. A Hunter screamed in mid pounce and received several bullets to the chest. It died in midflight and continued flying, over the edge to the pavement below.

"Nice shot." Francis yelled. He shot the few infected Louis missed but their numbers multiplied a rate rabbits on Viagra couldn't hope to match. "First line!" screamed the biker as he ltook the shot. The propane tank went off like a grenade, and the jerry cans of gas blew, spreading burning fuel across the rain soaked concrete floor. The storm however, meant they'd only bought themselves scant few moments of cover.

The fist slammed down, and caught Bill between the shoulder blades. Tendrils of pain lanced from his side and he turned, snarling in to the face of the infected that had clawed its way up the exterior wall of the building to reach them from behind and ruined its face with a burst that sprayed him with dried blood and flecks of flesh. "Six low!" screamed Bill. They had doubted the infected would actually be able to climb up, never mind during a storm with winds gusting up. Their stupidity was fast becoming one of their greatest strengths.

It was an orchestra of chaos and noisy, over which they could hear nothing… not even the tell tale gurgling off a Boomer. Somehow, the creature had managed to get up close, getting itself in to a defiladed position directly in front and below the mini gun's arc of fire.

The wave of putrefied, semi digested flesh, bile and god alone knows what else spewed from its mouth, upwards, splattering the mini gun its operator, Zoey and Francis. The sheer suddenness of the vomit attack had the three of them blind, deaf and stunned for a few seconds, long enough for the horde to smash down the doors. Louis, continued to stitch chains of destructive firepower at whatever flickers of movement he could make out, giving the others time to clear their eyes.

In the room below, the radio had been beaten and savaged in to spare parts. Bill capitalized on the moment with two pipe bombs, tossed underarm in to the radio room. They were standing on solid concrete, more than thick enough to stop the blast. He was right. Four seconds later and at least, fifty infected and one Boomer was a spray of red and green minced meat.

Their wall of shielding flame that had consumed dozens of the horde in moments died, and their biggest gun did the same, the mechanism fouled and its barrels clogged. "Shit! Shit! SHIT!" yelled an irate Louis. Considering the number of infected charging directly at them, even the worst of shooters would have killed plenty, "Molotov out!" called Zoey, hurling three of them in rapid succession, spreading flames across the roof. Water hissed and clouds of steam rose from the water soaked everything. They weren't in trouble yet, but they were rapidly getting there, "Down to three!"

Bill discarded the ammo box on his machine gun and slapped a fresh one home. Louis likewise slung his sniper rifle and grabbed yet another carbine, not bothering to reload just yet. "Stick with it!" said Louis, "That was just…" he felt it, and then looked out over the roof. Rain continued to fall in to preformed puddles, but there was a ripple in the water too, one that had nothing to do with raindrops. The beast emerged at the far end, climbing on to the chopper pad itself. A flash of lightning illuminated it clearly and the four were gaping as their elevator shaft opponent roared a challenge, demanding as it were, a rematch.

The tank had a forklift blade sticking out of its chest. As if there could be any doubt to its identity, Louis sight on the beast's hand and noted the missing finger on the left hand. "Well….fuck…" muttered Francis in response to that piece of news. It roared once, grabbed a chunk of fallen concrete and hurled it. They scattered as the rock slammed down atop the worthless hunk of jammed metal, ruining the weapon completely. Louis ducked behind a ventilator shaft as another improvised missile flew over the side of the building, probably to land somewhere in the Hersch's Shipping Company warehouse. "And grenades just piss 'em off!" thought Bill. There was only one thing for it, he realized: Two hundred rounds of 5.56 mm ammo.

"Warm it up! Everything you got!" he shouted, "Come on you ape! You wanna live forever?!" Bullets slapped in to the slab of muscle like armor that covered the beast's chest. Louis was quick to catch on, snapping off aimed bursts in to the chest of the creature. Zoey closed the distance and Francis did likewise. It tried to charge, but the sheer kinetic velocity of their gunfire kept it on the back foot. Over a hundred small puckered, bleeding holes decorates its chest and stomach. More holes appeared as the survivors pummeled the beast with even more bullets.

They paused to reload, and in those few seconds, it bellowed, hurled a chunk of wall to keep them suppressed, to keep them from regrouping and reengaging. The wall piece bounced, skidded and fragmented. Louis realized he could empathize with anyone who had been on the receiving end of a half dozen "non lethal" bean bags as he was slapped off his feet.

"Over here you fucking freak!" yelled Francis. He held down the secondary trigger, pumping shotgun blasts in to its back only to realize somewhere between his third and fourth blast that he was too damn close. Its massive power fist connected and sent him flying in to the tangle of the pipe works, screaming in agony as his back and spine jarred off the unforgiving metal edge of the stairs. Sensing wounded prey, it closed to reduce Francis to the consistency of toothpaste.

Bill moved just like he had done in the alley some days, perhaps a week before. This time, he had a hundred rounds at his disposal instead of thirty and he let the tank have them all, standing his ground as the creature lumbered forward, bullets finally penetrating its shrunken head, half hidden by a gorget of muscle, gristle and sinews. Thoroughly distracted by the new relentless assault, it lumbered away, drooling, growling and gnashing its grungy teeth. Zoey moved to help Francis, "How do you feel?" she asked worriedly.

"Like I got hit by a tank!" he snarled and with Zoey on his heels they both engaged, holding down the triggers on their respective weapons, shell casings dancing and spinning around them as blood dripped from its older reopened and fresh wounds until it finally began to slow, and then stumbled. It swung out, but slowly, almost as if it was caught in a tar pit. It sank to its knees, the mountain like body jerking and twitching to the rhythm of the gunfire, its breath whooshing out.

It was a sign of evolution: The hordes of common Infected, even the other special infected had backed off when the Tank attacked. There was a moment of peace, barely a moment before the horde howled, triumphant almost celebratory of the survivor's victory… because it meant that they would now get to feast on the humans instead, now spread out and scattered across the rooftop. Louis slammed a fresh clip home and laid down covering fire, allowing his comrades to regroup inside the small shelter turned abattoir, leaving him exposed.

It had been ghosting him and the fleshly intestine like whip lashed out with its almost classic hiss crack, coiling itself around his legs, snaring one arm against his body and then dragging him towards the pipe works. The breath was crushed from his lungs before he had even a chance to scream for help. And he felt a flash of fear as the horde closed in, "Smoker on Louis!" shouted Francis. Gunfire lanced out, perforating the horde as she dropped to one knee. The Smoker continued to reel Louis in like a fish on a line from behind its heavy cover that bullets would be unlikely to penetrate. She let loose a burst. Bullets sparked spranged and ricocheted off the concrete, one narrow missing Louis on the rebound. But it helped her get the range and her next burst severed the tentacle like appendage.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet and made good progress towards them, even if he was staggering like an alcoholic after a three day binge at an open bar. "Cover him!" ordered Bill. Their weeks of combat and fighting had made them proficient shooters and they were able to keep horde from reaching Louis, who was now cracking away with his both his hand guns at the infected too close for the others to pick off. Another Hunter paid for its audacity in attempting to pounce through the open window to their left, striking the top of the window frame before dispatch seconds before Bertha III obliterated a gurgling Boomer.

His weapon gave a dry click, and he dropped the Masterkey, snatched up another carbine and together with Bill, laid down a sheet of paint blistering suppressive fire. The infected howled and roared, paying no head to injury, to pain to death itself. The enemy, arguably the archenemy of mankind, the antithesis of life itself swarmed forward with their deaths in mind. "Lady and Gentlemen!" roared Bill, the bolt of lightning illuminating their bloodied battered forms, "Prepare to defend yourselves!" his voice took on an edge that somehow drowned out the crack of thunder. The killing began again as the horde swarmed through the doors and windows from both sides until finally, the weight of numbers began to tell, more than one of them reloading at once, forcing them to divert their fire in to the densest concentrations of the enemy.

"What's going to run out first?!" wondered Zoey as she desperately mashed yet another magazine in to her submachine gun. There wasn't much empty space left inside or outside. They were standing, knee deep in the twice-dead bastards, and there was no end in sight, and the shell casings continued to flutter like broken winged butterflies on to the ever mounting pile of corpses before disappearing beneath another layer of dead.

Francis punched one in the face, shattering its jaw, and the blasted it in to oblivion, "I am tired of all these goddamn vampires!" nobody bothered to correct him as their rescue swept over the roof, the crew chief dropping grenades to clear a path to the chopper pad. The infected were reeling from the air strike as the pilot yelled something, drowned by the storm, bringing the craft in to a hover just above the chopper pad without actually touching down.

Tossing their pipe bombs to opposite corners of the roof, the foursome broke cover, shooting on the move, gunning down whatever infected got in their way, even if the hordes were streaming past them to get at the glittering flashing lights on the pipe bombs. The hunk of rock and steel, this time torn from the side of their now abandoned defensive position flew in. It sailed over Francis, who was covering the rear, came within inches of decapitating Bill, only to catch Zoey in the upper back and send her skidding forward on her face across the tarmac until she stopped next to one of the chopper's skids, aware of only pain. From the shadows a pair of Hunter's attacked. The helicopter's gunner managed to skeet one out of the air, but the second managed to slam down atop Francis as the world began to tremble and the tank moved in.

Pinned face down, Francis struggled against the infected dead weight, and managed to twist half way round, enough to block the downward swipe of a clawed hand, taking the blow on his forearm. Flesh parted like butter against a hot knife and he howled in pain, managing to jerk his head to the side as the other hand smashed in to the landing pad. Louis bowled it off Francis as Bill followed up with the kill shot.

The third Hunter pounced, upwards, slamming its way through the cockpit glass, almost landing in the pilots lap. He screamed in fear as he jerked back and the in pain as talons carved in to his chest and across his stomach, opening up lines of shallow wounds. Finally pulling his side arm from its holster, he shot the creature four times in the face, showering himself with blood, brain and skull fragments. He spat blood, uncertain if it was his or the Hunters. It didn't matter: - The pilot was done.

Clambering to his feet and cradling a lacerated arm, Francis ground his teeth against the wave of pain, as he collapsed on the edge of the chopper. He was on the ledge as the massive door mounted General Electric XM134 continued to lay down a curtain of almost 4000 rounds a minute as the foursome barreled their way on to the helicopter. Zoey had somehow, righted herself, dazed and confused, staggered drunkenly aboard before passing out.

The pilot stared in abject horror, as if it was the first time he was seeing such a beast as it tore yet another chunk out of the wall and hurled it, without even breaking stride as it closed the distance. The crew chief hammered the beast with at least a thousand rounds, but trying to hit the rock hurling monstrosity, partly hidden by the chopper pad itself was proving to be more than a little bit difficult. The bloodied and shaking pilot had had just about enough as he worked the pedals frantically. The chopper jerked hard over, the hunk of stone barely missed but still grazed, and then sheared a chunk out of the tail.

The pilot kept them on station as Bill hurled their last pipe bomb in to the mix and leapt aboard, followed moments later by Louis. It seemed like the Infected suddenly realized that they prey was about to escape, redoubling, even tripling their efforts as a smoker silenced the PANG-014's only weapon, dragging its operator out and directly beneath the chopper. Bill turned round due to the absence of the sound of manmade thunder to see an empty seat, "First to aid, last to die…" he muttered darkly , taking the gun control.

They were too late, too slow to save the crew chief. His mouth was open in a silent scream, eyes wide, alight with terror. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him as the coils of the Smoker's tongue crushed the air from his lungs, as scything talons tore in to his pinned arms and racked across his chest. Bill held down the trigger. Hundreds of rounds screamed across the narrow space, killing simply everything.

The pilot kept it together, despite his wounds as he jerked them round, a controlled corkscrew as he fed power and lift, taking them up and away from Mercy Hospital. Helicopters, especially transport choppers, are not the most agile of craft and the entire craft skewed as a second glancing blow struck the tail rotor of their craft. The veered wildly for a moment but somehow, the chopper managed to meander its way clear of the building as the tank stood on the edge and roared its fury at their escape. Still at the mounted gun, Bill fed the beast several hundred fifty caliber rounds, but for all the good they did, he might as well have been spitting at the brute.

Fortunately, they managed to level out and stabilize their flight even as they swerved somewhat erratically "The pilot's been bitten, he doesn't know if he's immune…" reported Francis. Silence greeted his words, but they all knew what it meant: It was unlikely that they would make it all the way. They would have to set down somewhere… hopefully, after they lost most, or preferably the entire massive horde chasing them.

Zoey was as comfortable as they could make her. She was awake, dizzy, a little confused, sore but otherwise alright, assuming she wasn't punched by another tank or tried to catch thrown concrete anytime soon. She lay back, watching Francis as he stuck his head out to feel the open air, the rush of speed as they crossed the sky above a city gone to hell.

Upfront, Louis dropped in to the co-pilot's seat, strapping himself in and donned a headset and asked two important questions: "Pilot, how you doing?"

He shook his head, "Not good…" The pilot seemed to be sitting in a pool of his own blood, somehow aware of his condition and more importantly their surroundings, "Grab that stick… I'm going to give you a crash course in how Katie-Bell here flies and handles… the worst," he paused, not for dramatic effect as the chopper pitched and suddenly dropped several feet before he had it back under control, "is going to happen…."

Louis turned his attention to the trio seated in back, "Strap in tight! This flight is going to suck and we don't serve drinks or peantus!

A/N:

I know I changed the rescue. It always pissed me off that the pilot makes a detour when he's already supposed to pick them up for him to have his "incident," and get infected. So I changed it, had him get infected and his chopper clipped by a tank. This way the chopper still crashes, you still get the link to Crash Course and the pilot STILL turns. Hopefully that'll keep everyone more or less happy – except the diehard purist types who stopped reading after I added grenades and real world guns to the mix.

Besides, if the pilot were to suddenly turn in mid flight, they wouldn't have crash landed, more like crash dived. Helicopters DO NOT have autopilot (as far as I know). And flying a chopper isn't like flying a plane where it's a little tiny bit like driving a car.

Also the chopper flying at the beginning of the campaign BETWEEN buildings… civilian chopper pilots do not necessarily have the skill to do that, at high speed, Some military (and possible police/SWAT) pilots would. That's why you get an Air National Guard unit making the pickup instead of a news chopper. This also adds up when you study the chopper at the beginning of Crash Course, with the word "MARINES" written on the side of the wreckage. And what military chopper wouldn't have guns in the middle of the apocalypse? The weapon had to be a door mount because anything else would either be too destructive (even "small caliber rockets" would be overkill) and how do you firing facing forward and have people climb in from the flanks since civilian chopper pads do not necessarily have enough clearance for larger military choppers…

So, it takes hours to write a chapter but only twenty minutes to read… and unless you've got a lot to say (which I hope you do) a review takes less than two minutes! Please read and review!

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