Hiho I'm back with chap14

No matter how many they shot, more came.

Now is the right time...Chiefs voice boomed through the small catwalk his fellow troops had occupied: "GRENADES!"

A second later two plop-sounds came. One from Rockwaller's M203 underslung and the other from rattings M79. He traced the two grenades while they kept cutting their way through the air to deliver their deadly cargo. And they performed their task very well. The others used the very small brake to reload emptied weapons or to draw out their own hand-grenades. The first 40mm, a simple scatter-grenade, made contact with the raised left arm of an unlucky undead and exploded right on the spot, showereing everyone around him with lethal shrapnel. The entire left wing of the undead attack-line staggered ,fell to the ground and about 20 of them didn't come up again. The advantage of this lay more in the halting of the enemys attack than to kill them. In fact the grenade hadn't killed nearly as many as it could have. But, instead of killing a bit more it stopped down about of 4 dozens of them. Which was an invaluable advantage. Somehow this broke the will to attack and the fastness of the most "enraged". This came because the most of them had crippled legs both from the shockwave (which wasn't big as beeing a scatter-grenade) , but they kept limping, crawling or just strangely hopping through the tornado of gunfire. The detonation lightened the air for a short moment, just enough to see the flash and the true amount of flesh that made its way to their position. He had estimated them to be about 200, 75 normal (the ones that only go down by headshots) and 125 fast ones. The fast ones differed from the nurmal undead in the way that they were still dependant on their bodyfunctions, even if much less than a normal human was. And they couldn't run anymore as soon as they had crippled legs.

The other grenade however was an illegal one, even for military use. It was napalm. He had been truly amazed when his teams deceased explosive-specialist had made some from common soup and a few detonators. After that he even made good use to an exhausted 40mm by using a homemade c4-charge to replace the charge that shot it through the air. The small bomb-device now was above the unexpecting two crawlers that had hoped to bee masked by the mass of undead. He looked at his right arm, cut off right underneath the elbow and mused as the grenade "exploded". you fooled me once but not twice After that everything was almost as bright as day when the small device plopped like one of these surprise-eggs with all the confetty inside. It sprayed its napalm, which enflamed instantly after beeing released from its prison, splitted on a nice degree above the mass of blood. He smiled and felt like if the illegal fire shared his amusement. Sure its sadistic but why not enjoy what you are doing? The red flames embedded themselves upon the bodys (and plenty of heads) and glued at them like super-fast glue that was used for space-repairs. His smile broadened even more when he saw that the liquid made of fire ate its way into the bodys with infinite hunger and with what seemed to be and unearthly precision and... joy. Almost like this fire would be alive. I'd give my other arm to be this fire now...

The normal undead (he refused to use the word zombie because zombies were basically spirits with rotting flesh, so still -somehow- human) didn't bother, they just kept walking, shuffling, crawling or whatever made them propell close to their food. But the "enraged" as he and his men called them did bother.

If screaming from inhuman agony and pain while your body is slowly beeing eaten is what you call bother. Eaten by flames.

"HOW IS IT TO BE THE FOOD, HUH? BITCH!" He heard his pyrotechnichian ratting shout with happy sadism in his voice. He was no DEMO-trained one, so nothing with the fancy claymores and c4, but he could set hell itself onfire. He's obsessed with fire. He want's to burn everything to ashes. But that was usefull. Sure he is a psycho, sadist, pessimist and cynic to the edge, but devil himself can't have a better pyro-maniac. The only thing he knew about rattigan was that he was firefighter (ironic huh?) with an obsessional love for the burning element. He opened the barrel of his grenade-launcher and put the old grenade out. Right when the barel opened a small puff of gun-powder came out of it and blasted rating into the face. Chief would have estimated every normal human to turn away in diguist, but not rattigan. He inhaled the smoke and what missed his mouth went to cover his face even more coal-dark than it was already. He smiled his insane but somehow contageous grin. Then he kissed the grenade. It had a flame-symbol painted to it. I still don't get it why he was so obsessed with painting it so well when the thing would end soon anyway? He got his explaining after that thought.

Ratting gave his grenade a short and well-planted kiss. The item kept small black marks where he had put his lips upon. "Burn 'em to hell darling!" Then he smashed it into the chamber, closed it and aimed. Chief wanted to shout at him but the man shot before he could so.

The second grenade dispensed its fire over the middle of the now crackling front of undead. The flames dispersed upon the wandering corpses to desintegrate them totally and send them BACK to their graves. But not before feasting on them.

----

Now chief really understood why napalm was forbidden. He had seen the movie of the running vietnames children and their burned skin.

But a often tv didn't even scratch what he saw now. The enraged scremed to the top of their lungs, even when the first one's lungs where already reduced to ash that still -somehow- kept sending out the screams of the forsaken. Sure, the enraged were insane bastards, only interested in killing (but not eating) their enemys. They felt no other emotions than pure hatred against anyone who hadn't the sickness inside him or her. But he knew that there was still a small trace of humanity inside of them. Even if they couldn't feel any pleasure, love, or other positive things. They still had minds and... hearts? Each and every one of them waved their arms and hands in feeble and useless attempts to get the burning liquid off their bodys. And how loud they screamed... This madness must stop. I must make it stop. The poor undead (yes in that moment he pittied them) faced something that was more hungry than they were. More dangerous. And it was an undefeatable foe. Everytime they tried to wash it off the liquid only glued harder and got even more space to burn upon. Chief saw one running around like a marathon-runner screaming louder than anyone else while waving with his arms frantically. He only got his arms on fire and finally collapsed. Right into a crawler that head been invisible to that moment. Chief could swear to see pure fear in the three red eyes of the insectous creature before the burning shape, no longer differable if it was male or female, or human at all, fell upon it. It released a loud shreeeek before it fell to the ground, on top the heavy burning figure. Chief couldn't believe his eyes when the flames let go from the coal-blackened corpse to befall the insectous creature entirely. They crawled upon the crawler-called creature like a thousand small ants. The creature screamed even louderwhen saw its invisibility disappear and the green blood spread around in a pool. The fire sucked up the most before it even left the wounds it had come from, and the rest was mopped up by a small dispatchement of fire. The entire picture had made a somewhat... organic impression to chief.

He shook the horrid pictures of black skelettal corpses away for a moment and started shooting at the left normal ones. They were the real problem. If they got in hand-to-hand with those it was all over. So he aimed his colt goverment towards the head of a member of a 12-"man" pack of type-two ones who had made it 20 meter-close. The round hit the head clean and made an eye explode before the former- business lady slumped hard to the ground. But before that she took one down among her with her mass. Suddenly the pack lost its speed and group-feeling as two of them fell.

Their group-instinct was their strenght and weakness alltogehter. A strange phenomenon indeed.

The tracer rounds kept dancing through the air, out of the "bunker" into the -still- oncoming mass of flesh. The loud gunnoises and the sick sounds of meat beeing torn into pieces by the vast firepower kept filling the air for another couple of minutes, as soon as the sound of police-sirens filled the air. When the police-cars came into view the fire had stopped, just as the massacre and any movement. Except for one person. Richard Stoppable had stood in the middle of the street when had seen the fire coming towards him. At first he still had the power to look at the warehouse about 250 yards along the street. But then the memorys of Omaha came back.

---

Richard, a seventeen year old GI of the us army had landed as one of the first. The artillery-fire had destroyed the boat next to him. As the hatch opened hell unleashed, as the nazi-german mg42's shot into his boat. He was in the last row of men as the boat had left the harbour. Now he was one of the two still alive of former 30 men. His entire vision went sharp as nails as the tracer-rounds started to cut through the bodys of his friends. The first ones that were already taking steps forward simply fell down into the muddy water. The second row slumped as lifeless sacks to the sides or backwards. Blood flew into the air as one GI's head was simply cut into just as his helmet. Row number three was somewhat no longer there.

In these moments richard had aged years. Einstein was right, time is depending on the way your brain feels.

It was a sickening experience as all his friends were killed by metal that flew faster than any human could run away from it.

And the nightmare wasn't over with reliving his memorys. No he was convinced that not his comrades were running past him...