As the battle entered its third day, not less than 12,000 zombies had fallen to the guns of Branson's gang, but at least as many were still coming. With help from Duke and Tallahassee, Branson had turned even the non-functional vehicles into assets. A broken-down 155mm self-propelled howitzer fired from an elevated position where the ARV had deposited it. An M3 Lee tank, with its engine missing, tracks long gone and its baroque sprung-bogie suspension collapsed and rusted solid, fired its sponson-mounted 75mm gun and 37 mm turret gun into the horde from a tank transporter's flatbed trailer. The ARV moved back and forth along the perimeter, towing a 40mm anti-aircraft gun carriage whose automatic cannons devastated the ranks of the zombies.
"Breach!" Branson shouted over a bullhorn. The barbed wire fence was not particularly sturdy, as such things went: The site was a bombing range, without assets or secrets worth guarding; the fence was there to warn passerbys away, not stop determined intruders in their tracks. But, while zombies had been climbing over or crawling under at regular intervals, the fence had remained secure against a general advance, until now. Dead zombies had piled up in a wash, until they formed a ramp. Then, as rifles and machine gun picked them off trying to climb the fence, the dead hung on the fence, making it sag with their way. Finally, the fence collapsed under a wave of bodies living and dead. Bikers retreated as zombies poured in. Then the M60 tank rolled in, its main gun turned backwards, a dozer blade raised. The tank was covered in barbed wire, and a strand of razor wire was stretched out to the sides and strung between the teeth of the dozer blade. The turret swung around with the main gun at maximum depression, cutting a swath through the zombies simply by impacts with the barrel alone. The tank drove in circles, killing scores and hundreds with the wire and tracks alone. Meanwhile, a biker standing high in the commander's cupola fired the .50 cal intermittently into the crowd.
Even as the zombies were massacred, the pileup grew larger, until the breach widened. 30 meters away, a second pileup caused another breach, and soon a third breach occurred between the first two. Half a dozen zombies managed to climb onto the tank, and a seventh hung from the main gun. The driver took a wild shot with a pistol before slamming the hatch. The commander shot one with the machine gun, and killed another with a pistol as it tried to follow him down the hatch. The turret traversed, sweeping two off the hull and slamming the one climbing up the gun against two pursuers. The tank withdrew, with two zombies still clawing at the turret hatches. The main gun fired a single, massive buckshot round at the zombies running after.
The bikers retreated to a stockade of derelict vehicles around the central buildings. The zombies advanced in a solid column, straight for a single large opening. As the last bikers rode through, the Thing rolled into the path of the zombies. "Fire in the hole!" Branson shouted. All six guns fired at once, each loaded with a flechette canister. The backblasts knocked over a trailer parked 50 feet away. The damage to the horde was incalculable. The cloud of flechettes sailed over the heads of the front ranks, only to fall in a well-distributed pattern among the rest, striking anywhere from the head to the legs depending on range, scorching through flesh and often exiting to strike more zombies behind. Thousands fell, though many were not dead, but wounded, maimed or dismembered. These, the other zombies tripped over, slipped on or fell upon in lieu of prey. Bikers opened fire from atop the vehicles, mowing down the front ranks that the flechettes had bypassed. As they fell, the Thing's machine guns fired through the dwindling rows, at the zombies charging forward into the gap carved out by the flechettes.
Duke reloaded the recoilless guns, while doing his best to avoid flying casings. The zombies were regrouping, and advancing. The ARV pulled up alongside the column, still towing the AA carriage. Once again, the 40s mowed down zombies, but soon ran empty. The crew jumped onto the ARV, and the carriage was let go. Then the Thing let fly again, firing buckshot canisters one at a time as the turret traversed.
Only a couple thousand of the zombies remained, but they were spreading out more thinly, becoming more difficult targets. Then the ARV circled back, pushing what looked like the combine harvester from hell. Spiked wheels, blades and swinging chains tore through what remained of the horde.
It took the rest of the day to clear the zombies from inside the fence, but the battle was done. Branson himself gunned down the last pack with a 7.62 machine gun. Then he shook hands with Tal. "Say, where's the girl?" Branson asked.
Word went around quickly, and concern grew, until Little Rock announced herself nonchalantly as she emerged from a little lot where Branson's truck and trailer were parked. She smiled, but a troubled look was in her eyes.
Branson frowned when he found his trailer improperly latched. He drew his gun and forced the door. No one was inside. He relaxed, bur frowned when he saw a box of maps. He straightened one that stuck out, then frowned again. The label said: Las Vegas Metropolitan Area.