The truck wall was complete. It was a pain in the ass for drivers to line them up through the trees at the foot of the hill, but it got done. The next step was to put a bunch of sandbags under each one to prevent any crawling zombies from getting through the wall. Where the sandbags came from Cameron didn't know or care, but he was happy to see that a chain link fence was being put around the trucks.

While the fence was being put up soldiers were standing on top of the trucks, ready to pick off zombies that posed a threat (which was all of them). To make patrolling the perimeter easier, makeshift bridges were placed over the truck cabs so that patrols could walk over them.

Marge was along those that were helping move stuff around. She did her share of the heavy lifting, helped prepare food for the growing population, and even carried a shovel around while patrolling to dispose of stray zombies.

Everybody in town was encouraged to do their part. The original population of locals was eighty some, and they varied in age and size. On top of that were the fifty or so extra people from the National Guard. There used to be a lot more them, but a lot were lost in Green Bay, or deserted to look for family.

Then came dozens of truckers that were passing through the area, and the normal refugees like Cameron, Marge, and Jack. The estimated total population was around two hundred that was slowly growing. Space was limited, the community center was filling up, and more locals were forced to open their homes to others. Some even had to pitch tents outside.

In the meanwhile, Cameron continued with rifle training, and virtually everyday was the same. It wasn't simply point, shoot, and hope to get better at it, though. He also had to learn how to dismantle the rifle, clean it, and put it back together. That was even more of a pain, but according to Kyle they needed to get more acquainted with their weapons.

Two weeks passed, and all the practice came into fruition. Cameron's aim steadily got better, able to hit targets farther away. He was nowhere near the level of a true marksman, but he thought that he was good enough to survive out in the open.

Once almost all the volunteers were good enough shots, Major Kyle said that he had a little surprise in store for them. He had everybody line up single file, making it so that Cameron was first.

"So," the Major said to him, "you say that you've killed thirty infected. Correct?"

Cameron nodded. "Yeah."

"Then step forward," he ordered.

On top of the trucks, Cameron watched two soldiers pull on a rope, which hauled up a third person. That third figure was bound, gagged, and was putting up a hell of fight—it was a zombie, Cameron immediately realized. But what the hell were they doing with a zombie?

The soldiers stood the zombie upright, cut its bonds, and pushed it over the edge towards them.

"The fuck?" Cameron observed, as the zombie stood up howling and raging at the people above him.

Major Kyle then let out a loud whistle, which got the zombie's attention. It let out a screech through its gag and charged at them.

"You say you've taken out infected? Prove it."

"Seriously?"

"Damn straight."

Cameron gave the man a look before raising his rifle, taking aim (which was more difficult on a moving target), and putting a bullet clean through the zombie's skull. Blood and brain sprayed out from the back of the head as the thing topped to the ground lifeless.

"FUCK YEAH, CAM!" To his right, Cameron spotted Marge doing patrol duty, and had caught him taking the shot.

"Good," Major Kyle said, with an approving nod at Cameron's lack of hesitation. "My people went through hell to capture all these infected," the Major announced to everyone. "Don't disappoint me. Next!"

Everybody else got their shot, and all but one was able to pull the trigger. That zombie was taken out by the soldiers before it got too close to anybody; and the person that couldn't kill it was dismissed until he proved that he was able to take the shot. Then the Major became grimmer as Cameron was once again called to the front of the line.

"Not all infected are going to be fully grown people," he started, making a gesture to those on the truck. "Get ready, Marsh."

This time the soldiers hauled up a much smaller person. To Cameron's disgust this time it was a little girl who they were shoving over the edge. She let out the same horrible shriek, and ran at Cameron.

It was harder to dehumanize this zombie. No matter what Cameron couldn't help but know that that used to be a little girl, someone's daughter, and someone's student. She likely watched Bob the Builder on TV, enjoyed playing with her Barbie dolls—hell, she might've even asked for a pony for every Christmas and birthday. But he focused on the ravaged face, bloody and tattered clothes, and pale eyes. It wasn't human.

Cameron pulled the trigger, and the girl went down just like all of the other zombies around it.

The Major patted him on the shoulder, and pointed for the next person to come forward. This challenged proved more difficult, as four people couldn't shoot at those child sized zombies, and were promptly dismissed. So at the end of it all fifty-one volunteers remained.

"We'll be dangerously low on supplies within one week," Major Kyle announced. "We're going to the nearest super market to start salvaging before that happens. Practice will continue until then, but for now clean this field up."

"This is bullshit," Horace whispered to Cameron as they went to work.

"Yeah," Cameron agreed lazily. Horace was thirty, had a beer belly, and used to own a pawnshop. He barely escaped from Oshkosh when the infection hit, and pretty much had the same story as all the other refugees (shit went down, and he got the fuck out). Cameron made friends with him one day after firing practice when they bitched and moaned about the Major, who wasn't all that bad but they needed to vent their frustration somehow.

"C'mon, Cam, he was the one that made us shoot these things."

"True, but I'm not in the mood right now."

"Why? Just cause we had to shoot some zombified kids?"

"Well I'm not on your level of hardcore zombie killer yet," Cameron told him crossly as they dragged the bodies into one pile.

"I guess seeing those kids would make you think of your nephew," Horace observed, with what he supposed was an understanding nod.

"Yeah that's it," said Cameron. He was at least happy to know that the lie about being Marge's brother took hold—he really liked being able to sleep in a semi-actual bed. "So scared to get back out there?"

"Hell yeah!" he answered without shame. "Fuckin' kidding me? The thought of leaving makes me wanna quit."

When the bodies were all piled up, kerosene was thrown on them and they were burned. Cameron bade farewell to Horace, and made his daily call to his parents. They were fine. Next was Jules.

There was no answer.

As soon as he got back to the house, Cameron got on Facebook. He didn't see her logged on, which was strange since she always stayed on. Cameron simply prayed that her power was just out, and her cell phone died.

"Please let her be okay," he said softly to God or whoever was out there. "Please."