It was ten in the morning. Parked on Main Street were four modified trucks. On top of each were what looked like fences, and on the bottom were metal plates that covered up the space underneath. Upon opening the back one would see benches, and a rope ladder that led to a hatch to get to the roof. The cab also had a hatch so that the passengers there could also get to the roof the truck. Each truck also had a many boxes of ammunition.
The volunteers and some of the National Guard were gathered.
"So you haven't been in contact all week?" Horace asked.
"'Fraid so," Cameron said sadly. If the zombies didn't get Jules, then starvation would. Did her house have enough food to last so long? Somehow that never came up in conversation.
A sharp whistle sounded, causing all conversation to come to a halt. Then a man that Cameron hadn't seen before walked up to them. All the National Guard people stood at attention, including Kyle and Isturez, and Cameron understood—it was the Commander. He must've barely shown his face in public because few of the civilians recognized him. The Commander was tall, black, and burly, looking sharp in his uniform.
"We're starting small," the man started, "but that doesn't mean it's dangerous. I thank each and every one of you for risking your lives out there. And because of that I am going to join you." His subordinates looked stunned at this announcement but he only smiled. "I'm just like all of you, having to fight so that we can make a life for ourselves. I want at least twenty men—"
"And women," a female from the crowd shouted.
"Yes, and women," the Commander acknowledged. "At least twenty in each truck." He motioned to each truck as he said, "Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. Take your pick—we're moving out."
Marge and Jack walked up to Cameron looking anxious.
"Be careful out there, Cam," Marge said to him.
"Sure I will." The two of them hugged. Her flaming hair had a faint aroma of shampoo, and Cameron felt her chest squeeze against him. They parted before Cameron got too into that hug. There was something about putting your life on the line that made you realize that your friend was hot—even if they were pretending to be siblings.
"Bye, Uncle Cam," said Jack.
Cameron ruffled the kid's hair. "See ya." The two of them sort of bonded over the past few weeks, as if Cameron was really his uncle.
He and Horace got into Delta. They took a seat on the benches, and a few minutes later the trucks roared to life. A light bulb was attached to the ceiling, so Cameron was able to see the apprehension on every person—both volunteer and Guard.
Cameron understood completely. This was the first time in weeks that he was leaving the confines of Yuba for the open road. Like all the others he just held his gun, gritted his teeth, and kept his face as straight as possible.
Eventually the trip was made even more nerve racking by the occasional banging coming from outside. That and the bumpy ride almost made Cameron want to vomit. More than once the turns practically threw people off their seat.
After a little while the truck started to slow. The people started to stand up, when the truck banked left. After it came to a complete stop and the engine turned off, the ranking officer took one of the boxes and climbed up the rope ladder. Upon reaching the top she gave the all clear for the rest to follow.
Cameron waited in a queue to go up while outside he heard moans that got louder and louder. When it was his turn to climb up, he strapped the gun over his shoulder. After reaching the top Cameron gasped.
They were in the parking lot of growling, howling zombies. The trucks were arranged in a square, forming a space in the middle. The people that were already out were eliminating the ones in the middle. Once it was cleared out another rope ladder was thrown over the edge for people to climb up and down. Everybody had been briefed on the plan: create a safe area inside the circle of trucks, and there people would be able to rest, eat, or take care of personal business.
"Who thought of this?" Cameron asked the soldier next to him, as they proceeded to kill those on the outside.
"Wilson—he's on Bravo right now. Well, he didn't really come up with it," he corrected himself. "He sort of got the idea from World War Z."
"World War what?" he responded.
The soldier stopped his shooting to give Cameron a funny look. "Are you serious? It's a book—and a damned good one, too!"
"Not much of book person," Cameron admitted, pointing his rifle down. He picked out a zombie and pulled the trigger. His literary knowledge was limited to school, and to a few Tom Clancy books he read while stuck at an airport during mind numbing family vacations.
"Whatever, man, I'm gonna see to it that everyone reads that," the soldier stated.
"What about the Zombie Survival Guide?" Horace put out, also in the process of shooting.
"Has some good tips," he said, "but I wouldn't put too much stake in it."
"Why not?"
"These zombies and those zombies are completely different."
"True," Horace agreed.
The talking ceased, and Cameron focused his efforts on killing the things below him. They were almost literally in a sea of the undead—two or three hundred at the least, and more just kept on coming. The things were showing up from the neighboring community or the surrounding countryside.
Whenever someone ran out of bullets they just reached into their truck's boxes for a fresh magazine (Cameron was forced to hold a shooting position for an hour for saying "clip" once), and got back to work. And when the box ran out of ammo someone went back down into the truck to grab another. The fences prevented anybody from falling over into the monsters below.
It was such a simple task that Cameron almost thought it unfair. He just pointed down, picked a zombie, and shot it. Aim down, pick one, and shoot it. It was a turkey shoot, and all the zombies could do was reach up and snarl. Cameron questioned why they spent those weeks practicing when this was all they were doing.
But what had started out as easy was turning tedious. Much like a lion couldn't tell apart a single zebra in a large group of them, Cameron was finding it harder to pick out a zombie. Not only that they were spending hours in the blazing sun. When Cameron tried cracking his stiff neck, he felt a stinging sensation—he had a fucking sun burn!
To top it all off he noticed another problem arising. Cameron remembered that movie Starship Troopers. The humans were shooting aliens from their fort, but eventually the dead aliens began piling up, allowing the live ones to reach the top of the fort's wall. That was exactly what happening before him.
The people focused most of their attention on the zombies directly below them, causing the dead bodies to pile up.
"Hey, uh, in the World War Z book, did they have a problem with the zombies piling up?" Cameron had to ask the soldier.
The soldier stopped shooting, blinked, and looked down. The pile had reached half way up the truck, and one zombie managed to grab onto the fence before being shot down.
"Oh shit," he breathed. "Sir," the man yelled to Alpha. "SIR! We should move before the infected can overrun us!"
The shooting stopped for a second, as everybody seemed to suddenly understand why the trucks should be moved. Bad move. That allowed some zombies to get too close, reach through the protective fence, and grab a leg that they pulled in to take a bite out of.
"Ah! HOLY FUCK!"
Shots were fired again to kill those zombies, and the bitten person was pulled away from the fence. Then people went back to shooing the approaching zombies, as the Commander barked orders at the people resting in the middle to climb back up, so that the drivers could relocate the trucks.
When the engines came on again, everybody held on tight to the nearest piece of fence. With Alpha in the lead it paved the way to an emptier part of the parking lot, leaving behind four large piles of dead undead.