Chapter Two - Everything's Fucked
Emily walked the streets of District One, looking out for weak spots in the coverage from the snipers above. The US Army insisted they were there to protect them, but that was bollocks. A dozen heavily armed soldiers on the rooftops with their rifles pointed inwards? That was containment, not fucking protection. And with the way they laughed and joked around, the distinction didn't seem to bother the soldiers one bit.
Weak spots were not easy to find in the overwatch of District One though, and Emily sighed. Time to look for an alternative plan.
When the shit hit the fan, Doyle was on the rooftop, half way through his night watch. As the stream of panicked British civilians fled from the compromised containment areas, Doyle did his best to target the Infected before they could get to anyone else. But as the crowd became more terrified, and more Infected came at them, it was hard to know who was a rabid biter and who was just scared to death. He hesitated, had no valid shots that he could guarantee wouldn't be an innocent.
When the order came over the radio, he had to ask for it to be repeated. Abandon selective targeting and kill everyone on ground level. Fuck. He searched his sights, trying to pick off people who were already cornered, but it was too chaotic to tell. His next shot was dubious, a guy covered in blood but when Doyle's finger tightened on the trigger he knew that the guy was screaming and not snarling. Too late.
"Run!" he hissed under his breath as he continued shooting, bringing down another three people that he knew weren't infected but were at the back of the pack. They weren't fast enough and in another second they would have been bitten. Then he saw a fucking kid in his sights, standing bewildered in the middle of the chaos. Someone shouted to the kid, told him to run into a building, and Doyle let his finger loosen on his trigger.
"I got two fuckers on me! Doyle, I got two fuckers on me!" the panicked voice came over the radio and Doyle spun to find two infected tackling one of the guys on the adjacent rooftop. He sighted, saw the teeth break the skin on the soldier's neck before he could shoot, and Doyle took a deep breath and put a bullet in his brother's skull. He hung his head, raked a trembling hand through his hair, and swore as he put down his M1A, slung his pack onto his back and grabbed his M4.
