Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

The two men came lurching towards him, an old woman supported between their arms. Cahz could hear a stream of encouragement from the young men as they hauled the exhausted woman along.

“Keep going down to the chopper!” Cahz shouted to the trio.

Before taking aim again, he surveyed the street. Along the sidewalks, spilling onto the roads, staggering between the mangled cars, came an army of cadavers. All wore the same uniform of tattered brown stained clothes, all with the same pallid grey faces.

Hundreds-if not thousands-of infected corpses, shambling forward, charging in slow motion.

But there among the palsied attackers was a knot of fury. With lighting strikes a tall balding man with dark hair was battling obstinately against the swarming horde.

Cahz braced his weapon and lent his assistance to the fight. Framed in the dark circle of his sight, he took aim and fired. Tracking from left to right he fired, trying to weed out the zombies on either side. He couldn’t risk a shot at the knot within the mêlée, so entangled in the combat were the targets that the risk of hitting the men he was trying to save was too likely.

A spray of blood, red and warm and alive, spurted from the brawl. Cahz caught the spurt in his view as he picked targets. Had a shot missed a zombie to strike the survivor? Or had a zombie’s bite found an artery?

He knew he couldn’t dwell on the reason. All he could do was continue to obliterate zombies.

The scope went black. Cahz pulled back from his blinkered view and took a shocked step backward.

Arms outstretched, head clocked at a crooked angle, a zombie was trampling its way towards him. It was no more than a couple of lumbering steps away and Cahz had only known of its approach because it had blocked his view.

He adjusted his aim and fired. The reanimated shop worker’s head lurched back, its brains annihilated by the bullet passing through its skull.

Cahz counted himself lucky. He quickly scanned the surrounding area and focused his attention back on the knot of survivors.

The street was choked with zombies now. Cahz dipped in and out of using his scope, anxiously trying to spot the man with the pipe. He peered through the throng, hoping to glimpse the arm raise that held the sturdy grey pipe. But there was nothing.

“Boss, this is Bates,” Cahz heard over his earpiece. “I’m running dry and there’s no let up.”

Among the legions of walking dead, Cahz could see no signs of a struggle.

“Angel, have you got eyes on the other survivors?” Cahz asked, hoping the view from the sniper’s vantage point would bring good news.

A trio of zombies steadily advanced on the street corner. Getting too close for comfort, Cahz floored them with three well-placed shots.

Angel hadn’t replied.

Cahz again toggled his radio. “Angel, come in.”

“Lieutenant,” came Angel’s Russian tone, “I have situation.”

Cahz turned and scanned the skyline. Silhouetted on one of the rooftops he saw the team sniper. She was standing in a firing position, shooting at something on the roof. In a matter of seconds she had fired a whole magazine from her pistol. Whatever threat she faced, it wasn’t finished with her.

Cahz sighted his rifle on her to get a clearer view through his scope. The feathery white clouds and the low sun scattered the morning light, leaving Cahz to see only the dark shadow of her silhouette. Her ponytail bobbed as she hastily reloaded her pistol. Then, without warning, she turned and threw herself off the rooftop.

Lost from view, Cahz drew back from his sight, frantically scanning for her.

There .

Three or four floors from the bottom of the building, she dangled on her safety line.

The rooftop now became full of shambling corpses. As they reached the edge of the roof they slowed, confused by their lack of prey. Then the first of them fell. Whether it had stumbled, was pushed from behind, or just hadn’t stopped walking, the result was the same. The corpse tumbled down the face of the building.

The plummeting body narrowly missed Angel as she clung to the building’s façade.

Now a torrent of undead plunged from the roof. Dozens of brainless cadavers hurtled the eight storeys to pile up in a heap of splattered and shredded flesh.

Transfixed by the drama playing out across the plaza, Cahz watched on, his heart pounding. The worst of it was he knew there was nothing he could do to help her. Unconsciously his fingers caressed the toggle on his radio. As much as he wanted to call her he knew better than to distract her. The sniper acted alone, compromising her own safety for the sake of her comrades. Cahz turned his attention back to the street corner and dispatched the fresh batch of zombies encroaching on his position.

Back along the street there were no signs of life. No glimpse of the survivors, not even a knot of undead that might indicate a struggle. Nothing.

Cahz fired a few well-placed shots to thin out the zombies and took one last look into the mob. Reluctantly he turned to his buddy.

“Time to go, big guy,” he said as he patted Cannon on the shoulder.

He toggled his mic. “Okay people, time to bug out. Everyone back to the bird.”

With Cannon in tow, Cahz jogged back to the chopper. The air had the tart taste of spent powder mingling with the reek of festering bodies.

Cahz kept an eye on the team sniper as he made his way back. Dangling from her line, like a spider, Angel had pulled her side arm and was popping shots into the small gathering of zombies lucky enough to remain mobile after their dive off the roof. Her aim looked clumsy for the veteran shot she was. Then Cahz realised she was using her right hand, her left arm hanging loose by her side.

“Cahz, we’ve a problem,” the pilot’s voice came over the radio.

Just yards from the chopper, Cahz didn’t bother to reply over the mic.

“Cannon, go give Angel a hand,” Cahz ordered.

“You got it,” Cannon replied. He peeled off and jogged over to the stricken sniper. He was a huge man, almost as wide as he was tall, but more nimble than a soldier half his bulk. With startling agility he powered over the parking lot.

Gathered around the chopper were the people who had made it through the zombies. They all looked gaunt and exhausted. The young woman, the first to make it past Cahz, was bent double, dry heaving from the exertion. The other survivors didn’t look too much better.

The young men had instinctively assumed a picket and were watching nervously the advance of the zombies towards the chopper.

Cahz turned his head and double-checked behind him. A mob of undead had followed him round from the street but their sluggish gait meant there would be a few minutes before they reached the helicopter.

Bates, at the window of the chopper, was struggling to hold a conversation with Idris over the noise of the blades and the nearby ghetto blaster.

“What’s the problem?!” Cahz called out as he reached the chopper.

“Are you counting heads?!” Idris hollered back.

The disparate group were strung out around the chopper. The young woman was bent double, the eight-year-old girl she’d been carrying was comforting her with her hand on her back. The old woman was unsuccessfully trying to calm the baby in her arms. Even over the deafening sound of the chopper and the blaring ghetto blaster the child’s screeching still cut through it all.

Beside him, trying to look like he was working hard at solving a mental problem, Bates scratched at the short blond stubble on his chin.

Cahz suddenly understood the dilemma. “Ah, shit!”

Before he could ponder the problem further the young woman stepped in.

“Where are the others?” Sarah asked, red cheeked and still gulping for breath.