Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“Six, this is Three. We have intermittent contact with them from this position. Over.”

“Three, this is Six. If you have the opportunity, roll over and give them some suppressing fire. We’ll have close air in just a few minutes, but they’ll need to refuel after a couple of passes. Over.”

“Roger, on that. Over.”

More gunfire sounded from the terminal building. Dekker saw figures moving around in the control tower, which sat just south of the terminal. He couldn’t tell who they were, but he saw rifles. Not a good sign. He shouted a warning to the two soldiers beside him, and as they looked up, the glass surrounding the control tower exploded outward. It wasn’t from hostile fire—but from one of the Black Hawks that orbited on the far side of the airport. The gunner had been sharp enough to take out the Klowns hoping to get the drop on the cavalrymen and airmen below.

“Catfish, thanks for the cover,” Dekker transmitted.

“Nomad, thank us later. There’s some bad juju going on in the terminal building. Some more good news, we’re seeing small groups heading toward the airfield. Don’t seem to be really synchronized, but we see weapons, from firearms to baseball bats. Given the body decorations, they’re not our kind of people. Over.”

“Catfish, give me some numbers. Over.”

“Nomad, call it fifty to sixty so far. Over.”

God damn. “Roger that, Catfish. How—”

Another burst of gunfire tore through the terminal’s few remaining windows. He looked at one of the soldiers crouching down behind the barriers with him and spotted a grenade launcher under the barrel of the guy’s M4.

“Hey, Ramirez. When they start massing to attack, hit them with some grenades.”

“Roger that, El-Tee,” the soldier responded.

The firing stopped. Silence reigned for a few seconds, broken only by intermittent gunfire and the constant throbbing of helicopters in flight. Dekker realized he didn’t hear the pounding of the remaining Huey, which he presumed meant it had either been downed or had retreated from the engagement area.

“Fitzpatrick, you have an M203?” he shouted to the soldier on the other side of Ramirez.

“Negative on that, El-Tee,” the man responded.

“Awesome,” Dekker murmured. They could have used another grenade launcher.

“Hey, you hear that, El-Tee?” Ramirez asked almost conversationally.

“Hear what?” Dekker asked.

Ramirez nodded toward the terminal building. “Laughing.”

Dekker lifted the ear cup off his left ear. Sure enough, he heard laughter, and the voices were getting louder.

“Get ready for it,” Dekker said, letting his ear cup fall back in place. “Nomad Two, you’re clear to engage at your discretion. Bravo Team, you’re cleared to engage as well. Keep eyes out. We’ve got goblins all around the perimeter now. Over.” Dekker glanced at the dun-colored MRAP that sat at the far end of the barrier line. In addition to its gunner, it was flanked by two cav troopers carrying M4s.

Both units rogered their responses.

Two minutes later, the first of the Klowns—civilians who had been infected, judging by their attire—started boiling out of the terminal building with hoots and hollers. Men, women, children, all giggling and tittering, cast their mad gazes across the airfield. Carrying anything from knives to chair legs to broken bottles, they surged toward the long line of orange barriers, feet slapping the tarmac as they ran.

Nomad Two’s M2 chattered immediately, cutting through the advancing crazies like a scythe through wheat, blasting body parts across the concrete. The Air Force emplacement opened up as well, pelting the exits with less impressive but still lethal 5.56-millimeter rounds. Dekker saw people falling to the ground just outside the exit, and those Klowns behind the first tripped and stumbled as they tried to pick their way across the corpses. The fifty roared again, kicking up explosions of dust as the rounds slashed their way across the asphalt, digging divots and ripping limbs off torsos. Dekker and the other troops hadn’t even started firing yet.

“Hey, maybe we’ll be able to save some grenades,” Ramirez shouted.

From the terminal building, something exploded with enough force to rattle the bits of glass remaining in the panes. A brief flash followed, and Dekker had an impression of something was speeding across the airfield, trailing a ribbon of fire behind it. Before he could move, Nomad Two exploded.

The force of the detonation ripped the M2 right off its mount, and the gunner flopped about in the open air cupola like a rag doll before slumping forward, his helmeted head bouncing off the rig’s thick armor. The two dismounted soldiers went down, screaming, as shrapnel tore across them, ripping open legs and arms and faces, anywhere that wasn’t armored.

“AT4s!” Dekker shouted. “They have AT4s! Hit the terminal building!” He raked a burst of full auto fire across the terminal building.

Too late. There was another booming explosion, and another fiery projectile ripped across the airfield and slammed into the Air Force emplacement, sending sandbags and airmen flying through the air. In less than two seconds, the firepower at the refueling area’s southern flank had been reduced to almost nothing. Another explosion, and a third AT4 rocket hurtled away from the terminal. It slammed into Nomad Two once again, a follow-on attack to ensure the big MRAP was out of the fight. The vehicle lurched to the side as the front left wheel was shorn off, and its diesel engine clattered and stalled, emitting dark smoke.

The Klowns emerged from the terminal building once more, a gigantic wave of at least fifty people. They carried anything that could be used as a weapon, and in their mix were soldiers. The infected Guardsmen shot on the run, and Dekker heard bullets slam into the water-filled jersey barriers near his position.

“Contact at the barriers!” Dekker called over the radio. “Ramirez, if you don’t fucking mind—”

“ Out !” Ramirez shouted.

The M203 cracked as it spat out a forty-millimeter high-explosive round. The grenade grounded right in front of one of the terminal doors leading to the airfield and exploded, killing at least five or six Klowns immediately and gruesomely injuring a dozen more as they stampeded into the open. But more were behind them, and some stopped just long enough to pick up fallen rifles or other weapons.

Ramirez reloaded the M203 as the soldier beside him opened up with an M4, peppering the advancing Klowns with suppressive fire. Dekker fired a burst into the approaching Infected as well, and he was rewarded with the sight of two Klowns dropping to the concrete. He returned his attention to the terminal building. His biggest fear was of another rocket, or perhaps a machinegun attack. The Klowns in the helicopters had come ready to party, and that was really putting a hurting on Nomad.

Looking through the sight of his rifle, he saw movement inside the building. People in ACUs were walking around but not hurriedly. They carried weapons, including something tubular, probably another AT4. He fired on the figures, but he was at an extreme angle. He hit one, and the others shrank back, using an internal wall as cover. His rifle rounds weren’t likely to penetrate the barrier, but Dekker kept it up, hoping to fix them in place.

“Six, this is Three. Huey is returning, heading in from the east! I say again, red air inbound! Over!” Sergeant Heller’s voice was pitched unusually high, as he had to shout to be heard over the chattering fifty caliber weapon his rig was currently employing.

Dekker dropped his sights and fired on the Klowns closing on the barricades, trying to drive them back. His magazine went dry just as another forty-millimeter round exploded, sending human garbage flying in every direction. Ramirez had saved the day.