Zombie Killers: Ice & Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

for whatever reason they had. Who knew why the Zombies did what they did? I was just glad they set themselves up for such an easy target. On their next run, the Warthogs flew low and slow, releasing half a dozen cluster bombs from the hard points on their wings. The canisters split open a hundred feet from the ground, throwing out hundreds of grenades, each of which detonated with a dull thud that I could feel over the thumping of the helicopter’s rotors.
    The trick to fighting zombies was to get them in the open, and pound them with high explosives. People don’t understand what HE does to human bodies. The shrapnel, ordinarily the killer in an artillery shell, didn’t make much of difference to a Z. The hot metal just zipped through their bodies, leaving ragged holes, but not usually hitting their vital brain. Enough High Explosive, though, brains jellied, flesh was ripped off bones, arms, legs blown off. Maybe not a killer, but an immobile zombie is only a threat to someone looking for a Darwin Award. We drew them out where we could, identified hordes, called in artillery and the Air Force dropped tons of bombs on them.

     
    When the dust from the explosions had become too much to identify targets, the Apache rotated back east and took the lead again, following the Mohawk River as it wound its way through the valley. We were coming up on Ilion, just shy of the pass by Little Falls when we dipped down for our first fake insertion.
    Z’s are drawn to sound. Their eyes, quickly scratched and scored by lack of lubrication, are less than useless when it comes to tracking things. Bring enough noise and vibration, however, and they will come running. Our plan was to fake an insertion, along with the Apache, having the helos hover in one spot for around ten minutes, drawing whatever remained of the Z population out of Ilion. Analysis of trends indicated that around twenty five percent of any Pre-Apocalypse population actively survived as mobile undead, or so the intel weenies said. Our own observations seemed to confirm that.
    Hovering over a clearing about two miles west of town, the thud of rotors quickly drew a crowd of several hundred undead. The door gunner on our helo started burning through cases of ammo, the big .50 caliber rounds on his M-2 chewing off hunks of flesh, blowing off limbs. Like I said, head shots are best, but when a round a half an inch wide, moving at more than a thousand feet per second, hits a shoulder, hip, leg, whatever, that limb is coming off. Brit watched wide eyed, laughing so loud I almost hea rd her over the rotor wash. The woman was crazy.
    After a few minutes, we lifted straight up to a c ouple hundred feet and dashed eastward, the Apache saying there to keep their attention. The Blackhawk flared onto the roof of the factory, and we scrambled out, landing in the snow that had accumulated over the last couple months. The helo barely stopped before turning north and meeting up with the Apache again in a different spot, drawing the Z’s away from the building again.
    There was a doorway on the roof, leading to a set of stairs. Ordinarily these were emergency exits, locked from the inside. Jonesy took out his huge crowbar and inserted it into the doorframe. Myself, Hernandez, Collaton, and Ahmed stacked on the side of the doorway, pistols held down and ready to clear the stairway. We used pistols, because the lower velocity rounds would power into the concrete of a cinder block after going through a zombie, where a high velocity rifle used in a confined space like that could lead to a dangerous ricochet. The 5.56 millimeter rounds in the M-4 were notorious for going directly through a body if it didn’t hit bone.  I was in the lead, and instead of a pistol, I carried a pump 12 gauge shotgun.
    I felt Hernandez place his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, the “ready” signal. Since batteries for our Night Vision Goggle were in short supply, I lit a magnesium flare and held it