mtlumby2d Chapter 214: There’s No End to It
Chapter 214: There’s No End to It
Corporal Daniel Santos slammed another belt of ammunition into the M240.
The machine gun barrel glowed faintly red beneath the darkness.
His shoulder hurt.
His ears rang.
His uniform was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.
Not his blood.
Mostly.
"Gun up!"
The assistant gunner immediately slapped the receiver shut.
Daniel grinned.
Then squeezed the trigger.
BRRRRRRT.
The machine gun roared again.
The stream of 7.62mm rounds ripped into the advancing infected.
Bodies dropped.
Heads burst apart.
Several sprinting variants tumbled into the ditch before the defensive berm.
More appeared immediately afterward.
Always more.
The defensive line stretched across an abandoned section of highway north of San Fernando.
Nearly a hundred soldiers occupied fighting positions along the road.
Sandbags.
Concrete barriers.
Burned-out trucks.
Everything had been converted into a defensive position.
And they were shooting nonstop.
A rifleman beside Daniel cursed.
"How are there still this many?"
Nobody answered.
Because everyone was wondering the same thing.
The road ahead looked alive.
Thousands of infected filled both lanes.
The shoulder.
The nearby fields.
The drainage canals.
Everything moved.
Everything advanced.
A nearby Stryker suddenly fired.
BOOM.
The 105mm cannon blasted a hole through the center of the horde.
Bodies disappeared.
The survivors simply filled the gap.
Daniel stared.
Then shook his head.
"This is insane."
---
Five kilometers away.
Captain Maria Velasquez pushed her AH-64 Apache lower.
The helicopter skimmed over rice fields at nearly 140 knots.
Night vision sensors painted the battlefield in glowing green.
The view was horrifying.
The infected stretched across the landscape like a living ocean.
Everywhere.
The Apache’s radar continued updating targets.
There were too many.
Far too many.
Her gunner spoke.
"Target cluster acquired."
"Distance?"
"One point four kilometers."
Maria glanced at the display.
Thousands.
Packed together.
Moving along an elevated roadway.
Perfect.
"Engage."
The gunner immediately launched.
WHOOSH.
WHOOSH.
WHOOSH.
Hydra rockets streaked away.
The roadway vanished beneath explosions.
Fire erupted across hundreds of meters.
Chunks of concrete flew through the air.
Entire sections of the elevated road collapsed.
Thousands of infected disappeared beneath debris.
The Apache banked left.
The gunner switched weapons.
"Chain gun."
The turret rotated.
Then opened fire.
BRRRRRRT.
Thirty-millimeter rounds tore through the survivors.
The roadway became a slaughterhouse.
Bodies piled atop bodies.
The infected never stopped moving.
The helicopter passed overhead.
Then Maria looked back.
The destruction was impressive.
The horde was still there.
She sighed.
"Again."
The Apache rolled into another attack run.
---
Far above Pampanga.
Major Ethan Walker pulled his F-16 into a steep climb.
The fighter’s warning systems remained quiet.
No enemy aircraft.
No surface-to-air missiles.
Nothing.
Just zombies.
Millions of zombies.
The targeting pod continued tracking a massive concentration west of Tarlac.
The image almost didn’t look real.
The infected packed every visible road.
Entire neighborhoods had become moving masses.
The pilot keyed his radio.
"Viper Seven, commencing attack."
The answer came immediately.
"Cleared hot."
The F-16 rolled over.
The nose pointed downward.
The horde rapidly filled the display.
Target lock.
Confirmed.
Weapon release.
Two GBU-54 laser-guided bombs separated from the wings.
The fighter pulled away.
Seconds later—
BOOOOOM.
BOOOOOM.
Twin explosions erupted within the center of the concentration.
Entire blocks disappeared.
Buildings collapsed.
Vehicles flipped through the air.
The shockwaves flattened everything nearby.
Thousands died instantly.
The targeting pod updated.
The damage looked devastating.
Then movement resumed.
The infected simply flowed around the destruction.
Like water.
Like a river finding a new path.
Ethan stared.
Then muttered.
"I hate zombies."
---
Back near Outpost Echo.
The ground QRF continued fighting.
The Abrams tanks had pushed forward almost a kilometer from the outpost.
Their purpose wasn’t offense.
Their purpose was creating space.
Space for the defenders.
Space for the artillery.
Space for survival.
Inside one Abrams, Sergeant Ramirez tracked targets through his thermal sight.
The display glowed white.
Everywhere.
The infected filled the screen.
The tank commander pointed.
"Canister. Front."
"Identified."
The loader rammed another round into the breech.
"Up."
"Fire."
BOOM.
The tank shook.
The canister round exploded outward.
Hundreds of steel projectiles shredded everything ahead.
The front ranks simply vanished.
The coaxial machine gun immediately joined in.
BRRRRRRT.
The commander switched radio channels.
"Second Platoon, hold position."
Static.
Then an answer.
"Copy."
The commander looked through his sight again.
Then froze.
The infected weren’t slowing.
They were still accelerating.
The fast variants kept appearing.
Hundreds of them.
Then thousands.
Running.
Not walking.
Running.
Toward the defensive lines.
Toward humanity.
Toward Basa.
---
Several kilometers farther north.
A HIMARS battery received another fire mission.
The launcher crews barely had time to reload before the next target package arrived.
One operator looked at the coordinates.
Then raised an eyebrow.
"Again?"
The battery commander nodded.
"Again."
The operator checked the target data.
Another concentration.
Estimated size.
Thirty thousand.
He whistled softly.
"That’s a lot."
The commander didn’t even look up.
"Then let’s make it smaller."
The launcher elevated.
Coordinates locked.
Target confirmed.
The commander raised his radio.
"Battery ready."
Several other launchers reported ready immediately.
The command came seconds later.
"Execute."
The night sky erupted.
WHOOSH.
WHOOSH.
WHOOSH.
Rocket after rocket climbed upward.
Bright trails crossed the darkness.
The launchers emptied their pods.
Then immediately began preparing reload operations.
Far away.
The impacts arrived.
The horizon lit up.
Huge explosions rolled across the landscape.
Drone feeds showed entire infected formations disappearing beneath fire.
Thousands killed.
Then thousands more.
The barrage continued.
One strike after another.
One concentration after another.
The destruction became so widespread that parts of northern Pampanga appeared to be burning continuously.
---
Inside a defensive trench west of San Fernando, Private First Class Miguel Herrera reloaded his rifle for the seventh time.
His hands hurt.
His arms hurt.
Everything hurt.
The infected didn’t care.
They kept coming.
A nearby machine gun opened fire.
Mortars launched behind the trench.
Artillery thundered in the distance.
Attack helicopters roared overhead.
The entire province had become a battlefield.
Miguel looked over the berm.
The sight stole his breath.
The infected stretched to the horizon.
Not hundreds.
Not thousands.
An ocean.
A literal ocean.
And every single one was moving toward them.
His squad leader dropped into the trench.
"Stay focused!"
The soldiers nodded immediately.
Nobody was running.
Nobody was breaking.
They had survived worse.
Or at least they hoped they had.
Then the radio attached to the squad leader crackled.
The man listened.
His expression immediately changed.
Not fear.
Concern.
Real concern.
One of the soldiers noticed.
"What is it?"
The squad leader looked toward the northern horizon.
Toward the burning countryside.
Toward the endless horde.
Then answered quietly.
"Recon drones just updated the numbers."
Nobody liked the sound of that.
The soldier swallowed.
"What numbers?"
The squad leader hesitated.
Then finally answered.
"Command says the horde is still growing."
Silence followed.
Because everyone had assumed this was the horde.
The entire horde.
Apparently it wasn’t.
Not even close.
And somewhere beyond the burning roads, the destroyed towns, and the shattered highways of Central Luzon...
More infected were still coming.