Free Here We Stand (Book 2): Divided (Surviving The Evacuation) by Frank Tayell Page B

airfield.”
    The zombies had followed. There were some on the road, heading in the direction of the breached fence. The gunfire spoke of more creatures already inside. The fusillade was continuous; however, the volume of fire was slackening.
    “There’s a dozen zombies outside the front gate,” Helena said.
    “No vehicles in the farmhouse,” Tom said. “Might be some on the airfield.”
    There was a sound of an explosion. A grenade, he thought.
    “What about those trucks by the gate?” Helena suggested. “They might work.”
    “Assuming they weren’t disabled in an attempt to make the barricade more formidable.” But they weren’t going to get on the airfield, and there was nothing for them the way they’d come. “No, there are no good choices. Let’s try for those trucks.”
    His feet were reluctant to run. They seemed to understand what his brain refused to accept: it was futile. There were over a dozen zombies by the gate, and four more on the road between them and it. At any moment the gunfire could stop as the last remaining people at the airfield boarded a plane. The zombies would follow the sound of its engine, traipsing back out onto the road, and so right into Helena and him. There truly were no other choices. He slung the rifle and pulled out the machete, his eyes never leaving the nearest zombie on the road.
    “This reminds me of a story,” he said.
    “What?” Helena asked.
    The zombie was only forty yards away. Dressed more smartly than most undead he’d seen, it looked as if its left leg was injured. With each faltering step, it seemed like it would topple, yet it remained upright, dragging its wounded limb behind it.
    “A story,” Tom said, hefting the machete. It had been a noticeable weight on his belt, getting more burdensome with each step. Now it seemed flimsy and inadequate, but a shot might attract the attention of the zombies further down the road. “It was something Vice President Carpenter told me about the time when he was a general, working as a peacekeeper.”
    “This isn’t the time, Tom,” Helena said.
    “The punch line,” Tom said, “is that when there are no good choices left, you keep on going as hard and fast as you can.”
    General Carpenter’s story had involved an armored convoy, ambushed by a rebellious faction that refused to obey a cease-fire. They’d been on a road that ran through a valley. Armed with decades-old equipment, the rebels wouldn’t have stood a chance against the American convoy in a stand-up fight, but they had been dug in on the high ground. The convoy had got through. The other punch line, the one that had come a long silence later, was illustrated with three photographs. They’d showed the bullet holes and shrapnel scars on the vehicles. On the back of each picture, the general had written the names of the dead. The vehicles had been retrofitted, reinforced against an EMP at the expense of armor that would protect from small arms and IEDs. The story had been told as a way for the general to illustrate that if he was to join the ticket, he wanted structural reform of military procurement. That part of the story, Tom kept to himself.
    He raised the machete, focusing on what he would have to do. Swing up, swing down, move on to the next. The zombie’s head bobbed with each limping step, twisting its face in a macabre mockery of human exertion. Its hair was matted with mud and worse. Its chest was stained dark, but there were flecks of white paint on its once-polished shoes.
    There was the buzzing whine of an engine. The zombie jerked upright. Its arms flew up and almost around in a circle as it turned its head toward the airfield. The engine-whine grew louder. Tom spared a quick glance. He couldn’t see the plane, but he could see a score of the undead lurching between the buildings that shielded the runway from view. The whine turned to a roar, and Tom turned back to the zombie in front. Suddenly, there was a massive explosion. He