Townsend couldn't believe that he and his troops had been caught off guard like that, but without radio contact he had no other way of knowing that the enemy had been so close. He stood clutching the M2 machine gun, watching the chaos ensuing around him. The surprise attack had separated his unit. Shells dropped all around them but so far only one of the flatbeds had been hit. Although the loss of fifty odd soldiers had been difficult, he'd considered it fortunate that none of the Strykers or Humvees had yet been hit, particularly the flatbed carrying all their fuel and food.
He'd sent the chopper up in the middle of the battle, giving the pilot specific instructions to fly over the enemy and identify their position. It was highly unlikely that the Chinese would deploy their anti-aircraft capability, which consisted of a 12.77 anti-aircraft machine gun mounted on the roof of the turret. Deploying it required sophisticated computer software, which would no doubt fail because of the horde's jamming signals. But to be on the safe side he'd ordered Ackroyd to fly up as high as possible and out of the range of their machine guns. Knowing Chinese weaponry as he did, having studied most of the superpowers’ weapons systems, Townsend assumed that he was up against the ZTZ99 battle tanks, the most modern ground tank the Chinese had to offer. It was equipped with an over-pressure NBC collective protection system as well as automatic fire suppression. However, all that was moot if their computer systems were down and they had to fire randomly into the air.
Townsend jumped off the Humvee and up onto the turret of one of the Strykers. Two others idled on either side of him, unsure of what to do or where to go. Thousands of zombies staggered on the ground below, circling around the three LAVs and beyond. Shells exploded off in the distance, blowing members of the horde to pieces. Body parts flew up in the air and rained down around them. Rather than strike back, he thought it best to hold fire until Ackroyd circled around the Chinese tanks and gave their position away by flashing the chopper's red light. The enemy had lost sight of them and to strike now would give away his own position. Besides, the Chinese were so engaged in the ground battle they wouldn't even notice the chopper flying above them.
Another round exploded a quarter mile away and northwest of their coordinates. Not only was the enemy using up valuable ammunition but one of the Strykers had separated from the unit and begun firing rounds a mile west from their current location, providing him and the remainder of his crew ample cover. It took only a few seconds for the Chinese tanks to return fire in that direction. He realized that the disarray could actually work in his favor.
The massive crowd of zombies was staggering everywhere and he found himself wondering if the Chinese had been inundated with them as well. The two Strykers on either side of him waited for his order to move out. He stood atop the turret, staring through binoculars to see if he could locate the enemy squadron. It was then that he noticed how dark and angry the sky appeared and he prayed that he might be able to see the chopper's lights in the developing storm.
If they could hit the ZTZ99 in the right location he knew they could disable the tank. Designed after the Russian 2A464M, they often stored extra ammunitions inside the compartment, making it vulnerable to combustion if penetrated.
He gazed out through the binoculars as the Chinese tanks fired. The separated Stryker fired off a round in return, sending a ball flame shooting out the barrel. Up in the sky, Ackroyd began flashing the chopper's light. Its faint glow pulsed though the growing storm clouds. He was about to climb back down inside the compartment when he saw one of his Strykers off in the distance take a direct hit. A flame went up and then the Stryker disappeared behind a black haze. Once the smoke cleared, the damaged LAV came into view. He wondered if the crew had survived such a crippling blow. The two soldiers began to crawl out of the hatch. Smoke poured out of the compartment as they staggered atop the vehicle, injured by the effect of the concussion blast. They searched around for help but there was nowhere to go and no one to help them. Townsend watched as the covetous horde surrounded the vehicle and reached up toward them.
Before climbing down into the compartment, he glanced one last time at the stranded soldiers, who were sitting on the LAV in resignation as rounds from the 51-calibre smoothbore exploded around them. One of the soldiers took out his rifle and began to fire down into the horde but the bullets had little effect on them as the successive waves simply filled in the gaps. Another round hit nearby and Townsend flinched at the blood and guts misting down on him. Nothing scared these dead bastards, he realized. How could they be scared of death when they were already fucking dead?
He looked through the binoculars again and watched as the bogeymen reached up and grabbed the pant leg of the second soldier and dragged him down into their awaiting arms. The soldier, who he couldn't identify, quickly disappeared from sight. The lone surviving soldier stood atop the damaged turret, holding his head in his hands and turning round and round. He removed his Kevlar helmet and threw it down into the swarm of cannibals. Then he removed his pistol from his holster, pointed it at his head and fired a round into his brain.
Spooked by the sight of it, Townsend scampered down into the compartment and barked out coordinates. In a matter of seconds all three Strykers had deployed their Javelin anti-tank guided missiles. Townsend ordered his gunner to cease fire and the three vehicles went quiet. He climbed out the hatch, the extreme heat of the gun radiating along the hairs of his skin. A slight rain began to fall as he searched the sky for the chopper's signal. It flashed three times in succession, stopped for a beat, and then repeated the cycle, indicating that the Stryker's missiles had hit their intended target. The chopper quickly veered out of the clouds and upward, preparing to return to its helipad. Townsend stood on the deck and waved his arms, hoping to guide the pilot back to his platform truck. Positioning himself behind the turret, he shouted for the sergeant to move the vehicle forward, and the others followed behind.
They plowed through the throng of frenzied zombies, flattening the underbrush, and Townsend marveled at the durability of the Stryker, which was built to withstand the harshest of terrains. Couldn't beat American craftsmanship, not like that cheap Chinese shit built for the short term. No, the Stryker was a thing of beauty. When the computer system was fully operational, it even had the capability to alter the air pressure of the tires to suit the specific terrain, although that was a moot point now.
They approached the bombed-out Chinese squadron, turrets pointed downward. The stupid commie bastards had remained too close together, the result being that they'd been an easy target. But with radio contact non-existent and their limited understanding of the territory, he knew that they’d had no other choice but to keep in close contact. Swarms of zombies pushed up against the smoking tanks, waiting for any survivors to emerge. Townsend, who had jumped down into his Humvee, clutched the trigger of the M2, ready to open fire on them.
One of the hatches opened and the three crew members struggled to climb out, coughing from smoke inhalation, their clothes black and shredded. They staggered off the edge of the tank and into the arms of the horde below. Townsend raised his arm triumphantly, watching with satisfaction as the zombies tore away at the soldiers’ flesh. Geysers of blood shot through the air and onto the backs of the monsters ravishing them.
“Nice shooting, boys!” he shouted to his crew.
“You too, General.”
“Now that's what I call authentic Chinese food.”
“Chop fucking suey!” another of the men cried out, laughing. “And I'm going to want to kill more in fifteen minutes.”
“Party for twee, motherfuckers!” another soldier shouted. “Eggwoe and fwi wice.”
“Okay, heroes, enough with the jokes. Get your heads back in the game. We need to head back to the highway and meet up with the others, wherever the hell they took off to. Those commie tanks aren't going anywhere, and even if the crew survives they won't make it past the horde. Keep your eyes and ears open. There could be more of those Chinese bastards roaming around out there, waiting to ambush us.”
They travelled a few miles until they climbed back onto the interstate and met up with some of the other units. Three Strykers and a Humvee had gone missing, presumably hit by enemy fire, and of course the transport truck had taken a direct hit as well, killing every soldier onboard. He looked around for the truck carrying the chopper, finally seeing it approaching from the south. He breathed a sigh of relief. Having that chopper on his side had been a godsend and he needed to keep it and its pilot safe at all costs.
“Who else we missing?”
“Capozza and Brown, Rivera and Mathews,” one of the soldiers from the Humvee shouted. “Rivera and Mathews took a direct hit from the Gooks. We ain't seen nothing from Capozza and Brown yet. I'm assuming they got hit too, General.”
“We don't have time to look for them. One of you guys mark the road with spray paint every mile or so. Wouldn't mind setting off a couple flashes to identify our location, but then again I don't want to give our coordinates away if any more of those commies are looking for us.”
“What's our mission, sir?'
“To take back this goddamn country from those leeches, soldier. But first we have to rescue the president from those traitorous sons-of-bitches. The future of this country depends on keeping President Roberts alive.”
Townsend stared down at all the rotting scum starting to gather around the unit. He couldn't believe his good luck. God had seen fit to watch out for him and his men so that better days might come. He couldn't disguise his hatred toward these sick freaks, despite the fact that they had given him this rare opportunity to make history. If God had sent them down for a reason, the big guy sure had a sick sense of humor.