Chapter3

As the setting sun dyed the snowfields a rusty iron, three Ford pickups fitted with steel ramming bars crushed the tranquility of the ranch.

Rough white paint was spray-painted across their doors: "Community Militia".

I swiftly backed behind a haystack, gripping the frame of my Remington. On the other side, Bell silently racked the pump of his shotgun.

Seven or eight men armed with AR-15s piled out. The leader was a middle-aged guy in a baseball cap, wearing a dark-stained puffer jacket over a tactical vest.

"Muzzles down, boys!" Baseball Cap raised a hand, gesturing no immediate hostility. "We're evacuation volunteers. The military and police have pulled out. We're taking over."

"Private property. You're trespassing." I didn't shift my sights, keeping my index finger resting on the trigger guard.

"Government's paralyzed, highways are choked. We're clearing a safe corridor." He ignored my warning, crunching forward through the snow. "Routine security sweep. We need to inventory survivors and supplies at the surrounding farms."

A dull, heavy thud cut him off without warning.

The heavy wooden door of the spare sheep pen rattled violently. Inside, Thomas let out a vocal-cord-shredding hiss, the sharp screech of nails clawing at the wood piercing the freezing air.

Baseball Cap stopped dead in his tracks. The men behind him leveled their rifles in unison, a ripple of clicking safeties echoing across the yard.

"Infected." Baseball Cap's voice dropped, his eyes nailed to the door. "You've got one in your camp."

"None of your business." Bell stepped forward, his burly frame blocking the line of sight between the sheep pen and the gun barrels. The tactical shovel in his hand caught the cold light.

Mary bolted from the house. Not even wearing a coat, she threw herself against the wooden door, her fingers digging frantically into the frame.

"Don't touch him!" The mother's voice was laced with a suffocating despair. "He's just sick!"

Two black muzzles tracked her movement, locking onto her chest. The tension in the air pulled taut like a snapping string.

"Under quarantine protocol, hazards must be neutralized." Baseball Cap's finger rested on the trigger.

I closed the distance in a stride, shoving the barrel of the Remington hard against his chest. "Take your men and back up past the fence."

Baseball Cap didn't flinch. He glanced down at the steel against his chest, then shifted his gaze up to meet my eyes.

"Don't be so rigid, Arthur. I know you've stockpiled plenty of winter rations." He actually knew my name, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "Rules are made by the living."

He continued at a volume only we could hear: "Hand over seventy percent of your supplies, including the pickup. We'll grant you two sanctuary spots, and turn a blind eye to... whatever is behind that door."

This wasn't a rescue. This was armed extortion masquerading in a uniform.

I didn't lower my weapon. Instead, I shoved forward another half step. The cold metal of the barrel physically forced him back.

"I'll say this one last time. Get off my land."

Baseball Cap narrowed his eyes, studying me for two long seconds. Slowly, he raised his hands, backing away and signaling his men to lower their weapons.

"You'll regret this, soldier." He turned and climbed into the truck.

The roar of the pickups' engines faded into the distance, but the slimy sensation of being eyed by a viper lingered.

I turned, sprinted into the main house, and bolted straight for the second-floor attic, grabbing my tactical binoculars.

Through the lens, two miles away on the leeward side of the ridge, the three trucks had stopped. Several silhouettes stood on the roofs, holding rangefinders and binoculars, marking the various entry and exit points of the ranch.

They never intended to leave. They were mapping out our defensive blind spots.

The glint of their optics remained on the ridge until nightfall swallowed it completely. The temperature plummeted, and the freezing wind began to carry a strange, rustling sound.

It sounded like countless pairs of dragging feet scraping in unison against rough asphalt.

I shoved the window open. In the pitch black, dozens of blurry shadows were spilling over the drainage ditch at the edge of the highway.

"Bell!" I hissed into the radio. "We've got a situation."

These monsters weren't wandering aimlessly like they had the night before. They had formed a dense, wedge-shaped formation, pressing uniformly toward the anti-wolf fencing on the ranch's south side.

It was too methodical. It completely defied their mindless hunting instincts.

Bell charged up to the second floor, weapon in hand. Following my line of sight, his breathing instantly went heavy.

"Look at the dead tree at two o'clock," he pointed into the distant dark.

Beneath the dead tree, a high-lumen flashlight blinked rhythmically. With every sweep of the beam, accompanied by a low-frequency whistle, the horde adjusted its trajectory, bearing straight down on our perimeter.

"It's the militia." Bell gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white around his gun. "They're using light and noise to 'herd' them."

Those bastards were using the infected as cannon fodder to test our defenses.

Once the monsters bled us dry of ammo, stamina, and the structural integrity of our fences, the militia would just step over the bodies and take over without firing a shot.

Inside the sheep pen, Thomas seemed to sense the approach of his own kind. The pounding against the wooden door abruptly intensified. The cast-iron padlock groaned in agony under the violent impacts.

I grabbed a spare bandolier from the table, wrapping the shells tightly around my forearm.

Inside, a loved one was ready to break loose at any second; outside, a weaponized horde of infected was surging toward us.

I racked a shell into the chamber. This apocalypse had finally torn off its mask of natural disaster. The most lethal threat always comes from your own kind.