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

staggered sideways. Flames licked upward from the airfield, along with a dense, choking cloud.
    Helena grabbed his arm, pulling him upright. “The fuel store,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question, nor a statement, but she needed to say no more.
    “The gunfire,” he replied. It had all but stopped. Though he couldn’t see the runway, he knew it must now be strewn with rubble. Whatever fighter jets or other aircraft remained, even if they remained undamaged, none would take off from here. The trucks by the gate took on a new meaning. They represented escape not just for him, but for whoever was left alive inside. A scarce resource they might now have to fight over.
    With the sound of plinking, cracking metal to their left, they ran on. The limping zombie had been knocked from its feet by the blast. Its arms flailed as they drew near. Tom kicked its hands clear. There wasn’t time to kill it. The zombies further down the road had seen him and Helena, and were drifting toward them. The nearest was only ten feet away. Still running, he raised the machete, swinging it down on the zombie’s skull. The force of the blow split bone and brought Tom to a staggering halt. The blade was stuck. He stamped down on the creature to free it. There was a shot. A zombie fifteen feet from him spun backward. Helena stood, legs braced, carefully aiming. She fired again. The zombie collapsed, but Tom saw what she hadn’t. Inside the chain-link fence, shadowy figures staggered through the smoke.
    “Move!” he yelled. The zombie she’d shot was back on its feet, brown-red gore dripping from the wound in its shoulder. He ran forward, hacking the machete into its leg. It sliced through muscle. He drew the blade back as the zombie fell, and swung it down onto its head.
    Helena fired again, a head shot that meant only the zombies by the gates, and those staggering across the airfield, were left.
    “Only?” he muttered, hooking the machete back onto his belt. He unslung the rifle.
    “The road beyond the trucks looks clear,” he said as Helena drew level. He aimed. Fired. Aimed. Fired, and with each shot he took a step toward the zombies. Helena was firing, too. Part of him wanted to tell her to save her ammunition. A larger part wanted to tell her to run, to save herself, but distance didn’t offer salvation, not here, not now. Alone, together, on foot or on wheels, nowhere was safe.
    When the magazine was empty, there were only two zombies left. He reloaded, but slung the rifle. He had two magazines left, and they would need those if they were to see the sunset. Before he could draw the machete, Helena fired, unloading her pistol into the nearest. At least one of the half-dozen shots hit its skull, but that left the last creature. With no mud stains, or rips in its clothing, and no obvious wounds or bandages, it was only its slack-skinned rictus that showed it was dead. Tom hacked through its clawing hands. He kicked out at its knee. It staggered. He swung down, the blade smashing through its temple. It fell, taking the machete with it. He gave a tug, but it was stuck fast. Before he could pull it out, he saw the trucks, and realized what a fool’s refuge it was.
    The air had been let out of the tires. Cement had been poured on a mess of wood and metal in front of the vehicles. There was no escape there.
    “One magazine left,” Helena said.
    “We need to keep walking,” he said, gesturing down the road. “There’s too many zombies here to look for any supplies Julio’s left. We have to keep moving.”
    “Yeah. Keep moving. Always moving. Wait, do you hear that?”
    It was an engine, coming from inside the pall of choking fumes. It wasn’t a plane, but something far larger than a pickup. A fire truck appeared out of the smoke, heading straight for them. The padlock went flying, and the gate burst apart as the vehicle slammed into it the barricade. Tom leaped aside, but the truck had slowed. There was a grinding of gears, a