Zombie Killers: Ice & Fire by John Holmes, Ryan Szimanski Page B

of the truck, barely missing Doc, who was leaning on the 240. He didn’t flinch, but I heard the selector switch rotate from SAFE to FIRE.
    “WE’RE WITH THE GOVERNMENT, WE JUST WANT TO TALK!” I heard Jonesy laughing inside the truck. “Shut it, you moron.” He laughed louder.
    I turned back to face the bridge, wanting to give it one more try, and I was knocked down by a hammer blow to the chest. It flung me backwards and I crashed into the open door and fell to the snow, gasping for breath. I tried to sit up as Doc opened fire with the gun, hammering short bursts into the structure.
    “Cease fire!” I tried to yell it, but it came out as a croak. Someone grabbed me by the dead man’s strap on the back of my body armor, and pulled me into the truck as I struggled to get to my feet. Brit started pulling at the velcro tabs on my body armor, shoving her hand down the front.
    “NO BLOOD!” Doc dropped down from the turret, and Brit took his place as we drove away. Hot brass fell on me as I struggled for breath, and I winced in pain as we bounced over sidewalks to avoid the barriers, truck tires crunching through bones.
    We stopped half a mile down the road, and Doc stripped off my uniform top and felt my ribs. He touched one and I almost jumped out of my skin. An ugly bruise was forming on my chest.
    “Yeah, broken rib. I’ll tape it, but you’re just going to have to take it real easy for a few days. Lucky for you it hit your SAPI plate clean on. Any higher” he said as he reached into my vest and pulled out the shattered ceramic plate “and your would have had your shoulder ripped off.” He felt around and pulled out a flattened bit of metal and dropped it in my hand. “Full metal jacket, high velocity military round. Maybe an old M-1 Garand or a Springfield ’03. You are one lucky mother, buddy. Try not to breathe too hard. ”
    “No shit, Sherlock” I groaned.
    Jonesy turned around. “Damn, Nick, don’t you know by now there ain’t no helping some people? First arrow, I would have skedaddled out of there, but nooooo, you had to play John Wayne. Just like that time in California, down in LA. “US ARMY, WE’RE HERE TO HELP!!!” He burst out laughing, as did Doc and Ahmed.
    “Stop, you ass, it hurts to laugh!”
    “Tell me about it!” said Brit.
    “Well, we got some kinda intel that some rich folk …” I held up my hand to stop Jonesy. I had had enough embarrassment for one day.

Chapter 26
    The rest of the day passed in a haze of pain and discomfort. Doc gave me some Codeine, and I had some really weird nightmares as a I drifted in and out. We cut down Route 32 southeastward, around Glens Falls and through Gansevoort to Schuylerville, and crossed over the Hudson there. The Saratoga Battlefield Monument kept silent watch over the deserted apple orchards, slate grey in the weak winter light.
    Fourteen miles to the south, we made a right turn onto a set of bridges going back across the Hudson at Stillwater. In between the bridges, on a small island, stood a two story house. I had spent last summer, immediately after the Apocalypse, hiding out there and fortifying the house. Whenever things got too hot, I took off across the water in a rowboat to a refuge in the woods, several miles away, that I had built on an old farm foundation. TO the south, the city of Mechanicville still swarmed with Z’s, but I had cleared the immediate area out, sniping from the roof, using up thousands of .22 rounds.
    Snow crunched under the wheels as we pulled up slowly and stopped twenty meters from the front of the house. Across the western bridge span, the barricade I had built out of cars still stretched across the road. As we un-assed the truck, a sharp pain shot through my side and I bit down on my lip to stifle a groan.
    “Ho, hey there, where do you think you’re going?” Doc put his hand out and stopped me. “Back in the truck, cowboy.”
    I compromised and sat down on the seat, feet hanging out of the door.