Corporal Daniel Santos slammed another belt of ammunition into the M240.
The machine gun barrel glowed faintly red beneath the darkness.
His shoulder hurt.
His ears rang.
His uniform was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.
Not his blood.
Mostly.
"Gun up!"
The assistant gunner immediately slapped the receiver shut.
Daniel grinned.
Then squeezed the trigger.
BRRRRRRT.
The machine gun roared again.
The stream of 7.62mm rounds ripped into the advancing infected.
Bodies dropped.
Heads burst apart.
Several sprinting variants tumbled into the ditch before the defensive berm.
More appeared immediately afterward.
Always more.
The defensive line stretched across an abandoned section of highway north of San Fernando.
Nearly a hundred soldiers occupied fighting positions along the road.
Sandbags.
Concrete barriers.
Burned-out trucks.
Everything had been converted into a defensive position.
And they were shooting nonstop.
A rifleman beside Daniel cursed.
