The infected began reaching the secondary defensive lines.
Not everywhere.
Not yet.
But it was happening.
Despite the artillery.
Despite the fighters.
Despite the helicopters.
Despite the bombers.
The sheer number of infected ensured that some would survive.
And those survivors kept moving.
South of San Fernando.
A company-sized defensive position occupied a stretch of elevated highway overlooking several flooded rice fields.
The position had originally been intended as a fallback line.
A contingency.
Something to hold if the first line collapsed.
Nobody had expected to use it tonight.
Nobody had expected anything like tonight.
Staff Sergeant Javier Cruz crouched behind a concrete barrier while changing magazines.
His rifle was hot.
His gloves smelled of burnt gunpowder.
The men around him looked exhausted.
Yet nobody stopped fighting.
The infected below were too close.
Way too close.
A machine gunner nearby shouted.
"Movement left!"
