The horde actually slowed.
For the first time all night, it slowed.
Not because the infected feared the tanks.
Not because they understood danger.
Not because they were retreating.
They slowed because the battlefield in front of Outpost Echo had become a wall of steel, fire, and heavy armor.
The armored battalion pushed forward under the glow of burning fields.
Abrams tanks formed the center.
Bradleys rolled on both flanks.
Strykers and MRAPs filled the gaps between them.
JLTVs carried infantry teams who dismounted behind concrete barriers, wrecked vehicles, and hastily placed sandbag positions.
Everything fired.
Everything.
Tank cannons thundered.
Bushmaster chain guns hammered.
.50 caliber machine guns roared.
Mk19 grenade launchers thumped.
Riflemen fired controlled bursts into anything that survived long enough to reach small arms range.
The night had become pure violence.
Inside the lead Abrams, Sergeant Ramirez pressed his eye to the thermal sight.
