Chapter 135: Revenge
The afternoon sun softened the asphalt runway at Robins Air Force Base.
Ground crew members crouched beside the F-15's landing gear, inspecting the tire treads with flashlights while checking the pressure gauges.
The maintenance chief sat inside the cockpit, carefully running his fingers over every switch and indicator while muttering to himself.
Charles stood beneath the wing with his arms crossed, staring at the missile mounted under the fuselage.
A GBU-54.
Thermobaric warhead.
He had seen its combat simulations during the briefing.
After detonation, the weapon generated an intense blast wave and extreme temperatures capable of consuming the surrounding oxygen. Anyone caught within its effective radius would either suffocate or have their internal organs shattered by the pressure wave.
The only question was whether it would be as effective against the undead.
Jester jogged over from the hangar carrying two flight helmets and handed one to Charles.
"Command only approved two thermobaric missiles. The rest are conventional warheads."
Charles frowned as he accepted the helmet.
"Only two? There are millions of Walkers down there."
Jester shrugged.
"Marcus said the aircraft isn't in perfect condition. After this mission, it needs a full maintenance cycle."
He smirked.
"Otherwise, you can pray you don't end up parachuting into a zombie horde."
Charles remained silent for a moment before putting on his helmet and climbing into the cockpit.
---
Marcus stood atop the control tower with his hands in his pockets, watching the fighter taxi toward the runway.
The engine's roar grew louder and louder.
The heat from the exhaust distorted the air behind the aircraft.
The brakes released.
The F-15 shot forward like an arrow.
Its nose lifted.
The landing gear retracted.
Within moments, it disappeared into the clouds.
Marcus watched the shrinking black dot before picking up his radio.
"Robins Tower to Falcon. Radar lock confirmed. Course is clear. Good luck."
Static crackled through the headset.
"Falcon copies. Keep the channel open."
Charles's calm voice came through.
---
A dozen miles north of Miami.
A gray-white tide slowly advanced along the highway.
Millions of Walkers stretched across roads, fields, forests, and distant hills.
Endless.
Relentless.
At the front of the horde, more than a dozen people were being dragged behind pickup trucks with ropes tied around their wrists.
The vehicles moved just fast enough to stay beyond the Walkers' reach.
Armed gang members stood in the truck beds, smoking cigarettes and laughing as they watched the captives struggle.
One man wearing a plaid shirt could barely continue.
His legs trembled violently.
His lips were cracked.
His throat felt as though it were packed with broken glass.
He glared at one of the gangsters standing in the truck.
His eyes burned with hatred.
The gangster noticed.
Feeling irritated, he slapped the truck roof.
The vehicle stopped.
The rope tightened instantly.
The exhausted man stumbled forward and crashed to his knees.
Only a dozen meters behind him, the nearest Walkers had already reached out their hands.
The gangster lit another cigarette and smiled.
Then the truck started moving again.
The rope loosened.
The man forced himself back to his feet and continued running.
Every step felt like dragging himself through a swamp.
Suddenly—
A deafening roar echoed across the sky.
Not thunder.
Jet engines.
An F-15 burst through the clouds.
Flying so low that its missile pylons were clearly visible.
Its shadow swept across the highway, over the Walkers, and over the convoy itself.
Charles's voice came through the headset.
"Jester, do you see that?"
"There are more than a dozen vehicles ahead. They're using people as bait."
"I see them, sir."
Charles's jaw tightened.
"Scumbags."
"Agreed, sir."
Jester hesitated.
"Are we still carrying out the mission?"
"Of course."
Charles snorted.
"Otherwise, what did we come here for? A sightseeing trip?"
A brief silence followed.
"What about the people down there?"
Charles paused for a second.
Then he sighed.
"Don't ever tell anyone you learned under me."
Jester immediately understood.
"We only strike the middle and rear sections."
A grin appeared on Charles's face.
"Now you're thinking."
"Get ready."
---
The gang members had already spotted the fighter.
Some leaned out of windows to stare upward.
Others dropped their cigarettes.
Fear quickly spread through the convoy.
One bald gangster wearing a gold chain grabbed his radio.
"It's the military!"
"The military's here!"
"Run!"
Panic erupted instantly.
Some gang members were already jumping from moving vehicles.
Meanwhile, the captives looked skyward.
For the first time in days, hope returned to their eyes.
"The army!"
"We're saved!"
A young man shouted.
An older man beside him shook his head.
"They didn't come to save us."
"They came to destroy those things."
"We just happen to be in the way."
The F-15 completed a wide turn and descended even lower.
The missiles beneath its wings became clearly visible.
Then—
Two missiles detached.
White flames erupted from their tails as they plunged toward the rear of the Walker horde.
The gangsters instantly recognized what they were.
Some screamed.
Others slammed the accelerator.
The trucks sped up.
The ropes tightened violently.
Several captives were dragged across the pavement.
Their knees tore open.
Blood stained the road.
One gangster suddenly pulled out a machete.
With a single swing, he cut the ropes.
The captives collapsed onto the asphalt.
Some scrambled toward the roadside.
Others simply lay there gasping for breath.
The convoy accelerated and fled.
Dust clouds rose behind them.
Then—
BOOM!
BOOM!
Two thermobaric warheads detonated among the Walkers.
Dark-red fireballs erupted skyward like giant mushrooms.
The shockwaves expanded in all directions.
The surrounding air seemed to vanish instantly.
Walkers within the blast radius were crushed by invisible force.
Their chests collapsed inward.
Their eyeballs burst.
Blood poured from every opening.
They dropped lifelessly to the ground.
Those farther away were hurled through the air, smashed into one another, and trampled beneath the advancing horde.
The massive Walker formation dissolved into chaos.
Then came the second strike.
Conventional missiles slammed into the center of the horde.
Explosions blossomed like crimson flowers.
Bodies flew apart.
Limbs scattered across the road.
Blood mist filled the air.
From above, the destruction stretched for hundreds of meters.
Charles watched quietly.
His hand remained steady on the flight stick.
"Falcon to Robins."
"Mission complete."
"Two thermobaric and six conventional missiles expended."
"Estimated enemy casualties: fifty to one hundred thousand."
"The remaining horde is still advancing."
The radio answered immediately.
"Robins copies."
"Return to base."
The F-15 climbed sharply and banked northward.
---
On the highway below, the freed captives stood silently by the roadside.
Some cried.
Some laughed.
Some collapsed from exhaustion.
Others worked to untie the ropes still binding their wrists.
A young man finally freed himself.
His wrists were bleeding.
He stared toward the burning Walker horde.
"Those bastards wanted us dead."
His voice wasn't loud.
But it carried unmistakable determination.
"Then we can't let them get away with it."
The people around him exchanged glances.
Some nodded.
Some stood up.
Others gripped stones and broken pieces of metal.
Together, they headed south.
Not to escape.
But to find the men who had used them as bait and abandoned them.
Behind them, the scattered Walker horde slowly regrouped and continued its relentless march southward.
---
At the Port of Miami warehouse district, the Haitian gang's stronghold remained lively.
Five or six hundred gang members and survivors were busy unloading the day's catch.
Several men in floral shirts played cards around a table covered with cash and white powder.
A bald man leaned against a wall with a bottle of rum in his hand.
Most of it was already gone.
None of them realized what was approaching.
Beyond the horizon.
A gray-white tide was moving toward them.