Chapter 148: Hell's Frontier
Sean leaned against the wall, one hand resting on the scorching-hot barrel of his rifle as he stared at the endless gray-white tide illuminated by the searchlights.
He couldn't remember how long he had been standing there.
He couldn't remember how many bullets he had fired or how many magazines he had emptied.
The walkers never grew tired.
They never felt fear.
And they would not retreat when dawn came.
They simply kept moving forward, endlessly advancing, stepping over the corpses of their fallen companions and climbing hills made from piled-up bodies as they followed the scent of the living.
Sean's ears rang constantly.
Gunfire, artillery, and zombie roars blended together into a deafening buzz, like an enormous pot of boiling porridge.
His eyelids drooped heavily, and his hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
He pinched his thigh hard.
The sharp pain cleared his mind for a moment.
Then he heard a familiar voice.
Not artillery.
Not gunfire.
"Hey, Sean. I'm here to help."
Sean looked toward the city entrance.
Rick stood there, dragging one of Sean's men behind him, apparently implying that the soldier had accidentally revealed Sean's location.
Sean laughed hoarsely and walked over.
The two men embraced briefly.
Afterward, Sean leaned against a nearby pillar, holding an unlit cigarette between his lips.
The cigarette was damp and refused to ignite, but simply having it in his mouth eased the craving.
"What brings you here?"
His voice sounded as rough as sandpaper.
"The boss sent me."
Rick looked him up and down.
"You look like you just crawled out of your own grave."
Sean grinned.
The smile cracked the layer of dust and grime covering his face.
"Almost."
He turned toward the stairs.
"Come with me."
"I'll show you hell."
---
The container wall stood enormous and imposing.
Two layers of shipping containers had been stacked together, with the gaps filled using gravel and concrete.
From the top, the entire southern plain lay exposed before them.
Searchlights swept across the darkness.
Wherever their beams landed, countless gray-white heads emerged from the night.
One kilometer.
Two kilometers.
Perhaps even farther.
Sean rested both hands against the rough container wall and tilted his chin toward the south.
"This is the frontier of hell."
He smirked.
"Welcome."
Rick raised his binoculars and adjusted the focus.
The sight that greeted him tightened his grip.
It wasn't fear.
It was the overwhelming sensation of standing before a mountain.
Millions of walkers poured out of Florida and crossed the plains of southern Georgia, advancing toward Savannah.
They weren't marching in formation.
They flowed like a tidal wave.
Roads.
Fields.
Forests.
Every visible stretch of land was covered by them.
The prison survivors standing on the wall reacted differently.
Some swallowed nervously.
Some gripped their rifles tighter.
Others lowered their heads, unable to continue looking.
Five helicopters hovered above the horde.
Their searchlights swept across the battlefield while machine gunners leaned from open doors, firing continuously into the sea of corpses below.
Bullets tore through the crowd.
Walkers fell.
Others stepped over them.
Then more fell.
And more replaced them.
The distant chatter of helicopter machine guns echoed through the night like giant war drums.
"You should all get some rest first."
Rick lowered his binoculars.
Sean shook his head.
"We'll rotate in shifts."
"My people will split into two groups. I'll take the first group down to rest. The second group will stay and support you."
"After you've rested, we'll switch."
Rick nodded.
Sean patted his shoulder and headed downstairs.
His figure flickered briefly beneath the searchlights before disappearing beneath the wall.
---
Eight hours later, dawn arrived.
The rising sun painted the battlefield in shades of crimson.
Rick remained at his position.
His binoculars had barely left his eyes.
His vision felt gritty, as though sand had been rubbed into them.
His throat was equally dry.
The prison defenders had already rotated through two shifts.
Their accuracy still hadn't improved.
There were too many inexperienced recruits and too little training.
When nervous, their hands shook.
Many closed their eyes while firing.
If they managed thirty headshots out of one hundred rounds, they considered themselves lucky.
The remaining walkers climbed over mountains of corpses and reached the base of the wall.
Flamethrowers engulfed them.
Those behind continued pushing forward.
Sean climbed back onto the wall carrying a cup of coffee.
He handed it to Rick.
Rick took a sip and immediately winced at the heat but swallowed it anyway.
"The headshot rate is terrible."
"A few times they almost reached the wall."
Sean leaned against the barrier and lit a cigarette.
This time it caught.
He exhaled a long stream of smoke into the morning air.
"That's normal."
"Your people usually patrol inside secure walls. They've never fought a battle like this."
He flicked away the ash.
"Give them a few more battles."
"They'll get used to it."
Rick remained silent.
Instead, he handed the binoculars back.
Sean accepted them, took a quick look, then set them aside.
Picking up his rifle, he walked to the edge of the wall.
A walker clawed its way up from the mountain of corpses below.
Half its face had rotted away.
Black blood dripped from its teeth.
Sean pressed the muzzle against its forehead and fired.
The walker toppled backward.
Another immediately climbed over the body.
Sean fired again.
And again.
His movements were calm and methodical.
Every shot struck its target.
Not a single bullet was wasted.
Rick stepped beside him and raised his own weapon.
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder atop the wall.
Their gunshots echoed intermittently, almost like a quiet conversation.
Below them, countless gray-white hands continued reaching upward.
None could touch them.
The searchlights looked faint beneath daylight, but they continued rotating across the battlefield.
Five helicopters still circled overhead.
Their machine guns never stopped firing.
Artillery continued roaring in the distance.
The sound rolled across the plains like distant thunder.
On the eastern section of the wall, Abraham's machine gun suddenly erupted again.
Rick glanced toward the black-coated soldiers stationed nearby.
A puzzled expression crossed his face.
"Sean."
"Those men in black coats..."
"Aren't they tired?"
"Why haven't you rotated them out?"
Sean shrugged.
"They're not under my command."
"I've tried talking to them."
"They ignore me."
"They just keep fighting like wooden puppets."
Rick blinked.
"Not under your command?"
"Then who commands them?"
Sean tilted his head toward another section of the wall.
"See those people wearing the strange gear?"
"They call themselves Alpha Squad."
"Their leader wears a gas mask with red lenses."
"They're good."
"Very few walkers ever get close to their position."
Rick followed his gaze.
Near Alpha Squad's section, scattered walker corpses littered the ground.
Unlike the massive piles accumulating elsewhere, their defensive zone remained remarkably clean.
The walkers never managed to gather in large numbers there.
Above the battlefield, the air war continued.
Five of the ten Little Bull helicopters had returned to Robbins Air Force Base.
In their place, five Osprey helicopters arrived as reinforcements.
The moment they reached the battlefield, missiles streaked downward.
Explosions erupted across the horde.
Walkers were blasted into the air.
Mortars thundered from the rear lines.
Sean and Rick continued directing their men.
Side by side, they fought desperately to hold back the endless tide of the dead.