Zombie Apocalypse - Page 4

On September 16 2011 17:25 zatic wrote:

I know this and I always had my issues with the logic. In my opinion this only applies to limited outbreaks, where there is hope that armed forces can contain the outbreak eventually. But even then your chance of survival in a city are ridiculously slim. Most likely your will starv in a quarantained city or be straight up incinerated as they clear the place with napalm. It is certainly not a strategy for the the ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE. Apocalypse to me implies that most of humanity will turn Z, all order breaks down, and no short or mid term hope of taking back the planet.

In that case, in an urban scenario it appears to be the worst decision to lock yourself up and wait until every last human in the city has turned Z. Best case they will not notice you and you will die on your desperate attempt to break out. Worst case they will notice you and you will starv to death while hundreds of wailing moaners scratch in your front door.

Cities are the number one death trap in World War Z. I am convinced your best chance to survive is get the hell outta there as fast as you can once the breakout has begun.

Around 1300 hours, die radios started squawking, it was the K-handlers whose
dogs had made contact. We locked and loaded and took our place on the firing
line.
That was the centerpiece of our whole new battle doctrine, back into the past like
everything else. We massed in a straight line, two ranks: one active, one reserve.
The reserve was so when anyone in the front rank needed a weapon recharge, their
fire wouldn't be missed on the line. Theoretically, with everyone either firing or
reloading, we could keep Zack falling as long as the ammo held out.
We could hear the barking, the Ks were bringing them in. We started seeing Gs on
the horizon, hundreds.

We switched over to our Primary
Enticement Mechanism. Every army had one by now. The Brits would use
bagpipes, the Chinese used bugles, the Sou'fricans used to smack their rifles with
their assegais and belt out these Zulu war chants. For us, it was hard-core Iron
Maiden. Now, personally, I've never been a metal fan. Straight classic rock's my
thing, and Hendrix's "Driving South" is about as heavy as I get. But I had to admit, standing there in that desert wind,
with "The Trooper" thumping in my chest, I got it. The PEM wasn't really for
Zack's benefit. It was to psych us up, take away some of Zack's mojo, you know,
"take the piss out," as the Brits say. Right about the time Dickinson was belting
"As you plunge into a certain death" I was pumped, SIR charged and ready, eyes
fixed on this growing, closing horde. I was, like, "Cmon, Zack, let's fuckin' do
this!"
Just before they reached the front range marker, the music began to fade. The
squad leaders shouted, "Front rank, ready!" and die first line knelt. Then came the
order to "take aim!" and then, as we all held our breath, as the music clicked off,
we heard "FIRE!"

The front rank just rippled, cracking like a SAW on full auto and dropping every
G that crossed the first markers. We had strict orders, only the ones crossing the
line. Wait for the others. We'd trained this way for months. By now it was pure
instinct. Sister Montoya raised her weapon above her head, the signal for an empty
mag. We switched positions, I flipped off my safety, and sighted my first target.

On the range we practiced with metronomes, all the time the instructors saying "they ain't
in no hurry, why are you?" It was a way of keeping calm, pacing yourself. We had to be
as slow and robotic as them. "Out G the G," they used to say.

Yeah, the Recharge Teams, this special reserve unit char did nothing hue make
sure we never ran dry. You only had a certain number of clips on you and it would
take a lot more time to reload each individual clip. The Sandlers ran up and down
the line collecting empty clips, recharging them from crated ammo, and then
passing them out to anyone who signaled.

One G sees you, comes after you, and moans. A click away,
another G hears that moan, comes after it, and moans himself, then another one
anodier click away, then another. Dude, if the area's thick enough, if the chain's
unbroken, who knows how far you can pull them in from. And we're just talking
one after the other here. Try ten every click, a hundred, a thousand.
They starred piling up, forming this artificial palisade at the first range marker, this
ridge of corpses that got higher and higher each minute. We were actually building
an undead fortification, creating a situation where all we had to do was pop every
head that popped over the top. The brass had planned for this. They had a
periscope tower thingy that let officers see right over the wall. They also had realtime
downlinks from satellites and recon drones, although we, the grunts, had no
idea what they were seeing. Land Warrior was gone for now so all we had to do
was concentrate on what was in front of our faces.
We started getting contacts from all sides, either coming around the wall or else
being drawn in from our flanks and even rear. Again, the brass was waiting for
this and ordered us to form an RS.
A Reinforced Square.
Or a "Raj-Singh," I guess after the guy who reinvented it. We formed a tight
square, still two ranks, with our vehicles and whatnot in the center. That was a
dangerous gamble, cutting us off like that. I mean, yeah, it didn't work that first
time in India only 'cause the ammo ran out. But there was no guarantee it wouldn't
happen again to us. What if the brass had goofed, hadn't packed enough rounds or
underestimated how strong Zack would be that day* It could have been Yonkers
all over again; worse, because no one would be getting out of there alive.
But you did have enough ammunition.
More than enough. The vehicles were packed to their roofs. We had water.
we had replacements. If you needed a fiver, you just raised your weapon and one
of the Sandlers would jump in and take our place on the firing
o line.

No one would ever volunteer for a fiver, but they had these KO teams, combat shrinks who were observing everyone's performance. They'd been with us
since our early days on the range, knew us each by name and face, and knew, don't
ask me how, when the stress of battle was starting to de-grade our performance.
We didn't know, I certainly didn't. There were a couple times I'd miss a shot or
maybe take a half second instead of a full. Then suddenly I'd get this tap on my
shoulder and I knew I was out of it for five. It really worked. Before I knew it, I
was back on the line, bladder empty, stomach quiet, a few less kinks and muscle
cramps. It made a world of difference, and anyone who thinks we could have
lasted without it should try hitting a moving bull's-eye every second for fifteen
hours.
What about at night?
We used searchlights from the vehicles, powerful, red-coated beams so it didn't
mess with your night vision. The only creepy thing about night fighting, other than
the redness from the lights, is the glow a round makes when it enters the head.
That's why we called them "Cherry PIES," because if the bullet's chemcomp
wasn't mixed right, it would burn so bright it made their eyes glow red. That was a
cure for constipation, especially later on, on nights when you pulled guard duty,
and one would come at you out of the dark. Those glowing red eyes, frozen in
time the second before it falls.