Running with the Horde by Joseph K. Richard

hammered until the pikes were loose enough for me to push aside.
                  I turned to the zombies gathered around me in a tight semi-circle and commanded them to stay away from my handiwork. They seemed to pause for a second before resuming their growling and pawing at each other. I scrambled back through the crowd to retrieve the ladder.
                  Soon I had it positioned against my cleared out portion of the wall. I moved up each rung at a slow creep until my head crowned the top. I peeped timidly over expecting to see a gang of thugs looking up at me with weapons drawn. Instead, the ground below me was dark and empty.
                  There were rear guards lounging in similar towers looking out over the rear section of the wall. I could see them from atop the ladder. Sure enough they had built a second gate in the back. I marveled again at the ingenuity and brawn it must have required to construct the wall and turn the large house into a fortress.
                  An absurd pang of regret that my actions might ruin it did a belly flop in my gut. Then I remembered the choked-off scream of the old man and I quashed that feeling.
                  I would burn the fucking place to the ground if I could.
                  I also couldn’t get my mind around the sheer stupidity of partying so loud they drew all the zombies within a few miles to their front door. They were so confident in their wall that they had allowed themselves to be cut off from any possible escape until the zombies disbursed.
                  It didn’t add up that someone smart enough to oversee construction of this magnitude would put themselves in this position. Something I would sort out later I told myself, if I lived that long.
                  Now came the hard part. I tossed Dave’s shotgun and my pack over the wall as quietly as I could and climbed down from the ladder. I turned to group of zombies nearest to me and asked for volunteers. A bunch of arms were already up so I could see they weren’t going to make this easy for me. I was reminded of grade school when I had the chore of picking my team for kickball. It was always very stressful for me. I didn’t like to hurt feelings.
                  I grabbed a stout looking fellow in a dirty gray hoodie by one of his outstretched arms and half led him, half dragged him to the base of the ladder. I positioned him in front of it and he just stood there like an idiot. I placed both of his arms into position on the ladder, still nothing from him.
                  “You gotta give me something here, bub,” I said but he wasn’t listening.
                  I put one of his blue-jean clad legs on the first rung hoping he would get the idea. He didn’t. Exasperated, I got behind him and began shoving his under quarters up the ladder.
                  This was a memorable task for me as I found my face in very close proximity to his overripe ass but I found I could get him to climb if I pushed him up one rung at a time. Finally he reached the top and I bull rushed him over with as much energy as I could muster. His legs flipped over the wall flinging a shoe over my head. I worried he might break his neck on the ground but then I remembered it didn’t matter.
                  By the fourth zombie I had a really good process down; select, drag, position, walk up, shove over and repeat. I had also worked up quite a nasty lather which, I was horrified to note, was not entirely made up of my own fluids. But this should be expected when a person essentially gives several shoulder rides to slowly rotting dead people.
                  The last individual I selected, for what I began referring to as Zombie Team 6, was a smallish older lady because I was tired. The moment her legs flipped over the side I scrambled up to the top of the wall and