Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line by James N. Cook Page B

lily.”
    The wind picked up, blowing a dusting of snow across the field. Red tossed his mane and rumbled in irritation. I patted his neck and tightened my scarf around my face. 
    “There’s normal stink, and then there’s post-workout stink. When I told you to clean up I meant more than just changing your shirt.”
    Deputy Sarah Glover turned around in her saddle and cut the air with an angry hand. “Will you two shut it,” she hissed. “We’re on a sweep for Christ’s sake.”
    We shut it. Sarah glared a few seconds more and then went back to scanning the treeline with her field glasses.
    Around us were five other riders, all heavily armed, with Sarah out on point. The day was the gunmetal gray of winter overcast, a strong wind blowing heavy clouds fast across the sky. Loose powder on the open field surrounding Hollow Rock skidded across the ground in streaks of billowing white, ghostly in the afternoon dimness. Red’s hooves sent white puffs of snow cascading in front of his legs with every step, making the already difficult going that much worse. He didn’t like it. The other horses didn’t like it either, and their riders were not any happier.
    Ahead, Sarah held up a fist and leaned back in her saddle. Her mount came to a halt. She turned, pointed two fingers at her eyes, and gave a signal to hold position. Everyone complied. A minute or so passed while Sarah adjusted the lenses and looked through the binoculars again. Finally, she rode back to us and spoke in a low voice.
    “Jackpot. Good sized horde, about two hundred yards north beyond the treeline, moving slow.”
    There was a general nodding of heads. The fact the infected had been slowed by the cold was no surprise. A few degrees colder, and they would have been immobilized completely. Winter may be tough on food production, but it’s a bonanza for ghoul hunters.
    “We’ll let them move halfway across the field,” Sarah went on, “then ride in and circle clockwise. Everyone got your hand weapons?”
    I patted my falcata. Eric patted his military issue MK-9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. Which, a thousand years ago, would have been wielded by conscripted Chinese peasants and called a da-dao. Meaning, ‘big knife’. The MK-9 is designed for one thing, and one thing only: chopping. And at that, it excels.
    The other volunteers made similar motions. “All right,” Sarah said. “I’m on point. Riordan, you’re second. Coleman, Morris, Jones, Haynes, and McCoy, in that order. Gabe, you’re on anchor.”
    I let out a breath and cursed silently. The role of anchor was to keep a little distance and be ready to ride in and lend assistance to anyone finding themselves in trouble. Lost weapons, injured horses, thrown riders, that kind of thing. It did not happen very often, especially with experienced guardsmen like the five who had ridden out with us. Which meant I might not see any action today, thereby defeating the purpose of my presence.
    “Sure, Sarah.”
    A curt nod. “Standard tactics. Ride and halt on my command, fall out if your gun jams, and for God’s sake, don’t forget to stake your horses before we move in on foot. Everyone clear?”
    We were.
    “Stay loose, gentlemen. Be ready to go.”
    Sarah adjusted her M-4 on its sling and checked the chamber. I did the same. Made sure the magazine was seated. Safety off. Suppressor screwed on tight. Then we waited. The wind died down somewhat. The groaning of ghouls became gradually louder until the first of them emerged from the treeline.
    Your average ghoul, assuming their legs work properly, moves along at about two miles an hour. Under the current conditions, with thirty-something degree air clutching at their necrotic tissues, they moved at maybe half that.
    Step by halting step, the horde took shape on the field. After ten minutes of watching and waiting, more than two-hundred ghouls marched disjointedly across the white plain in the now-familiar teardrop formation, the fastest