The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel by James N. Cook Page A

Thompson would maintain fire on the center while the rest of the squad shifted fire farther down the flanks. The result was a gradually building wall of dead bodies at a set distance that slowed the progress of the horde to a crawl. As the bodies piled up, the walkers would naturally try to go around it rather than over it, which served to spread out the line.
    Just as it was getting to the point Caleb couldn’t shoot fast enough to keep his section of the horde at standoff distance, he heard Alpha and Bravo squads open up to his left. A hail of bullets ripped into the horde from that side, preventing them from going around the rapidly building pile ahead of them. The slope of the hill compounded this difficulty, forcing the walkers to crawl up the middle. When their heads popped up over the pile, they were easy pickings.
    The number of ghouls in Caleb’s sights began to rapidly diminish, which was good because he could feel the heat of his barrel radiating through the rail shroud. The smell of spent cordite was strong in the air, stinging his nostrils. He found it oddly nostalgic.
    Just as the chamber latched open on the last round in Caleb’s magazine, Thompson gave the order to cease fire.
    “Drop your packs, vests, and extra gear,” he said. “Hand weapons only. If you have a sidearm, bring it, but don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. If you do, maintain muzzle discipline at all times. And no fucking heroics; we fight as a team. If you get in trouble, call for help. Don your PPE now, don’t wait until we get there. Understood?”
    The squad gave a round of acknowledgements. Thompson wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but they all knew it made him feel better to say it.
    “We’re to move down the hill and attack on the right flank,” Thompson went on. “Alpha will hit them on the left while Bravo circles around behind. Charlie will stay in reserve and take out any walkers who make it over the pile. Any questions?”
    There were none.
    “All right. Let’s get it done.”
    Caleb dropped his pack to the ground, followed by his MOLLE vest and rifle. His Beretta was in a drop holster on his hip, which he kept. His scarf went around his mouth and nose, his combat goggles went over his eyes, the armored gloves went over his hands and forearms. After drawing his spear, he followed Thompson and the rest of his squad down the hill. Beside him, Eric hefted a Y-shaped stick and a rapier-like sword. “Mind if I tag along?” he asked.
    “Not at all,” Caleb replied. “I usually team up with Cole and Holland.”
    “Works for me. Where do you want me?”
    “Let Cole take point and kill anything that approaches on his right. I’ll move left with Holland.”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    Cole turned to them and grinned. “And make sure you give me plenty of room to swing.”
    Eric eyed the massive bar mace in the gunner’s thick hands. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
    When they were in position, lined up along the horde’s right flank roughly thirty meters away, Thompson held up a hand. “Hold position and wait for my order.”
    Caleb gripped his spear, hands tightening on the familiar texture of the hickory shaft. The handle was short, only three and a half feet long, tipped with a heavy ten-inch blade. The blade was triangular in shape with a narrow profile and a thick spine in the middle, making it perfect for ramming through nasal cavities and soft palates. Caleb remembered all the times his father had taken him hunting for wild pigs on horseback armed only with boar spears, and all the times they had sparred with rubber training spears. His father had always gotten the best of him until he was about fifteen and accidentally broke Caleb’s spear in a sparring match. His father kept attacking anyway, loudly reminding him that in a real fight, his opponent wouldn’t stop to let him carve a new one. To his surprise, he found he could handle the weapon much better with the shorter