The Last Marine

After what felt like an eternity of navigating the treacherous labyrinth of stalled cars, they finally saw it. The military roadblock from the soldier’s journal. The epicenter of the highway’s fall. It was not just a checkpoint; it was a fortress, built across the full span of the Mill River Bridge, a massive concrete and steel artery that was meant to be their primary way out of the city. And it was a tomb.

The sight stole the breath from their lungs. Two M1 Abrams tanks were positioned at the entrance to the bridge, their great cannons pointing uselessly at the sky. Humvees and an Armored Personnel Carrier were arranged in a tight, defensive perimeter, now serving as grotesque planters for the bodies and wreckage that had piled up against them. The entire chokepoint was a solid, multi-layered wall of twisted metal, burned-out vehicles, and the dead.

And the infected... the number was staggering. It was not a horde; it was a nation. Thousands upon thousands of them were packed onto the bridge and the surrounding highway, a seething, undulating sea of bodies. They were drawn here, funneled by some unseen force, their collective moans a constant, soul-crushing roar that was the new sound of the world. They were more agitated here than anywhere else they had been, their movements more frantic, their cries more shrill. It was as if this place was a focal point, a gathering ground for the Shepherd’s flock.

"No," Clara, the last survivor from the clinic besides themselves, whispered, her voice cracking. "There’s no way. There’s no way through that."

She was right. The riot van, their armored plow, would be useless here. It would be like trying to drive through a mountain. Brute force was impossible.

"There has to be another way," Hex said, his voice tight with a tension that bordered on despair. He raised his binoculars, his hands surprisingly steady. He scanned the bridge, the wreckage, the river below, searching for a weakness, a crack in the armor of this impossible fortress. "The main structure of the bridge looks sound. The collapse is all vehicles. The military must have blown the approach to create the initial chokepoint."

Quinn kept his focus on their immediate surroundings, his axe held ready. Even here, a half-mile from the bridge, the density of the infected was increasing. A small group of them, attracted by their presence, broke away from the main horde and started shuffling towards them.

"We can’t stay here," Quinn said. "We need to find cover. Now."

He spotted a large, overturned sanitation truck nearby and herded the small group towards it. They squeezed into the narrow, stinking space between the truck and the concrete median. As they scrambled for cover, Hex slipped on a patch of slick, dark fluid, his hand scraping hard against a jagged piece of metal from a wrecked sedan.