Three soldiers lugged over their shoulders seven foot steel poles that were normally used to hold traffic signs up, but were now used for another purpose. On top of each pole, a two-horsepower lawn-mower engine was up-righted and mounted.
Private Lands couldn't help but let out a sardonic laugh.
"Stow that shit and get that whacker in the ground Lands!" Lt. Jackson peered around the perimeter.
The sharp crack of the 50-cal firing only helped to emphasize Jackson's point. No time for bullshitting out here. Be quick or be dead.
The sharpened ends of each steel pole were driven deeper by several hard pounds with a sledgehammer. After the poles were firmly embedded into the ground, the plastic covers were unhooked from the spool of wire that bounced on either side of the engines. Threaded through the center column of the lawn mower shaft where the blade used to rest, 30 feet of razor wire flopped and uncoiled. With 15 feet on each side of the column, the span of reach was more then enough to cause serious damage.
Several shots from Jackson's flank rang out as one of his men dropped a zombie with a quick burst. The dead were starting to converge on his position. That was the plan, but Jackson felt a chill go down his spine.
Without being told, Sergeant "Shaggy" Shagkowski moved to the center of the triangle pattern and began to stake the pheromone packs into the ground to keep them from being picked up by one of the dead. He immediately broke the heating element glass packs inside them and retreated back toward the LZ.
"Light 'em up fellas!" Shaggy yelled and brought his HK up to take a wayward zombie out (a previous hooker it would seem, judging from the torn fish-net hose and partially removed miniskirt) with a quick shot to the head. She collapsed with a grunt and a fart of fetid gas.
The three soldiers pulled on the engine start cords and all but one instantly fired up. After several more attempts, it too started. The engines roared loudly, but the shaft did not rotate. It had been designed to be engaged remotely. These were killing machines, pure and simple. For killing the un-dead, not the living.
The helicopter sat down 30 yards from their position with the pilot yelling at them to get their ass in.
The gunner began to unload on the mounting wave of groaning, stinking corpses that shambled and tripped toward the noise and the smell of flesh. Arms, legs, heads, and chunks of torsos flew into pieces as the massive rounds tore into them. Yet they kept coming. Shagkowski unloaded half a clip from his M-16 as five of the rotting dead moved toward the helicopter door. He didn't waste ammo. Nearly every round hit their heads and exploded them like rotten melons. As the last troop jumped into the helicopter, the pilot lifted off the ground and rose into the air.
Lieutenant Jackson pulled the small remote control out of his pocket and pressed the button. They watched as the three engines began to whip the deadly blades around and around, until the glistening steel of the razor-bladed wire was no longer visible. The pilot circled and they all watched as zombies from every direction headed toward the scent of the blood packs. Due to the speed of the rotation of the wire, it appeared as though the zombies merely flew apart. Heads literally disintegrated or flew off of shoulders and shot off at strange angles. Some fell apart as if diced by some invisible food processor. The scent of the pheromone packs was designed to drive the zombies crazy, and that's what it did. They stepped or fell over piles of bodies trying to get to the unidentifiable food only feet away. But they never reached it.
"God DAMN! Look at those losers!!" Private Lands slapped his knee and laughed as he watched the massacre below.
Lt. Jackson opened his faceplate and wiped sweat from his face. He couldn't help but let out a small laugh.
"Yeah, I guess it is kinda funny to watch those dipshits get it so damn hard huh?!"
The weed whackers, as they were affectionately called, would continue killing the mindless corpses until they either ran out of gas, were knocked down some how, or the bodies piled up higher than the poles. Either way, hundreds would be gone, never to walk this earth again. They would go back at a later date and retrieve them, or simply make more. Not much lawn-mowing going on these days. And, they provided an excellent diversion for the mission at hand. The more zombies that headed to the pheromone killing zone, the less they would have to deal with. And there were always more. Always.
The men re-checked their weapons and said silent prayers to whatever god they prayed. The hospital sat in the middle of the parking lot like a laughing headstone. How ironic it was. During the plague, they served more as a feasting ground than a source of help. It took a matter of weeks for most of them to fall, and they became a slaughterhouse. The parking lot was strewn with wrecked, burned out cars and military vehicles. A staggering line of blue corpses led to the weed-whacking death machines but there were a stubborn few that shambled around aimlessly.
"Here we go! Take any of them out in your vicinity without a shot! Use your blades and secondary weapons unless you need to take a group of them down. The less attention we attract after the chopper takes off, the better. You know the drill. We are meeting Bravo on the fourth floor where central supply is located. And then back up to the roof for the pick-up!
You mother-fuckers ready to kill some shit-bags?!!" Lt. Jackson checked his two .45 caliber handguns and reholstered them.
"YES SIR!!" The men shouted and stood up as the Blackhawk landed.
The mission was simple. Get into the central supply area of the hospital, pick up anything and everything the paramedics told the men to pick up, and get out without any lives lost. Easy on paper. Not so easy when you have hundreds of mindless cannibals biting at your arms and legs. The hospital on Whidbey Island was running short on medical supplies, and this hospital had been known to have a large store of them. Each soldier would pack an oversized bag with suture kits, I.V. solutions, needles, syringes, whatever they were briefed to get. On the way up, they would stop off at the pharmacy and grab as many antibiotics and other drugs as they could get in the allotted time. A third chopper would come in to the roof-top helipad and allow them to fill it up before the men got back into their own choppers and headed back to the base.
Five zombies turned toward the helicopter instantly. Within seconds, one of the men had taken off three heads with a homemade sword. A ball bat with a sharpened lawn mower blade rigged on the end. The other two zombies were jabbed right through their rotting skulls by two forearm blades. The group of men ran toward the front and several took point just inside the building. Private Goodman took the opportunity of using his axe handle with the 10-penny nails jutting out of it to quickly dispatch a grossly fat and putrid postal worker.
When the last soldier ran into the hospital, the doors were pushed shut and a chain was wrapped around the handles securing them but not locking them. In two-by-two formations, the group began to move down the hallway. The men knew where they were headed from the briefing and the floor plans. Within seconds at least 8 stinking zombies growled and quickly shuffled to the warm blooded buffet line in their sights.