Location: Elysian Park Defense Line The problem, Cpl. Susan Navarro quickly realised, was the bats. The hordes of walking 'zombies' roaming the streets of L.A. were an annoyance in comparison. A dangerous annoyance that could rip a soldier apart in close combat but that was what assault rifles and airstrikes were for. Small arms fire was worse than useless against a zombie. They were mildly bullet resistant and would remain a threat even with what would be normally debilitating wounds on a human. The non-commissioned officers of her platoon and elsewhere were replacing their sidearms with extra ammo pouches or improvised melee weaponry, mostly fire axes and E-tools. SOP was to shoot the head or legs to hinder movement then have someone cut the bastards apart later. Leaving them without carrying out the second step wasn't an option because a disabled Z would eventually regenerate using that fucking green mist and try to jump teams from behind. Something the poor fuckers from third platoon had discovered the hard way. They swarmed in large numbers but had poor tactics and moved slowly enough that teams like her own could outmaneuver them easily. This was especially useful for the times when they funnelled Zulu Whiskey into killzones for the M240's. The memory of the last time they did that brought a smile to her face. A smile that faded as she recalled the other two types of humanoid Z that had popped up soon afterward. They called them Lurkers and Brutes. The Zulu Lima, or lurkers, were fucking sneaky shits that looked identical to the shamblers. They liked to hide in crowds, dark alleys and crawl spaces. They were also fast runners and could climb, like fucking spiders climb. Their favourite tactic was wedging themselves above doorways or under cars and ambushing soldiers clearing buildings. It had been good motivation for the rest of the soldiers to load up on melee weapons. However, the real reason why Susan's platoon were manning barricades around the refugee camp in the shadow of a Stryker was the brutes, Zulu Bravo. Eight feet tall Z covered with slabs of muscle and bullet-proof skin. They took a bit to get going but scuttle-butt said that two of those had burst out a store-front, flipped a tank and then proceeded to murder the sons of bitches clearing the area. So they were pulled back and a mortar strike got called. When a hundred more popped up with a horde of a couple thousand Zulu Whiskeys in loose formation, an airstrike was ordered once the Z started moving through cleared areas. The only problem was the bats. Tens of millions of the things spread through the air in great clouds, flying far faster and higher than their living counterparts. Susan could only watch with a sinking sensation as a fireball exploded in the middle of one such cloud before debris rained down somwhere deeper in the city. She thought she spotted a parachute but had other things to worry about as tendrils reached towards their lines like grasping fingers... Location: Wilkins County Non-Denominational Church of Christ Pastor John Walters had long decided to view the chaos of the past day as a test from God. It was his duty to administer to the souls of his flock and counsel them as best he could. If that meant turning his church into a temporary gathering place for the county militia then so be it. After a morning spent fighting rabid statuettes and putting an extra nail in the crucifix behind him, he felt inured to the madness. When this newest blasphemy had turned up smelling of grave soil he'd realised just how wrong he was to believe that. Mr. Clark hadn't taken his wife's resurrection well. He'd promptly shot the twisted abomination in the face and then gone on a rampage until he'd been dragged down by the things and brutally murdered. The fight had bought them time to construct a barricade from the pews which they now fought from. It also illustrated that letting the monsters get a hold of you was a death sentence. Loaded weapons were passed to the adults manning the barrier and exchanged for empty guns that were passed back to the kids in the chancel. To save on ammunition they'd adopted the dangerous tactic to dragging disabled zombies over the barricade. A second group of older teens was in charge of finishing them off with what melee weapons were on hand or could be fashioned from things like chair legs and the candelabras. He'd be having a talk with Mr. Sumner about the appropriate use of a crucifix when they survived. No matter how 'metal' he thought it was to wield a screaming pickaxe. Why did the fool boy pull the nail out? Blasphemy was blasphemy, they would be having words. If they survived... As things stood, the situation was grim. Most of their ammunition and weapons were still outside in their vehicles. The large entryway let in too many zombies for them to hold position indefinitely and with the church surrounded, escaping out the back wasn't an option. Pastor Walters could only pray to God for salvation between shooting zombies in the face. Amazingly, just as things were most dire, God did indeed answer his prayers. A bright light shone through the high windows, casting the abominations in stark relief. Later on the Pastor would swear that a choir of angels sang out as pillars of flame erupted in the church courtyard. In reality, it was the Alderdyce brothers doing doughnuts in a pickup truck to the tune of Blake Shelton. Their antics, the country music and the molotov cocktails they were thowing around provided the opportunity the church group needed to escape as the zombies found another, far more obnoxious, target. God works in mysterious ways. And apparently zombies hate country music. Location: Bastion One Drs. I, E and U were having a waking nightmare. The projection they were examining showed living human brain tissue. Most of the image was in shades of grey. It made it easy to see all the tiny specks of green flitting about. Doing things. In the deathly silent room someone muttered. "Oh fuck all kinds of duck!" Wonder and horror go hand in hand in the universe. It began quite innocently even. A mother's voice trembles as she finds the strength to do what needs to be done. "Ok Mina, we're going to play a game, like hide-and-seek. Close your eyes and stay in here while Mommy looks for Daddy. No matter what, don't open the door until you hear the special knock..." A father guides his kids the best he can. "Don't think of them as people son. They're just targets. Don't waste ammo on a bad shot. Aim for the head or the joints. Think of it, god... Think of it as a game! Ten points for a head shot, two for a joint, minus one point for every extra bullet you use. Got it?" Every hand was needed. "Ok, now big girls know how to count right? You put the bullets in here like so... and count each one that goes in like this. One, two, three..." The device was a toy after all... "Alright girlies we're doing this by the numbers. Odd-teams knock 'em down. Even-teams make sure they stay down. If Perkin's gra~ndma manages to kill one of you shit-for-brains, I'll drag you back from hell by the short and curlies for extra PT! Last squad to finish buys a round for the whole platoon! Hoo-ah!" The end result was thus, hardly surprising. The President looked at the assembled scientists and joint chiefs of staff. His eyes hovered over Dr. O's head for a moment as his lips trembled. He had the look of a man in desperate need of a hug. Unfortunately none of the people in the room seemed willing other than Dr. A. He was happily married however, so he bit the bullet and decided to address the elephant in the room. "So... You're a wizard now?" Hovering above the scientist's head in lime green text were the words. Dr. O Sage - Level 1 The End