ALL THAT REMAINS FROM THE ASHES

After the apocalypse what rises from the ashes

ATR Chapters

Chapter 86: The Fall...

Posted by SGCaper on June 11, 2019 at 10:25 AM

Warrenton, Oregon.


In its previous life, it had been a relatively sleepy community made up of anglers and loggers. Most residents said it was a good place to raise a family. Then THEY came.


The once quiet community became a hive of activity. It was the final fallback point for the remaining government for the former United States of America. Their final stop before being pushed back into the ocean to head to Alaska and having to give up the mainland.


For years, they survived. The President moved there from Salem, Oregon and it became the de facto capital. Several miles south of the city, they built a ten-mile wall to protect it from the undead. The first wall was made of materials left from the surrounding areas logging industry, along with various cargo containers, fencing, and anything else that could potentially slow down the zombies. They erected several other walls separating farmland from where the survivors lived. The wall that enclosed the 20-block city center was heavily reinforced concrete. If a final stand were necessary this is where it would happen. If the horde or even worse, Cobra, made it this, far it would be all hands with rifles. In the event of an evacuation, staged nearby were both sea faring vessels and various light aircraft. The population of Warrenton had been just over 5,000 pre-apocalypse. With the surrounding areas, it was just over 37,000. After the fall, the population was scarcely 1,000. Most of those were scared civilians. The rest were a mix of politicians and military forces. They held back the undead. Kept Cobra from killing the last remnants of the US government. Moreover, they had carved a life for themselves in a world hell-bent on destroying them.

 

Then it happened...


"The wall!"


The tall reinforced concrete barrier begins to undulate under the sheer force of the assaulting horde pressing against it.


"Fall back! Go! Go! Go!"


People run. The barely trained civilians fall over themselves trying to escape. The highly experienced military personnel move with their head on a swivel, on the lookout for the first sign of a breech.


"Evac status?!" The question shouted into the radio clipped at his shoulder.


Static. Then, "Level Four clear. Level Three clear. Level Two clear..." Static.


"Level One evac status?!"


"Level One full loss." The voice different. Gravelly. Not Dialtone's. The Vice President.


"Repeat last transmission." Disbelief in his voice.


"Level all Level One. That's an Order!" The President shouts. The communication came on an open channel. Everyone within earshot of a radio heard it. Not once but twice. The civilians were to ???be left behind.??? Left as a distraction to allow the upper Levels time to escape. Left to the snapping maws of the undead. Left to die or worse yet, turn. Panic spreads like a forest fire. Beachhead stops in his tracks turning towards the wall just as the first section begins to collapse. He sees it in slow motion. It reminds him of footage from the fall of the Berlin Wall. The entire section slams into the ground. A giant cloud of dust kicks up into the air. Before his eyes THEY come. Flowing through the hole they made like water bursting a dam. Arms outstretched. Mouths agape. Searching for a meal. Instinctually he raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger. The first round finds its target; a head explodes in a cloud of pink mist. The next miss their marks. They still punch through the corpses of the undead knocking them off their feet, but they all slowly make their way back up. As he takes aim, he sees another rifle in his periphery. Then another. 13 rifles spit lead death at the growing mass of zombies. Magazines empty. Drop. Fresh magazines slapped in. Bodies fall. Some truly dead. Others merely slowed. The horde grows ever closer. Closing the distance between themselves and their next meal. The men know their fate. Their rifles begin to run empty. Sidearms are drawn. Smoke and the smell of ammunition fills the air, thick enough to cover the smell of rotting flesh. Pistols fire dry. Knives, hatches, even several swords find their ways into hands. Then into skulls.


The Final 13 never speak. They focus on the task. Hoping their presence affords the citizens left behind a few precious moments to make an escape.


Joes till the end.


R.I.P.

SGM Beachhead

MSG Big Brawler

SFC Cross Country

SSG Lowlight

SGT Blowtorch

SGT Bazooka

SGT Recoil

SGT Flash

SGT Short Fuse

SGT Fast Draw

SGT Downtown

SGT Lightfoot

SGT Hardball

Categories: G.I Joe Chapters

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