For the first fifteen minutes, Spartan shooting drills and training exercises proved their worth against the zombie horde standing shoulder to shoulder as it stutter stepped forward. The outer fence would fall in minutes from the press of bodies against it. The longer they could keep the dead off the actual well, the better. Cameron surveyed the killing ground and nodded, more to reassure himself than anything, shouting in to the radio to be heard over the roar of massed gunfire, “Flamethrowers: close up and form on me!”

Even as the men and women of the ad hoc infantry formation came together, reports came in that to the warnings came in that the West wall had engaged, to the South the dead had cleared the defensive perimeter and that fresh undead were testing the northern reaches of the perimeter.

Below the wall, Cameron took stock of the reinforcements that he had: Forty more with hand guns, shotguns and spears. Collecting his five flamethrowers together, they met by the gate and formed ranks eleven abreast and four deep, “Unlock!”

The outer gate was threatening to collapse and Cameron had to marshal his own courage as he stepped out in to the narrow expanse of relatively safe ground. For the undead, it was as if their food was coming to them and they ignored the lead barrage as they redoubled their efforts to bring low the chain link fence and gate causing it to swing dangerous low, “Burn the mother fuckers!”

A screeching whine filled the air as gasoline under pressure screamed from their guns in to the path of the small flame. The clear foul smelling liquid turned in to a stream of liquid fire that set alight dry flesh and tattered clothing. The zombies seemed to feel no pain as the flames erased them from existence. They tumbled to the ground and burned like lighter pools of lighter fluid, some moaning, some trying to drag themselves closer to the fence. More became walking candles, fire eating away at them as they moved until their demonic brain boiled in its own juices.

A cheer sounded from the wall, bullets continuing to rain down. Their inhuman foes simply did not care about their losses and simply paused for a moment, seemingly reforming their line and then pressing forward yet again. The outer gate was not going to hold and the flamethrowers held a very limited fuel capacity.

“Spears!” shouted Cameron. The spears were thrust through the opening in the chain link fence at head height, many finding their mark through open mouth and eye sockets to puree the brain within. Four times the spears were thrust and the bodies piled up around the base of the fence. Suddenly and frighteningly the dead displayed a simple but malevolent intelligence.

Several of the spears that missed their targets were suddenly grabbed and hauled. Caught off balance, the defenders holding them were hauled in to the fence where undead hands as claws cut and tore through the flesh. The sights and smells of a battlefield can be unforgettable, but it tends to be the sounds that are the source of nightmare. The screams he heard were etched on to the hearts of every Spartan who heard them, and Cameron knew that they would haunt his dreams in future. Many hesitated, but some had greater reserve to draw upon as they fired upon their doomed comrades, granting them a quick death as opposed to a long one followed by eternal damnation.

A line of charred and still smoldering corpses marked the temporary gain they had made, but it was not enough. Nothing, it seemed, would be enough o turn back the horde, even if they now had a few extra minutes. Cameron called a retreat and breathed a sigh of relief as the gate clamped down and locked behind them. Clambering back to the parapet, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at the carnage wrought. THE smile only lasted a few short moments, “Ammo check and resupply! This was just the opening salvo…”

His orders were cut short as a near panicked voice filled the radio channel: The West wall with gunfire in the background, “Broken Arrow! West Wall calls Broken Arrow! Outer gate overrun, Wall under siege! West Wall calls Broken Arrow!”

Cameron swore quietly as he acknowledged the request and switched to the seventh channel on the radio, “Mobilize second reserve element to the West Wall!” he ordered. A hand slapped him on the shoulder and he blinked before it clicked that somebody had refilled the fuel tank of his flamethrower. Right now, the weakest point was that western wall, “Flamethrowers: with me! The rest of you know what to do: Kill them all!”

The West wall was chaotic but it was controlled chaos as runners dropped ammunition at predetermined points at the base of the wall, where groups of children were huddled snapping bullets in to empty magazines brought down from the wall tops allowing the defenders to keep up a steady barrage. Cameron was the first to the top of the wall and was joined in seconds by others. Together they sent controlled arcs of incandescence in to the zombies around the gate as the smells of cordite and gunpowder were compounded by those of burning flesh and rendering. Jaira swallowed, grimacing at the charred nauseating taste as she plied flames over the gathered and burning undead, “How long since the outer gate went down?” asked Jaira.

“About three minutes!” came the static laced radio reply. Waves of flame continued to engulf the dead, slowly eating through them until they dropped, well and truly dead. Controlled shots broke skulls and splattered brains and finally, Cameron shrugged off the flamethrower its fuel and all of the reserve fuel supply gone after only a few short minutes of use. The undead were too close now as he cursed, and reached for one of the many spears that dotted the walls, “Spears! Half of you switch to the spears!”

The sight was something almost ludicrous as men and women began stabbing down in to the undead, before yanking out their individual spear to repeat the process on another even thought they missed more often than not. Others continued to fire, having a marginal impact upon the number that would ultimately reach the wall itself.

Higher up, atop the roof top of the tallest building in Sparta, Natalie noted with some concern as those upon the walls plunged their weapons downwards, as the majority of her own snipers ceased fire, unable to gain a bead upon a target without risking a friendly fire incident, shifting their aim farther back to where they could still do some, however little good.

Reports streamed in to Cameron who struggled to juggle his few remaining assets, away from the carnage as he took a brief respite with his salvage team gathered around him. The dead were at the base of all four walls now and just as Brenan had predicted, it was turning in to a modern day siege, but there was no relief, and there would be no surrender.

They were certainly killing them, with a kill ratio in excess of a hundred to one but almost four hours of nonstop combat was taking its toll. Over the long haul, no human can match zombie endurance and determination. More often than not, people were missing shots, and men and women were dragged from the wall in to an ocean of death when they had failed to relinquish their grip in time.

Cameron emptied the contents of a canteen of water in to his hair, letting the water tattoo off his face for a few moments, welcoming the cool relief. He only had a few moments as he received word of a new problem: The bodies of the twice dead were creating an unstable pathway directly to the top of the wall. Already, in some places, it was possible to reach out and physically tap a zombie on the head.

Cameron acknowledged the message with a double tap upon the microphone and wondered what he was supposed to do now. No plan survived contact with the enemy… they had never contemplated this: Corpses turned in to a siege tower He made his way to the east wall alone, Jaira having taken command on the west where she radioed that there was a similar problem in the making. The undead would climb over the walls instead of go through them.

Gunfire still rang out with regular consistency but in more than one place, it had become a melee, spear and blade versus teeth and claw. The undead were bringing their numbers to bear, and it would be a matter of time before they swarmed the parapet atop the east wall. He did the only thing he could, as he fired down in to the carpet of greasy hair less than two feet from the barrel of his handguns.

“This wall is breached!” was the shout from his left. He turned like a tank turret, and fired, taking down one zombie, knocking a second off the wall as the breech on his left handed and then his right handed Glocks locked with their breeches open. A zombie connected with a wild swing on the barrel and managed to burn its hand, not that it cared as it pulled Cameron off balance.

Raising an arm, he pressed in against the creature’s throat, thankful he was wearing longs sleeves as it groaned in to his face. Grappling with a zombie was a less than pleasant, its breath rancid with the stench of death. Cameron brought his knee in to the creature’s gut, opening a narrow space that let him draw the knife from its sheath before plunging it up through the creature’s eye. Satisfied, he kicked it back over the wall.

Thick, semi-dry paint like blood coated his gloved hands as he ducked low beneath the outstretched arms of a zombie and swept up a spear. He rose like an angry god brought it down with all the strength he had like a Samurai flattening in its skull before he retreated as more zombies clambered up the ladder of corpses. He glared at the oncoming horde and raised his reloaded guns when somebody screamed from close by “Broken Arrow! Broken Arrow!

Jaira stood her ground, and like Cameron fought for her life as the zombies closed in from every direction. Unfortunately for them Jaira was the best swordsman amongst the Spartans and she demonstrated it well, wielding a sword in each hand. A zombie stared at the stumps where it once had the remains of human hand for a moment before its head parted company with its shoulders. Blood flowed, weapons boomed intermingled with the shouts and screams of those in the grasp of the dead, the odors of rent flesh, sulfur and gunpowder mingled in the air. Her muscles burned, spots dancing before her eyes as she too retreated from the frontline. Several filled her spot in the line with machete and spear, boxing in and then butchering a trio of zombies.

“Cameron,” she panted, “West wall,” there came a scream and she looked towards it. The choice had been made for her, “Broken Arrow! Broken Arrow!” she paused, as she sidestepped a clumsy swing and kicked the zombie off the top of the wall to the ground below, “West wall overrun!”

A momentarily lull engulf the stretch of wall where Cameron stood as he quickly ejected spent clips and slapped home fresh ones for the last time, the slides snapped forward, as Brenan hacked down on a fallen zombie with a fire axe, “Third reserve mobilize to parking garage!” he ordered. He slapped Brennan on the shoulder, “Keep them tied up for another minute or so! Be ready to fall back!”

This was it, six hours of carnage and slaughter, and the enemy had clambered over their walls instead of going through them. Two walls were about to fall, the other two could not hold on their own. His movements were sluggish as he joined the third reserve element, urging them in to ranks in the center of Sparta, in the heart of the crossroad at the very center of Sparta. Around him, they formed lines of ten, the first kneeling, and second standing, all with their weapons at the ready, he switched to a general broadcast, “Spartans! General retreat! General Retreat! Fallback to the parking garage!” he shouted.

Jaira was the first off the West wall, hanging from the edge and dropping to the ground. Winded and bruised she regained her footing, half running half scrambling towards the assembled lines of gunmen that Cameron had arranged. Jaira was one of the first to reach the line, panting, holding her side, face a mask of pain as she sheathed her remaining sword. The other blade lost in the head of a zombie. She nodded to Cameron and took charge of the new arrivals, forming them in to additional firing lines.

Atop the East wall, sweat formed on Brennan's brow as he pushed the undead back one last time and made a break towards the stairs. Their lives depended upon how fast they could run as the dead swarmed over the parapet and lunged towards form the wall. He felt it before he saw it as it slammed in to him, knocking him the remaining six or so feet to the ground, the weight landing on top of him. Something cracked and shattered, and then there was a harsh jarring pain in both his legs as something stabbed in to his shoulder, hard and then yanked back with inhuman strength as his flesh tore. Brennan looked over his shoulder in horror, unable to move with the creature pinning him down, blood spurting from his shoulder as the pain overwhelmed him and darkness claimed him.