It could have been seconds or minutes as Brennan opened his eyes, convinced that he had died and was in hell with shattered femurs and it, whatever it was, the disease, the virus coursing eagerly through his bloodstream, corrupting every organ and cell it touched, changing him from within. Blood flooded in to Brennan's eyes as he tried to blink them clear, only to see Cameron holding his uninjured arm, he tried to speak, but all he could managed was a solitary croak, but it was enough as he caught Cameron's eye, and whispered through broken teeth, “You know what you have to do.”

Cameron nodded dumbly as he the undead moaned as if they were laughing, openly laughing and mocking him, the few that had rescued Brenan were nowhere to be found, and Cameron wondered why they had done it. They should have pulled the trigger instead of making him do it. But that was probably why they saved him: None of them could bring themselves to what had to be done and pull the trigger.

Cameron did just that and ensured that his…friend would not rise as a zombie. It was a harsh lesson in war: Good people will die. There could be time to mourn later. He grasped around the neck of his friend, pulling the dog tags and snapped the break off portion of the tags, as was military tradition.

The zombies made their way over the walls using the mountains of their own dead to spill in to Sparta. They righted themselves and advanced forward, more than one dragging a broken limb behind them. But they came onwards nonetheless, eager to feast upon the ranks of assembled humans, “Steady!” he shouted, “Hold your ground! Steady!” he shouted yet again as he saw several shaking, several considering fleeing. But there was no where left to run, “Fire!” he shouted desperately.

The ranks of assembled Spartans unleashed a first wave of punishing, concentrated fire, that turned in to a continuous stream of fire as every Spartan shot till dry and the moved to the back of the formation to reload and rest. The concentrated fire would have caused any human army to route, but it only spurred the dead onwards.

They were unstoppable Cameron realized, they just kept coming, without pause or end, driven to find and feed on human flesh as despair filled his soul. There was no point, no reason to keep fighting as he faltered, his Glocks falling from his grip. Their moans maliciously tore small fragments from his already haunted soul and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

Jaira was the first to grab him by the arm, and physically drag him back towards the parking garage that the dead were slowly pushing them back towards anyway. She grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him, enough to bring him round but all he could do was whisper, “There’s… there’s no point,” his words froze is his mouth, the air having frozen him out of everything. The sounds of battle suddenly grew muted, deadened, a dull feeling of hopelessness spreading through him. Brenan was gone, one amongst so many others dying, others already dead whose name that he did not know. It felt as if his soul had already half left his body

Finally slapped some sense back in to Cameron, literally, “It’s not over,” she ran her hand down his cheek, “there are still a hundred of us, we’re still fighting. We have not given up. You have led us this far Cameron,” she whispered to him, “We need you to lead us. There’s no one else.” She hesitated, at war with herself for only a moment, “She would not want you to give up. She would not want you to let everyone down. You don’t want to let her down. Don’t disappoint her, Cameron. Don’t let her down.” What those words must have cost her to say, he would never know but at that moment, when he was at his darkest it was the reminder that he needed.

The Spartans had thought themselves well prepared for almost any and all eventualities, but they had in their arrogance, never considered the possibility of the undead rallying the force that they had brought to bear against the Spartans and Cameron knew what had to be done as he stood and made a general broadcast to the surviving Spartans, “General retreat! Retreat to the parking garage!”

Hours later, the only door in to the parking garage had been barricaded by the remaining fifty odd survivors. The Spartans kept an eye upon the heavily barricaded door as what was left of the Council tried to figure out what they should do next. The meeting had barely begun when they noticed one key player absent: Cameron. Jaira didn't wait, setting off to find their taciturn commander while Natalie struggled to answer many of the questions that the council asked, the inevitable questions as to why the Spartans where in this predicament and what they would do next.

Jaira knew where Cameron had gone, the same place that she went to when she needed to be alone: On the roof of the parking garage, smoking a cigarette. She joined him, but stayed silent for a few minutes before opening her mouth to speak, only to be cut off by the proffered pack of cigarettes with the lighter carelessly stuffed inside. She took a cigarette and lit in, cautiously inhaling the cigarette as a non regular smoker. She could however understand why Cameron suffered from the occasional, almost desperate need for a cigarette. She had smoked half before she finally stated why she was here, “The Council is looking for you. They have... a lot of questions.”

“The Council has questions? The Council wants to know this, the council wants to know that, the council,” he took a hard drag that burned down nearly a third of his second cigarette, “wants a scapegoat,” he tossed the cigarette on to the floor causing sparks to fly, “and I'm the perfect one,” he stamped down hard, giving his rage an outlet, “To be crucified. That way they can all die fighting with clear consciences.”

Jaira shook her head, “They want to know what the plan is.”

He laughed, a bitter sound, “They don't get it do they? There is no saving Sparta. The undead number in the thousands out there and we can’t fight them off. We don’t have the supplies to outlast a siege. Our gates are locked and barred and with the zombies waiting for us, I don’t think we can unlock either gate!” he exhaled a dark cloud of smoke, “Even if we could escape the tomb we’ve built for ourselves, where the heck would we go?”

Jaira ground her cigarette out and stared at him, “It's crazy but at this point, it’s the best idea we've got. Almost two dozen vehicles are prepped and ready. If we strike hard and fast, we can break through them... surely the gates have some kind of emergency release on them?”

He was facing away from her, and she didn't see the tear that he shed for those who'd fallen, hastily wiped away, “Not that I'm aware off. The counterweights are locked in place and can't be moved unless you release the clamps... which are under a couple of dozen bodies at this point.”

“In my opinion trying and dying, is better than just dying.” she pulled another cigarette from the pack that she lit, “Is there a way to move the counterweights?”

He was either ignoring her, or he simply didn't hear here at all, “But I've got, so much blood on my hands,” it was a stare that frightened her, “and blood never washes away. Blood... never washes away.” She hesitated, as she'd done only once before, and then took his hand in hers, only to have him pull away as if burned by a naked flame, “Why do I have to come up with a plan now? On an island in an ocean of zombies, why do I have to come up with a solution? Don’t I have enough blood on my hands?”

Jaira grabbed his hands, pulling them away from his face as she looked in to the obsidian eyes, “You worked with the engineers to design both the inner and outer gates. We don't have to worry about the outer gates – the undead tore those down. What holds the counter weights in place?”

“Steel locks that rest at the top of the wheels that feed the chain that allows the door to slide back and forth on the groove,” he replied.

The flash of inspiration came from Natalie, “Just blow the chains. That’ll bring down the counterweights and open at the gates. Know any good homemade explosives?

Cameron shrugged, “Explosives? I’m not a demolitions expert.”

“You built flamethrowers and you’re telling me you don’t know how to make things blow up?” asked Natalie.

“I know how, just don’t know how much. Too little will just attract their attention, and too much will probably kill us.” Something clicked. Something he had read about, incredibly simple to make, but completely unstable: Solox bombs. On its own , Solox was used as an oxidizer in welding applications to generate the flame and heat. Turning Solox in to an explosive meant adding an energy source, and the most easily available one they had at least a few dozen pounds worth, “I need sugar and as much Solox as we can find!”

Solox was literally “Solid Oxygen.” Sugar would provide the energy source for the explosion, and a traditional fuse would provide the heat, completing the fire triangle and create an explosive with the necessary blast yield.

The trio worked quickly but carefully to powder both ingredients as fine as possible before they mixed them at the necessary two to one ratio. Their charges prepped, they rejoined the council, still trying to debate exactly what they should do. There were just over fifty Spartans left, and Cameron knew a few more of them were going to die so that the rest of them would live, even as he stepped forward, “Permission to address the Council.”

Jaira looked round and realized that there were quite a few more with weapons drawn, but as she realized that there were five of them, against so many more who had given up hope. It was now up to Cameron to inspire them once again, to pick up a weapon and fight. “There is a way out, but it is dangerous. We’re better of trying and dying rather than just sitting here and dying. The explosives are prepared. I will take volunteers driving and riding the rig. We’ll draw the dead to us, blow the gates and then it’s up to you in small groups to make your own bids for freedom.”

“Team up wisely,” Jaira said, “You’ll be stuck with whoever you, get stuck with.” She clapped Cameron on the shoulder, “But I’m you’re first volunteer.”

Cameron was at once relieved and comforted. He knew that she would be one of the first to stay behind and volunteer, and he was grateful for having someone he could trust to keep the undead from chewing on his back. He was not surprised, when following her example; Natalie stepped forward, followed by the last of their medics, the Russian medical student Anastasia. She stepped forward throwing a wave of reddish hair over her shoulder, “I guess I’ll stick around, to patch you up again.” Her voice was soft and accented but clear that she was a part of the volunteers,

Cameron winced at the sight of his all woman crew, contemplating which one of them would drive the rig. That question was answered as former Police Sergeant Robert Cross stepped forward, “I'm not sure how many people can drive the rig, and I don’t see anyone who can drive the rig amongst the volunteers. I’ll drive it if you don’t mind.”

Steven was the last to step forward, “If you would be willing to have me, as one of your volunteers, I offer my assistance.” Considering the suicidal nature of their venture, Cameron studied him, like a scientist peering down a microscope. The white bandage was already soaked through with blood, “I have only a matter of hours to live, and I hope that I when my time comes, my life can end with a measure of dignity, with the assurance that others will live past this day.”

Cameron shrugged, “I've never been one for philosophy, but if you want to help, don’t screw this up. Else the zombies and I are going to have something in common.”

Others moved to the mix of vehicles, all filled with supplies long before the battle begun. Cameron had the unfortunate foresight to plan for this eventuality. Ultimately, the plan was simple. The rig would move ahead, clear a path, blow the gates and then everyone else would make a break for freedom. The explosive charges had been carefully within easy reach of those riding on the forefront of the rig. They would have the task of planting the charges and blowing the gate while the others would have to keep the dead from clambering up the sides of the vehicle.

Cameron closed his eyes for a moment and understood just how the Greek God Atlas must have felt, everyday of his existence, bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. One hundred and fifty dead and the remaining fifty were still his responsibility, and there was just this one desperate gambit left. The responsibility was too great, but there was no one to share the burden, “Lock and Load!