Dead America The Northwest Invasion | Book 3 | Dead America-Seattle [Part 1]

He looked up the bridge, seeing the men struggling with the next barricade before finally getting it onto the dolly.
“What do you want me to do, Sarge?” Kowalski asked.
Copeland paused for a moment, contemplating hard before answering, “If you feel like luck is on our side, then just keep doing what you’re doing.” He took a deep breath. “If you’ve been paying attention with how things have been going for the past month, I’d suggest coming up with more ways to stir up some noise.” He stiffened as the men continued to strain, pushing the concrete barrier with everything they had. “Because, unless I’m mistaken, we’re gonna need it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
Nearly ninety minutes had passed since the barrier building had begun. The soldiers had built a line completely across the bridge, running across all four lanes. They’d even created a rectangle in the center, stretching eight feet by eight feet, branching off the main line.
Copeland strained with several other men to get the large concrete block into place. Once it was in, the men leaned over it, breathing heavy sighs of relief.
“That’s good work, boys,” Copeland huffed. “Now we just got one more to build in the south.”
There was a chorus of light groans from the men, and the Sergeant chuckled.
“Don’t worry, that’s not till later,” he assured them. “Now, we get to do a suicide run on the other bridge.”
One of the soldiers threw up his hands. “Finally, some good news.”
Another ripple of tired chuckles rose, and then Copeland took a deep breath.
“I need four volunteers to hold this line,” he declared. “And I’m not gonna lie, it could get messy. As soon as our sniper friend runs out of ammo, those creatures are gonna be looking for something new to focus their attention on, and it’s going to be you. If those car alarms don’t hold their interest, you’re gonna be trapped in this little square of death fighting a two-front war. But we need to defend it, because if we get too many of those things pushing on it, the line isn’t going to hold.” He crossed his arms. “So, who’s it going to be?”
All eight men’s hands shot straight up in the air, and he shook his head, chuckling again.
“I’m going to assume it’s because each and every one of you is dedicated to the mission,” he said, pointing an accusing finger, “and not just because you want to get out of some heavy lifting.”
One of the soldiers grinned. “Can’t it be both?”
The group laughed again, and then Copeland pointed to the four on the left. “Okay, you four win the sweepstakes,” he declared, and then motioned to one on the right. “I need you to go get Johnson and the others.”
The soldier nodded and ran off up the bridge to retrieve the guards.
“Remember, limit your fire until you start getting overwhelmed,” Copeland reminded the team staying behind. “We’ll be back with reinforcements as soon as possible.”
They nodded and started setting up their defenses, laying bats on the ground, knives, and some leftover metal posts. Johnson, Raymond, and Schmitt approached, the former patting the barricade.
“Well hell Sarge,” Johnson drawled. “This is looking pretty good.” He glanced at the eight-foot emergency barrier. “That, however, looks like nightmare fuel.”
Copeland cocked his head. “Good thing you’re going to be with me on the other bridge,” he said.
“Which I imagine is a whole other brand of nightmare fuel,” Johnson replied.
The Sergeant nodded. “Absolutely Private, wouldn’t be any fun otherwise,” he said. “Good luck, boys,” he said to the soldiers staying behind, and they saluted him.
“You too, Sarge,” one of them said.
Copeland led the group of eight back towards the Super Center, a chorus of car alarms bleating in the distance.
“Never thought I would say it,” Johnson declared, “but I’m loving that car alarm sound.”
Copeland grinned. “Hell man, it’s making me want to go take a nap.”
“A nap?” Johnson raised an eyebrow.
The Sergeant shook his head. “Didn’t grow up in the best neighborhood,” he explained. “This was my goodnight song for a number of years.”
“And I thought my mother listening to Liberace was bad,” Johnson said with a laugh.
Copeland joined him as they broke off of the interstate and headed back towards the shopping center. “Stay frosty,” he finally said, “these bastards are sneaky.”
He led the group into the center, checking corners to make sure they were still clear. One straggler had found its way in, but with a quick whistle and point, a soldier broke off and cracked it over the head.
The rest of the store was clear, much to the relief of the Sergeant. They had enough fronts to fight on, without dealing with backtracking. They reached the back of the store and into the back lot where the trucks were.
“Pile in and follow me,” Copeland instructed. “CB radios on channel thirteen, let’s move.”
The soldiers hopped into the three trucks, the first two starting up without a problem. Copeland got into the third one with the recharged battery, Raymond in the passenger seat.
“Let’s hope Johnson didn’t fuck this up,” he muttered, and turned the key.
To his relief, it sprung to life, and he quickly popped it into gear, leading the convoy out of the lot. They drove down a frontage road a few blocks to be able to cross under the interstate, and as they did, they encountered a handful of zombies meandering towards the car alarms in the distance.
Copeland adjusted his trajectory, making sure to slam into the ghouls as they went by, sending them flying into the grass. The other bridge was a half a mile away, and with each passing block, the dread in the Sergeant’s mind grew.
Kowalski had said it was a packed house, but that was an hour ago, so hope began to creep in. As he made the turn for the bridge, Copeland’s concern was realized.
There were upwards of a hundred zombies on the bridge, most of them towards the neighborhood, drawn by car alarms and not paying any attention to the