Before the shit hit the fan, the town had a small population, the one thing that worked against them was Route 87. Scared, confused, and armed thousands had taken to the road trying to escape surrounding areas, no one knowing where it was safe. Reports changed hour to hour where the evac areas, FEMA camps, and safe zones were. It seemed like they were falling to the creatures faster than they could be set up. The resulting traffic jams were like buffets for the spread of the disease. From car to car the walkers went attacking anyone they could grab. Men, women, children, no one was spared. Had the road not been built the town may have survived relatively unscathed but the greased palms of the mayor and the town board overruled the numerous objections of the residents.
He remembered the day he responded to the call for help from the town. They had taken a group of Guardsmen in a small convoy; 2 deuce and a half and 2 Humvees. They were stopped at the edge of town by the traffic. Cars blocked the way, and the people busy fighting with each other fell prey to the undead. He didn't know what to do. The radio was squawking with the desperation of the town leaders, holed up in the municipal building. He ordered the large trucks to lead the way pushing the cars out of their path. He told his men to pick off the infected from the Humvees. Easier said than done. The Weekend Warriors wasted hundreds of rounds trying to hit the growing, yet still manageable, number of undead. They hit just as many uninfected as they did the contaminated. His order was one of the many poorly executed plans that led to rumors of soldiers firing upon citizens. It was also the turning point in his life and idea of survival. The Guard Unit had been getting smaller as every morning they awoke to find another of their ranks having disappeared in the middle of the night. The failure of the mission was the last straw for the Guardsmen and they all left. Choosing to try and save their own families and themselves over trying to maintain order.
They never did make it to the mayor. The traffic was too thick.
Watching the van racing through the streets that had stopped him in his tracks reminded him just how much the fire had changed. The van slammed into gutted and burned-out cars and swerved around the larger trucks and SUVs. They had nearly made it out of the town proper and onto the relatively more open road when it happened.
It wasn't the largest horde, he had whittled down its numbers, but, like many things over the years, he just stopped. He had stopped keeping track of the horde, consoling himself with the notion that should it come back he would let them take him. He didn't go out of his way to avoid them but neither did he seek them out. He knew they were down in the valley which was one of the reasons he had stopped scavenging through the rubble. Now the mass of undead flesh had gathered.
His attention having been fixed by the van's movements he didn't see where the gang had come from only that the van collided head-on with it. He could tell the driver had thought he could plow his way through. He would have too if it weren't for the several bodies that had been wedged into the wheel wells. It came to a screeching stop and was immediately surrounded. He couldn't hear anything but he could see it all. He had no intention of going down there. He had given up on helping people after the debacle trying to reach the trapped politicians. So he watched. The creatures scrambled over one another trying to claw and bite their way into the van. Hands smeared blood and ash on the sides as the mass pounded on them. Still, he watched. He saw the driver's side window go partway down, a gun barrel poking through the grate. The rapport of the shotgun echoing through the valley, he knew it would draw even more of THEM to the scene. Still, he watched. He heard the gunshots again and again, first from the driver's side and then from the passengers. Two distinct sounds meant at least two firearms and probably two survivors. He could see the smoke rising from the tires as the driver tried in vain to dislodge the corpses. The van rocked back and forth. He knew that inevitably the horde would flip the van and get the trapped terrified people inside.
The monocular was tossed into his bag.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he ran into the cabin grabbing his favorite firearm, the M60. He grabbed one of the bags full of 7.62×51mm NATO ammunition belts and ran out sure to secure the door behind him. He took to the trail dodging branches and roots making it to the Deuce and a Half. The old workhorse started with a shudder. He threw it into gear and headed towards the town. He knew it was only a matter of time. A cloud of dust rose as he tore down the mountain dirt road. The truck jumped as it hit the pavement. He knew that once he cleared the curve in the road he'd be near the van. He hoped the occupants were still safe the near continuous gunshots slightly easing his worry. Rounding the bend he slammed on the breaks. Ahead of him, less than 100 yards sat the van. It was still surrounded and rocking under the weight of the decayed dead. Once on the roof, he loaded up his weapon and with a smile on his face unleashed lead hell. The rounds tore through the bodies of the dead smashing into the concrete and sending bits of rock flying through the air. Those closest to him turned towards him, arms outstretched they walked directly into his line of fire. Nearly all fell under the heavy barrage only to drag themselves across the ground, others were sent to their true deaths by a round to the head. He stopped only to reload sending round upon round downrange.
Inside the van Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby-Doo watched the "crazy bastard" mowing down the horde. In a matter of minutes, the horde had been cut in half, many literally. Shaggy flashed the lights of the van to signal the heavily armed man. Without releasing the trigger he waved his left hand holding the giant weapon one-handed like some kind of action movie star. Shaggy continued trying to dislodge the bodies stopping the Mystery Machine, first forward then back. From the passenger side, Velma resumed firing at the horde. Unable to get the van to budge, Shaggy turned it off and took to gunning down those who got close from his side. In the back, Scooby lay on the floor his big paws over his ears. Shaggy and Velma had both taken to keeping earplugs handy, including for Scooby. The first time they fired one of their weapons from the van taught them that the reverberation could be just as dangerous as the bullet.
The slaughter continued for what felt like forever. Halfway through the big man on the truck got off the roof and fired while walking towards the van. His shots became more controlled. Short bursts rather than long sweeping passes. His smile never changed.
"Looks like it's clear enough to get out and finish this," Velma says looking at Shaggy.
"I g-g-guess so." They each take a moment to reload their weapons, Shaggy's a Mossberg Shotgun, Velma's a hunting rifle. They had other weapons but weren't familiar enough with their care never mind their operation to use. That all changed upon meeting the big Army Vet. Looking back at Scooby, "Scoob, you stay here. V and I will be right back." The big dog whimpered in response. Shaggy opened the doors, stepped out, and began picking off walkers.
They made quick work of the shambling fiends. When it was all finished they had wiped out 79 of THEM from the world. Looking at the big bearded blonde, Shaggy turned to Velma, "Well, what now."
"I say we meet our mysterious savior." With weapons at their sides, they made their way over to the heavily armed man wearing a huge smile.
As they draw near, he looks at them, "Well, that was damn fun. Thanks."
"W-w-well, like the pleasure was all ours." the tall lanky one with the shotgun responds.
"You really saved our asses there, mister." The statement from the short nerdy looking girl in an oversized sweater, skirt, and combat boots.
The two newcomers stop feet from him, extending his hand, "Name's Craig."
