Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,48

it steady (“But a sandbag or a pack as a shooting platform is best.”) and carried only five, big .300 bullets in a stubby magazine. At the end was a long suppressor designed to reduce noise and flash, and keep the recoil manageable. This rifle did have a scope, Postman explained, and could be swapped out for another capable of night vision.

The sergeant went through all the same procedures as with the assault rifle, loading, proper grip and sighting, and more safety. In the last of the light he had her fire five rounds, and she discovered that it kicked like a bastard. She missed with three, grazed a hip which succeeded in spinning the corpse in a half circle, and blew off an arm with her last bullet. Not a head shot among them.

Postman spoke about curved trajectories, minute of angle, vectors and fractions of gravity, range, crosswinds and leading the target. It was an incomprehensible jumble, and not understanding made her angry since she had always thought of herself as a fast learner.

The sergeant saw her frustration. “Our snipers go to school for months just to learn the fundamentals. Don’t expect to pick it up in a couple of hours.”

That helped a little.

“Just remember some basics. The farther away from the target you are, the more the bullet drops, so the higher above the mark you have to aim. Fire a little bit in front of moving targets, where they’re going to be when the bullet gets there. The rest is Kentucky windage.”

“What?”

He smiled. “Guessing. Shooting and adjusting until you get it right.”

“Why didn’t you just say that first?”

“Because it burns through your ammo. Remember to steady your breathing, and let it out slowly as you fire. Don’t forget to relocate. That’s one of the most important lessons a sniper learns.”

Taylor was watching her face and saw her eyebrow go up. “Changing position after a couple of shots. The longer you stay put, the easier it is for your targets to find you. Movement equals life.”

They were words she would remember.

“But we’ve been shooting from the same place for hours,” she said. “They keep coming.”

Postman looked at the street. The fog didn’t reach this far in from the bay, and there was a half-moon above. It revealed hundreds of corpses congregating below, all facing the building from which they were shooting, steadily pressing forward. “Yeah, I noticed. They seem drawn to the gunfire.”

“So explain why that’s not bad, if movement is life.”

“Well, for one thing they can’t shoot back. And I don’t really think they’re smart enough to figure out how to get up here.” He gestured out at the town. “We didn’t see a single freak on a rooftop, did we? They’re more like cattle.” He snapped on the night scope and gave her back the rifle. This time Skye scored four hits, including a head shot. That one just disintegrated from the neck up.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

“Yeah, holy shit,” Postman said, laughing. “At short range, with that caliber bullet, you could blow the head off a cow.”

Skye looked at the big rifle in her hands. Its power was humbling.

Now, as she stretched out on the poncho, her M4 loaded and resting beside her, she looked up at clouds tinted silver by moonlight, stars darting in and out of them high above. It was the same sky that had been there last night, but tonight the world it looked down upon was very, very different. Had it only been this morning when everything changed? Her mom and sister laughing on the grass in front of the dorm, dad grumbling good naturedly about carrying luggage… It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Thoughts of her family finally carried her off to sleep.

At first she thought it was a nightmare.

An explosion. Snarling. Gunfire.

“Skye! Skye, get out!”

She came full awake. The dead surged through the rooftop door, which had been shredded by Taylor’s claymore, spilling out in a tumble, scrambling to their feet, still more pouring out behind them. Sgt. Postman was buried beneath thrashing shapes, his legs kicking as a dozen corpses tore at him. Taylor was ten feet away and on one knee, firing and dropping shapes in the doorway. Not enough of them.

“Move!” he screamed. “Skye, move, move!”

Bodies fell, only to have more stagger over them. Taylor dropped an empty magazine, reloaded and started firing again. “Get off the roof!” Snarling shapes slammed into him, bringing the young soldier down with an angry yell. Teeth