The archers stared at her for a moment, then one by one they understood and reached for new arrows. They took careful aim and fired. Of the nineteen arrows fired, seven struck the big muscles of the thighs in the front rank of zombies. There was minimal blood and no trace of pain on the faces of those who were struck, but five of that seven fell as the damage from broad-bladed arrows caused muscles and tendons to tear themselves apart. Even the dead need muscular integrity to stand and walk.

The five that fell were like a tripwire to the dozen behind them. Suddenly the ruse was a collision, with ungainly bodies tripping over them and the mass behind continuing to press forward.

“Rocks,” bellowed Dahlia and a wave of helpers snatched up pieces of broken cinderblock and handfuls of river stones and hurled them down at the zombies. Trying to smash heads, and sometimes managing it. Other rocks broke arms or legs.

The archers kept firing and the helpers kept throwing rocks with frenzied energy, and Dahlia’s army built a bulwark of corpses fifteen feet from the breech.

***

Down on the ground level, Old Man Church had handed off the empty rifle and hurried over to the pen where the townsfolk were kept under guard. He ignored the stares of resentment, fear, and hatred.

“Open it,” he told Slow Dog, who was standing guard. Slow Dog obeyed at once and then took up a position with a double-barreled shotgun just outside. Church walked past him into the cage.

“You’re going to regret this,” began Margaret Van Sloane, but Church walked past her as if she was nothing. Less than a gnat. He stopped in the center of the pen with enough people surrounding him that if they wanted to kill him, everyone there knew they could. He had no weapon in his gloved hands, and he was an old man.

“Listen to me,” he said. “The Rovers are here. You can hear it. You heard the explosions. The front wall is badly damaged and Dahlia, her Pack, and the people you enslaved here are fighting against a coordinated attack that can, and very likely will, be too much for us to stop. The Rovers will get in here. So will several hundred of the living dead. Happy Valley is going to fall.” He looked around at a sea of faces. Even the most hardened of them looked scared. “If the enemy breaks in, we will all die. That is certain.”

The sounds of the battle—screams, explosions, whistles, moans—filled the air.

“You people know this town. Maybe you have resources here Dahlia doesn’t know about. Extra weapons and ammunition. Materials that can be used as explosives. Body armor. Cans of hairspray that can be used as blow torches. Anything that can give us a better chance.”

The people said nothing. Some people could not, or would not, meet his eyes.