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position, the little green hatchback, and the bikers, were nearly in range.  I noted absently that a pod of about fifty zombies broke off their lumbering approach on the Dollar General and veered in the direction of the noisy caravan.  More shots echoed as the bikers seemed to be jockeying for position, intent on shredding the car’s tires.  The car’s driver swerved and juked aggressively, trying to throw off their aim.
    At four hundred meters, I squeezed off my first shot.  Miss. Well, I missed the rider but struck the bike.  The biker, jerking his bike aside to avoid trash in the road, was caught off balance as the heavy slug struck the metal frame of the Harley and ricocheted down.  Whatever the bullet hit caused the engine to seize up and the wheels locked, causing the man to catapult over the handlebars at breakneck velocity.  He hit the asphalt like a bag of dropped garbage and appeared to explode on impact.
    One down.  Fluke, but I would take that to the bank.  That was one bandit who certainly wasn’t going to get up.  At least, not as a human.  He might rise, even if not bitten, but even zombies need their heads intact.
    Since I’d targeted the trailing rider, the other three did not notice anything amiss until I fired the second time, and this was a solid hit on one of the riders.  I was shooting center mass, aiming at a slightly quartering target, and my bullet shattered the windscreen of the front left rider before plowing into his midsection.  I’d rushed the shot and only took it because the man dressed head to toe in leathers appeared to have given up on trying to shred the front tire.  The bullet struck him in the gut just as he was raising his shotgun for a more convenient target.  The driver.
    The sudden spray of blood exiting the stricken biker’s back caught his two surviving compatriots off guard.  They went from being the predators to the prey in the blink of an eye. 
    The biker riding parallel to the passenger side suddenly veered wide, seeking to throw off my aim in a wild maneuver that almost worked.  He evaded a bullet that was a clean miss and instead, ran straight towards the back of a wrecked station wagon sitting on the side of the road.
    I used to watch reruns of that old cop show when I was a kid.  “CHIPS” I think it was called.  Every week, the directors and producers of the show managed to work great stunt jumps and car rolls into the thin plot where good always triumphs over evil and the studly cops were always in pursuit of hot girls with big hair.  So, being raised on that sort of fare, I half expected the Harley lowrider to somehow catch the bumper of the half-burned Mercedes station wagon and take flight.
    Instead, the heavy motorcycle impacted the rear of the much bigger vehicle with a bang audible all the way up in my perch.  Three down, and with three bullets.  If I ever told the story to anybody, that was how it would be told.  No mention of the errant shot, since I herded the guy into a fatal accident anyway. 
    The last rider, probably the brains of the outfit, took advantage of the distraction caused by his buddy’s fatal miscalculation and braked hard and expertly.  Spinning the bike in a tight arc that looked showy but also efficient, he slung the motorcycle back the way he came and opened the throttle.  Through the scope I saw the jacket he was wearing heavy duty leathers.  Tarantulas, read the black gothic script.  Well, at least I knew I was killing the right guys after all.
    Taking a second, I fed two spare rounds into the magazine and reset the rifle.  He was moving fast to get out of range but made for a steady target.  I aimed for the spider in the middle of his back, exhaled, inhaled, and squeezed the trigger when everything felt in balance.  With what little wind stirring the midmorning air coming directly in from the south, I didn’t even need to factor in much of anything except bullet drop. 
    I saw the rider jerk, then