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think, and then it was nearly on me. I stopped and aimed a steel-toed boot at its chest. The kick sent it rolling backward, but it was on its feet in a flash. Without thought, my rifle came up, canted so I could look through the iron sights mounted forty-five degrees from my scope, and fired twice. The dead kid had enough speed that when it fell, it skidded several feet over the rocks. I kicked it over. No older than five when it died the first time. The little ones are much faster than the adults, and much harder to look at. I dragged it by its feet away from the path and wished I had a blanket or something to drape over it.
    Even after over three years of killing revenants, some things just never got any easier.
    I killed two others along the way. One was an older Hispanic woman, recently dead, most of her left arm and the left side of her face eaten away. When she opened her mouth to howl at me, I saw she had no teeth. I shot her in the head anyway. Even toothless, the infected are still dangerous. The last ghoul I killed was a gray, one of the long-dead with no skin. My first shot grooved a furrow around its skull and exited without causing significant brain damage. A rare occurrence, but not unheard of. I let the ghoul come closer and fired twice more at point blank range. This time, it went down.
    Finally, I reached the gate to Fort McCray. The soldiers ahead of me kept going, headed for their revenant-proof barracks. Overhead on the catwalk, I heard gunfire rattling. Sharpshooters were keeping the undead away from the gate, allowing their brothers in arms to get through safely. I heaved my way up a set of stairs and asked the officer in charge where he needed me. He glanced at my rifle and the bandolier of magazines across my chest, recognized me, and said to take position on the left flank near the eastern guard tower.
    Once settled, I went to work. There is a rhythm to the letting out of breath, steadying of the rifle, gentle squeeze of the trigger until the crack and the recoil and waiting to see if the target goes down. It has a hypnotic quality. Looking through the scope creates a feeling of separation, of detachment. I am here, but I am not here. The me who thinks, loves, laughs, and worries is somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. What remains is a creature of function, of necessity.
    These are not people in my sights. They are things. They hunger, are dangerous, and have to be put down. One cannot scare them. Cannot intimidate them. Their morale cannot be damaged because it does not exist. They do not have to be fed, bred, or led like living people do. They recruit from their victims. They hunt because it is all they know how to do. And they will never, ever stop. They are legion. They destroyed the world. The fact that I, or anyone else, have lasted so long against them is nothing short of miraculous.
    I did not hear the call to cease fire. A hand swatted me firmly on the shoulder, breaking me from my trance.
    “Hey, dickhead, cease fire!” It was the officer in charge. His nametag read Ramirez. His eyes were dark and angry.
    “Sorry.” I flipped the selector switch to safe, stood up, and nearly sat right back down from dizziness. Ramirez gripped my arm to steady me.
    “You all right? You hurt?”
    “No, just tired. Been a long morning.”
    The dark eyes narrowed. “You bit?”
    “No.”
    “You sure?”
    “I think I would have noticed.”
    Ramirez called two of his men over and had them watch me while he checked me for bites. He started with my hands and forearms, and then looked at my lower legs. Not finding anything, he searched the rest of me. His men looked on silently, hands loose on their carbines. They did not point their weapons at me, but could have very quickly if they wanted to. I gave them no reason to do so.
    “He’s clean,” Ramirez said. The soldiers relaxed and began walking away.
    “Can I go now?”
    “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t be too careful these days.”
    “No harm done.