LAST STAND

Lieutenant Donovan surveyed the battleground from his perch high atop the cliff side. Through his binoculars it was more than apparent that what was going on down below; all the 'action' that he was currently avoiding, was escalating into nothing short of a Goddamn bloodbath. Donovan scanned the horizon for any sign of the other battalion he'd radioed in over three hours ago, but to no avail: something must have gotten to them before they were even able to break into the battle front. Too bad, really. He could really use the reinforcements right about now. He let the binocs drop to his chest, sighed with obvious concern, and turned to face what was left of his men.

"Boys," The lieutenant began as he straightened and made himself look every inch of his six-six, 270 frame, "I'm afraid it looks shitty. Worse than shitty, really... I'd say shitty with a fine patina of FUBAR, to be honest."

The men glanced around at each other, apprehension flooding over their far-too-young faces, and said nothing. The guys had seen so much over the past forty-eight hours, and never once was it something they'd ever, in any of their lifetimes, want to see again. They'd begun this skirmish one-hundred sixty strong and had been systematically whittled down to a mere thirty five. Along the way many of their very best soldiers had fallen. Each and ever one had given their lives fully in battle; never backing down, never giving in, and never dying with less than a grin full of 'fuck you' slathered across their hard core mugs. The men were strong, willing, and just about as bad-ass as you could possibly want. The lieutenant was proud, but the men, now less than a third of their original numbers, were beginning to show some real fear.

"No, fellas, I just can't believe we are going to have much of a chance down there... but we have no other choice," Donovan said as he paced the distance from front to rear of the line. "It's grim and I'm not going to fucking pretend otherwise. Our ammo supply is woefully low, our rations have been depleted, and, well, our count has dropped almost inconceivably."

The line of thirty five each exchanged nods and looks of gratitude that the other was still alive. Each knew that barely two days ago they'd marched into absolute hell. The enemy were far quicker, far more hungry, and far more persistent than the men, and each and every one knew it from the very first minute they'd engaged them. The war was brutal. There was so much more blood, dismemberment, and destruction than any one of the brave soldiers could have believed possible. Yes, nearly all had been involved in some way or another in battle prior to this particular action, but nothing, no matter how horrid, could even remotely come close to the atrocities they'd seen thus far. But even so, despite all of that, they sallied on and stood stolid.

"Men, today we take up our arms for quite possibly the final time," The lieutenant continued, "Today we all go forth remembering our fallen, but killing with reckless abandon as we do. We must obliterate as many as we can and we must, for fuck's sake, fight on through our pain, our agony, and our ultimate deaths. Yes, even as we die, we have precious little recourse but to shoot our way into Heaven.

"Now, as we crest this precipice to our maker, let us all bow and give thanks to He who continues to breathe life into our souls just as he gives us those without mind or souls to prey upon. Boys, let's face those mother fucking zombies like it was our only goal in life. This is what we we all born to do! MOVE OUT!"

The men, all thirty five worn and wasted shrouds, raised a gun and whooped what was to be their last holler. They all, in unison, built each other up for the coming doom, and marched with their lieutenant into the mouth of madness.