We've been carefully evacuating the kids for two days now, only opening the way through long enough for a few vehicles at a time to cross onto the field. Tension has been ratcheting up the entire time, more so in the last several hours.
The local zombies, you see, have been watching us.
Not too close. Not near enough for us to waste the energy attacking them. They're arranged around Black Mesa, maybe a hundred of them, in a rough semicircle. None are within a hundred yards of the place. None of them have moved since they got here.
They're waiting for something. Word got back here about twenty minutes ago that the last caravan we sent out was attacked. Not unusual in itself, but this one had zombies drop into it from trees overhanging the road. Right into the back of a high-walled truck bed. Eleven kids, all of them sixteen years old, died. The four guards with them didn't make it either.
Three zombies did that. I'm told they displayed signs of the mutations all the locals have been passing to each other. Everyone here is upset, angry and hurt at the loss, but right now we can't afford to lose control. We have to focus on the job at hand, or it could all go off the rails. The absolute last thing we need is the place devolving into chaos.
The crew heading for New Haven is still here. That's a plus, anyway, as it will give us a good number of experienced fighters if the zombies outside are some kind of vanguard for a larger force. We're even letting Kincaid's crew have weapons.
Ah. Crap. I'm being told the zombies are moving toward us. No new ones have showed up yet, but it looks like they're going to attack. Thank god this rock is tall and overhangs almost all the way around. If they can climb trees, a sheer rock face might be doable.
I'm off to the gate. That's gonna be where they hit us. That's where we'll make a stand.