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We had taken position on the roof of a mosque, picking off the steady stream of corpses shambling out of the mountains. Making the transition between aiming center mass to headshots is tough. It goes against years of training. As a result, we were running low on ammunition.

“We have a C-130 coming in with a daisy cutter,” Captain Buckner yelled from near the radio, “and there’s a AC-130 coming in to cover our exfil.”

“How long?” I yelled back, squeezing off rounds at corpses of Islam.

“Ten mikes on the gunship!” Buckner said. “The daisy cutter will be on standby in five mikes, we need to start heading for the ridge.”

“Shit, we’ll be out of ammunition in ten mikes.” Some of them were already pounding at the doors of the mosque. I took my last grenade from the pouch, popped the pin, and released the spoon for a cook off. I let it fall, timing it perfectly to explode about six feet off the ground. The explosion turned two ghoul skulls into smoking hamburger, but only peppered the rest with fragments.

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