I had swung the telescoping plastic butt-stock of my M4 down across the cranium of particularly vicious zombie when it shattered into a hundred pieces. The buffer spring flew across the room and I was now holding a few pounds of useless crap in my hand. A plastic rifle isn’t meant for close quarters melee, someone should call the Pentagon and let them know.

MacDaniel still had a few shotgun shells left, I had a scavenged Russian hand grenade that I wouldn’t count on to work, and the Captain still had a couple of magazines left for his Kimber. Other than that, we were down to throwing harsh language at the ghouls. One of the undead beasts that we were beating back out of the caved in doors had a farm implement embedded in its chest and I felt inspired.

“Grab your entrenching tools out of your rucks! Let’s get medieval on these sonsabitches!” I yelled out, producing that black folding shovel with its serrated edge. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but splitting skulls was better than boxing with the dead.