He heard the noise long before he crested a hill and caught sight of it. Even so, nothing, not even the rattle of automatic gunfire and the unending, grating howls of the Dead, could have painted the picture that confronted Fr Pat across the meandering Rappahannock River. Against the kilometres of chain-link fence that enclosed the vast training grounds of Fort AP Hill, a thousands-strong herd of the Dead churned and moaned, trying to reach the soldiers behind, who were methodically spraying machinegun fire at head height. No wonder he hadn't encountered any of the Dead since the Harry Nice Bridge; they were all here.
Dumbfounded by the scale of the hoard, Fr Pat watched as the slain bodies piled up in front of the fence. The creatures mindlessly trod other Dead into the ground, grabbing higher and higher at the chain-link fence as the bodies began to form a ramp. Commanding officers behind the fence shouted contradictory orders at their men: Aim higher, maintain fire at head-height level. At several points, the ramps reached the top of the fence, and the Dead began falling into the enclosure. About a kilometre to the west, a section of the fence simply caved in under the weight of bodies, and the Dead flooded in, pushed in by the surge behind them and packed thick enough to simply trample over the soldiers. Across the front line, panic ensued. Some soldiers fled, throwing down their weapons. Others attempted to stand their ground and were overwhelmed.
Fr Pat only snapped out of his horrified reverie when the entire herd had entered the military base. He would have to find another way round; the bridge at Port Royal was too close to Fort AP Hill. He closed the visor on his motorcycle helmet, shouldered his club, and set off south-east down the banks of the Rappahannock, looking for a shallow spot to ford.
About ten kilometres along the bank, where the river made a sharp U-bend, Fr Pat found a row boat and crossed the slow current leisurely. After disembarking, he sat on the little spit of land, letting his trousers dry in the sun and the aches subside in his back. A couple of birds sang in nearby trees - always a good sign that the Dead were far away - and Fr Pat could scarcely reconcile the serenity of this moment with the monstrosity he had witnessed at Fort AP Hill. Even from a mile away, he had heard the dying soldiers' screams, smelt the smoke from their gunfire, a sharp, burnt smell that cut through the rancid, rotting scent of the Dead. The worst thing had been the cacophany of groans from the herd. In individual cases, that sound was a terrifying alert that shocked every nerve, set the pulse racing. But collectively, and prolonged, as it had been at the chain-link perimeter, it sounded like the collected souls of centuries of damnation were calling out from Hell. For the first time since he had escaped St Jenny's, Fr Pat took his crucifix in his hands and knelt. But nothing came to drown out the memory of that call of the damned, nothing but two birds singing.