We're far from helpless.
Through my scope, it is no obvious that these people want nothing to do with us anymore. We have the higher ground. We have guns. They have no leader. They begin to clear the street, shouting curses about our friends and family. To bad they're probably dead. Slinging my rifle across my back, I slowly crawl across the roof to Dean and Mike. Pistol ready, Mike peers over the roof to find the streets completely clear. Well, with the exception of the five dead bikers.
They'll be up and shambling in no time.
We carefully descend the fire escape of the last building on the block, pistols ready in one hand. It's almost a relief to be on ground level again, the shadows of the buildings blocking out the afternoon sun.
Motion catches the corner of my eye as the first of the bikers begins to rise, his skin a sickly green and his eyes blank.
Mike puts a bullet between them.
Under normal conditions gunfire isn't desirable, but considering the fire fight we had just participated in, one shot isn't going to make that much of a difference. The walking dead of Orillia are already nearing, attracted by our previous encounter with the now long gone gang. Approaching the newly risen bikers, I holster my pistol, draw my crowbar and stretch out my arms.