Tooth And Nail Part 21

By any definition, he is a murderer and a war criminal. He knows it. His own platoon sergeant knows it. The two men were made from the same stuff; he saw Kemper do the same as him to get the platoon out of the riot and to safety.

And if they did not do what they did, if they were not war criminals, they might all be dead right now.

Nevertheless, he can't shake the feeling that he is d.a.m.ned.

The officers hear the piercing wail of a fire engine, punctuated by the bursts of its horn. It is a plucky sound amid the rattle of small arms fire and distant screams, reminding them that somewhere, out there, people are still fighting back against the rising tide of violence and anarchy.

The sound reminds them that it is not every man for himself out there. Not yet.

Similarly, the power continues to cut in and out, but somebody is still manning the controls at the power plant, and somebody is still delivering coal to burn to make electricity. In all the jobs that matter, from cop to soldier to paramedic to power plant operator, people are still doing their duty. Bowman finds strength in this idea.

Knight wipes the tears from his face and clears his throat.

"I wouldn't give the order," he says. "I guess that makes me a nice guy or something. But I have no right to lead Charlie." He sighs. "We should have stayed where we were. We were doing some good there."

"No," Bowman says. His eyes follow a pair of helicopters moving over the East River until they disappear behind a tall building. He takes it as a good sign that there are still birds in the air. "Captain West had the right idea trying to concentrate the Company. Warlord is spread out all over Manhattan and is vulnerable to being destroyed piecemeal. But it's too late. We got chewed up. We should have consolidated sooner."

"Maybe you're right," Knight says. "We shouldn't have been spread out in the first place, then. It's a mystery. I have a hard time believing that either the government or the Army didn't know about the infection rate among the Mad Dogs."

"Could be they were trying to avoid pushing an already panicked country into outright hysteria," Bowman says. "Could be that they honestly didn't know. Who knows? Right now, my situational awareness extends to what I can see with my own eyes."

"Well, if somebody higher up knew about this and didn't tell us, they may have just destroyed our brigade."

Bowman stares at him intensely and says, "h.e.l.l, Steve. Forget Quarantine. If somebody higher up knew and didn't tell us, they may have destroyed the U.S. Army."

Gaps in the chain of command

Sherman tries again to raise Warlord, the call sign for Battalion, and Quarantine, which is Brigade's call sign, without success.

"Warlord, Warlord, this is War Dogs, do you copy, over?"

No answer from Battalion. The Battalion net is being overloaded with chaotic messages blending together into one long screech. From what the RTO can tell, War Hammer is screaming for reinforcements and ammunition, Warmonger reports the successful occupation of the old Seventh Regiment Armory Building, and War Pig says it has three men down and where's their G.o.dd.a.m.n medevac.

"Warlord, Warlord," Sherman says, then stops. It's useless.

Sherman switches to the Brigade net and tries to hail Quarantine. n.o.body answers. The only officer he can get a hold of, as they say in the ranks, is General Confusion. The voices on the Brigade net are less panicked than Charlie's sister companies, but equally confused. There are units missing, trying to consolidate, requesting orders, demanding resupply, on the move, taking casualties. There are gaps in the chain of command. Units are disappearing or moving without their commanders knowing it.

When Quarantine's XO finally makes an appearance on the net, it is apparently without his knowledge or consent, as he's shouting at somebody else in the room about a story that The New York Times is writing about the Army's sudden decision to lay waste to New York and almost every other major city in the country.

Somebody else, Sherman does not recognize the voice, says there is not going to be a New York Times tomorrow morning, and then the transmission cut out.

The civilian nets are even more ominous.

National Guard units defending City Hall have abandoned their positions and moved north, and protestors have occupied the building and are busy turning it into a fortress. The commander of the Guard unit was found dead at his post. The Mayor is missing. Right now, there is n.o.body running the government of New York City.

Meanwhile, operators are still calling first responder units, but units are not reporting back. The nets are going silent one by one, populated only by panicked operators asking over and over if anybody can hear them.

A cop gets on the net, says he has eyes on a group of vigilantes lynching five Lyssa victims from streetlight poles, and requests backup, but there is no help to give. Frustrated, the cop breaks protocol by asking the operator if there is a f.u.c.king plan.

Sherman senses that the government and the military are holding something back from the people who live here, but the people already know about it, and have begun to take matters into their own hands.

It is interesting, but ultimately not his concern.

He switches to Charlie Company's net and resumes his search for Fourth Platoon, which had been on Third Platoon's heels during the march to the school but suddenly disappeared and is now considered lost.

All of this makes for discouraging work for a radio/telephone operator, but a good RTO must have the patience of a saint, and Sherman is good at his job. He is not complaining. Even though he is not getting through to anybody, the traffic is more entertaining than he has ever heard it.

Things are bad, but like all crises, this too shall pa.s.s, he believes. He tells himself the government and the Army will fix it when those in charge finally get their heads out of their collective a.s.ses and do what needs doing. The United States survived the First and Second World Wars, Cold War, Spanish Flu Pandemic, Presidents Nixon through Obama, the Great Depression and the September Eleventh attacks. It can survive this lousy Lyssa Pandemic. Someday, he will tell his kids about how scary and exciting it all was, and he and his comrades will be called the Greatest Generation by their grandchildren.

He likes working alone so that he can take off his mask and smoke without any ha.s.sles. Lighting one up, he realizes that he is down to four packs now and after that, with all the supply problems he has been hearing about, there might not be any more cigarettes for a while. The thought fills him with panic. A lot of the boys smoke for fun, but he is an addict. He tries to put this unsettling train of thought out of his mind by throwing himself back into his work.

When he switches back to Brigade traffic, a strong, gravelly voice cuts through the babble: This is Quarantine actual. Clear the net. Break.

The voice is calm, almost dry, but the effect is electrifying. Within moments, the chatter is reduced by more than half.

I say again: This is Quarantine actual. Clear the net. Break. Sherman takes out his notepad and pencil, excited. He has only rarely heard Colonel Winters, the commander of the Brigade, get on the net in person.

All elements of Quarantine, this is Quarantine actual. Message follows, break.

You don't see that every day

McLeod paces just inside the doors to the school. About ten meters down the hallway, Martin and Boomer pa.s.s a cigarette back and forth, leaning on the sandbags of their MG emplacement. McLeod strolls over, cradling his SAW.

"Salaam 'Alayk.u.m, boys," he says.

The gunners nod. McLeod watches in amus.e.m.e.nt as they turn away and pull down their masks to take a drag.

He adds: "You guys do realize that if one of you has Lyssa, the other now has it."

"Go to h.e.l.l, McLeod," Boomer says.

"What do you mean?" Martin says.

"You're sharing a smoke," McLeod explains. Seeing their blank expressions, he shakes his head. "Never mind."

"This is not a good time to go around scaring people," Boomer warns him.

"What a c.r.a.ppy post," McLeod says darkly. "A freaking school. Look at this poster some kid made with a bunch of crummy markers: *Welcome back' in a hundred languages. Christ, I'd rather be in G.o.dd.a.m.n Baghdad getting shot at."

"I'll bet you were one of the most popular guys in high school," Martin deadpans, making the AG snort with laughter. "Because you're such a comedian."

"Sleep deprivation makes me hilarious." McLeod yells at the ceiling, "I need sleep!"

"Why aren't you bunking with your squad, McLeod?" Martin says, winking at Boomer, who grins back.

"Magilla's got it in for me. Everybody else gets to sleep a few hours, while I'm stuck doing guard duty with-no offense-you guys."

Boomer bursts into laughter while Martin says, "You're lucky that's all you got."

"Are you kidding? What'd I ever do to anybody?"

"Have you ever tried seeing what would happen if you maybe shut your big mouth, McLeod?" Boomer says.

McLeod smiles and says nothing.

Boomer adds, "Looks like you're as popular in the Army as you were in high school, McLeod. Count yourself lucky you're not shoveling body parts into the bas.e.m.e.nt furnace with the Hajjis-I mean, the civilians."

"Instead, you got guard duty," Martin says, gesturing toward the front doors of the school. "Hmm. Aren't you supposed to be like, you know, guarding?"

"n.o.body's going to come here," McLeod tells him.

"It's a Lyssa hospital in the middle of a Lyssa plague," Martin says, taking off his cap and making a show of scratching his closely shorn head. "Hmm."

"Yeah, I wonder if anybody's coming," the AG says, cracking up now.

"Shush, I'm thinking," Martin says, still in character.

"Quiet for a sec," says McLeod. "Listen."

In the distance, they hear the roar of a diesel engine.

A large vehicle is approaching the school.

He adds, "Oh thank G.o.d, they're starting to pick up the trash again." The MGR rolls his eyes and says, "Boomer, stay here, I'm going to go with McFly and check it out."

"Roger that."

"Lead the way, McDuff."

"You're a very funny guy," McLeod says. "It must run in the family.

Just the other night, your mom-hey, that sounds military, doesn't it?"

The sound grows louder as they approach the doors and open them cautiously, peering out at the corpse-strewn street.

"Lookit, it's an LAV," Martin says, raising his fist. "Go, Marines! Get some!"

The armored personnel carrier, shaped like a large green boat on eight wheels, turns onto their street from several blocks away, its engine grinding.

"I want one of those," says McLeod.

"It's the LAV-R," Martin says. "See the boom crane on the back? It's got a winch so it can recover other LAVs that break down. The recovery model doesn't have much for defense, just the single M240 and some smoke grenades." He adds admiringly, "You should see the fighting version. It's got an M242 Bushmaster chain gun and two M240s. I saw one once. In action, too. It was freaking cool. The Iraqis call these babies the Great Destroyers."

"I hear she's single, tiger," McLeod says.

"They can go sixty miles an hour and drive underwater, man."

"Uh oh, they got company. Check it out."

The LAV-R has completed its turn and guns its engine to pick up speed. The vehicle is surrounded by a crowd of about twenty Mad Dogs running alongside it. A few somehow clawed their way on top and are beating on the armor with their fists.

The vehicle accelerates on the open street and the Mad Dogs begin to lag behind.

"I didn't even know the Marines were in Manhattan," Martin says. "We got no commo with them. Should we run out and try to tell them we're here?"

McLeod snorts. "Be my guest."

The LAV roars by on its eight wheels, Mad Dogs clambering over its metal body, followed by a swarm of infected, chomping at its heels.

Less than a minute later, the last Mad Dog runs by, a shredded red shirt flapping from his mouth. Then the street is quiet again except for the distant rattle of small arms fire.

"Well," says McLeod. "You don't see that every day."

Every kill is a broken chain of infection

The naked obese woman chases the teenaged boy down the street, arms outstretched and b.r.e.a.s.t.s rolling. They pa.s.s two charred corpses that lay smoking on the sidewalk outside a burned-out convenience store. His sneakers crunch on broken gla.s.s.

With a loud bang, the woman drops to the ground, writhing and moaning.

The boy stops, grips his knees, and totters, panting, almost too tired to stand on his own. His entire body, clad in a bunny hugger and jeans, is flushed and drenched in sweat. After making sure the woman is no longer a threat, he lifts his face to scan the nearby buildings, searching for his savior.

In doing so, he reveals an inflamed and swollen bite mark on his cheek, smeared with blood and drool.

His roaming eyes find a tiny silhouette on the roof of the building across the street. His mouth spreads into a big, toothy grin. He raises his hand to wave h.e.l.lo.