Tooth And Nail Part 16

Lieutenant Bowman established his headquarters in the wide entry hallway of the school, surrounding a sprawling refugee camp of more than a hundred panicked civilians located directly adjacent to public lavatories and a water fountain.

At the end facing the main doors of the school, he placed his gun team, and at the other, facing the main stairs leading to the second floor of the trunk of the building, a SAW gunner detached from Second Squad.

This simple setup provides protection for the civilians while enabling them to access water and toilets, which he hopes will keep them calm, but not the soldiers' rucksacks, which are stacked near the front door under the watchful eyes of his gun team.

Sherman, holding an M4 carbine, scans the crowd for signs of trouble, shrugging at their requests for food, medicine, diapers, beer and cigarettes, plastic cups, blankets, rubbing alcohol, chocolate bars, more toilet paper and paper towels and soap, and a toilet plunger. He frequently glances at Hawkeye, lying groaning and sweating on a blanket under the care of Doc Waters, the platoon's combat medic.

Hawkeye is starting to stink.

"He's got Lyssa bad," the medic tells Sherman, dumbfounded. "He got bit by a Mad Dog and now he's turning into one. In hours. Something is definitely not right here."

"You think?" somebody mutters under his breath.

Bowman struck a deal with the civilians, allowing them to enter the platoon's defensive perimeter, and thereby become his problem, on two conditions. First, that they would not interfere with the operations of the men under his command. Second, that they would report any of them showing Lyssa symptoms, especially Mad Dog symptoms, so that they could be removed from the security zone and banished from the building.

So far, they have ignored the first promise and kept the second. Beyond this, he is not sure what to do with them. He has orders to link up with First Platoon and Company HQ, and he will try to complete that mission for as long as he can. These civilians are only tying him down. And yet they are American citizens, and he has a greater obligation to protect them from harm.

His highest priority at this moment, however, is securing this building and giving his boys a well-deserved rest. They simply cannot keep up this pace. Already they are exhausted and using up their supplies at an alarming rate.

And the worst, he knows, is yet to come. Days of it. Even weeks of it. It may take a superhuman effort for his boys to stay alive just during the next twenty-four hours.

Doc Waters marches up to Bowman and says, "The men need to change their masks. They're getting caked with sweat and soot, and the men are forgetting to change them."

Bowman blinks in surprise. The platoon has bigger issues to deal with than Lyssa prevention. But of course the combat medic is right. Bowman nods and says he'll get on it.

"And sir," Doc Waters adds, "some of the men aren't wearing their masks at all anymore. This is majorly stupid, sir. We've had a rare morning, but the chance of infection is just as high now as it was yesterday." He glances at the civilians. "In fact, it's higher."

"All right, Doc," the LT says. "I'll see to it."

"Sir, we got incoming!" cries Bailey, the SAW gunner from Second Squad. He is lying on the floor, sighting down the barrel, which now rests on a bipod. "I got seven, no, eight hostiles on the main stairs."

The LT kneels next to Bailey and studies the Mad Dogs through his close-combat optic. They are Mad Dogs, seven of them sorry-looking specimens wearing paper gowns, and one wearing hospital scrubs. Three of them grin like clowns, their mouths and gowns stained red.

He wishes he could understand what motivates them. Don't they recognize their own friends and family? Why do they want to kill us? Why don't they attack each other?

The Mad Dogs pause and stand motionless, fists clenching and unclenching at their sides. They are still thirty meters away.

"What are you waiting for?" one of the civilians says. "Shoot them, for Chrissakes!"

Other civilians begin clamoring for them to open fire. A baby in the crowd starts screaming.

"Shall I light 'em up, sir?" says Bailey, gently placing his finger on the trigger.

"You know the ROE, Private Bailey," Bowman tells him. "We fire only if they threaten us. Right now they're not hostile."

The gunner glances up at him. "ROE, sir?"

"We're still operating under the rules of engagement issued by Quarantine last night."

"Well, they smell pretty threatening if you ask me, sir," Bailey says.

Bowman smiles despite himself.

Two of the Mad Dogs leap forward, snarling. The others quickly follow, sprinting with their characteristic loping gait.

They think like animals, Bowman thinks. They hunt in packs. Look at them go. They even run like animals. Why?

"You are cleared to engage," he says.

The SAW is a belt-fed light machine gun able to fire up to seven hundred fifty rounds per minute at an effective range of a thousand meters. It is a squad support weapon, typically used to set up a base of fire. It eats ammo fast and spits out a high volume of withering, murderous fire.

Bailey sights the first Mad Dog carefully and drops him with a single burst. He moves on to the next. Each time he shoots, the crowd emits a chorus of grating shrieks.

Bowman is starting to believe the civilians are actually trying as hard as they can to make his job irritating and complicated.

Then he tries to put himself in their shoes. As if several weeks of plague and chronic shortages weren't bad enough, their world is ending, they are refugees in their own land, and they are defenseless in a fratricidal war, hunted by a remorseless enemy that just hours ago was their son, their mother, their doctor, their priest, their oldest friend.

Now they're watching a SAW gunner cut some people in half. Christ, he tells himself, the only reason you're still sane is you have a job to do. So try to cut these people a little slack, okay?

"Good shooting," he says.

"Sir? The Mad Dogs are a lot more aggressive than we were told, and there's a lot more of them than they told us there were."

"That's a very good observation, Private Bailey."

"I mean, is this, like, supposed to be the end of the world?"

"The Army has given me no such order," Bowman says.

The exchange reminds him of another important task he has yet to figure out how to do: Tell his people about the way the Mad Dog strain spreads, and what this means. Many of them, like Bailey, are already starting to put two and two together.

His handset chirps and Sergeant Lewis' voice deadpans, War Dogs Two-Six, War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-Two, how copy, over?

"War Dogs Two-Two, this is War Dogs Two actual, I copy, over." War Dogs Two-Six, message follows, break. We have found an athletic facility in the main trunk, break. Hundreds, maybe a thousand, sick people on cots here, break. Some are in bad shape. Break. I see a lot of empty IV bags. Bedpans not being emptied. Meds aren't being pa.s.sed out. Some of these people were apparently murdered in their beds. The survivors need aid. Over.

"Roger. I'll send Doc Waters down as soon as the building is cleared. Any sign of the CO or First Platoon, over?"

Negative. There's a lot of blood and bra.s.s. A lot of bodies who died of gunshot wounds. . . . No other sign of blue forces. Over.

"Any sign of medical staff, over?"

We see several body . . . parts that may be from the medical staff, over. Bowman is starting to piece together what happened. First Platoon only had a squad manning the front entry. This unit was attacked from front and rear by Mad Dogs on the street and coming out of the gym. The rest of Captain West's command and First Platoon were attacked in isolated pockets, and probably destroyed. The medical staff was either slaughtered or infected and absorbed into the Mad Dog population.

"Friendly coming in!" a voice calls out from around the corner.

"Come on in, whoever you are," Bailey calls. "Mad Dogs can't talk, you know."

Bowman sees Private Williams come running up, carrying the SINCGAR. Sherman rushes to greet him and immediately begins tinkering with it.

Negative contact, War Dogs Two-Six. How copy?

"That was a solid copy, over."

Correction: We have just found two riflemen from First Platoon. They're dead, over.

Bowman turns and glances over the civilians, some of whom stare back at him nervously. He can sense their distrust. It is almost palpable.

Somebody's got to survive.

"Have you discovered any provisions, such as food, blankets, medical supplies, over?"

Wait one. . . . Roger that, over.

"Continue with your mission, War Dogs Two-Two. Out." The LT calls to Williams. "Private, how many of the enemy have you seen?"

"Four, sir. All are, um, accounted for, sir."

"Go rejoin your unit, Private."

"Yes, sir."

There is no way only a few Mad Dogs overran a platoon of infantry and scattered them to the winds like this, Bowman thinks. There must be more of them, maybe hundreds. Where is the main force?

"Friendlies coming in!" a voice calls from the front doors.

"Come forward and be recognized!" Martin calls out, tensing behind his MG.

A soldier, blood splattered on his uniform and Kevlar, steps through the propped-open door and shows himself.

"Third Platoon here," the soldier says.

"Second Platoon here, boys," Boomer says. "Hey, looks like we beat you!"

"Hooah!" Martin yells, holding his fist in the air. "Yahoo!"

The doors open and the soldiers come staggering in. The boys of Second Platoon still in the area let up a ragged cheer. Even the civilians are grinning, hoping this means that law and order has returned to New York. But the cheers and grins fade quickly.

Some of the soldiers fall to their knees gasping, while others stare into s.p.a.ce and walk like zombies. A few burst into tears, not even bothering to cover their faces. Several sit against the wall, light cigarettes with steel lighters, and hug their ribs.

"G.o.d, there's only fifteen, maybe twenty of them," Boomer hisses at Martin. "What the h.e.l.l happened to the rest of their guys?"

An officer steps out in front of what is left of Third Platoon, wearing the insignia of a 2LT. Bowman instantly recognizes him as Lieutenant Stephen Knight.

Knight blinks into the fluorescent light of the hallway light fixtures. "Where's Captain West?"

Bowman weaves through the civilians until he is close enough to exchange a salute.

"Good to see you, Steve. It really is."

"Thank G.o.d you're here, Todd." His eyes widen in alarm. "Where are all your people?"

"Securing the building. Where's the rest of your guys?"

"I've got to report in," Knight tells him, shaking his head. "Can you take me to the CO?"

"He's not here, Steve."

Knight blinks rapidly, appearing dazed at the news. "But this is his headquarters," he says feebly. "His orders said for us to come here."

"We're still gathering intel on the situation here, but the Captain's command appears to have been overrun."

Another notch in the belt for the killah

In the school's east wing, Eckhardt, Mooney, Wyatt and Finnegan get in position to take down the school's chemistry lab, while Sergeant McGraw provides security in the hall with the other three boys of First Squad.

Eckhardt goes up the middle, while Mooney breaks right, Wyatt breaks left and Finnegan stays at the door in support.

Mooney immediately surmises that the room was used as a bivouac for elements of First Platoon. He sees cots, rucksacks, personal effects, helmets, gear and crates of ammo.

The beds are unmade. There are unfinished MREs on some of the chemistry tables.

Mad Dogs have been here. His nose burns from the sour stench lingering in the air.

Some kind of fight took place in this room. His boots crunch on broken gla.s.s, scatter the pages of letters from home. A light haze of smoke still hangs in the air. One of the cots is soaked through with drying blood, the blankets barely concealing a collection of body parts. Barely enough to be able to tell that whoever they belong to was human.

On the floor next to the cot, a neatly severed child's hand.

"Oh G.o.d," Mooney says quietly, swallowing hard.

He steps over a broken M4 and a handful of empty sh.e.l.l casings.

On the other side of the cot, three dead civilians lay in a heap on top of a soldier who died grimacing in pain. His scalp has been torn ripped off his skull and is sprouting from the mouth of one of the Mad Dogs, hair and all.

"No," Mooney says, then vomits neatly into the sink of one of the chemistry tables.

The other boys halt, waiting for him to finish. n.o.body razzes him, not even Wyatt. Almost everybody has lost it at least once in the past ten hours.

Mooney rinses out his mouth and thinks for a moment. One squad, maybe two, were bivouacked here. Some got surprised while they were eating and were torn to pieces. Others got surprised in their sleep and were slaughtered in their beds. Most, however, seem to have vanished.

"It's okay," Mooney tells his comrades, feeling embarra.s.sed. "I'm all right."