He’d been looking forward to college, though. He loves to read and used to fantasize about spending hours cracking open volumes in the college library, growing smarter by the minute with the knowledge of the ages in his hands. He wanted to sit on the floor with a bunch of intellectuals who would appreciate his true genius. He wanted to study philosophy and try to figure out if there is any point to all of the misery he has already seen in his young life.
But there won’t be any more of that for a long time, he thinks. By the time the human race gets through this nightmare, in a few generations we’ll be lucky to be able to read a book.
“We should elect a new leader, like Bishop,” one of the grunts is saying. “Then we could do our own thing.”
“Know what I’d do? I’d go out and get some pussy. I’m freaking horny as hell and if we’re all going to die, why aren’t we going out and getting us some chicks? Especially since most of them seem to be dying.”
“You know what happens when civilians walk up to the door and Doc Waters takes them away? He makes them strip so he can check them for bites.”
“Even that chick that came in about an hour ago?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Man, she was definitely hot.”
“You can’t elect your own leaders in the Army,” McLeod says. “If we stop following orders, there will be no more Army. We might as well all go off on our own and start looting and raping now until we’re killed a few hours later.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re just saying, yo.”
McLeod grins. “What could you possibly steal that has any value anymore? Food, water, ammo, a safe place to sleep—these are the only things worth anything anymore. And we got them right here.”
“Oh, is there some pussy in my MRE that I missed?”
One of the other grunts chimes in, “What do you care what we do, McLeod? They sure as shit didn’t put you on this detail because you’re some super soldier.”
McLeod smiles to himself.
Then he stands up suddenly, spilling his unfinished chicken and dumplings onto the asphalt, his heart racing.
That sound—
Their security detail comes running past, heading into the school. Like a flood—
He sees them coming.
“Into the school and down on the ground, boys!” Hooper roars.
They bolt inside, shut the doors, and throw themselves onto the floor. Hooper crouches by one of the doors, peering out of the window cut into its top half, through which the day’s final threads of sunshine are now streaming. His eyes grow wide and he jerks his head back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His face has turned chalk white.
The first Mad Dogs run past the school. Hooper raises his fist to tell the boys to freeze, but they are scarcely even breathing. McLeod cannot see the army rushing by outside, but he sees the shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling, and he can hear them loud and clear, the tramp of their feet on the asphalt. He lays his ear to the ground and listens to the thunder. Tries to picture their pounding feet: boots, tennis shoes, broken high heels, sneakers, bare feet. The ground vibrates under his ear.
The seconds crawl by while the flood of humanity continues to flow past them. How many people is this? he wonders. A thousand? Five thousand? Ten?
It’s like a stampede of animals, he tells himself, which brings a sudden flash of insight. Animals stampede because something scares them. Are the Mad Dogs as scared of us as we are of them? Is that why they are so hostile—are they simply defending themselves?
McLeod slowly becomes aware that the Mad Dogs are growling. At first, it is like a river of individual sounds babbling in competition, but after a few moments, he begins to sense an underlying pattern. A rhythm emerges, repetitive and forceful. It is not a sound of fear. It is a sound of purpose and violence, like a religious chant or a tribal war song. The sound moves down the street like a massive locomotive and underneath it McLeod hears a constant ominous buzz that vibrates deep in his chest and makes his head ache.
Maddy is going to war.
Moaning, McLeod bites down on his sleeve and clenches his eyes shut. The stampede gradually fades into the distance until silence returns. “Jesus God,” one of the boys finally says. “I think I crapped my pants.” The others crack grins, whistle, blow air out of their cheeks.
Sergeant Hooper opens one of the doors just enough to take a fast look around outside.
“Where are they going, Sergeant?” McLeod asks him shakily.
“Wait,” says Hooper, holding up his hand.
The boys fall silent, watching the NCO.
McLeod suddenly knows where the Mad Dogs are going.
To the south, the constant crackle of small arms fire is escalating.
Final protective fire
Bowman and Knight lean against the roof’s parapet and squint at the looming skyscrapers, now glittering with lights against a darkening sky. Behind the officers, Kemper and Vaughan chew on their cigars near one of the rooftop HVAC units, murmuring in a communal cloud of smoke. Sherman sits by the combat net radio, monitoring the nets, while Lewis scans the street with his sniper rifle and a fresh mag.
“The shooting’s stopped,” says Bowman.
“See anything?” Knight asks him, peering through his binoculars.
Bowman shakes his head.
The gunfire, steadily rising in volume over the past few minutes, stopped abruptly several moments ago. The vacuum was instantly filled with the clanging of a store alarm somewhere in their neighborhood, the buzz of distant helicopters and the dull roar of thousands of air conditioners, even though the evening is cool.
Bowman warned War Hammer Six by radio about the army of Mad Dogs headed his way. Captain Lyons thanked him for the intel and abruptly signed off. Alpha’s commander had few options as to what he could actually do with the information. He could either advance or retreat, and retreat at this point would mean surrender.
Lyons is a good officer, and would think things through. Bowman tried to imagine what was going through his mind. He could slow Alpha’s pace to give Bravo a chance to catch up and consolidate their firepower. But it is hard enough just to move one company through streets choked with cars and rubbish; two companies would be an unwieldy force of about a hundred and sixty men. And how much more firepower could he really bring to bear by combining their forces in firing zones that consisted of streets and doorways?
No, the LT tells himself. The Captain will not anchor Alpha’s fate to Bravo’s by waiting around in a hostile area, especially with Bravo having so much ground to cover, but instead go the other way, force marching his command to take advantage of the failing light before night fell. So he will place his boys in a formation favorable to mobile defense and move hard and fast. But how fast can he push a company of eighty men on these streets, fighting for every block?
Not very, apparently. Alpha stepped off over an hour and a half ago and is still at least a mile south of the rendezvous point.
At least he has the curfew in his favor, Bowman thinks. Right now, everybody on the street is hostile and Alpha, Bravo and Delta are cleared hot against anything that moves.
Knight glances up the sky. “He’s lost the light,” he says.
Bowman grunts, glancing at his RTO.
Sherman says, “War Hammer is reporting heavy casualties. . . . Some dead, most bitten. . . . Quarantine is turning down his request for a medevac. . . .”
Bowman and Knight glance at each other. When Charlie’s sister companies finally show up, they are going to have to quarantine or otherwise do something with soldiers who were bitten. But this will be Lyons’ decision to make, not Bowman’s.
Bowman tries to picture what is happening at Alpha’s position. Lyons’ boys are tired and probably running low on ammo after killing who knows how many Mad Dogs. Some of the soldiers are dead and have to be carried, while a larger number have been bitten and surely know they will become Mad Dogs themselves within a few hours.
Will these soldiers continue fighting for Lyons even though they know their bites are death sentences? Will some of them turn their weapons on themselves? Or will they simply wander off?
What would you do if you had a rifle in your hands in a lawless city and only had a few hours to live?
“War Hammer is telling Warmonger to pick up the pace,” Sherman says.
Bowman nods.
Small arms fire erupts in the west, quickly turns into a steady volume of fire. It is Delta Company, attempting to push its way through fresh resistance.
Lieutenant Bishop comes up from behind.
“What have you got?” he says, taking out his binoculars.
“See for yourself,” Bowman says without turning around. He is annoyed with the officer and is going to have to get him squared away. It is bad enough having Stephen Knight around. The man is clearly broken after what happened to his platoon. But Bishop is mouthing off to the NCOs like a politician, always saying what they should be doing instead of simply accepting command decisions and making the best of them.
Loud gunfire explodes to the south, close to their position. The shooting has a terrible urgency to it this time, making Bowman’s heart pound. A series of flashes like lightning illuminate the outlines of nearby buildings, followed by ear-splitting booms.
He blinks and remembers visiting his uncle’s ranch on July Fourth when he was a kid. At night, stuffed on hot dogs and birch beer, he and his cousins retreated into the pastures, alive with fireflies and the singing of the dog day cicadas, and watched the fireworks light up the sky and explode with terrifying bangs.
Knock it off, he tells himself. He has done well armoring his mind against the destruction of the past as well as the terrifying idea of future extinction. His only weakness is the escape offered by pleasant memories of home. These memories helped get him through Iraq but here, they will only slow him down and make him weak when he needs to stay sharp and focused. There is a time and place for pain. . . .
The Way of the Warrior and all that. The macho stuff the lifers talk about. It is a philosophy that tells you to embrace pain so that it makes you stronger. Well, that certainly applies here and now. He wants his feelings cauterized. In his case, there is nothing macho about it. He simply believes that a lot of his men will die if he does not stay strong, uncaring, unfeeling.
The shooting suddenly cascades into a deafening, crackling roar punctuated by flashes, pops and booms he can feel deep in his chest.
“That’s FPF,” Knight murmurs.
Final protective fire. A defensive tactic. When it is put into play, the unit fires every weapon it has to stop the enemy from advancing and save itself from being overrun. It is the option of last resort. The meaning is obvious: Alpha is in trouble.
Bowman is amazed at the number of Mad Dogs. In the past five hours, they must have doubled in population. The easy explanation is they overran the hospitals and infected thousands of people in their beds, along with a full night and day of infecting anybody who ventured outside their homes. There must be tens of thousands at this point, possibly even hundreds of thousands, running towards the sounds of the gunfire from all over the city. The average rifleman carries more than two hundred rounds. If every bullet for each of their weapons found its mark, a single company could theoretically kill twenty thousand of the enemy.
Would even that be enough?
He reminds himself that First Squad alone, burning through almost all of its ammo, killed hundreds of Mad Dogs in less than fifteen minutes. Alpha can win this fight.
Kemper, Vaughan and Sherman join the officers at the parapet, their eyes gleaming.
Eleventh Cavalry air units are buzzing over the battle, weaving around the skyscrapers. An Apache helicopter suddenly buzzes low and fires a pair of Hellfire missiles at the street.
Kemper flinches and says, “Christ, that’s close.”
A second helicopter drops a TOW missile, guides it to its target, then veers off like an angry hornet. Fireballs expand and rise above distant buildings. Heat and light.
Kemper adds, “Unless. . . .” But says nothing more.
Bowman nods. Unless the friendly units are serving a dual purpose on the march. Either they make it to the rendezvous and consolidate and therefore become an effective player in this game, or serve as bait to lure the enemy into a killing zone for the Cavalry. General Kirkland, leader of the Sixth ID, may have issued a standing order to his air units to destroy concentrations of Mad Dogs regardless of whether there are friendly units near the target.
This does not piss him off. Bowman understands its logic. Kirkland is desperate and flailing and fighting to win to save a dying country, staking everything on this one night. Bowman realizes that he would do the same thing in the General’s shoes. It is basic utilitarianism: The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Military decisions in war are often based on such ethics.
Confirming Kemper’s suspicion, Sherman looks up from the radio and says, “They’re not calling in those air attacks. They’ve got men down.”
“Sir, I. . . .” Vaughan says, struggling for words.
“We need to get out there right now,” Lewis says, finishing for him.
“We will follow our orders and stay in position,” Bowman says, looking through his binoculars.
“Sir,” Lewis pleads. “Let me take out Second Squad.”
Bowman glares at him. “That’s a no go, Sergeant. Are we clear?” “Crystal,” Lewis says tersely.
Bowman sounds confident, but is actually feeling anything but. In fact, he is itching to get Charlie into the game. Could this be a decisive battle? he wonders. Is Lewis right that we should spread out and shoot down every Mad Dog as early as possible before it becomes too late? Should I lead my men out there to support Alpha or Delta, and perhaps put an end to this once and for all?