“What the fuck is this?” Tanner screams, gaping at the bodies falling onto the cars, shattering windshields and splattering across the crumpled metal. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
Sosa grips the back of his neck and forces him to look away while Arnold and Lynch bend close, telling him he’s okay, everything is going to be okay.
“It’s not okay,” Tanner sobs. “Nothing about this is fucking okay.”
“Stay frosty, vatos,” Rod tells them. “All that noise is going to attract attention.”
He feels vibrations in the soles of his feet. The sensation migrates up his legs to his knees. Ash dances on the asphalt. He turns and pulls on the building’s front doors. They’re unlocked. He holds one open and waves the fireteam inside.
“Get in there! Move!”
The soldiers enter the lobby, half dragging the dazed Tanner, and deploy into firing positions. Rod turns and sees Davis directing his men into the burned-out building across the street. The downpour of bodies has stopped. An incredible roar reaches his ears, the crash and pop of crumpling metal and shattering glass. The traffic jam trembles, cars shifting by inches.
Inside, his fireteam tenses, ready to open fire at whatever is coming.
“Get down,” he says.
They look at him.
“Eat dirt!” he roars.
The air fills with a long blast of foghorns.
The thunder grows in volume until they are certain the world is ending. The first juggernaut bounds across the roofs of the vehicles, crumpling their frames under the impact of seven tons of flying muscle and bone. The rest of the herd follows, tentacles flailing around their brontosaurus bodies, crashing over the cars and flattening the traffic jam into crushed metal.
As the last monster leaps across the wreckage, Rod lunges to his feet and rushes to the RTO, yanking the handle from the field radio and shouting, “Hellraisers, Hellraisers, this is Hellraisers 3. How copy?”
Jared Kelley’s voice responds: Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers 5, go ahead, over.
“Large herd of Bravo Mikes inbound on your position from M Street. Estimated size forty, fifty adults, moving at gallop speed, over.”
Rod waits during the long pause as Kelley processes the fact a stampede of about three hundred tons of monster is bearing down on his position at twenty-five miles an hour.
“Bravo Mike” is the current Army slang for “big motherfucker.”
Solid copy, out.
“They’ll be all right, won’t they, Sergeant?” Sosa asks him.
“I don’t know,” Rod answers, feeling shaken and humbled. He has not heard of Bravo Mikes attacking the line en masse. As far as he knows, this is the first time it has ever happened.
If the bug has a lot more monsters to throw at us, the U.S. military may have just lost the initiative in this fight. We will stop being attackers, and start being defenders.
Gunfire erupts to the southeast. Fifty-cal machine guns pound in the distance, followed by the WHAM WHAM WHAM of bursting grenades. The sounds roll down the street, filling the air with white noise.
It’s over quickly; the firing stops.
Rod counts his ducklings and, satisfied they’re all present and in one piece, orders them back onto their feet. They pause at the doors, waving at Davis and the other fireteam across the street, all of them shifting their gaze to the giant metal pancake blanketing the road. Getting across the wreckage is going to be like walking across a field of knives.
Treading with painstaking slowness over the jagged edges, slicing their uniforms and legs, they work their way back to the part of the road that is cleared, and jog toward their lines.
Minutes later, the outline of a Bravo Mike emerges from the gloom, lying on its side and defecating in its death throes. The soldiers give it a wide berth and find themselves confronted by a looming hill of dying monsters, their tentacles still thrashing. They hear men screaming.
“Over here,” Davis calls from the flank.
He shows them a way around. Further down the street, they find more of the monsters lying dead or dying among trampled human remains. Several sprawl broken across the front of the Hercules. Beyond, even more lie among Stryker vehicles flipped onto their sides or jammed against each other. One vehicle has been shoved half inside the front of a Thai restaurant.
Men scream for medics. Soldiers run everywhere. A military ambulance lurches to a halt and discharges stretcher bearers moving at a sprint.
“Make a hole! Make it wide!” several soldiers shout at them as they race past, carrying a screaming man with a shattered leg. Rod jumps aside and catches a glimpse of bone jutting from torn fatigues.
Rod watches them go and feels an unnatural rage take hold of him.
What a waste of the world’s finest combat infantry.
“What are your orders, Sergeant?” Davis asks him.
“Sergeant Rodman!” Lieutenant Sims calls. He and Kelley stand in front of the diner where they gave Rod his orders less than an hour ago.
Rod jogs over to the Lieutenant with his squad in tow.
“Good to see you and your men back in one piece, Sergeant,” Kelley says.
“You too,” Rod responds. He tells the boys to get inside the diner and wait for orders, then turns to Sims. “How bad is it, sir?”
“As bad as it looks. We’re still sorting it out. We made out okay, but First Platoon lost some good men.”
“The big bastards slammed into the Hercules,” Kelley says. “It was like watching tomatoes thrown against a wall. The guys were cheering. Then the rest of the Bravo Mikes just ran right over it. Plowed straight into Comanche.”
“The Captain appreciates your heads up on the radio,” Sims says. “That was good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rod says impatiently. “What can we do to help here?”
“Nothing,” Sims tells him. “They’re taking us off the line.”
“To hell with that,” Rod snaps, feeling the rage surge inside him again. “We can help the docs get the wounded into their vehicles for evac.”
“Rod, our people are in good hands,” Kelley says. “We’re getting a lot of help. We’ve got to let the docs do their job. We’d just be in the way.”
Rod sets his jaw. “Then we’ll go back out and finish our recon.”
“We’re done here, Rod,” Sims says. “We’ve done everything we can. Now get your men ready to move. Got it?”
“Aieeyah, sir,” Rod mutters.
He turns and gazes across the chaotic scene still playing out around them: the dead smeared across the asphalt like road kill, the wounded being loaded onto stretchers, the soldiers wandering around dazed and crying until their comrades come to comfort them.
What a waste.
“Fuck this,” he hisses under his breath.
Every time we win back some of this city, we get a little closer to losing all of it.
♦
The men ran at him in their torn and bloodstained uniforms, faces flushed, eyes gleaming with fever. Rod and Lieutenant Pierce watched them come, rooted where they stood. They were talking about redeploying stateside when the base alert siren started to wail; the Lieutenant’s friendly question still hung in the air: What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home? Gunfire popped across the base. Soldiers fought with each other everywhere in view; a few of them were shooting. At first, Rod thought a couple of soldiers had gone nuts—not uncommon after the trauma of the Screaming three days earlier—and were shooting up the base, while the unarmed soldiers were trying to stop them. Then he realized something was wrong; the unarmed mobs were attacking everyone. They were coming for him. Rod raised his shotgun and roared at the snarling pack to stop or he would fire on them. The crowd resolved into the faces of the men he led for a year in Afghanistan, glaring at him with open hatred. His shotgun sagged in his hands, still a part of him, but now forgotten. Seeing the men he kept alive on Baghdad’s mean streets for a year, howling at him in a blind rage, shocked him to t
he bone. These are my guys and they want to kill me, he thought. They’re coming to kill me and I don’t know what I did to deserve it. Pierce was screaming, What do we do? What do we do, Sergeant? Rod stared back into the eyes of his men and thought, I’m sorry for whatever I did. Pierce’s rifle fired with a metallic crack and puff of smoke, dropping one of the sprinting figures. Shit, he said. I just shot somebody. They won’t stop. They just keep coming. Rod? Rod? As the pack closed the final yards, the man blew air out his cheeks, shouldered his weapon, and shot them down with cold efficiency.
Pierce is screaming at him, What did you do, Rod? What did you do? Rod looks down in horror at the smoking barrel of his weapon and says, Christ, it was me. I did it. I killed them all. It was me.
Rod lurches out of sleep, sitting up and snatching his shotgun. The soldier who was kicking the sole of his boot jumps back with a panicked yelp. Rod glares at him.
“Why’d you kick me?” he says, furiously rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“I wanted to wake you without getting my head torn off,” the soldier tells him.
He nods and stands, gritting his teeth at a dozen minor aches. The soldier takes a second step back, still unsure of Rod’s intentions. Just another kid, clean shaven and dressed in an ironed uniform with two chevrons on the shoulder, signifying his rank as corporal. Obviously a “person other than a grunt,” or POG for short. He’s so small he appears to be fifteen. Hell, maybe he is.
Rod can’t get past the horror of the dream. The boys of his old outfit looked just as he remembered them in life. He finds it strange that this time, he was the one who shot down his platoon instead of Pierce. Strange, but not too troubling; his survivor’s guilt often makes him feel like he is responsible for their deaths in some way. The real horror is he remembers the faces of the dead so well, while the mental image he has of his wife and children continues to fade over time. Sometimes he cannot remember his son’s face.
He hawks a black gob of phlegm onto the ground. “Why’d you wake me up at all, Corporal?”
“Captain Rhodes wants to see you, Sergeant. I’m supposed to take you to her.”
Christ, he thinks. We just got here. Why are they sending us back out so soon?
“All right,” he says. He spits again and takes a swallow from his canteen. He can’t get the burned charcoal taste of ash out of his mouth.
“Here, Sergeant. Try this.”
The kid offers a packet of flavored powder, which Rod accepts with a nod. He pours a little into his canteen and swirls it around. Instant fruit drink. He take another swallow. Better.
“Outstanding,” Rod says, spitting again. “Thanks for that.”
“Close of business is in an hour, so you have time to get cleaned up, Sergeant,” the kid says quietly, adding the hint: “Captain Rhodes is in Major Duncan’s office.”
Rod sighs loudly, suppressing another surge of rage. You’d think the rear echelon motherfuckers like Major Duncan would change their tune and try to be useful during the end of the world, but some things never change, even during the apocalypse. The infantry often looks down on all the POGs—everyone in the service believes they are part of an elite unit and winners of the big dick contest—but they don’t hate them. Rod does not hate the kid standing in front of him, nor does he hate the mechanics who keep his Stryker operational, the guys who cut his hair, the cooks who load his plate in the chow line. What Rod does hate is officers who bust men returning from combat for dirty uniforms and stubble and flaring sideburns. Officers like Major Duncan, the chairborne ranger the boys call Major Dookie.
The minute Fifth Dragoons returned to the forward operating base, many of them headed for the mess hall. They hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and they were starving. Major Duncan pulled them out of the chow line and told them to get cleaned up. Outside the banquet hall being used as a dining facility, Rod told his squad to hit the showers and put on some clean uniforms, and then go get something to eat if there was still time. This done, he walked into a nearby park, stretched out on the ground at the base of a tree, and fell fast asleep. Screw it, he thought just before he went under.
“You work for Major Duncan, Corporal?”
“That’s right, Sergeant.”
“Did he order you to tell me to get cleaned up before reporting to Captain Rhodes?”
The kid swallows hard. “No, Sergeant.”
“Then mind your own business. Nobody likes a busybody, even if your intentions are good. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the kid answers, paling. “My bad, Sergeant.”
Rod sighs, letting go of his anger. “What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Sam Carlson, Sergeant. Corporal Sam Carlson.”
“Well, then, drive on.” Translation: Carry on with your mission, soldier.
The kid smiles at this and leads him through the park toward the massive building across the street—the old Harry S. Truman Building, former home of the Department of State—that now houses the headquarters staffs of Rod’s regiment and several other large units operating in the area. Along the way, he sees the familiar base personalities hard at work and play: chairborne rangers and the cheesers who suck up to them sunning themselves in the park, sick call ninjas smoking outside the infirmary, gung-ho-mo-fo lieutenants drilling their platoons mercilessly toward perfection, treads terrorizing the enlisted just for the fun of it, tough Jane Waynes out jogging and the shit patrol cleaning latrines, almost everyone sandbagging to stretch out the long, hot day. Observing the dicked-up routine he’s known for years, Rod feels something like fondness for it. It feels normal; it feels a little like home. If nothing else, he knows he is safe here, safe enough to sleep.
Some of the boys from Third Squad call to him as he passes. They’re cleaned up and heading back to the mess hall to get their supper.
“What’s on the menu at the DFAC tonight, vatos?” he says.
“I heard cigarette soup, Sergeant,” Tanner tells him with a laugh, referring to onion soup.
“Sergeant, we got mail,” Davis says. “I think there’s some for you.”
Rod waves the boys on and turns to Corporal Carlson.
“We got about an hour, right?”
“That’s right, Sergeant.”
“Then take me to wherever you’ve put my company clerk.”
♦
Dear Rod,
We’re all okay.
Rod smiles. Gabriela always starts her letters this way when he is deployed, and they have an immediate healing effect on him. This last letter is dated a week ago. While he’d rather it be dated today, he feels assured his wife and children are alive and safe.
He leafs through the handwritten pages hungrily, as if getting acquainted with a brand new book by his favorite author. He has a lot of reading to do. Pages and pages of life.
Back to the beginning. He picks a spot at random in the first letter, and reads:
We’re too close to Columbus, and can’t handle all the refugees and Infected coming south. Shooting kept the kids up all night. I doubt anyone on base slept at all. I sure didn’t. Today we were told that we’re evacuating to Fort Hood in Texas. The trip is going to take a while since we’re going to avoid the major highways, so we’re being told to bring as much food and water as we can carry, while we can only bring a few personal effects. I didn’t know it would be so hard to walk away from our home with almost nothing, Rod. I was allowed to bring a photo album and some toys and books for the kids to keep them occupied during the trip. Sitting on the bus as I write this, everyone is quiet, scared. We’re all diving off a really high diving board and we have no idea of what’s down there, you know?
Rod stops there, sniffing and wiping his eyes. He feels restless, but fights it. He wants to read the entire stack of letters in a single glance, but wants to savor every word. As a compromise, he skips ahead to the middle of another letter.
Fort Hood is serving as a refugee camp for military families, and it’s huge. I heard there are something
like thirty thousand of us here, pulled together from bases all over the country, and still growing. It’s even hotter than Georgia, if you can believe that. Hot and dry. We’ve been here six days and we’re still not used to it. I spend half my time chasing the kids around, making them drink plenty of water. The barracks are all full, so we sleep on cots in a big tent they put up for us. You can imagine what that’s like: babies crying all night long, and the cot murder on my back. There’s a lot of resentment between the families that were already here, who have houses and call this place home, and the newcomers like me who showed up scared and with nothing. I’m not getting caught up in any of that nonsense; the Army is taking good care of us. We’ve got everything we need. Things could have turned out a heck of a lot worse. We’re all being given work—help with the daycare, tend the garden, type up memos, empty the latrines, collect firewood, wipe the dust that gets into everything, and laundry, laundry and more laundry —all sorts of jobs. The list of chores is endless. I feel like we’re in the Army too. We eat, sleep, shower, work together. Almost everything we have is government issue and we share everything. I miss our house and old life but in a way it’s kind of fun, like being on a camping trip. We tell stories about our men and it really helps to know so many of these people are feeling the exact same things as I am every day. Last night, some of the wives put on a play that had us all laughing for the first time since the Screaming. The kids are also making the most of it, and my only regret is I did not bring more clothes for them; they are wearing out what little I could bring as fast as they can. Oh, by the way, some drill sergeants are teaching us to shoot. I have a 9-mm and fired it a few times at a target and the drill sergeant told me to tell you that I’m good enough to earn the Bolo Badge, whatever that is, so there! You’d better watch your ass, Cool Rod! Mustang Sally is packing heat.
Rod laughs. The Bolo Badge is slang for the marksmanship badge they give to soldiers who score at the lowest possible grade, and yet still pass, on the shooting range. In other words, Gabriela can’t shoot for shit. He’s proud of her. He always tried, and failed, to get her to learn how to use a handgun for home defense while he was away on deployments, but she always refused; she hates guns. Times have certainly changed, Rod thinks. I pity the dumb Jody who comes sniffing around our kids. My wife the pacifist will turn the bastard into Swiss cheese.
The Killing Floor Page 21