Slaughterhouse - 02

by Stephen Knight

  Nothing happened. The four Humvees sped through the cut and emerged on the other side.

  “Well, that was certainly uneventful,” Boats said. Before joining the Army a millennia ago, he’d been with the Coast Guard. Turner thought the change suited the man. Certainly, Boats probably had an easier time lugging around his beloved Remington 870 tactical shotgun in the Army than he had in the USCG.

  “Don’t sound so down about it,” Turner said.

  “I’m not complaining,” Boats told him. “It’s just that I need to rotate the stock in my tool kit. Lots of old rounds in there I want to get rid of.”

  “You’ll have your chance, Sunshine,” Turner said. “I promise.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  To the right, a large white water tower rose into the darkness. The fence around it seemed secure, so the tower had most likely remained unmolested during the fall of Fort Drum. Turner was happy about that. A soldier or two up there with a rifle or a few AT4s could have ruined their day big time. To the left was the post’s large dining facility. The lights were still on, but the DFAC looked deserted.

  “No wait for chow,” Boats said. “And it is South of the Border Tuesday.”

  “Lord knows I could use a burrito right about now, but let’s not stop just yet. Besides, the best chow I’ve ever had at a DFAC was in Taji.” While Turner had no love in his heart for Iraq, the best dining facilities he’d ever experienced had been in that war-torn nation.

  “They did make some good burgers. That’s for sure. Nothing like hunting hajjis on a full stomach.” Boats took his foot off the accelerator, and the Humvee began to slow as they approached an intersection. “We still on for the main gate?”

  “Yeah. Slowly.”

  “Don’t worry about that, man—Humvees don’t have a fast button.”

  The Humvee was traveling heavy, with four lightfighters in the cabin and a fifth manning the cupola, which was outfitted with an Mk19 grenade launcher. Boats rolled the vehicle up to the main gate of the 1st Squadron, 71st Cavalry Regiment. Ghost Squadron, as it was called, was one of the last units to retrograde home from southwest Asia. As such, it had been in reset mode when the Bug broke out and deemed unfit to deploy with the majority of Drum’s combat forces. As far as Turner knew, the squadron had been selected to serve as a follow-on force to either New York or Boston, but he had no idea if it had ever deployed. Looking through the chain link fence that surrounded the motor pool, he could see that a good number of vehicles were missing. Most that were left were support vehicles, trucks and unarmed Humvees. The cavalry traveled light, but they still had enough gear to pack a punch when required, and most of that gear was gone. That was disappointing. Turner was hoping to find some goodies to bring to the fight around Hays Hall.

  “Gate’s locked,” Boats said.

  “Not a bad sign. Let’s go, guys.” Turner stepped out, his M4 at the ready.

  He was shadowed by two other senior NCOs, Master Sergeant Riggs and a Sergeant First Class Courtney. Boats and the soldier on the Mk19 remained with the vehicle. Turner advanced toward the gate, weapon out. The front gate still had a padlock on it, which indicated that the motor pool had been under Ghost Squadron’s control when they left it. Otherwise, the gate would have simply been left open.

  “Do it, Courtney,” Turner said, falling back.

  Turner and Riggs kept their rifles shouldered while Courtney advanced, holding a pair of bolt cutters. Less than a minute later, the padlock was tossed aside, and Courtney shoved the gate open. The three soldiers stepped inside the motor pool, took a quick look around, then waved for the Humvees to enter. Once the vehicles were through the opening, Courtney pushed the gate closed.

  “Stay here and keep an eye out,” Turner told him. “Riggs, you stay with him.”

  “Roger that,” Riggs said.

  Turner went back to the lead Humvee. “Boats, come with me.”

  Boats pulled his shotgun out of the vehicle. “What’s the plan?”

  “Humvee inspection. I want to find the cav’s anti-armor rigs.”

  Boats grunted. “I could get into sending a few TOW missiles downrange.”

  Turner called out. “Hey, Weide!”

  Master Sergeant Zhu Weide stepped away from his vehicle. “Yeah?”

  “Take a look around, but stay out of the buildings for the moment. I’m headed off with Boats to find the cav’s TOW rigs.”

  “Going off by yourselves before we can secure the area isn’t really smart, Doug.”

  “So secure the motor pool,” Turner said.

  “And if you hear gunfire, that’s just us making things easy for you by killing all the Klowns,” Boats added.

  Weide grunted. “Go ahead, heroes. I’ll see you both in Valhalla.”

  Turner and Boats split up and walked through the motor pool, looking at the remaining Humvees left in the compound. All the units left were uparmored and had cupolas on them, but no TOW missiles were to be found. They’d all either been dropped onto other units, or they were still in lockup. Turner heard footfalls behind him—well, more like a boot scraping across cement—and he tensed. At first, he thought it was Boats walking up on him, but then he spotted the taller first sergeant at the other end of the line of Humvees.

  Turner spun, tucking in his M4. He found himself face-to-face with a short, scrawny soldier who already had Turner lined up in his sights.

  “I wouldn’t move, man,” the soldier said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Turner barked.

  The soldier studied Turner for a long moment. He seemed jumpy, which Turner could understand. He felt as if he’d just spent three hours knocking back Starbucks coffee.

  “You’re not laughing,” Scrawny said.

  “I don’t have shit to laugh about, soldier. Now, once again. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Right back at you, Sergeant Major,” Scrawny said. “Identify yourself in two seconds, or you’re fucking dead.”

  Turner sighed. The kid did have the drop on him. “Sergeant Major Turner, senior NCO, First Battalion, Fifty-fifth Infantry.”

  “Bullshit,” Scrawny said, his eyes narrowing. “The One-Five-Five died in Boston.” His index finger shifted from his weapon’s trigger guard to the trigger.

  “Au contraire, sonny boy,” Boats said, stepping around the Humvee behind the soldier and placing the serrated end of his shotgun barrel against Scrawny’s neck. “At least most of the One-Fifty-Five is here. Now, unless you want to taste some nice lead double-ought buck, why don’t you take your booger-picker off the bang lever and stop pointing your rifle at the nice sergeant major?”

  “This is bullshit,” Scrawny said. There was no trace of laughter in his voice, no evidence of the quaking, nearly hysterical manic glee in his eyes. Turner figured the trooper wasn’t infected with anything other than a reasonable dose of fear.

  “Put. It. Down,” Boats said.

  Footfalls sounded behind Turner, and he heard the noises of several weapons being raised and shouldered.

  “What do we have here?” Master Sergeant Zhu asked.

  “Take it easy,” Turner said. “Everyone be cool.” He looked at Scrawny, who still had his rifle trained on him. “Son, we are from the One-Five-Five, and we are not infected. We pulled out of Boston when the city fell. We’re here to see what we can do to help out the division and to check on our families.”

  “How can I be sure about that?”

  Turner almost laughed then thought better of it. “Given the position you’re in, I think it’s best to trust us.”

  The soldier sighed and finally lowered his weapon. “Oh, fuck it.”

  Boats stepped back, still holding his shotgun on the man. “That’s better.”

  “Where the rest of the cav?” Turner asked. “Did they get deployed to the other combat teams?”

  “Part of the unit was sent out,” Scrawny said. “The rest of it was part of the push to keep the crazies out of Drum. Thing is, they were already inside when we figured out
we were under attack.”

  “What do you mean?” Boats asked.

  “Guys from Boston and New York turned after they got back. We were already fighting them on the inside when Watertown became Looneytown, and all those suckers headed up here, looking for a fight.”

  Turner nodded. It made sense. “And why are you here?”

  “Someone had to stay behind to guard the motor pool. There were three of us, but the other two cut out. They had girlfriends in Watertown.”

  “What about our dependents?” Zhu asked, moving closer.

  “Gone. Most of them were sent to Philly. There was a big National Guard presence there out of Indiantown Gap. The city was supposed to be clean, so the brass decided to send all noncombatants on post property there. That was almost two weeks ago.”

  Philadelphia… If that was true, then Turner’s family and the families of hundreds of other lightfighters were well outside the battalion’s combat radius. But in a way, the news was liberating. They would be free to maneuver with all fires while trying to extract the personnel trapped in Hays Hall.

  Turner told Zhu. “I need an RTO to relay that to Wizard Five.” He turned back to Scrawny. “Name and rank?”

  “Corporal Wallinsky, Alpha Troop, First of the Seventy-First Cavalry, Sergeant Major.”

  “Wallinsky, are there any TOW missiles left around here?”

  Wallinsky smiled. “Hell yes, Sergeant Major. Hell, yes.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN.

  “Wanna check our work, sir?” Muldoon asked.

  Lee walked up to the two M939 trucks the element had secured in the 10th Sustainment Brigade’s motor pool. Corpses had been tied to the front of each vehicle and battered with crow bars to give the trucks a look that roughly approximated the modes of transportation the Klowns seemed to favor—bloody urban chariots. It had been grisly, heinous work, and Lee doubted he would ever feel clean again, even after a dozen scalding-hot showers.

  But each truck also had some welcome additions: four Claymore mines attached to their bed side rails, two on each side. The convex-shaped mines were directional weapons loaded with C4 high-explosives that propelled a series of seven hundred steel pellets outward in a sixty degree arc, like a shotgun blast on steroids. The mines were positioned roughly five and half feet off the ground, and their effective kill radius of fifty meters promised to turn dozens of Klowns into just so much human garbage if they got close enough.

  Which, of course, they would. Lee was counting on that. Once the crazies got inside the effective range, the mines would be command detonated from inside the truck cabs. It would be a wholesale slaughter, and any left standing would be dealt with by the troops.

  The Klowns wouldn’t be expecting that.

  “Looks good,” Lee told Muldoon as the rest of the troops drew near. “Everyone clear on how we’re going to handle this?”

  “We roll up on the Klowns, laughing our asses off, and get deep inside their lines. Then we go crazy on the crazies,” Muldoon said. “Pretty simple, except there’s about twenty-five of us and about two thousand of them.”

  Lee smiled. “Have some faith, Muldoon.”

  Muldoon shook his head. “Faith isn’t a very good tactical solution.”

  “That’s not so,” Rawlings said, stepping up to stand next to Lee. “We have surprise and an entire battalion staging nearby. You don’t have faith in your battalion, Sergeant?”

  Muldoon glowered at her. “Lady, you really need to start getting a handle on this water-walker attitude you like to shop around.”

  Rawlings was undeterred. “Have faith, Muldoon.”

  “I have faith that the meek will not be inheriting the Earth. How’s that?”

  Lee made a cutting motion with his hand. “Stow the bullshit, both of you. Is everyone clear on what’s expected, here? We go in laughing, get as close to the center of their formation as possible, and then we start cleaning house. On our command, Thunder hits them at the same time, and battalion comes in from the north. We pin the Klowns to the south, evac the headquarters troops, and pull the fuck out. Questions?”

  “How long do you think we have, sir?” Nutter asked. “I mean, we’re going to need battalion to close on us mighty quick.”

  “I figure we’ve got fifteen minutes,” Lee said. “Stay cool, and do what you do best: kill those giggling fuckers.”

  The element gave a collective hooah, which Lee accepted with a nod. He motioned toward the trucks.

  “Mount up.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT.

  “Wizard, this is Six. Over.”

  “Six, this is Wizard. Go ahead. Over,” Walker said.

  Walker sat in the command Humvee, which had moved forward with the rest of the battalion to stage at the intersection of Tigris Valley River Road and Korengal Valley Boulevard. They were just over half a mile from the divisional command building, Hays Hall.

  Bodies were strewn everywhere, and destroyed vehicles and parts of vehicles littered the landscape. Buildings were aflame, casting flickering shadows that danced across the terrain. The firelight reduced the effectiveness of their night vision goggles, but Walker was convinced the lightfighters still had the fighting edge. The din of combat was everywhere, and while he couldn’t see the front lines, Sergeant Major Turner’s element had been able to identify the forward line of troops.

  Hays Hall was surrounded by shipping containers and truck trailers that essentially formed a physical wall around the brick building. Defenders manned battlements overlooking hastily built funnel zones and choke points, areas that forced the enemy to bunch up and form easily engaged targets. Turner’s report had been backed up by video surveillance from the Raven aerial reconnaissance platforms, which showed that thousands of Klowns had already been killed. But Hays Hall seemed to be defended by far less than two hundred troops, maybe not even a hundred, and the enemy was able to dictate the tempo of combat. The siege was coming to an end, as it appeared that the defenders were simply running out of ammunition.

  “Wizard, contact Mountaineer. Advise them that we’re about to join the party. They’re to orient as many fires to the south as they can and avoid engaging enemy formations to the east the north. We’ll hit the enemy on those flanks. Over.”

  “Six, this is Wizard. Roger that. Can you give me a time? Over.”

  “Wizard, this is Six. Five minutes. Break. Thunder, this is Six. Over.”

  “Six, this is Thunder. Over.” Thunder was the officer commanding the mortar platoon located on the other side of Fort Drum Road, more than two miles away. Their six mortar units had already been stood up and dialed in as best as they were able.

  “Thunder, this is Six. Stand by to deliver concentration fire. Over.”

  “Six, this is Thunder. Ready to fire on your command. Over.”

  “Wizard, this is Six. We’re on the move. Make that call. Over.”

  “Six, this is Wizard. Roger.” Walker dialed in another frequency. “Mountaineer, this is Wizard. Over.”

  Walker repeated the hail twice before he got a harried response. “Wizard, this is Mountaineer. I send ‘shield.’ Over.”

  Walker consulted the code book that had been issued to the battalion prior to jumping out for Boston. Knowing how the military mind operated, Walker had presumed the response would be ‘sword’ or ‘arrow’ or something similar. “Mountaineer, this is Wizard. I send ‘Excalibur.’ Over.”

  “Wizard, this is Mountaineer. Good to hear from you guys. You must be close, right? Over.”

  “Mountaineer, this is Wizard. Roger that, we’re close. Wizard Six has some requests for you. Stand by to copy. Over.”

  TWENTY-NINE.

  The two trucks drove through the night, heading toward the glow of combat in the center of Fort Drum. Lee had ordered Murphy to drive a bit erratically, as if he were under a tremendous laughing spell. Silhouetted against the glow of the headlights, Lee could see the head of one of the corpses strapped to the grille lolling back and forth, its hair matted down beneath a paste o
f dried blood and gore. The stink of death was everywhere. Lee didn’t know how they were able to do it, but the soldiers in the back hooted and howled, acting infected.

  They began to roll past groups of Klowns. The soldiers in the back cackled madly, and the Klowns laughed back, raising their weapons and waving them in the air. Lee saw uniformed military among them, but most appeared to be civilians. The truck jounced a bit as it rolled over a body.

  “Getting kind of weird, sir,” Murphy said.

  The Klowns were using torches and bonfires to light up the night, and sparks wheeled about in the air. The stench of burnt meat reached them, accompanied by screams. Lee looked to the right and saw living soldiers—presumably uninfected—being burned alive. They’d been tied to office chairs and plopped in the middle of large bonfires.

  “Weird isn’t the word I would use, Mike,” Lee said after a moment.

  More like nightmarish. It was hard to keep up the laughing act after witnessing that.

  Lee checked his watch. Two minutes had elapsed since his communication with Walker. Ahead, he could see the outer bands of the Klown force, a huge, ragtag collection of pulsing insanity armed with every weapon. Lee was thankful the Infected hadn’t taken over some heavy armor units. Those would be almost impossible to overcome with the forces presently under his direct command. But the Klowns did have vehicles, trucks, Humvees, and even construction equipment. The Infected were flailing against the outermost ring of the defenses that had been erected around Hays Hall. Shipping containers, tractor trailers, earth-filled HESCO and concrete jersey barriers topped with concertina wire—already decorated with dozens if not hundreds of Klown corpses—surrounded the two-story, metal-roofed brick building that housed the brains of the 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry). The corpses that littered the grounds around the defensive perimeter numbered in the thousands. For headquarters guys, the surviving elements of the 10th had done an awesome job at keeping the goblins at bay.