Tooth And Nail

by Craig DiLouie

  He switches to civilian traffic, looking for more information about the riot. The authorities provided more frequencies than normally needed based on the extreme nature of the epidemic, and he has access to everything. The police are aware of the riot but cannot scrape together enough manpower to do anything about it. A fire is also raging in a warehouse in Queens but there are not enough firefighters to respond to the call. Police units are overwhelmed with domestic disturbance calls and looting. Violence is reported inside Lyssa clinics and one of them has apparently been firebombed with Molotov cocktails. Despite several major arteries in the City being blocked off for official vehicles only, traffic has virtually ground to a standstill almost everywhere.

  Sherman laughs to himself: The voices on the SINCGAR, while edgy and tense, could still make the Apocalypse sound like just another logistical foul-up. Glancing at his watch, he switches back to the company frequency for a commo check. He hears:

  War Dogs Two, War Dogs Two, this is War Dogs, how copy, over?

  Sherman recognizes the man’s voice at the other end. It’s Doug Price, Captain West’s RTO. He fires back, chewing on hot chocolate powder: “War Dogs, this is War Dogs Two, I copy, over.”

  War Dogs Two, message follows, over.

  He takes out a small notepad and pencil.

  “Roger that. Send message, over.”

  War Dogs Two, I send “Nirv—”

  Sherman can’t hear for a moment; men are shouting in the background and it sounds like somebody is shooting a rifle.

  “Negative contact, War Dogs. Say again, over.”

  I send “Nirvana.” How copy? Over.

  “That’s a good copy, War Dogs; I copy ‘Nirvana.’ Wait one, over.”

  He looks up “Nirvana” on his code card, his cheat sheet for routine communications requiring encoding, but it’s not there. He digs out his mission code book and looks up the term.

  It means: “Unit is under attack.”

  Sherman coughs on hot chocolate powder. He takes another swig of Red Bull to clear his throat and lights a cigarette, thinking for a moment. Who would be stupid enough to attack a platoon of heavily armed U.S. infantry in Manhattan in the middle of the night? But there it is: an authentic message from the company commander, announcing that the company HQ and First Platoon is under attack.

  He says, “Roger, War Dogs.”

  War Dogs Two, this is War Dogs, second message follows, over.

  “Standing by to copy, over.”

  I send “Motorhead Slayer November Sierra Oscar November,” over.

  “War Dogs, I copy ‘Motorhead Slayer November Sierra Oscar November,’” Sherman says, scribbling the message in his notepad. “Wait one, over.”

  He looks up the code, translating: “Rendezvous at our location at oh-seven-thirty.”

  LT needs to hear this message right away.

  “Roger that, War Dogs. Stand by. Wait, out.”

  Jake? Jake, are you there?

  Sherman tenses for a moment, unsure how to answer this breach of protocol. Finally, he says, “Yeah, I’m here, Doug.”

  Be careful coming over here, okay? There are thousands of them.

  “Thousands of who?”

  Somebody lied to us, Jake.

  The radio screeches, making him flinch.

  War Dogs, this is Quarantine. Clear the fucking net.

  A place we can hold up while the world ends

  “That’s it,” says Susan, pointing at one of several rundown-looking prewar apartment buildings across the street. “Home.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Boyd, trying to put on a brave face.

  He cannot understand why he is so scared. He’s a soldier. He has seen men die. He’s even killed some himself. Well, at least the one that he is sure about. He has a locked and loaded carbine and should not be afraid of one homicidal but weaponless guy tearing apart some crummy New York apartment.

  And yet he’s so scared he can barely think straight.

  They enter the building, and Susan points up.

  “Fourth floor.”

  They walk up the stairs slowly, quietly, Boyd first, holding his carbine, Susan hugging the wall behind him, clearly terrified.

  On the second floor, Boyd flinches as he hears screams behind one of the doors. A woman’s voice pleads with somebody named John not to hurt her. The screams become high-pitched until they dissolve into sounds of furniture being tossed aside and an ensuing struggle on the floor and a long, shrill peal of terror.

  Then silence.

  Boyd swallows hard and turns to Susan, sees tears running down her face.

  “I know that woman,” she says. “I know her and her husband.”

  “Can you go on?”

  “They have a baby.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rick.”

  “You’re a brave girl.”

  He feels very close to her now.

  I could fall in love with this girl, he thinks.

  “Don’t give up yet,” he adds.

  She nods, visibly trembling, and they continue their climb. On the third floor, he hears an ominous gurgling growl behind one of the doors, the sound of pacing feet, reminding Boyd of an animal in a cage.

  The wall vibrates from an impact.

  “Let me call home first,” she says. “See if anybody answers. Okay?”

  “All right,” he tells her, thankful for the break in the tension.

  Susan takes out her cell phone and calls the number, but hangs up after a few seconds.

  “Nothing,” she says, paling.

  He wants to comfort her, but can only nod and glance up at the ceiling.

  They climb the next set of stairs. She points to a door and says, “This is it right here.”

  Boyd wipes sweat from his eyes, blinks, nods, steadies his carbine against his shoulder. “Let’s do this,” he says.

  He hears a door open behind him. Before he can turn, something heavy cracks against his right leg, which gives out beneath him, forcing him onto his knee. Hands tug at his carbine. The barrel of a pistol is pushed roughly against the side of his head.

  “Let go of it, man,” he hears.

  “Susan!” he cries, reaching out, but the girl flings herself into the arms of a tall, muscular boy. “I did it, baby,” she says, kissing him passionately. “I did it.” Her boasting quickly turns into hysterical sobbing, her face buried against his chest. “I did it, you goddamn bastard.”

  The boy says to another holding a length of pipe, “She should never have had to go out there to do this.”

  “And yet she did, and she got back alive, and mission accomplished.”

  “She’s a wreck, look at her. She could have died out there.”

  The whole thing was a setup, Boyd realizes. The cell phone call was the signal.

  “Williams said your story was shit and that you were a junkie,” he cuts in, blinking tears of shame and rage. “I should have listened to him.”

  “Junkie?” says the grinning boy holding the gun. “We’re NYU students. I’m pre-med. Susan’s a freaking philosophy major.”

  The boy with the pipe crouches and looks Boyd in the eye. “It’s nothing personal, guy. I’m really sorry I had to hurt your leg. We just need your rifle and any ammo you got, then you can go home.”

  The boy with the pistol chimes in, “We need to cross over to Jersey tonight, and we got to have some weapons in case we have to fight our way through any drooling wackos. We grabbed this pistol off a dead cop. Then Bob and Susan cooked up this lunatic idea to get a couple of you guys out here and do a snatch-grab on your guns.” He laughs crazily. “Seeing you actually here in the flesh, I can’t believe it worked. It was a stupid plan.”

  Glaring, Boyd asks, “What’s in New Jersey?”

  “A place we can hold up while the world ends.”

  “The world’s not ending.”

  “Are you blind? Did you not see what’
s going on out there, friend?”

  “I’m not your friend,” Boyd seethes.

  The jock holding Susan says, “You know, you could always come with us.” His friends try to shout him down, but he presses on: “We got your rifle but we don’t even know how to use it right. We need a guy like you with us. I almost had a heart attack when we mugged you. But you have experience with this sort of thing. What do you say?”

  The others look at him expectantly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Boyd limps briskly down the street, wincing at the jolt of pain lancing through his leg with each step.

  He is alone.

  Those crazy dumb kids won’t make it to New Jersey, he thinks. They’re not going anywhere. Weapon or no weapon, if it’s going to get as bad as they say it will, they’re going to die.

  He sees a body lying face down in the middle of the street, twitching, and gives it a wide berth.

  After everything he has seen and heard tonight, the safest place to be is smack in the middle of Charlie Company’s Second Platoon, with natural born killers like Hicks and Ruiz watching his back. He would rather be with them, with Ruiz kicking his ass black and blue for going over the hill and losing his M4, than take his chances with a bunch of gun-slinging, middle-class, smart-ass college kids.

  Another three blocks and he’ll be home.

  He tries again to think up some good excuse for abandoning his post and losing his weapon and ammo, but his tired brain still isn’t giving him anything. An infantryman losing his rifle is like a Samurai losing his sword. He is never going to live this down.

  He hears gurgling in the dark. He turns, seeking refuge, a place to hide, but nothing is in easy reach. Down the street, two dark figures are moving towards him at a loping gait. He quickens his pace, but the pain in his leg flares until he sees stars. The figures have already drawn closer, their faces in shadow.

  Nothing to do but fight, then. So be it.

  For the first time all night, Boyd is perfectly calm. This he understands.

  The college kids took his carbine and bayonet but they did not take his personal knife, a bad-ass pigsticker he keeps in his boot.

  He draws the knife and waits.

  Run, run, goddamn run

  The hospital corridor beyond the doors is packed with people standing or shuffling along in pajamas and paper gowns and hospital scrubs. They twitch and roll their necks in the bright fluorescent light, their eyes wide and staring at nothing, snarling and scratching as they bump into each other in their aimless wandering.

  Their faces are scarlet and shiny with sweat. Their eyes gleam with fever. Their bare feet track blood and excrement along the floor.

  The stench is incredible.

  “Holy shit,” Wyatt says aloud.

  Heads turn. Eyes flicker and focus. The snarling grows louder.

  “Joel, come away from there,” says Mooney, taking a step backward.

  One of the Mad Dogs, a woman with long graying hair, takes three rapid strides forward and screeches at Wyatt, spraying spittle.

  “Help,” Wyatt says quietly.

  An enormous balding man with a nose shaped like a potato and a tattooed arm gurgles, leaking drool, and begins shoving his way through the others to get at Wyatt. A small boy, no more than six years old, dashes up to him and begins jumping up and down, wild-eyed and whimpering and pawing at his running nose.

  “Run, Joel,” Mooney says, his voice shaking.

  “Help. . . .”

  The corridor suddenly comes alive with bodies pushing and shoving at each other until a boiling point is reached and they all come rushing forward in a flood.

  “Run,” Mooney screams. “Run, run, goddamn run!”

  He turns and sprints on bare feet, sparing a single glance over his shoulder to see Wyatt gaining on him, his eyes big and watery, a horde of maniacs snapping at his heels. They reach the stairwell and plunge down the stairs two, three steps at a time, wincing at the jolts of pain in their feet and screaming their lungs out.

  “Mooney, wait for me!”

  A skinny, bearded man in a hospital gown hurtles from above, kicking and clawing at the air in his descent, and strikes the floor below with a sickening smack.

  “Mooney! Don’t leave me here!”

  “Keep moving, Joel!”

  Mooney reaches the door at the bottom of the stairwell and holds it open, sweeping Wyatt inside with his arm and then slamming it shut.

  “Get the Sergeant! Go, go, go!”

  Wyatt bolts down the corridor, limping on a hurt ankle, yelling bloody murder while Mooney pushes against the door with all his might. Instantly, he is almost thrown to the far wall as the first Mad Dogs press against it. Regaining his balance, he leans against the door again, digging in his heels, but the crush of bodies is too strong.

  He can’t hold them, slowly loses ground.

  Finally, he lets go and rushes after Wyatt, shouting the alarm.

  The boys are already spilling into the corridor, some still in their underwear and rubbing their eyes, all of them armed and swearing and asking for orders.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Who’s that chasing Joel?”

  “Are we shooting or what? What’s going on?”

  “God, what’s that smell?”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Out of the way!”

  The LT pushes through them, unholstering his nine-millimeter handgun and flicking off the safety.

  “Halt!” Bowman calls out.

  The Mad Dogs ignore him.

  “Halt or we will fire on you!”

  He is almost pleading now.

  “Please. . . .”

  His panic evaporates as he realizes he has no choice.

  “Get down!” he shouts, waving at Mooney and Wyatt. “Now!”

  Mooney, his lungs and legs burning, makes a last dash at Wyatt and tackles him to the floor.

  “LT—” Kemper says behind him.

  Bowman takes careful aim and shoots the lead Mad Dog in the face.

  The other Mad Dogs do not even notice. They keep running at the soldiers, howling.

  “Fire!” he says, squeezing off another shot. “Fire!”

  The soldiers form a firing line and start shooting with their carbines at almost point-blank range. The effect is devastating. The rain of hot metal rips through flesh and muscle, cracks bone. A fine mist of blood and smoke fills the hall. Some of the boys close their eyes while they shoot, unable to watch the slaughter.

  In less than a minute, it’s over and Kemper is calling, cease fire, cease fire.

  “What the hell just happened?” one of the boys is shouting. “What’s happening?”

  Bowman blinks and sees the corridor carpeted with broken, bloody bodies, some moaning and thrashing in puddles of blood. The battle was a blur to him. Despite the incredible firepower delivered into the narrow kill zone, the Mad Dogs almost made it to the firing line. His ears ring and his teeth are still vibrating from the deafening rifle reports. He feels oddly exultant, then fights off an urge to vomit.

  He turns and sees a few of the boys crouched against the wall, puking and retching and bawling. A flash goes off as one of the soldiers takes a picture with a digital camera, then resumes staring at the carnage in disbelief.

  Third Squad is probably crapping itself in front of the hospital as well, Bowman tells himself. They had their own firing incident, reported moments before this crazy horde showed up, and they’ve got a man AWOL.

  We will all be like that within a few minutes, puking and paralyzed with guilt and shame, unless we can stop thinking and keep moving.

  The LT still has doubts that he made the right call to order his men to fire, but he has a job to do and he must keep his unit combat effective.

  What he wants to know is: Where are all these Mad Dogs coming from?

  “Sergeant McGraw!” he barks. “Pull your men out of there and get them cleaned up and disinfected. I expect a full report on how exactly they brou
ght these civilians down here. Sergeant Ruiz!”

  “Sir?”

  “Check on your squad,” the LT orders. “Not with your handheld. Go in person. I expect a full report on their firing incident. And go easy on them. Sergeant Lewis!”

  “Sir!”

  “Stay close to me, Grant.”

  The discord of their meeting in the basement office is gone. Bowman is pleased to see the NCOs pulling together as a team. These men are professionals.

  Wyatt and Mooney are already trying to stand, pushing bodies off of them, moaning at the mauling they received as the Mad Dogs trampled over them.

  Wyatt gets to his feet unsteadily and starts laughing. “That was so freaking cool!”

  Mooney, covered in blood and swaying drunkenly, takes a wild swing at him and by sheer luck manages to connect with the side of his head, knocking Wyatt against the far wall and sending his glasses flying. Then the boys pull them apart.

  “Sergeant Kemper!” Bowman calls.

  “Sir,” says the platoon sergeant.

  “Get these people sorted,” he says. “Separate the dead and wounded and find a place to put each.”

  “Morgue’s full, sir.”

  “Find something, Mike. I want them out of here.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Sergeant Lewis will lead a squad to round up any stray Mad Dogs and then re-establish contact with Winslow and the hospital staff. If you’re not helping here, I want you helping him. I want everybody doing something.” Bowman notices two soldiers waiting for a chance to speak to him. “Well, what is it? What do you men need?”

  “Just what the hell is this plague, Lieutenant?” asks Finnegan.

  “We just shot all these people,” Martin chimes in. “What are we going to do, sir?”

  “Sergeant Lewis, see to these men.”

  “All right, morons! You heard the Lieutenant! Get your dicks out of your ears and un-ass this hallway!”