Tooth And Nail

by Craig DiLouie

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “All right, Mike?”

  “All present except for Private Boyd. He’s still MIA.”

  “Well, we combed the hospital good last night. We’ll have to assume he slipped out past the wire and went AWOL. Let’s take a walk and see what we can see.”

  They move out past the wire and climb onto the roof of an abandoned car to get a good view down First Avenue. Bowman uses the close combat optic on his rifle, Kemper a pair of Vortex Viper binoculars. The road is choked with abandoned vehicles as far north as they can see. Smoke hangs like a pall over the scene, drastically reducing visibility. Some of the cars are on fire, billowing thick, oily smoke.

  They see no people.

  Gunfire snarls in the distance, intense and violent.

  A chill trickles down Bowman’s spine.

  “Other than that shooting, things seem pretty calm this morning,” the Platoon Sergeant says.

  “Right. No sirens. No traffic. For that matter, I don’t see any new patients trying to get into the hospital. It’s eerie.”

  “I sure would like to know where all the people went who were driving those cars. Looks like some kind of battle took place out there last night, just outside those roadblocks. Maybe you are right about one thing, sir.”

  “What’s that, Mike?”

  “Maybe we are in a Twilight Zone episode.”

  Behind them, Mooney and Wyatt hustle up in full kit, followed by McGraw.

  “Sir, Private Mooney reports!” says Mooney, standing at attention.

  Wyatt repeats the ritual.

  Bowman turns and regards them. “So you’re the guys who like recon missions.”

  Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance, fidgeting.

  Wouldn’t it be cool if you could kill everybody you hate?

  The endless lines of abandoned vehicles stretch into the gloom, surrounded by piles of luggage, clothing, junk and dead bodies. The soldiers weave slowly through the wreckage, carbines at the ready, heading north. Mooney fights the urge to vomit as he notices that the driver of one car has been mostly decapitated with the exception of his jaw, which sprouts a red beard. Wyatt excitedly points out another car that plowed into a McDonald’s restaurant and now stands riddled with bullet holes, blood splattered across the windshield, the driver nowhere to be seen.

  Shock and awe, Mooney thinks.

  “Some kind of war happened here, cuzin!” Wyatt says. “Hey, lookit!” He rushes forward, leans his carbine against a car, and starts stuffing his pockets with something he found on the ground. “I’m rich! Too bad all the stores are closed.”

  Mooney coughs on the toxic haze. The unending horror of this patrol is sucking the life out of him. Every step feels sluggish, like swimming through air, like running from his worst fears in a dream.

  “This lady is naked!” Wyatt crows. “Oh, gross, I can see her brains! Hey Mooney, you want some of this money? It’s everywhere.”

  “Joel, put that back. We’re already in enough trouble without you looting. And you’re going to get sick if you keep picking stuff up off the ground.”

  The stress is causing an incredible headache to bloom in the front of his skull. He can feel the veins in his forehead begin to throb. He squats, leans forward and retches over a pile of clothing soaked in black oil. Baby shoes, a bra, a couple of pairs of gym pants.

  Wyatt appears in front of him and says, “You don’t look so good, dude. Maybe you’re the one who’s got the bug.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Oh, you got vertigo. Just pretend we’re back in Iraq. Then it’s all good.” His eyes widen and he does a double take. “Wow, that cop car is upside down!”

  “Shut up, Joel,” Mooney says, spitting. “Please shut the hell up.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up when I’m just trying to help!”

  “Just keep your voice down. You’re going to bring those things down on us again.”

  “Oh my God, wouldn’t it be cool if we woke them all up and they came at us again in a human wave, like a million of them?” Wyatt laughs his shrill laugh. “No sweat, boss. I’ve got a gun this time. There are many like it, but this one is mine! If the crazy people show up, I will terminate them with extreme prejudice. It’s like Christmas came early this year. It’s legal to kill people!”

  Mooney stands, ready to resume their expedition, but immediately sees a dead young girl with vacant eyes seemingly staring back at him from the rear window of a Volkswagen Jetta. He closes his eyes.

  Shock. And. Awe.

  Wyatt says, “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if you could kill everybody you hate?”

  “No, Joel, I don’t want to kill anybody.”

  “More for me.” Wyatt swaggers away, puffing his chest out. Exhaustion has only made him more manic. “Back to work then, dude. The Lieutenant said to haul ass.”

  “In fact, I swear to God I’m not going to kill anybody if I can help it.”

  Wyatt checks his watch. “It’s almost time to report in on these cool Icom radios they gave us. You coming or what?”

  Mooney sets his jaw and hurries to catch up, his boots crunching on broken glass. He dulls his sense of vision until he has “fly eyes,” not focused on anything in particular but able to take in subtle movements everywhere across his entire field of view. He used this technique during patrols in Baghdad.

  As he passes a truck in the next block, he hears a rustling.

  And beneath that sound, a bestial growl from deep in the throat.

  He whistles at Wyatt to halt.

  Wyatt immediately crouches, looks around, then turns back and signs, What?

  Mooney shakes his head. He’s not sure what the sound was or where it was coming from. It could have been a plastic bag caught in the wind. Except there is no wind.

  Wyatt motions for Mooney to join him.

  Mooney stands and out of the corner of this eye sees the leering face in the truck.

  The creature lunges, snapping its foaming jaws and slapping its hands against the window, leaving bloody smears on the glass.

  Yelling, Mooney staggers backward and fires a burst point blank into the face, which disappears in an explosion of smoke, glass and blood.

  “Holy sheepshit, killah!” says Wyatt, appearing at his side. “You smoked that chick. Give her a chance to surrender next time, why don’t you?”

  Mooney turns away from the wreckage, holding his hand over his face, and groans.

  Romeo Five Tango, this is War Dogs Two actual, over.

  “Uh oh, War Dogs Two-Six wants to know who you murdered for scaring you,” Wyatt says, then keys his handset. “Standing by to copy, over.”

  We heard shots fired in your vicinity. Give me a sit-rep. Over.

  “Private Mooney got surprised by a cat and accidentally discharged his weapon. Break.” Wyatt grins at Mooney and pumps his fist to produce the universal sign language for masturbation. “Be advised that we are within a block of our designated turnoff and about to head west. Over.”

  Your mission is to observe. Do not attract any unwanted attention. How copy, over?

  “Roger that loud and clear, sir. Solid copy, out.”

  Out.

  “LT’s cranky.” Wyatt winks at Mooney. “Let’s move out, killah.”

  They’ve gone about half a mile. The soldiers step over scattered open luggage strewn across First Avenue, then turn onto Forty-Second Street.

  Halfway up the block west of their position, they see a soldier standing guard outside an office building. Beyond, far down the street, they can see cop cars parked at roadblocks set up to keep sections of Forty-Second clear for official traffic. Figures are moving around the cars, barely visible through the smoky haze hanging in the air.

  “Hey!” Wyatt says, giving a big wave.

  The soldier turns but does not react to them.

  “Does he see us?”

  From the east, across the river, they hear intermittent bursts from a heavy machine gun, the so
und distant and booming and angry, like a primitive war drum.

  “Hang on,” Mooney says. He raises a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  The soldier is PFC Richard Boyd.

  “It’s Rick Boyd,” he says, his eyes stinging.

  Wyatt grabs the binoculars, takes a look, and gasps.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  “I’d better report this to the LT.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Wyatt repeats. “They bit his nose off.”

  “War Dogs Two-Six, this is Romeo Five Tango, over,” Mooney says into his handheld, sounding calmer than he feels.

  “There are goddamn flies in the wound,” Wyatt says, gritting his teeth.

  This is War Dogs Two actual. Standing by to copy, over.

  “We found Richard Boyd, over.”

  Good work. What’s his status? Over.

  “He’s, ah, wounded, over.”

  Can you provide medical attention and get him moving, or should we send you the doc? Over.

  “Negative. There’s more to it than that.”

  Wyatt snorts and whispers, “You could say that again.”

  Mooney waves at him to zip it.

  Speak clearly, over.

  “He’s one of them, sir. He’s been bitten and he is . . . one of them now. Over.”

  Explain “one of them,” over.

  “He’s showing symptoms of being a. . . .” He suddenly can’t remember the politically correct term the soldiers have been told to use. Finally, he sighs and finishes, “A Mad Dog, sir. He’s a Mad Dog, over.”

  A long pause.

  “Negative contact. How copy, over?” says Mooney.

  Are you absolutely sure of these facts, over?

  “Affirmative. One hundred percent, sir. Over.”

  Roger that. Wait, out.

  The soldiers crouch and keep an eye on Boyd, who wanders aimlessly around, then stops and stands still, his jaws moving.

  “There are flies in the hole, laying babies,” Wyatt says, lowering the binoculars and glaring at Mooney, “where his nose used to be.”

  “We can’t do anything about that right now,” Mooney says. “Keep an eye out behind us, will you? We don’t want anybody sneaking up.”

  “Okay,” Wyatt says, sounding strangely tamed.

  They wait like this for several minutes. Mooney sighs loudly. “Come on, already. Let’s get on with it.”

  As if on command, his handheld comes to life.

  Romeo Five Tango, this is War Dogs Two actual. Message follows, over.

  Mooney keys his handset and says, “Send message, over.”

  You will mark Private Boyd’s position but take no further action related to him. Break. Abort mission and return to base immediately. Avoid detection by civilians. Break. Follow the new ROE strictly if you are threatened. How copy, over?

  Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance.

  “Um, roger that, sir. You want us to avoid detection and abort mission. Wilco, out.”

  Out.

  Mooney stands. “You heard the man. Time to go home, Joel. Joel?”

  “We can’t leave him out here like this, Mooney.”

  The skinny soldier raises his M4 and takes careful aim down its barrel using its iron sights.

  Mooney says, “He’s one of us, man.”

  Tears are streaming down Wyatt’s face. His eyes are wild.

  “I’m just going to put him out of his misery. I knew him, too.”

  “Stand down and secure your weapon, Joel.”

  “I just want to help him.”

  “Put the goddamn gun down.”

  Wyatt says, “But he’s already dead.”

  He pulls the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  His M4 jammed on a double feed. He has two rounds stuck in the firing chamber.

  “It’s not fair,” Wyatt says, racking the bolt back.

  Down the street, a car alarm blares. Boyd’s head jerks towards the sound. He runs off.

  “I guess it’s Rick’s lucky day,” Wyatt adds bitterly.

  “Let’s just get back to base,” Mooney tells him, utterly exhausted. “Before you give me a heart attack.”

  He starts thinking about what the Lieutenant said. It was strange: The LT explicitly ordered them to leave behind a member of their unit who is sick and wounded. This offends him but he knows better than to refuse orders or even question their wisdom. Besides, as a grunt, he’s used to receiving orders he thinks don’t make a lick of sense. Something to do with his limited situational awareness, or the incompetence of his superiors, take your pick. This is not what is bothering him. What’s bothering him is the way the LT’s tone got under his skin. The LT sounded worried.

  No, scratch that.

  The LT actually sounded terrified.

  There is some major shit going down here and we are

  walking into the middle of it and that’s wacked

  At oh-six-forty-five hours, with the return of daylight, the invisible war slowly resumes, filling the air with scattered booms and popping of gunfire from all directions. In another time, one might mistake the sounds for fireworks. The boys of War Dogs Two-Three huddle around Sergeant Ruiz. Toting an M4 Super 90 shotgun and wearing rows of red shotgun shells across the front of his outer tactical vest, the Sergeant tells Third Squad that they will be leading the platoon to rejoin Charlie Company, and that they are authorized to shoot civilian targets, even those who do not have a weapon.

  PFC McLeod considers Ruiz a gung ho mo fo when it comes to God, guns and the Army. It’s not just the man’s freaky black eyes, his intense stare. The man is something of a legend in the Army as a natural born killer. Without his shirt on, the Sergeant’s thickly muscled torso is emblazoned with a large, ornate black cross tattooed on his chest and abdomen. Once, in Iraq, he surprised an RPG team and when his weapon jammed, he killed the men, by himself, in a struggle lasting fifteen minutes, with his knife.

  McLeod often tells people that it is because of psychos like Ruiz that pussies like him can sleep at night no matter how bad things get in the field.

  But now the world is turning upside down. In the middle of America’s biggest city, Sergeant Ruiz’s voice shakes with something like fear as he tells them they are authorized to shoot any civilian who makes a threatening gesture towards the unit.

  “What if it’s some guy giving me the finger—should I light him up, Sergeant?” McLeod grates. “Hell, this being New York, the whole city is now a free-fire zone.”

  “Shut up,” Ruiz says absently, then tells them to deep six any personal effects, which will be stored in the hospital, and otherwise drop anything that is nonessential.

  “And dump your Kevlar,” he adds. “It’s staying here, too. We’ll be wearing the caps. Otherwise, bring as much ammo as you can carry. Let’s go, ladies. We’re on the move in ten minutes.”

  After Ruiz leaves them, Williams nudges McLeod with his elbow and jerks his head towards the NCOs huddled in an intense pow wow with the LT. “Look at them hashing their shit out over there. No more Kevlar, dawg? Something is definitely up.”

  As his fireteam’s grenadier, Williams carries an M4 carbine fitted with an M203A1 grenade launcher under the barrel, which fires forty-millimeter grenades.

  “Magilla didn’t even react to my joke,” says McLeod, completely stunned.

  “You know all those people we lit up last night? I’m thinking there’s a lot more of them than they’re telling us.”

  “By all rights, I should be smoked with push-ups, nailed with extra fatigue or getting my ass chunked, as you so quaintly put it yesterday. But all he did was tell me to shut up. That just ain’t right. My God, man. I think the Sergeant is scared.”

  “You’re not listening, Ace,” Williams says. “Let me break it down for you. There is some major shit going down here and we are walking into the middle of it and that’s wacked. You feel me?”

  “What I feel is terrified right now,” McLeod tells him, nodding rapidly. “And we tho
ught the suck was back in Iraq where all you had to worry about was getting your nuts shot off in hundred and thirty degree heat. Gentlemen, welcome to the real suck.”

  The remainder of McLeod’s and Williams’ fire team, Corporal Hicks and Hawkeye, join them. Hawkeye begins gathering up their helmets while Hicks calls out to Corporal Wheeler, who leads the squad’s second fireteam, and asks if there is any news about Boyd. Wheeler shakes his head, looking glum.

  Wheeler already lost one man back in Iraq to the Lyssa virus, and then Boyd disappeared into thin air on his watch. Still shaking his head, he returns to his pre-combat inspection of Private Johnston, the sole surviving member of his fireteam, who everybody calls “The Newb” because he is only two months out of boot camp.

  “What am I going to play drums on without my Kevlar?” says McLeod, but nobody gives him a reaction, making him feel even more agitated.

  Ruiz jogs up and tells the squad that he got the OpOrder, and to gather around.

  “All right, this is it. We’ll be moving north on First Avenue in close column file on the west side sidewalk with scouts on our three o’clock.” He turns to Hicks. “Ray, you’re going to lead us there. I’d like you second in line. Who do you want on point?”

  The soldiers blink and glance at each other. Even with the aggressive ROE, they expected to fall into a standard traveling formation with road guards to help block traffic. Instead, Ruiz is describing an attack formation, essentially a jungle file formation, for their one-mile foot march through the middle of New York City.

  “Hawkeye,” says Hicks, recovering quickly. “He’s stashing our Kevlar. I’ll tell him when he gets back, Sarge.”

  “Fine.” Ruiz now turns to Wheeler. “Adam, the LT will be right behind you with Headquarters and Weapons Squad. Keep a tight hold on them.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant.”

  “After Weapons Squad, McGraw and First Squad will bring up the rear. That’s the order of march for our column. We’ll have Lewis’ people moving parallel on our three o’clock for additional security and recon. They’ll be marching down the middle of the Avenue, through the abandoned vehicles that are out there, so they’ll be setting the tempo for the platoon’s movement. Any questions?”

  McLeod and the other boys understand the tactics. The LT chose column file as their traveling formation because the street is clogged with vehicles, and moving in single file provides easy communication and mobility. Adding a second column file is ideal for moving fast through dense foliage, hence its nickname “jungle file,” and the LT probably believes it will be just as practical for quick movement through bumper-to-bumper vehicles and rubbish on the road. The second column complicates communication and movement but mitigates the main disadvantages of column file, which are greater vulnerability to a flank attack and inability to deliver much firepower against targets in front of the column.