Tooth And Nail

by Craig DiLouie

  “That’s our cue,” McGraw shouts. “Let’s go!”

  The wind blast is strong, tugging at their uniforms and making them cough on the waves of dust. Mooney takes Petrova’s hand to steady her as they half run, half limp to safety.

  “We’re almost there,” he tells her, unable to believe they are going to make it.

  The woman is pale and weak, murmuring to herself.

  But this was his home, she says.

  “Whose home?” he asks. “Keep moving, Ma’am!”

  We ate ice cream last summer.

  The soldiers rush forward to take her arms and help her onto the helicopter. Mooney starts to follow, but notices that McGraw and Wyatt are hanging back at the ramp.

  “I’m not going with you boys,” the Sergeant says.

  “What?”

  “I’m staying behind!”

  Mooney looks at him helplessly. Is the man insane, hoping to get killed, or simply freakishly loyal, willing to take the incredible risk of fighting his way back to the Captain? Does he expect Mooney to stay with him, too?

  It’s not fair, he thinks.

  McGraw says: “I’m quitting the Army!”

  Wyatt laughs into the howling wind.

  The Sergeant explains, “This was my last mission. I’m done. I’m going to keep my head down until it blows over, and then try to get home to my girl. Good luck to you boys. I wanted you to know I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Mooney says with a lump in his throat.

  “Good luck, Sarge,” Wyatt says.

  “Luck I got plenty of,” McGraw says, winking. He salutes quickly and then he is gone, jogging lightly past the Special Forces teams as if the world were just beginning, not ending.

  “I’m staying, too, Mooney,” Wyatt tells him.

  “You quitting?”

  “Naw,” Wyatt says. He pauses for a quick farmer’s blow and then adds sourly, “One of those wanking wanktards back there bit me in the armpit. The infected one got me.”

  “Christ, Joel,” Mooney says, too stunned to understand what he is hearing.

  “Hurts like hell. I can actually feel the little mothers in my brain. Guess I’ll go somewheres and eat the rest of my chocolate bars. Maybe go swim in the pond back there. Maybe rob a bank. Who knows; a lot can happen in a few hours before I turn into a zombie.”

  Mooney’s voice cracks. “But what the hell am I supposed to do without you?”

  Wyatt offers up his gimpy smile. “You’ll manage okay on your own, boss. But I’ll have to find a new sidekick.”

  One of the Special Forces soldiers appears at the top of the ramp and says, “Coming or going, make a choice. We got company.”

  “I’ll see you around, Joel,” Mooney says, holding out his hand.

  Wyatt ignores the gesture, backing away awkwardly in the raging wind, smiling and offering a comical salute with his middle finger.

  “Contact!”

  Several soldiers rush down the ramp and begin firing at a horde of Mad Dogs breaking from the trees and streaming into the back of one of the other Chinooks parked across the lawn, overrunning its guards in hand to hand fighting. The distant bodies flop onto the grass, while others disappear inside the massive helicopter, which suddenly lurches into the air.

  One of the soldiers grabs Mooney and shoves him roughly inside, where he lands on the floor shouting in panic. He scrambles into the seat next to Petrova, who screams at the sound of the gunfire, covering her face in her hands.

  “No more killing,” she pleads.

  An NCO runs down the aisle towards the pilots, roaring a command to get the bird into the air right now.

  “You’re going to be okay, Dr. Petrova,” Mooney says. “You made it this far for a reason. You had all those chances to die and you didn’t. You can’t die now.”

  The helicopter suddenly lifts hard, rising at a speed of twenty-five feet per second. Gravity sucks at his stomach and toes.

  A Special Forces medic works his way down the aisle until he reaches Petrova and begins shouting questions at her: Has she been bitten? Is she otherwise injured? Does she have any other medical conditions affecting her well being? Does she want water?

  Turning away, Mooney hops frequencies on the combat net radio, searching for Charlie’s net. The air whistles through the cabin, making it difficult to hear. Then his ears pop and the voices come through clear as a bell.

  That’s our ride up

  We can’t

  Man down!

  Can the birds give us cover?

  If anybody’s got an MG, we need

  He finds the sounds of their voices, even describing a losing fight, strangely comforting. They are still alive down there, and as long as they are still alive, there is hope.

  We got contact

  Could use fire support on the left

  Establish a base of fire

  Then break off with the other assault team

  Clear the net, morons!

  Mooney notices that the Special Forces guys are staring intently out the windows of one side of the helicopter, swearing. Turning in his seat, he sees the Chinook that was infested with Maddies flying erratically in the sky, its tail swinging back and forth, the loading ramp still open and spilling bodies that fall hundreds of feet to the ground below.

  “Come on, come on,” one of the soldiers says. “Keep control.”

  Mooney knows how they feel. Their friends are dying in the other helicopter, and there is nothing they can do about it.

  The distressed helicopter roars west, veering towards the majestic, castlelike towers of the San Remo Towers building with the others pursuing at a safe distance. The men suck in their breath, expecting to see it crash and dissolve in a fireball inside one of the towers, but it pulls back, lurching and trying to stabilize. It is still too close, however: The props suddenly break against the side of the building and the violent stresses rip the Chinook in half with a burst of fire and smoke. The two pieces flop over and fall like stones to the earth, where they crash into pieces.

  But while Mooney cannot tear his eyes away, he is only partly continuing to pay attention to this drama.

  On the radio, the voices are screaming.

  A fool’s errand

  Second Platoon pauses to fire a ragged volley against the pursuing Mad Dogs, then starts running again, leaving a trail of brass and links and Maddy corpses.

  Bowman lingers for a few moments, providing cover fire. He knows he is going to have to give his exhausted boys a rest soon. The platoon is starting to shed stragglers and everybody’s aim is getting wild. Maddy, meanwhile, does not seem to get tired. Plenty of the infected suddenly stop and keel over, their hearts bursting in their chests from the severe exertion, but the rest keep coming. They are the strongest and the fittest and there are always more to replace the fallen, it seems.

  The same could be said of us, he tells himself, only when one of us falls, there are no replacements. There is nobody else. These men are the best but they are also the last.

  He lobs a grenade into the endless horde and starts running again, flinching at the explosion that he hopes will buy them seconds.

  The objective was to reach the rendezvous location at Sheep Meadow, but then Private Mooney radioed to tell him that the birds were back in the air with Dr. Valeriya Petrova safely aboard.

  Their mission is now over. It was complex, extremely dangerous and partially successful. Now they have a new mission, simple but even more challenging: Stay alive.

  Six blocks ahead, Vaughan’s force was stopped cold at Columbus Circle, a wide traffic area at the southwest edge of Central Park, and set up a defensive position at its center, around the statue of Christopher Columbus. He is barely holding and is screaming for reinforcements. Bowman is taking Second Platoon there. Everybody else is dead. There is nobody else. Between him and Vaughan, the unit has maybe seventy shooters left.

  Vaughan picked the spot for his stand well. As a junction for Broadway Central Park Wes
t, Fifty-Ninth Street and Eighth Avenue, Columbus Circle was kept clear of civilian traffic and there are no vehicles around, offering beautiful open firing lanes with good kill zones. They have too few guns and are virtually surrounded; both units now need to rejoin to concentrate their firepower.

  After that, it is either them or Maddy in a classic showdown.

  The only other option is to disperse his command: Everybody break into the nearest building, find a safe place to hide, and pray Maddy does not come in looking for you. But then what? Only the NCOs have communications. Everybody would be spread out and stranded in different buildings, possibly already filled with Maddies, with little food and water. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Their only ultimate hope for surviving is to somehow get everybody into a safe place or defeat Maddy here. Now.

  Ahead, the boys are slowing their pace.

  Trouble ahead, Lewis says over the radio.

  Bowman doubles his effort, sprinting to the head of the column, where Lewis and Kemper are observing another large body of Maddies blocking the road ahead.

  A grisly parade of Mad Dogs, loping along in a ragged column, tall and short, skinny and fat, naked and clothed, bald and hairy, black and white and yellow, are pouring out of a street ahead and turning to move north along Eighth Avenue towards the sounds of Vaughan’s guns. It’s strange, but they look almost cheerful.

  Second Platoon’s situation, meanwhile, is dire. There is a huge enemy force directly in their path and another right behind them, and Bowman has seconds to make a decision.

  One final rule of command: A good leader must do whatever it takes.

  “Who’s holding M203s?”

  The boys come forward while Martin and Boomer deploy the M240 machine gun against their pursuers to buy some time. The air fills with the thirty-cal’s staccato bark.

  He tells them: “Load up with Willy Pete.”

  The boys do what they’re told, loading their grenade launchers with WP grenades. White phosphorous burns fast and produces an instant cloud of smoke, making good smoke grenades. But it also ferociously consumes anything combustible and the only way to stop it burning is to smother it.

  As a result, it is one of the most controversial potential anti-personnel weapons available, but ideal for the Captain’s purpose. The grenades will kill and maim many of the Mad Dogs directly and produce so much smoke that the platoon will have a chance of blasting its way through while the enemy is confused and partially blinded.

  “Satisfactory, sir,” Kemper says, nodding, then issues his own orders.

  The boys break apart, some going forward and some back to the rear.

  They shoot.

  The grenades arc high into the air and land in the midst of the Maddy column moving into its right turn onto Eighth Avenue. The WP rounds burst, burning fiercely amid the tightly packed Mad Dogs, setting many of them on fire and turning them into screeching human torches while blinding others with instant banks of smoke.

  “Go, go, go!” Kemper roars.

  “We get through these Maddies, and we’ve reached the Circle!” Bowman promises.

  “Hooah!” the boys shout, rushing forward in a line bristling with bayonets, firing as they move, dropping Mad Dogs by the dozen.

  “We’re coming in, Vaughan!” Bowman shouts into his mike.

  Roger that, out.

  Blasting their way past the intersection, they sprint the last block, gasping for air, finally catching sight of Vaughan’s boys formed up in a square formation ahead.

  “HOOAH!” Vaughan’s boys cheer, some of them breaking off firing to stand and make a hole, raising their caps and weapons as Second Platoon joins forces with them.

  “Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” Bailey yells, coming to a stop and coughing a massive wad of phlegm onto the ground. “Now where do you need my SAW?”

  Bowman approaches Lieutenant Vaughan, who stands scowling at the battle with his cheek bulging with Copenhagen dip. The men salute, then shake hands warmly.

  “Vaughan, this is your show. Where do you want us?”

  The LT shrugs. “We’re pretty much surrounded, so pick your own ground, sir.”

  Bowman nods and raises an eyebrow. “Mike?”

  “We’ll take the east and get in this game if you can hold the other sides,” Kemper says. “The men are tired of running and they’re itching to kick Maddy’s ass.”

  “Roger that, First Sergeant,” Vaughan says, and then they part ways to give their orders and place their squads.

  Bowman deeply admires the LT. Getting his unit out of the grave Knight dug for them was nothing short of incredible. The other newly promoted lieutenants immediately named him their leader to create a unified command. Leapfrogging east, he found a building they could pass through. As each squad fell back from the front in the collapsing bag, they entered the building, cut through, and came out the other side, rallying in an empty street a block away from danger. Even the last squad got out without casualties. That was before almost every street in the area became jammed with snarling Mad Dogs.

  Only Knight died, giving his life for his men. Or at least that is how Vaughan put it. All sorts of things happen in the field. You take a bunch of boys armed to the teeth and put them in an extreme situation where they are desperate to stay alive, and all sorts of things happen, Bowman knows. He knows all too well.

  The soldiers deploy quickly, the formation shifting and growing larger as Second Platoon takes over the eastern edge of the square, with the MG rocking at the northeast corner and two of the SAWs at the other. The Mad Dogs continue pressing in, coming in waves. The square lights up with muzzle flashes, coughing clouds of smoke into the air.

  “Reloading!”

  “Frag out!”

  Several soldiers scramble out of the way of the back blast of an AT4.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  Lewis is pacing behind his squad, observing their fire, offering suggestions to his boys. Kemper stands nearby, shouting, “Don’t waste your ammo! One bullet per Maddy, in the chest! Put him down and move on! Make every bullet count!”

  This is it, Bowman tells himself. The Alamo. The final battle.

  We can do this.

  “Reloading!”

  The Mad Dogs come out of the smoke drifts, their legs splashing through an apocalyptic sea of blood and writhing limbs, their eyes burning with hatred and their mouths contorted with pain and rage.

  An endless tide of gray faces.

  The boys pour fire into their unprotected bodies without mercy, knowing they are fighting a war of extermination.

  Empty shell casings fly into the air and clatter to the concrete, rolling away to form piles around the feet of the formation. Tracers stream through the clouds of smoke. Grenades explode in fireballs and plumes of smoke, flinging torn and broken bodies to the ground. An anti-tank missile bursts in a blinding flash, sweeping the southeastern quadrant of the Circle clear of life for several seconds, leaving a thick smoky haze.

  The final battle.

  We can do this. . . .

  This is Bowman’s mantra—his prayer.

  It only takes minutes, however, for the battle to turn against them.

  One by one, the boys lower their weapons and cry, “I’m out!”

  The fire begins to slacken. Anti-tank rocket launchers are discarded after they fire their last missiles. Grenades begin to run out. Magazines are passed from hand to hand. Some of the boys curse and struggle with jammed weapons. Others stand stoically, carbine held in the ready position for bayonet fighting, waiting for the end. Many turn to their Captain with pale faces, looking for an answer, any answer, other than death. They are afraid to die.

  “It’s like Steve said once,” Bowman says. “There just aren’t enough bullets.”

  He leans his empty carbine against the base of the statue and blows air out of his cheeks.

  “This is going to hurt a lot,” he mutters, shivering a little despite himself. He unholsters his two nine-mill
imeters, holding one in each fist, and waits for the end.

  He finds himself fixating on tiny details: Broken windows in one of the buildings across the street. Pale faces looking down. The trembling leaves of the skinny trees planted around the statue. The inviting green of the Park across the street to the northeast, where the massive Maine monument stands, honoring the valiant seamen who perished in the maine by fate unwarned, in death unafraid. Time dilates: The minutes appear to stretch into hours.

  The Mad Dogs continue to die like flies but they are closer now, pushing through the haze, waiting patiently for their moment.

  Bowman calls out: “Lieutenant Vaughan!”

  “Sir?”

  “See that building directly to the west of our position. The Time Warner Center?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s the rally point. Perhaps some of us can make it through. Pass the word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kemper and Lewis join him, and he tells them the plan. The building looks so close. It’s right across the street.

  “I can get my boys there,” Lewis says, his eyes blazing. “I know I can.”

  “Then see to your men, Sergeant.”

  Kemper lights one of his foul-smelling cigars and sighs.

  “My last one,” he says.

  Bowman watches the wall of Mad Dogs steadily inching towards their perimeter as the fire continues to slacken, and waits for Vaughan to tell him the boys are ready to charge. He leans back against the cool stone of the statue, taking a deep breath, willing his racing heart to slow down.

  It is a fool’s errand, he knows. They can charge, and maybe somebody will survive, but not all of them, and maybe not even some of them.

  The Captain damned himself to save his men days ago and then sacrificed their lives for this mission. The mission is everything, and yet even a mission as noble as this one, saving a scientist who might save the world, doesn’t seem worth the price. When these boys are gone, there will be none like them ever again.

  So they will charge and finish it.

  A fool’s errand, yes. But if even one man survives, it will be worth it.

  He says, “What did I do wrong, Mike?”

  “This still ain’t about you, sir,” Kemper says.