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- millimeters, 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
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.
Bowman grins. Then he laughs out loud.
He says, “You can’t win ’em all, Mike.”
“It’s a bag of dicks, sir.”
“The men are ready to move,” Vaughan says.
Bowman tells him to give the order and lead the boys across.
As for him, he has decided that he will stick around for a while. He doesn’t want to run anymore. Suppose he did and somehow survived. To where? To do what then? To survive how? For what tomorrow?
Better to die fighting, on your feet, like a man, for a country you love, before it disappears forever.
Kemper says, “Sir, I’m proud—”
Who will inherit the earth?
Petrova looks out the window and briefly says farewell to her home and all of the parts of her that she is leaving behind.
After hovering near the base of the San Remo Towers searching for survivors, the Chinooks climb the air and head southwest, suddenly offering a bird’s view of Columbus Circle.
“Oh,” she says, sucking in her breath and touching her chest, feeling her heart pound against her ribs.
It is here that Captain Bowman’s dying company, a single ragged square barely visible through drifting currents of gun smoke, has chosen to make its last stand.
She sobs, seeing what they cannot—endless legions of infected pouring into the Circle and choking the streets beyond, their march raising clouds of dust over the city.
Hopeless.
The square suddenly moves, breaking towards the Time Warner Center, crossing a short distance before
