Afghanistan and Iraq. The word INFIDEL is tattooed across his chest in an arc of Gothic lettering, and inked on his back, under the Mountain Division insignia of crossed swords, is his credo, KILLING: THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE.
“Cap, down the hill,” says King, on point. “Movement. Six o’clock.”
“What are you waiting for, soldier?” Bowen says. “Drop it like it’s hot.”
King opens up with his M16A4.
Bowen’s eyes twinkle like Strawberry Shortcake’s as the familiar, ripping, heavy-metal clack of gunfire echoes across the hills.
Is there anything better than guns unloading? he thinks. What else can make your eyes water and your dick get hard at the same time?
“Shit,” King mutters after three three-round bursts. “Missed. I think it’s still coming.”
“That’s what she said,” says Chavez.
“Lemme show you how it’s done, Poindexter,” Bowen says, parting leaves as he steps forward.
When he gets to the crest of the hill Bowen mentally does a little Scooby-Doo:
“Tallyho, motherfuckers,” Bowen says, dropping the glasses and lifting his rifle smoothly to his shoulder.
The new gun pulls left a bit when he pulls the trigger, but he manages to adjust.
The men start laughing as they come down the hill.
“Shit, Cap. Didn’t think we’d be going hunting today,” says Chavez, poking at one of the dead foxes with the muzzle of his gun. “Hope you understand PETA will be gettin’ a
They camp for the night by a creek under an old train bridge three clicks to the north. There’s a battered old couch there, a couple of sun-faded Coors boxes, torn condom wrappers, amateur graffiti.
“This night air’s making me feel romantic,” Gardner says, popping open an MRE. “Any you guys wanna take a moonlit stroll?”
“How about a weenie roast, boys?” someone says in a falsetto.
Bowen sits Indian-style beside the fire, zeroing out the rear sight of his rifle with an Allen wrench. He wonders if or when he should tell them the real reason they’re here.
Two nights ago there was an incident. A whole cul-de-sac off Cambridge Turnpike was massacred. He’s seen the photos. Some of the scariest shit he ever saw, which was saying something. One of the pictures he’s having trouble getting out of his mind. A little boy on a racecar-shaped bed, entrails ribboned out onto the carpet.
“Wire that shit tight, ladies,” Bowen says, glancing out at the dark beyond the firelight. “I know this is fun, but this ain’t a frat party. This is a military op, so act like it.”
The attack comes a few minutes north of 0130. Bowen wakes to screaming and gunfire. Between three- round bursts comes howling. Guttural, snarling, inhuman noises. Fairy-tale monster-type shit.
“We got a fuckin’ ogre out there?” he shouts, rising to his feet and grabbing his gun in one movement.
If that isn’t bad enough, Bowen hears the whine and tiny crack of bullets singing by his ears.
“Watch your goddamn shooting lanes!” Bowen barks. “Watch your lanes!”
Someone throws a flare. The sudden light throws long shadows high onto the spindly black trunks of the trees.
Some twenty feet away, galloping on all fours up the shore of the creek, are bears. Four of the biggest goddamn brown bears he has ever seen.
Bowen doesn’t think. He yanks an M67 frag grenade from his vest, snaps off the safety clip, fingers the pin, and pulls the grenade away from the pin the way you’re taught to. He holds the grenade for a moment, thumb off the safety spoon, letting it cook.
“Frag out!” Bowen hollers, and dives to one side as he tosses it.
There is a flashing soft thump. Followed by silence.
When someone chucks another flare, they can see that all four bears are down for the count. Off in the darkness, they hear the sound of other bears retreating, their paws splashing in the creek.
Bowen scans his men, does a quick head count. Everyone in the squad present and accounted for. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering
He turns. Out there in the darkness, beyond the firelight and across the water, Captain Bowen can feel eyes on them.
A lot of eyes.
Chapter 61
I’D HAD BETTER mornings.
I awoke that day from a dream. Eli and I had been walking through New York’s Museum of Natural History. The light was eerie, watery, pale blue. We stopped before the diorama of the gray wolf. Eli’s favorite. The wolves were posed in midhunt, racing through timberland snowdrifts in pursuit of an elk. This elk was doing it wrong. You get attacked by wolves, you stay still. Stand your ground, you have a chance of surviving. Run, you’re dead. One of the wolves had his jaws clamped on the hind leg of the elk. The wolves’ eyes flashed winter-moonlight yellow, their lips curled back to show their teeth. I held Eli’s hand. Then the wolves came alive, and suddenly there was no glass in the diorama. The wolves spilled from the diorama and were on the floor of the museum in an instant. Eli’s hand slid from mine, and the wolves tore at his throat.
Then my eyes opened. It took me a long moment to realize who I was and where I was. When I realized these things, I wanted to go back to sleep. Maybe dream better dreams.
It was before dawn. I was in the Alphabet City apartment Chloe, Eli, and I had moved into a year ago.
I sat up. I placed a palm on Chloe’s warm, still back, then looked across the dim room into the corner, where Eli slept soundly in his toddler bed, a curled hand clutching his stuffed bunny to his chest.
I wiped sweat from my face. My hand was shaking. My child and my wife. They were both safe. For now.
Since our return from Washington, things had been escalating. Day by day. Exponentially. Strange, extraordinarily violent animal attacks were on the news every evening now, happening everywhere from New Hampshire to New Delhi, from Sweden to Singapore.
There had been several bizarre animal attacks here in New York. Night before last, two kitchen workers in a chic French bistro in the West Village had been found dead. Mysterious circumstances. A Ninth Precinct cop who happened to live in our building had told us what the papers left out—at the government’s request. The men had been killed by rats that had flooded in through the basement. They had been stripped to the bone. No word yet if this would affect their Zagat rating.
It was being called the Worldwide Animal Epidemic, and even my fiercest detractors were admitting that it was the worst global environmental disaster of all time. The phone rang off the hook with reporters asking me to comment, but I was too tired. I didn’t take any pride in being right, in saying I told you so.
I blamed myself, really. I’d had years to prepare, to tell the world, to figure out why it was happening, to try to come up with a solution. I’d failed at all these things. Sitting there, staring at my son, I realized I had completely failed him—my son, my wife, everyone.
“Where’s Eli?” said Chloe.
She sprang upright beside me in bed.
As I rubbed her back, I could feel her heart beating as hard and quickly as mine. Like me, Chloe was torn up inside, worrying about the increasingly bad news and about how we were going to protect ourselves and our son. Paranoia and sleeplessness were our new normal these days.
“He’s okay. Everything’s fine,” I said. I pulled her close.
