"What about the police?" McCutcheon asked."Have we heard anything from the local authorities?"
"Sir, we've been able to make contact with some ofthe suburban police. They sound like they're holding on by a thread. As far asPortland goes, we know the East Precinct has suffered heavy casualties. Itsounds as if they've barricaded themselves in their police station. The NorthPrecinct is totally lost, and we haven't heard back from the men that we sentto the Downtown Precinct, sir."
"Well this sounds like quite a shitstorm. Send asquad out to the downtown precinct. Maybe our men got into some trouble. Havethem look for the missing squad along the way. Send some men to the EastPrecinct as well. Get those police out of there. Get them home."
The Lieutenant General eased himself into a deceptivelycomfortable chair. "How are our boys in the air doing?"
"They've reconnoitered all of the major highways.All major arteries into and out of the city are clogged with stalled cars andthe infected, sir."
McCutcheon didn't like the sound of that. There was noway into or out of the city except by air, by ship, or by foot... and you'dhave a greater chance of getting your foot gnawed off than making it out alive.He rocked back and forth in his chair. As an afterthought, he asked, "Howare the rescue stations coming along?"
"Preparations are ongoing. The Memorial Coliseum isbeing fortified as we speak, sir. We've run into some trouble at the soccerstadium."
"What kind of trouble, Sergeant?"
"The Annies plowed through the gates on the east endof the field. We lost quite a few men, sir."
"How many?"
"Five hundred, give or take a hundred."
McCutcheon ran a hand over his face. Five-hundred dead,maybe more. Missing squads all over the place. The operation was not startingout well."
"Any refugees, yet?"
"Some are trickling in, but there are more reportsof the dead than the living, sir."
McCutcheon dismissed Sergeant Tejada, and the stocky manwalked away. He leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and put his hands behindhis head. He put his boots on the desk, thinking.
3 million people... there were three million peoplewithin fifty miles of where he sat. How many of them had turned into the dead?How many of them had gotten up off the ground after being attacked, and starteda quest for living flesh? McCutcheon still found it hard to believe that thiswas all real. He was deployed on American soil, not to defend it, but toexterminate the very people he had sworn to protect.
Things were bad all over. In New York, the army wasfighting a losing battle. The sickness had spread, the infected rampagingthrough the streets. The army had sent a hundred-thousand soldiers to take onthe eight million inhabitants of New York... and there were another 12 millionin the metropolitan area. 3 million was a lot... 20 million, well that wasimpossible, even with a hundred-thousand troops. He wondered how long it wouldbe. How long could they fight this war against the people they were supposed todefend?
McCutcheon lifted a stack of papers off of his desk. Hedidn't want to believe the paper on top. It was a list of non-reportedsoldiers, mostly members of the National Guard and the reserves, but there wereother names on the list, names of people who had simply gone missing. He didn'tblame them. If he hadn't actively been on the base at the time, he would havebeen tempted to stay in Colorado to fight for his family.
McCutcheon cursed himself for listening to his wife."A home in the city," Sheila had said, "some place to keep mebusy when you're away." Now there were potentially 700,000 thousandmurderers surrounding his wife and his two daughters... and he was stuck herein Portland, trying to figure out how many soldiers had been sent out toColorado. Was it less than the 30,000 he had? Was it more? Was one of hisdaughters being chased down Clear Creek right now, being chased by homicidalcannibals, that, if the eggheads were correct, were actually reanimatedcorpses? Was there a sniper there, paving the way for her escape?
The questions kept coming. He couldn't stop them. Hehadn't been able to reach his wife since last night. He had told her to leave thecity. He was still kicking himself for it. Seeing how the roads in Portlandlooked, he had most likely sent Sheila to her death, but maybe she was outthere, holing up somewhere with his daughters, Samantha and Raina. God, hehoped she was out there.
The Lieutenant General leaned forward and put his handsover his face, to hide the tears. Goddamn this warehouse, he thought, itdoesn't even have a private place to cry.
Directly above him, he heard the pop of another sniperrifle come from the roof of Warehouse #206.
Chapter 8: Boardman, Oregon
165 miles east of Portland, Colin Murphy, affectionatelyknown as Murph to the other staff at the Boardman Power Plant, was having hislunch and listening to the radio. He pulled a hard-boiled egg wrapped in a papertowel from the paper bag sitting on the console. If the Chief saw his lunchsitting on the console, he would have his ass, or at least he would have had itin the past. Now things were different.
Over the radio, Murph listened to the stories. It soundedlike the end of the world out there. At first, Murph had thought it was one ofthose hoaxes like that old War of the Worlds story that people always told, theone about how some residents heard the story on the radio and mistook fact forfiction, hopping in their trucks with shotguns to fight off the alien menace.
Murph tapped the egg against the edge of the console,breaking the hard shell. He laid his napkin flat over the buttons in front ofhim and began the process of
