"Heavy casualties? What are we talking here,Tejada?"
"They're down to half and ammo is an issue,sir."
McCutcheon did the math in his head. 1,500 soldiersgone... in the space of a single day. How was this even possible? What the hellwas going on out there? "Call 'em back. Get those choppers going. Bringthe refugees first, then get those soldiers out of there. Anything else,Sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"Very well then. You know what to do." SergeantTejada saluted and turned smartly, marching out of McCutcheon's makeshiftoffice. "And Sergeant?" Tejada turned around to regard McCutcheon."Never be afraid to give me bad news. I want to hear it as soon as ithappens." Tejada nodded his understanding, and then made his way out ofthe warehouse to spread the orders.
McCutcheon stood up from his seat and walked outside witha cup of regulation issue coffee in his hand, mud as it was more commonlyknown. He exited Warehouse #206 and stepped outside. Shading his eyes from thefalling sun. 2,500 soldiers in a single day. At that rate, he would be out ofsoldiers in less than two weeks. Now was the crucial time. Now was the timewhere they either wrapped a single, iron, military fist around this problem orthey broke and ran.
Was Sheila out there, driving towards some refugee centerthat was woefully ill-equipped to handle the problem? The Coliseum hadn't beenthe best choice, but it offered the best vantage point. Its roof was moreaccessible for snipers, and it could easily be fenced off. Also, the ModaCenter had been trashed by the time they had first laid eyes on it, thereanimated crawling through the building in the darkness. Ten of those 2,500dead soldiers had been men sent in to clear the place.
The soccer stadium? Well, that was a tactical error. Theysimply hadn't known the types of numbers they would be dealing with. The deadwere growing exponentially, while their own numbers were shrinking. It was abad day to be in charge.
In the fading light of the day, McCutcheon scanned theperimeter of Terminal 2. The shipping containers were being stacked on thebackside of their own chain-link fence, creating a solid barrier and additionalwalkways for the soldiers to use. The height of the shipping containersprovided an vantage point for the soldiers as they kept the perimeter clearedof the dead. Even now, he saw some of them taking potshots at the reanimatedwho had gathered around the terminal to watch the proceedings. Within hours ofbeing on site, McCutcheon had issued a universal permission-to-fire order.
Through one of the gaps in the shipping container wall,he saw one of the reanimated fall. It didn't matter; three more wereapproaching in the distance. How much ammunition did they have? Were thereenough bullets to put one into every citizen of the United States if need be?McCutcheon shook his head and took another sip of mud. Dark thoughts came tohim.
A fresh-faced soldier with military-issue glassessprinted up to him with a sheet of paper clutched in his hand. McCutcheon tookit from him and looked at the words printed on it. He sighed heavily anddismissed the soldier. New York was gone. It would only be a matter of hours,maybe minutes, before the news made the rounds. Morale was fucked already, andthis was the last bit of news that they needed.
The good news was that he had been promoted, although hedidn't know what good the pay raise would do him if the world was on the vergeof collapsing and he had no family to spend it on. He crumpled up the paper andthrew it on the ground. He watched his men as they worked, stalking thecompound, their rifles unslung, some stacking boxes and digging in, othersrushing about carrying out any of a thousand different orders and tasks thatwere needed to make the military machine function.
McCutcheon took another sip of mud, and looked back atthe gap between the shipping containers. There was another rifle pop, and areanimated woman fell in a heap. There were five more behind her, approachingthrough the maze of industrial buildings that surrounded Terminal 2, the oncebustling Port of Portland.
He took a final sip of coffee, but couldn't quite forcehimself to swallow it. He spit it onto the ground and dumped his coffee mugout. He shook his head at the words on the cup. It was a white piece, cheap andlaced with fine cracks from years of use. "World's Best Dad," itsaid. What a cruel coffee mug, he thought.
Chapter 16: Watching the Gauges
Colin Murphy sat at the control board of the BoardmanPower Plant, his feet up on the console and his arms behind his head. That hefelt no sense of impending doom was a mystery to him. The radio's reports hadbecome even more dire, and the men and women that had fled the power plant hadyet to return. He should have been panicking, but he had his job to focus on.
Murph watched the monitors, moving from one mundanechecklist to the next. The power plant usually had twenty to thirty employeesworking there at any given time. Most of the members of the staff wereredundant. Power was serious business; there always needed to be a replacementif someone became ill... and there also needed to be a replacement for thatreplacement. But now it was just himself and the Chief.
"Get your goddamn shit heels off that console,Murph," the Chief yelled as he burst abruptly through the door to thecontrol room.
Murph pulled his boots off the console so fast that heripped something in his guts, the muscles knotting in instantaneous pain. Hegroaned as the Chief slapped him on the shoulder. "How are things lookingout there?"
Murph checked the instruments on the console. The lightswere right and the dials were normalized. "It's all green, Chief."They stood in silence, watching the monitors flit from one scene to the next.Murph had no idea what to do next. He wasn't much of a conversationalist. Youmight even call him awkward. The thing was, the Chief wasn't much better. Hewas comfortable shouting orders, but until this afternoon in the cafeteria,Murph had never even thought of him as human. Sure, he
