The squad watches him stand, collect his weapon and follow the kid into the maze of giant vehicles idling in the heat, like cattle watching one of their own being led away to the killing floor of the slaughterhouse.
Georgetown still smolders in the northwest. Charred bits of garbage and clothing flutter to the earth, some of it burning as it falls, touching the ground as cinders. Rod walks through air filled with smoke and vehicle exhaust that drifts but never leaves. He feels dried out, tired and grimy to the bone.
A helicopter drifts overhead, its rotors stirring the ash thick as a sandstorm.
“Over here, Sergeant.”
The kid leads Rod through one of the blasted-out windows of a shattered diner. Rod’s boots crunch on broken plate glass. The restaurant was designed with a retro flavor, with lots of chrome and vinyl. Neon signage sits dark and unused along with a jukebox. It is a disorienting sight; parts of the diner look the same as the day the epidemic started. A chalkboard announces specials and dollar-ninety-nine giant milkshakes. The stools in front of the counter are empty and inviting. On the walls, framed posters of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean have been defaced with obscene graffiti by another unit passing through. Lieutenant Willie Sims sits at one of the red booths with Jared Kelley, the new platoon sergeant, who raises his hand in greeting.
“How are your men doing, Rod?” says Sims, his voice muffled by his mask.
“We’re still here, sir,” Rod answers, taking a seat opposite the officer. In the past, he usually reported his boys were itching for a good fight, in the hopes of getting something solid to do in the field. But not today. Today, he is hoping to avoid asking his squad to do anything even remotely dangerous.
The new platoon leader is a straw-haired, overgrown Iowan the Hellraisers call Techno Viking, a second lieutenant from the Third Armored Cav who recently earned his silver bar. Rod likes the gentle giant who is his new platoon leader. The man listens to the non-commissioned officers, cares about his troops, and has no crazy personal ambitions other than to keep as many of them alive for as long as possible.
Sims’s standing order is to kill anything that moves, and let God sort it out. This is not crazy bloodlust, but simple survival. The fact is they are fighting a war of extermination.
Rod taps his gas mask and adds, “Any word on the new filters, sir?”
“Negative,” Sims tells him.
“We can’t do our jobs if we can’t breathe.”
“I hear you, Rod. We’ll just have to make do until we get back to base.” Lines form around his eyes and Rod guesses he is smiling. “Not that I could tell the difference. I feel like I can’t breathe in this mask at any time.”
“You get used to it, sir,” Rod tells him.
“That’s what my platoon sergeant keeps saying,” Sims says, glancing at Kelley.
“You should have been around when we were using the M40s,” says Kelley, an old-timer like Rod. “Made you look like a giant insect. You could barely suck enough air to breathe. We had to run five K in one as part of the training. Half the guys puked into theirs.”
Rod laughs, a muffled barking sound coming through the mask. Kelley has tons of stories like this; he’s been in the Army since Jesus was a corporal.
Sims leans forward, planting his elbows on the table. It’s time to get down to business.
“Sergeant,” he says, “I’ve got a job for you and your men.”
Rod closes his eyes for several seconds. “Sir, I am hoping there is another way to do what needs doing. My boys have zero fight left. They need a good rest.”
“I know I’ve been leaning hard on you,” Sims says. “And you’ve done an amazing job getting your squad this far without even a scratch. But you are the best I got and I need your men to give a little more today.”
Orders are orders. Rod is a professional.
“What do you need?” he growls.
¦
It’s a recon mission. The heavy smoke cover is preventing their birds from seeing what’s happening on the ground. Captain Rhodes wants eyes all the way up to the Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway, the projected edge of the advance by the end of the week.
The engineers cleared the road as far as the first few blocks. Third Squad advances along the empty street in a wedge formation with the flamethrower on point and Rod and the RTO, the radio/telephone operator, not far behind.
Rod watches them with paternal fondness and high expectations that they survive and become everything he thinks they can be. He wants them to kick ass; he wants them to live. He has led a dozen like Specialist Sosa, the overconfident big kid; even more like PFC Arnold and PFC Tanner, naive eager beavers; a few overthinkers like Corporal Lynch, always concerned with
He knows the boys are calling him Cool Rod behind his back. After the fight at the hotel when they lost Pierce and so many others, they eyed him with a level of respect bordering on reverence. It was perhaps the one good thing to come out of that day—conquering the reputation he earned in Germany. Since then, they have fought every day, and between Rod’s leadership and a hell of a lot of plain luck, Third Squad has taken no casualties. Now they think he’s a god.
Rod does not care what they think, as long as they follow his orders and cover their sectors.
Visibility remains poor because of the smoke. On the left, a construction site reveals itself, giant cranes soaring into the murk, scattered orange traffic cones, a sign that says WAYNE CONSTRUCTION. Someone spray painted SCHOOL IS OUT FOREVER on the side of a trailer. Sosa chuckles, shaking his head. Rod remembers they are in Foggy Bottom, somewhere on the George Washington University campus.
As they near the next intersection, a wall of vehicles emerges from the gloom. This is as far as the engineers cleared the road; from here on out they will be in the shit. Cars and vans and trucks sit parked, many of them at angles, some seemingly fused together. Their drivers fought for every inch before abandoning them in this endless apocalyptic parking lot.
Rod splits the squad. Fireteam A advances first and pauses at a defensible location, and then provides overwatch for Fireteam B’s advance. Their gear clatters as they wade into the mass of vehicles.
On the left and right, high-rise apartments flank the street. Rod tilts his head back, but cannot see the tops of the buildings. The sun is just a yellowish splotch smeared on the sky like an infected wound. Frantic pounding draws his attention to one of the windows. A pale young woman stares down at him from a second floor window, slamming her fists against the glass.
Lynch follows his gaze and turns to glance at him.
Rod shakes his head.
Sosa snickers and hisses at Arnold, “I think she likes you.”
Huffing under the weight of his flamethrower, Arnold shakes his head and says nothing, too tired to respond.
Ahead, a car door slams: Tanner, on point, clearing a path for them. The column threads its ragged course between the vehicles. They step over abandoned luggage. Sosa spots a pack of cigarettes on the ground and pockets it. The woman continues to pound on the window over their heads. The sound multiplies.
Rod glances back and sees more people at other windows, banging on the glass with their fists. As they clear the van, he sees even more in the building on his left as well.
Lynch glances at him again and Rod gestures forward.
People stand at most of the windows now, fists pounding like war drums. The sound becomes a roar. Over the drumming, Rod hears the tinkle of broken glass on the sidewalk.
“Pick up the pace, Tanner,” he calls out.
Glass shatters overhead.
