The Killing Floor

would mean anything to him, anyway. Didn’t anyone think of this kind of thing when the op was being planned?”

Price clears his throat, sounding like, ahem. “I was rushed into the field, Sergeant. I barely had enough time to collect the right equipment. I couldn’t think of everything.”

“All right, all right. Then I guess we’re going to have to negotiate something.” He makes a call on the radio to Tanner to meet him at the last checkpoint with the spare JTRS radio from the Stryker, and then hands his own radio to Price. “Give this headset to Mr. Young.”

“Will do.”

“But then take it right back the second we’re done with the conversation. We don’t want him hearing squad chatter. It’s bad enough I’m sharing our communications.”

“I understand.”

Shit, this is complicated, Rod realizes, jogging back.

Soon he and Young are communicating on the radio while Price swabs down his and Fielding’s bio suits, hoping to capture spore samples.

“Mr. Young, I’m Sergeant Rodriguez, U.S. Army.”

Nice to meet you, Young says. Now listen. I want you to get on the phone to your people and tell them I ain’t going nowhere until I get some simple assurances.

“We can talk about that.”

Ain’t nothing to talk about. You must think I’m flat out batshit nuts to go anywhere with you without some type of guarantee about my safety. In fact, I’m plenty goddamn insulted you took all this effort to come on out here without it. Get on the phone with your people.

“Fine, Mr. Young,” Rod says. “But what type of guarantee would satisfy you?”

Young considers this. Rod watches him light a cigarette.

I want a letter from the President, he says after a long pause.

Rod growls. He knows the man is scared and he can empathize with that, but this is ridiculous. “Do you want him to deliver it personally?”

No need to get smart. But now that you mention it, it should be on White House letterhead and I want a high-ranking officer to give it to me. I want to trust you people, but this is my life we’re talking about. You want it, you got to earn it. Get on the phone. I’ll wait.

“I cannot do what you are asking. The President doesn’t even know we’re here. By the time the message works its way up the chain of command. . . We’re talking a long time, Ray. My orders are to bring you in, or shoot you in the head. I suggest you come in.”

To his surprise, Young laughs. His guards raise their guns, covering Price and Fielding, who respond by raising their hands.

I wouldn’t threaten me, man. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.

“We basically have you surrounded with automatic weapons. If I give the order, it will take all of three seconds to turn you into Swiss cheese. Whether you have hostages doesn’t matter.”

Ray drops his smoke and grinds it into the road with his boot.

Even if you’re the hostage?

Rod frowns, but says nothing.

Look behind you, but don’t panic. Make no sudden moves, and you won’t get hurt.

Sergeant, Davis cuts in. Christ, Sergeant, they’re right behind you.

Rod wheels and stares in shock at the two monsters approaching with arms outstretched, tottering on spindly legs oddly articulated like a grasshopper’s. They’re like deformed albino children, mewing and flashing sharp little teeth.

He doesn’t care about the teeth. Instead, he stares in horror at the massive erect stingers swaying between their legs.

Cascading voices blast the radio channel.

Contact, several men shout at once, calling in hoppers and requesting orders.

Ay, wey, Sosa says quietly.

Oh shit is right, Rod thinks. The hoppers are everywhere. Dozens of them. One has ventured close enough to sniff at his boots, its stinger buzzing. So far, nobody is shooting. He is amazed at his boys’ fire discipline.

“Easy, Hellraisers,” he says, aware Young can hear everything he is saying. “Nobody shoots unless I give the order. Understand?”

Sorry, Sergeant, Arnold says from the roof of the Walmart. I can’t cover the target and run the surveillance equipment, over.

“Get on the recon gear and tell me what you see,” Rod tells him. “We need to know what we’re up against.”

Can I torch them, Sargeant? Sosa asks him.

“If you shoot, then people are going to die,” Rod says, hoping his voice is not as shaky as the rest of him is right now. “Mr. Young is just showing us he has big guns too.”

That’s right. Do I have your attention now?

“Roger that, Ray.”

Then get me my damn letter, says Ray.

I see dozens of them, Three, Arnold says. At least a hundred. And more on the way, over.

“Roger that, Eyes. Out.”

He’s giving me no choice, Rod realizes. He knows I can’t deliver his letter. Even if I could, it would still be symbolic. The President wouldn’t have to honor it. This is all about Ray Young’s stupid redneck pride. So I’ll have to give the order to shoot, and then whoever can’t make it to the Stryker will die. We’re all going to die because this son of a bitch feels insulted.

Arnold: Contact west, over.

Rod presses the push to talk button. “What you got?”

Large vehicle approaching fast, over.

Rod can hear it already.

“Friend of yours, Mr. Young?”

I can’t believe it, Young answers, sounding panicked.

“Mr. Young, if you want any of us to survive this fucked up situation, you’d better tell me right now what’s going on.”

It’s Anne Leary. She’s been hunting me since Defiance. She’s trying to kill me. If you want to make a deal, then I’m going to have to ask you and your guys to kill her, Sergeant.

Rod opens his mouth, closes it. He does not want to kill any American who is not infected.

He also has no choice.

“Hellraisers, I want you to smoke that vehicle and anyone in it. Weapons free.”

Ray

Ray has a sense of events spiraling out of control. A moment ago, he was enjoying flexing his power in front of the soldiers, but now he needs their help. His jumpers are deadly and terrifying, but he does not trust them to kill Anne Leary before she kills him. In his mind, she has become the angel of death. He flinches as the whir of the bus engine grows louder.

Fade, he tells his monsters. Get out of the way. Hide until I need you.

Ray sees the bus approaching, the driver crouched low over the wheel and ignoring the squad’s warning shots. Then the Stryker’s heavy machine gun opens up, the pounding fire loud and urgent, like a hammer striking an