The Killing Floor

I don’t have the codebook for that mission, over.

Rod blinks, stunned by this information. “Say again, over.”

That mission was scrapped. Your unit was recalled, over.

“Negative on that,” Rod says. “We are in the field executing the original operation order, over.”

Did you not receive new OPORD, over?

“Negative. “ He cannot think of what else to say at this point. “Over.”

Target was ordered terminated by Higher, and was killed in an air strike, over.

Rod feels the old rage returning, bit by bit. It is as if the dead are here, with him, lending him their anger in the hopes he will give that anger a voice.

Report your location, over.

Rod no longer cares that it’s an open channel. “We accomplished the mission. Subject was killed during recovery, but we were able to obtain biological samples for Fort Detrick. Will provide map coordinates for extraction. Repeat request for air extraction, how copy?”

Another long pause. Duncan starts to say something, but the words become garbled. Rod can hear more shouting in the background.

“Negative contact,” he says in frustration. “Say again, over.”

Negative on that air extraction. Subject was terminated by air strike—wait one. Rod hears someone scream. Wait one, out.

“What’s your status, over?” he asks.

He waits for nearly a minute, wondering if headquarters is under attack. If the Infected penetrated the Green Zone, the war is over, at least in this part of the world. America would be lost. And there would be nothing for Rod and his men to come back to. Nowhere to go.

Hard to hear you, Hellraisers 3. There’s a bit of a celebration going on here, over.

“What?” Rod shakes his head in disbelief. “Say again, over.”

The power’s on, Hellraisers 3. The whole town is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Wish you were here to see it, over.

“Holy sh—” Rod says before catching himself. “We won, sir?”

We sure did, Hellraisers 3. Washington is ours. We took it back. Over.

A grin flashes across Rod’s face. “Outstanding.”

The credit is yours, Hellraisers 3. It belongs to you and every other service member we have in combat. Now let’s finish up our business so you can get back here. Your mission was scrapped, and a new OPORD issued. We need to get your unit back to the operating base for rest and refit. Comanche has been given two weeks’ leave. You can go home, Hellraisers 3. Over.

A memory flashes of Gabriela and his children running toward him at the airport after one of his tours in the Sandbox. Their happy faces.

He pushes the memory from his mind with an almost physical effort.

How copy?

“Major, please listen to me. We have identified Typhoid Jody and secured viable biological samples from his remains. They must be delivered to Fort Detrick immediately—”

Negative, over.

Rod’s rage boils over. “No, not fucking ‘negative,’ sir—”

Sergeant, Higher scrapped the mission and ordered the subject terminated, which you apparently accomplished. If you obtained samples, I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t know who to tell, or who to call. The higher-ups will want to know what the hell you’re doing out there going against orders. I cannot get the assets to do anything—

“Are you ordering us to return to base, Major?”

Affirmative. I am ordering you to return to base. I expect you to use maximum individual initiative in accomplishing this order. Understood? Over.

“Roger that, sir. Hellraisers, out.”

He slams the receiver down and growls. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe Higher Command won’t accept Ray Young’s remains.

And yet he can. It’s typical Army bullshit, amplified by the ongoing stress of fighting Wildfire with steadily dwindling forces.

The Major gave him an out, however. When he said he expected Rod to show individual initiative in getting back to base, he was saying if Rod thought it necessary to stop at Fort Detrick first in order to accomplish his mission, then go ahead and do it. On his own.

He does some quick calculations. If he goes north to Detrick, he will officially be off the reservation, cut off from reinforcement, casualty evacuation, supply. They have enough fuel, but they don’t have much in the way of provisions, and they burned through at least half their ammo in the fight today. He lost three men during the fighting, giving him just two shooters besides himself.

They could just go home and forget the whole thing. Duncan said they have rest and refit waiting for them. Two weeks with their families. Hearing this made him feel like he’d won the lottery. Like the soldiers under his command, he desperately wants to see his wife and children again. Two weeks is a long time these days. It may be the last time he ever sees his family.

He remembers the words in Gabriela’s final letter: I freely give up this demand, my right as your wife, in the hopes that you will win and be able to save not just us, but the entire country.

Do your duty, she said.

The survivors of the squad gather around, watching him. They buried Davis and Tanner and Lynch, along with the Stryker’s gunner and Sergeant Wilson’s dead, and expect him to say something over the mass grave.

Rod tells them what Duncan told him. The boys hiss obscenities under their breath.

“Was it all for nothing, then, Sergeant?” Arnold asks him.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Rod says. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done before as a sergeant in the United States Army. I’m going to call a vote.”

Todd

Night is falling. The soldiers load their remaining gear into the Stryker for transport while the big soldier named Sosa, manning the vehicle’s heavy machine gun, provides overwatch. Yang and Guthrie are still at the mass grave, holding each other for comfort. Sarge and Steve are in the Bradley, watching over Wendy, who sleeps fitfully in the back, pumped full of sedatives. Todd finds Ray Young’s remains scattered around the burned husk of the truck, just ashes and bits of blackened bone. But he came here to pay his last respects to Anne.

The face of the office building is shattered, a ghastly black maw choked with debris. Rubble and standard office junk litter the parking lot in front of it, carpeted in a thick layer of dust. Todd sifts through it looking for signs of her. He finds a warped length of pipe. Crushed ventilation duct. Smashed pieces of office cubicles. Staplers and pens. Upright office chair. Hastily scrawled notes on Post-Its. Photos of loved ones. Of the Demon itself, he sees no sign. Presumably it returned inside the building and, from there, who knows?

Todd kicks at the dust, unveiling a Springfield pistol. He picks it up, checks the magazine, and tucks it into his belt. A little further on, he finds a shred of clothing. Past that, a piece of bone. Anne pursued death, he knows. In her mind, she died the day she discovered her dead children at her neighbor’s house, murdered and half eaten by an infected man named Hugo. She woke up every day with the knowledge she was already dead. By conquering her fear of death, she conquered fear itself, and that made her a good survivor—that and the fact she was far better at dealing death than she was at pursuing it. But in the Demon, she met her match.

Was this really what you wanted, Anne? He has a feeling she would have called it a good death. He knows he will miss her. She was the best person you could have watching your back, a real monster slayer. But her hate consumed her until there was nothing else. People like that become another kind of monster.