immediately begins tinkering with it.
“That was a solid copy, over.”
Bowman turns and glances over the civilians, some of whom stare back at him nervously. He can sense their distrust. It is almost palpable.
Somebody’s got to survive.
“Have you discovered any provisions, such as food, blankets, medical supplies, over?”
“Continue with your mission, War Dogs Two-Two. Out.” The LT calls to Williams. “Private, how many of the enemy have you seen?”
“Four, sir. All are, um, accounted for, sir.”
“Go rejoin your unit, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
There is no way only a few Mad Dogs overran a platoon of infantry and scattered them to the winds like this, Bowman thinks. There must be more of them, maybe hundreds. Where is the main force?
“Friendlies coming in!” a voice calls from the front doors.
“Come forward and be recognized!” Martin calls out, tensing behind his MG.
A soldier, blood splattered on his uniform and Kevlar, steps through the propped-open door and shows himself.
“Third Platoon here,” the soldier says.
“Second Platoon here, boys,” Boomer says. “Hey, looks like we beat you!”
“Hooah!” Martin yells, holding his fist in the air. “Yahoo!”
The doors open and the soldiers come staggering in. The boys of Second Platoon still in the area let up a ragged cheer. Even the civilians are grinning, hoping this means that law and order has returned to New York. But the cheers and grins fade quickly.
Some of the soldiers fall to their knees gasping, while others stare into space and walk like zombies. A few burst into tears, not even bothering to cover their faces. Several sit against the wall, light cigarettes with steel lighters, and hug their ribs.
“God, there’s only fifteen, maybe twenty of them,” Boomer hisses at Martin. “What the hell happened to the rest of their guys?”
An officer steps out in front of what is left of Third Platoon, wearing the insignia of a 2LT. Bowman instantly recognizes him as Lieutenant Stephen Knight.
Knight blinks into the fluorescent light of the hallway light fixtures. “Where’s Captain West?”
Bowman weaves through the civilians until he is close enough to exchange a salute.
“Good to see you, Steve. It really is.”
“Thank God you’re here, Todd.” His eyes widen in alarm. “Where are all your people?”
“Securing the building. Where’s the rest of your guys?”
“I’ve got to report in,” Knight tells him, shaking his head. “Can you take me to the CO?”
“He’s not here, Steve.”
Knight blinks rapidly, appearing dazed at the news. “But this is his headquarters,” he says feebly. “His orders said for us to come here.”
“We’re still gathering intel on the situation here, but the Captain’s command appears to have been overrun.”
Another notch in the belt for the killah
In the school’s east wing, Eckhardt, Mooney, Wyatt and Finnegan get in position to take down the school’s chemistry lab, while Sergeant McGraw provides security in the hall with the other three boys of First Squad.
Eckhardt goes up the middle, while Mooney breaks right, Wyatt breaks left and Finnegan stays at the door in support.
Mooney immediately surmises that the room was used as a bivouac for elements of First Platoon. He sees cots, rucksacks, personal effects, helmets, gear and crates of ammo.
The beds are unmade. There are unfinished MREs on some of the chemistry tables.
Mad Dogs have been here. His nose burns from the sour stench lingering in the air.
Some kind of fight took place in this room. His boots crunch on broken glass, scatter the pages of letters from home. A light haze of smoke still hangs in the air. One of the cots is soaked through with drying blood, the blankets barely concealing a collection of body parts. Barely enough to be able to tell that whoever they belong to was human.
On the floor next to the cot, a neatly severed child’s hand.
“Oh God,” Mooney says quietly, swallowing hard.
He steps over a broken M4 and a handful of empty shell casings.
On the other side of the cot, three dead civilians lay in a heap on top of a soldier who died grimacing in pain. His scalp has been torn ripped off his skull and is sprouting from the mouth of one of the Mad Dogs, hair and all.
“No,” Mooney says, then vomits neatly into the sink of one of the chemistry tables.
The other boys halt, waiting for him to finish. Nobody razzes him, not even Wyatt. Almost everybody has lost it at least once in the past ten hours.
Mooney rinses out his mouth and thinks for a moment. One squad, maybe two, were bivouacked here. Some got surprised while they were eating and were torn to pieces. Others got surprised in their sleep and were slaughtered in their beds. Most, however, seem to have vanished.
“It’s okay,” Mooney tells his comrades, feeling embarrassed. “I’m all right.”
“Freeze,” Eckhardt says.
The boys stop in place.
“I hear something,” he adds. “Listen.”
A wheezing sound among the cots and chemistry tables.
“I think there’s somebody in here with us.”
“One of those crazy people,” Finnegan says, glowering with rage. “I’m going to kill him slow.”
“Why would you say that?” says Mooney, spitting into the sink. “They’re not people anymore. They’re like animals. They don’t even know what they’re doing.”
“Shut up, Mooney.”
“He’s a Mad Dog lover,” says Wyatt, but nobody laughs.
“It might be one of our guys lying on the floor wounded,” says Eckhardt. “Or a non-combatant. Think before you act, Finnegan. Now go get the Sergeant.”
Finnegan signals to Sergeant McGraw that they have a possible contact, and the Sergeant enters the lab, toting his shotgun.
“All right now, let’s clear this room,” he says. “On your toes. Nice and slow.”
The boys continue weaving their way through the cots and tables.
The wheezing stops, then starts again.
Mooney’s heart is no longer in this. If McGraw were to suggest that they simply eat a bullet now and cop out on all this unreal horror, he would seriously consider it. He has not slept in more than twenty-six hours. During the last ten, he almost died after being chased by a horde of homicidal maniacs, hunted and shot down Mad Dogs during the cleanup at the hospital, reconnoitered the smoky horror show of First Avenue, marched a mile in full battle rattle, shot his way through a civilian riot, and cleared almost an entire floor of an abandoned middle school. He’s bone tired and his morale, frankly, sucks.
Mostly, he is sick of the killing.
Soldiers get sloppy when they are this tired.
He feels a hand clutch his ankle. He staggers back, almost fainting.
