Army will fix it when those in charge finally get their heads out of their collective asses and do what needs doing. The United States survived the First and Second World Wars, Cold War, Spanish Flu Pandemic, Presidents Nixon through Obama, the Great Depression and the September Eleventh attacks. It can survive this lousy Lyssa Pandemic. Someday, he will tell his kids about how scary and exciting it all was, and he and his comrades will be called the Greatest Generation by their grandchildren.
He likes working alone so that he can take off his mask and smoke without any hassles. Lighting one up, he realizes that he is down to four packs now and after that, with all the supply problems he has been hearing about, there might not be any more cigarettes for a while. The thought fills him with panic. A lot of the boys smoke for fun, but he is an addict. He tries to put this unsettling train of thought out of his mind by throwing himself back into his work.
When he switches back to Brigade traffic, a strong, gravelly voice cuts through the babble:
The voice is calm, almost dry, but the effect is electrifying. Within moments, the chatter is reduced by more than half.
Sherman takes out his notepad and pencil, excited. He has only rarely heard Colonel Winters, the commander of the Brigade, get on the net in person.
You don’t see that every day
McLeod paces just inside the doors to the school. About ten meters down the hallway, Martin and Boomer pass a cigarette back and forth, leaning on the sandbags of their MG emplacement. McLeod strolls over, cradling his SAW.
“
The gunners nod. McLeod watches in amusement as they turn away and pull down their masks to take a drag.
He adds: “You guys do realize that if one of you has Lyssa, the other now has it.”
“Go to hell, McLeod,” Boomer says.
“What do you mean?” Martin says.
“You’re sharing a smoke,” McLeod explains. Seeing their blank expressions, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“This is not a good time to go around scaring people,” Boomer warns him.
“What a crappy post,” McLeod says darkly. “A freaking school. Look at this poster some kid made with a bunch of crummy markers: ‘Welcome back’ in a hundred languages. Christ, I’d rather be in goddamn Baghdad getting shot at.”
“I’ll bet you were one of the most popular guys in high school,” Martin deadpans, making the AG snort with laughter. “Because you’re such a comedian.”
“Sleep deprivation makes me hilarious.” McLeod yells at the ceiling, “I need sleep!”
“Why aren’t you bunking with your squad, McLeod?” Martin says, winking at Boomer, who grins back.
“Magilla’s got it in for me. Everybody else gets to sleep a few hours, while I’m stuck doing guard duty with— no offense—you guys.”
Boomer bursts into laughter while Martin says, “You’re lucky that’s all you got.”
“Are you kidding? What’d I ever do to anybody?”
“Have you ever tried seeing what would happen if you maybe shut your big mouth, McLeod?” Boomer says.
McLeod smiles and says nothing.
Boomer adds, “Looks like you’re as popular in the Army as you were in high school, McLeod. Count yourself lucky you’re not shoveling body parts into the basement furnace with the Hajjis—I mean, the civilians.”
“Instead, you got guard duty,” Martin says, gesturing toward the front doors of the school. “Hmm. Aren’t you supposed to be like, you know, guarding?”
“Nobody’s going to come here,” McLeod tells him.
“It’s a Lyssa hospital in the middle of a Lyssa plague,” Martin says, taking off his cap and making a show of scratching his closely shorn head. “Hmm.”
“Yeah, I wonder if anybody’s coming,” the AG says, cracking up now.
“Shush, I’m thinking,” Martin says, still in character.
“Quiet for a sec,” says McLeod. “Listen.”
In the distance, they hear the roar of a diesel engine.
A large vehicle is approaching the school.
He adds, “Oh thank God, they’re starting to pick up the trash again.”
The MGR rolls his eyes and says, “Boomer, stay here, I’m going to go with McFly and check it out.”
“Roger that.”
“Lead the way, McDuff.”
“You’re a very funny guy,” McLeod says. “It must run in the family. Just the other night, your mom—hey, that sounds military, doesn’t it?”
The sound grows louder as they approach the doors and open them cautiously, peering out at the corpse- strewn street.
“Lookit, it’s an LAV,” Martin says, raising his fist. “Go, Marines! Get some!”
The armored personnel carrier, shaped like a large green boat on eight wheels, turns onto their street from several blocks away, its engine grinding.
“I want one of those,” says McLeod.
“It’s the LAV-R,” Martin says. “See the boom crane on the back? It’s got a winch so it can recover other LAVs that break down. The recovery model doesn’t have much for defense, just the single M240 and some smoke grenades.” He adds admiringly, “You should see the fighting version. It’s got an M242 Bushmaster chain gun and two M240s. I saw one once. In action, too. It was freaking cool. The Iraqis call these babies the Great Destroyers.”
“I hear she’s single, tiger,” McLeod says.
“They can go sixty miles an hour and drive underwater, man.”
“Uh oh, they got company. Check it out.”
The LAV-R has completed its turn and guns its engine to pick up speed. The vehicle is surrounded by a crowd of about twenty Mad Dogs running alongside it. A few somehow clawed their way on top and are beating on the armor with their fists.
The vehicle accelerates on the open street and the Mad Dogs begin to lag behind.
“I didn’t even know the Marines were in Manhattan,” Martin says. “We got no commo with them. Should we run out and try to tell them we’re here?”
McLeod snorts. “Be my guest.”
The LAV roars by on its eight wheels, Mad Dogs clambering over its metal body, followed by a swarm of infected, chomping at its heels.
Less than a minute later, the last Mad Dog runs by, a shredded red shirt flapping from his mouth. Then the street is quiet again except for the distant rattle of small arms fire.
“Well,” says McLeod. “You don’t see that every day.”
Every kill is a broken chain of infection
The naked obese woman chases the teenaged boy down the street, arms outstretched and breasts rolling. They pass two charred corpses that lay smoking on the sidewalk outside a burned-out convenience store. His sneakers crunch on broken glass.
With a loud bang, the woman drops to the ground, writhing and moaning.
The boy stops, grips his knees, and totters, panting, almost too tired to stand on his own. His entire body,
