“Yeah, that’s what we’re just saying, yo.”
McLeod grins. “What could you possibly steal that has any value anymore? Food, water, ammo, a safe place to sleep—these are the only things worth anything anymore. And we got them right here.”
“Oh, is there some pussy in my MRE that I missed?”
One of the other grunts chimes in, “What do you care what we do, McLeod? They sure as shit didn’t put you on this detail because you’re some super soldier.”
McLeod smiles to himself.
Then he stands up suddenly, spilling his unfinished chicken and dumplings onto the asphalt, his heart racing.
That sound—
Their security detail comes running past, heading into the school.
Like a flood—
He sees them coming.
“Into the school and down on the ground, boys!” Hooper roars.
They bolt inside, shut the doors, and throw themselves onto the floor. Hooper crouches by one of the doors, peering out of the window cut into its top half, through which the day’s final threads of sunshine are now streaming. His eyes grow wide and he jerks his head back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His face has turned chalk white.
The first Mad Dogs run past the school. Hooper raises his fist to tell the boys to freeze, but they are scarcely even breathing. McLeod cannot see the army rushing by outside, but he sees the shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling, and he can hear them loud and clear, the tramp of their feet on the asphalt. He lays his ear to the ground and listens to the thunder. Tries to picture their pounding feet: boots, tennis shoes, broken high heels, sneakers, bare feet. The ground vibrates under his ear.
The seconds crawl by while the flood of humanity continues to flow past them. How many people is this? he wonders. A thousand? Five thousand? Ten?
It’s like a stampede of animals, he tells himself, which brings a sudden flash of insight. Animals stampede because something scares them. Are the Mad Dogs as scared of us as we are of them? Is that why they are so hostile—are they simply defending themselves?
McLeod slowly becomes aware that the Mad Dogs are growling. At first, it is like a river of individual sounds babbling in competition, but after a few moments, he begins to sense an underlying pattern. A rhythm emerges, repetitive and forceful. It is not a sound of fear. It is a sound of purpose and violence, like a religious chant or a tribal war song. The sound moves down the street like a massive locomotive and underneath it McLeod hears a constant ominous buzz that vibrates deep in his chest and makes his head ache.
Maddy is going to war.
Moaning, McLeod bites down on his sleeve and clenches his eyes shut.
The stampede gradually fades into the distance until silence returns.
“Jesus God,” one of the boys finally says. “I think I crapped my pants.”
The others crack grins, whistle, blow air out of their cheeks.
Sergeant Hooper opens one of the doors just enough to take a fast look around outside.
“Where are they going, Sergeant?” McLeod asks him shakily.
“Wait,” says Hooper, holding up his hand.
The boys fall silent, watching the NCO.
McLeod suddenly knows where the Mad Dogs are going.
To the south, the constant crackle of small arms fire is escalating.
Final protective fire
Bowman and Knight lean against the roof’s parapet and squint at the looming skyscrapers, now glittering with lights against a darkening sky. Behind the officers, Kemper and Vaughan chew on their cigars near one of the rooftop HVAC units, murmuring in a communal cloud of smoke. Sherman sits by the combat net radio, monitoring the nets, while Lewis scans the street with his sniper rifle and a fresh mag.
“The shooting’s stopped,” says Bowman.
“See anything?” Knight asks him, peering through his binoculars.
Bowman shakes his head.
The gunfire, steadily rising in volume over the past few minutes, stopped abruptly several moments ago. The vacuum was instantly filled with the clanging of a store alarm somewhere in their neighborhood, the buzz of distant helicopters and the dull roar of thousands of air conditioners, even though the evening is cool.
Bowman warned War Hammer Six by radio about the army of Mad Dogs headed his way. Captain Lyons thanked him for the intel and abruptly signed off. Alpha’s commander had few options as to what he could actually do with the information. He could either advance or retreat, and retreat at this point would mean surrender.
Lyons is a good officer, and would think things through. Bowman tried to imagine what was going through his mind. He could slow Alpha’s pace to give Bravo a chance to catch up and consolidate their firepower. But it is hard enough just to move one company through streets choked with cars and rubbish; two companies would be an unwieldy force of about a hundred and sixty men. And how much more firepower could he really bring to bear by combining their forces in firing zones that consisted of streets and doorways?
No, the LT tells himself. The Captain will not anchor Alpha’s fate to Bravo’s by waiting around in a hostile area, especially with Bravo having so much ground to cover, but instead go the other way, force marching his command to take advantage of the failing light before night fell. So he will place his boys in a formation favorable to mobile defense and move hard and fast. But how fast can he push a company of eighty men on these streets, fighting for every block?
Not very, apparently. Alpha stepped off over an hour and a half ago and is still at least a mile south of the rendezvous point.
At least he has the curfew in his favor, Bowman thinks. Right now, everybody on the street is hostile and Alpha, Bravo and Delta are cleared hot against anything that moves.
Knight glances up the sky. “He’s lost the light,” he says.
Bowman grunts, glancing at his RTO.
Sherman says, “War Hammer is reporting heavy casualties. . . . Some dead, most bitten. . . . Quarantine is turning down his request for a medevac. . . .”
Bowman and Knight glance at each other. When Charlie’s sister companies finally show up, they are going to have to quarantine or otherwise do something with soldiers who were bitten. But this will be Lyons’ decision to make, not Bowman’s.
Bowman tries to picture what is happening at Alpha’s position. Lyons’ boys are tired and probably running low on ammo after killing who knows how many Mad Dogs. Some of the soldiers are dead and have to be carried, while a larger number have been bitten and surely know they will become Mad Dogs themselves within a few hours.
Will these soldiers continue fighting for Lyons even though they know their bites are death sentences? Will some of them turn their weapons on themselves? Or will they simply wander off?
What would you do if you had a rifle in your hands in a lawless city and only had a few hours to live?
“War Hammer is telling Warmonger to pick up the pace,” Sherman says.
Bowman nods.
Small arms fire erupts in the west, quickly turns into a steady volume of fire. It is Delta Company, attempting to push its way through fresh resistance.
Lieutenant Bishop comes up from behind.
“What have you got?” he says, taking out his binoculars.
“See for yourself,” Bowman says without turning around. He is annoyed with the officer and is going to have to get him squared away. It is bad enough having Stephen Knight around. The man is clearly broken after what happened to his platoon. But Bishop is mouthing off to the NCOs like a politician, always saying what they should be doing instead of simply accepting command decisions and making the best of them.
Loud gunfire explodes to the south, close to their position. The shooting has a terrible urgency to it this time, making Bowman’s heart pound. A series of flashes like lightning illuminate the outlines of nearby buildings, followed
