The city is silent except for the ringing in their ears.
“Is that it?” Lewis asks. Tears of rage are streaming down his face. “The power goes out and Battalion gets overrun? Just because of some bad goddamn luck?”
Nobody answers him. Everybody knows there was a lot more to it than that. They know it was doubtful whether they could have fought their way through anyway. They realize now that they are facing an enemy that is stronger than they are.
And they are alone.
Bowman says quietly, “Jake, I want you to raise War Hammer for me.”
“All companies stopped broadcasting,” says the RTO. “The net is clear.”
“Try, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Above, the sky opens up in a brilliant display of stars not seen in this part of the world since the Blackout of 2003. The tiny blinking light of a satellite lazily crosses the sky.
“No response, sir,” Sherman says in the dark.
The men stand in the dark in a stunned silence.
“Jake,” the LT says carefully, “I want you to raise Warmonger and War Pig and ask for a sitrep.”
Sherman blinks in the gloom. “Sir?”
“Now, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
The darkness bears down on them, forcing their thoughts inward. After several moments, the RTO says, “No response, sir.”
Bowman nods, feeling lightheaded.
In one night, the world just got a whole lot smaller. Much smaller, and infinitely more dangerous.
While there is life there is hope
First Squad marches down the hallway, the beams of their flashlights playing on the shiny floor, a display case filled with trophies, dull rows of lockers and acoustical ceiling tiles. Mooney, Carrillo, Rollins and Finnegan carry Private Chen in a black body bag.
After the power went out and the emergency generator restored the lights in the gym, they heard the news via Joe Radio—the rumor mill—that the other companies had been destroyed.
Mooney believed it. His comrades didn’t.
His BDUs are stiff, dirty and stained. His uniform would probably stand up on its own if he took it off. Probably run after a bone if he yelled fetch. He is exhausted from endless work, his left eye won’t stop twitching from stress, and his nerves take a flying leap every time somebody clears his throat. But the news about the slaughter of Warlord while trying to walk several miles across Manhattan has electrified him.
All of his worries have suddenly evaporated. He does not care about Laura or how he wishes he could spend a few hours listening to his favorite records. He does not care about Wyatt constantly bugging him. Deep down, he does not even care if this is the end of the world.
All he cares about, at this very minute, is whether he is going to survive and for how long.
This war, this total war as LT put it, has gotten very personal and Mooney simply can’t really think of its ramifications beyond that. He does not want to die. Nothing else matters.
After the news circulated about Warlord, the NCOs went up to the roof to find LT while the civilians either stood around in stunned silence or started bawling.
It was the perfect time to slip out for the funeral.
They were ordered to burn Chen’s body with the civilian dead, but the boys had another idea. If things were as bad as LT said they were, most of the empty classrooms would be staying empty for a long, long time.
Tonight, PFC Chen would be entombed in his very own mausoleum.
Multiple footsteps approach from behind. Mooney’s heart leaps into his throat, his left eye trembling.
Ratliff wheels, raising his rifle, and challenges: “Mets.”
“Go to hell, Ratliff,” a voice answers from the darkness.
Ghostly forms emerge from the gloom. It’s Third Squad, wearing bright green glow sticks hooked onto the front of their load-bearing vests.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Yankees,’” Ratliff says, suddenly out of breath.
“Oh, Mad Dogs can talk? Can you get that light out of my face?”
Corporal Eckhardt lowers his rifle and says, “Next time, say ‘Yankees’ and you won’t get shot, Private. What you got there?”
Corporal Hicks says, “We heard what you were doing for Billy Chen.”
“Whatever you heard, you heard wrong,” Eckhardt says defiantly.
“It’s not like that. We’d like to do the same for two of ours.” Hicks gestures behind him. “This is The Newb. The other is Hawkeye. We don’t want them burned up in a pile. We want them to cross over to the other side whole, with honors.”
Eckhardt glances at the other boys of First Squad. Mooney nods. There is plenty of room where Chen is going.
“Where’s the class clown?” he says, obviously referring to McLeod.
“Sarge gave him sack time,” says Hicks.
“All right,” Eckhardt says. “We scoped out the last classroom on the left and got everything set up there. We found an American flag. You got something to cover up your guys?”
“We’ll make do,” Hicks tells him. “You lead. We’ll follow you.”
Together, they bring the bodies into the classroom. All of the desks have been pushed against the walls, which are adorned with posters of animals, a human skeleton with all of his bones labeled, and a skinless man with all of his muscles labeled.
Earlier in the day, one of the boys wrote on the chalkboard:
Mooney and the other boys pause for a moment to read the message. They grunt, impressed. They set down the body bag and unzip it.
The boys stagger back, gagging.
“Like rotten cheese and eggs,” says Finnegan, retching.
“Is he alive?” says Rollins. “He’s moving!”
“Quiet, he’s trying to say something. . . .”
“Jesus,” Mooney says, swallowing hard to force back his bile. “Some flies got on him before we zipped him up and laid eggs in him. His face is moving because
“Damn,” says Rollins, paling.
“Zip him up, Mooney, goddamnit,” Eckhardt orders.
Mooney closes the bag.
“Still stinks in here,” says Corporal Wheeler.
“Not as bad, though,” Eckhardt points out.
“Smells like one of my farts after I get the MRE with chili and beans,” says Wyatt.
“Joel, shut up,” Mooney says, feeling light headed at the mention of food. “Just stop talking.”
The boys push several of the student desks together and lay the bodies on top of them.
“Check this out,” says Williams. “Somebody carved into this desk,
Nobody laughs. Eckhardt drapes the American flag over the three body bags.
The carvings on the desks give Mooney the creeps. The memory of the normal world haunts this school in a very real way. It is too easy to close one’s eyes and picture thirty bored teenagers trying to stay awake so they can figure out what their biology teacher is telling them.
Standing here in this classroom makes him feel like he is in a museum.
