at least give them that.
Five days later Grant arrived in Franklin. The 112th had beaten him there and were already well prepared for the East’s first major counteroffensive against the plague. The plan, if it could be called that, was simply to cross the Mississippi, push as far west as possible and kill everything they came across, then fall back to reinforce the border until another offensive could be launched. The military command knew the dead didn’t breed. They wanted to thin out their numbers and, step by step, expand the border westward until they reached the Pacific, making the US whole once more.
The 112th was just one of many regiments sent across the river at various points, but it was newly formed and composed of mainly green troops who’d never seen combat. Grant wondered if Edgar had assigned him to that particular regiment because they were the least likely to make it back.
He shook the dark thoughts from his head as he marched up the steps of the town’s administrative building, headed to report in to the regiment’s commanding officer, General Peter Alves. Alves had the reputation of being a hard ass who got things done, a competent leader despite his personality and lack of social skills. He’d climbed the ranks quickly, but always seemed to end up with the worst or most dangerous missions on his plate.
As soon as Grant walked in, a young man dressed in an aide’s uniform rushed to meet him. “Mr. Grant?” he asked, outstretching his hand.
“Yes.” Grant shook with him. “How did you know?”
“You were expected, sir. Besides, you sure ain’t from around here. No one here wears clothes as fancy as yours. You just had to be from New York, sir.”
Grant laughed. “I’m here to report in to General Alves.”
“I know, sir. The general’s busy though. I’m sorry. However, he did leave orders as to where you’re being accommodated.”
“Accommodated?”
“Sorry, sir. I mean as to which platoon you’ll be traveling with.”
Grant felt his stomach turn. The general was putting him off in more ways than one. “You mean I won’t be traveling with the general himself?”
“No. Let’s see… You’re being placed under the care of Sergeant Robert Hank. He’s a veteran, sir. The general said he’d be more than able to not only ensure your safety while you’re with us, but also be able to show you what it’s really like to be fighting the dead.”
“Wonderful.” Grant faked a smile. Things just kept getting better and better. “Where can I find this Sergeant Hank?”
“He and his men are in the barracks just across town. Do you want me to escort you there?”
“No,” Grant said, and he turned and walked out of the building. He was just about done being cast aside, and he was having a tough time holding his anger in check. Surely, he figured, things couldn’t get any worse.
The dead thing raised its head to look at the surrounding soldiers, straining against the ropes that held it to the post in the middle of the training field.
“Fire!” Hank ordered.
A chorus of rifle cracks erupted as Winchesters spat empty shell casings and soldiers pumped fresh rounds into their chambers. When the cacophony ended, the dead thing still twitched and rolled its head back and forth, emitting a low, hoarse moan.
Hank spun to face the dozen new recruits who’d just riddled the thing’s body with holes. “What the hell’s the problem here?” he asked, screaming in the face of the closest private. “I ordered you men to kill that thing! Why isn’t it dead?”
No one answered.
“You want to know why?” Hank drew his revolver and put a bullet into the dead thing’s forehead. Its body slumped, limp against the post. “You didn’t shoot the damn thing in the head!” Hank pointed across the river at the other shore, far off in the distance. “And when you’re over there, if you don’t shoot for the head you won’t just be wasting ammo and my time, you’ll be dead just like
Hank lowered his voice. “A headshot is the only way to take one of those things down and make sure it stays that way.” He cut his normal sermon short as a man in an expensive suit approached the training area. “All of you back here in an hour. We’ll try this shit again then. Dismissed!”
The privates scattered in fear of their sergeant’s rage, and the man in the suit clapped. “Commendable speech,” he said, not offering to shake hands. “I’m Jacob Grant from Harper’s; I was told you’d be taking care of me when we go across.”
“You’re going to have to take care of yourself, mister. These greenhorns ain’t worth a load of cow dung yet. It’ll be all I can do to take care of myself.”
“Nonetheless, I suppose I’m going to be a part of your platoon now, according to General Alves.” Grant’s eyes came to rest on the corpse tied to the post; it looked as if it had been rotting for days. “My God… That thing really took a dozen rounds and was still alive?”
“No, it wasn’t alive. But it was still hungry. They’ll keep coming at you as long as they can move.”
“But it’s dead now?”
“Dead as a doornail. Destroy their brain and they’re restin’ peaceful again like God intended.”
Grant kept staring at the corpse.
“Relax,” Hank assured him. “The only way you can get the plague is if one of them bites you or scratches you up pretty good.” He looked Grant up and down. “You sure you’re up for this, newsboy?”
“Somebody has to be. People have a right to know the truth about all this. Maybe then we can make sense of it all.”
Hank laughed. “Right.” He realized he was still holding his revolver and tucked it into the holster on his belt. “We ship out at first light, newsboy. I imagine you’ve already been on the road a while, so I suggest you try to get some rest. There may not be any for a long time once we get started. I’ll show you where you can bed down.”
The two men walked away from the corpse, leaving it dripping blood onto the field.
Two
As the sun rose above the Mississippi River, a line of heavy streamers and ferries discharged their living cargo onto the western bank. A few dozen cavalrymen hit the shore first, galloping off into the trees to make sure the surrounding area was clear of the dead; a line of infantrymen followed off the boats. Over two hundred strong, the men fanned out along the shore, taking aim at the tree line to create a safe perimeter for the rest of the regiment to come on land. The whole area was a flurry of activity. Officers ran back and forth, barking orders as Gatling gun emplacements were set up and everyone dug in. Soon the beachhead was secure, with no sign of the enemy. Over a thousand soldiers stood waiting for further orders, eager to push forward.
General Alves and his superiors were well aware this would not be a conventional war. There would be no organized resistance from the enemy. The regiment was to split its allotment of personnel into smaller search- and-destroy platoons of fifty or more men. These platoons would fan apart in a sweeping motion, moving westward ahead of the main force. Many of the platoons would be assigned a specific region or town to investigate along the way before meeting at a pre-established rally point and returning to the main force.
To form up their platoon, Grant and his men fell in with another squad led by an officer named Simon Wayne. Wayne was a distinguished graduate of West Point and would be in charge of their unit with Hank as his second. The group consisted of fifty men total, and their assigned destination was a town named Canton.
Finally the orders came and the regiment was on the move, breaking apart as it marched. As Grant’s platoon broke off to head for their objective, he took one last look at the shrinking body of the main force, hoping whomever had thought up this operation had known what they were doing.
The platoon was over a day out and two days from Canton before they found their first sign of the dead. A corpse lay in the middle of the road, sprawled out beside a wagon, which looked to have been headed east before it lost a wheel. The body was badly decomposed, but one could see that more than the birds had been at it. Pieces of the man lay everywhere, as if they’d been carried off, gnawed on, and discarded. A young private named Ben fell to
