Tooth and Nail (16 page)

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.

An old man in hospital scrubs, dragging his gnarled legs behind him, leers up at him, sniggering and drooling. The hand reaches out and grips his ankle again. The bloody mouth opens in satisfaction:
Ah.

Mooney screams and bayonets the man in the forehead, then promptly drops his rifle, falls on his ass and pisses himself.

The other boys gather around.

“Hardcore, Mooney,” says Finnegan, excited. “Good on ya.”

Wyatt says, “Another notch in the belt for the killah.”

McGraw helps Mooney back onto his feet. “You okay, Private?”

“I think so, Sergeant.”

“All right. Retrieve your weapon.”

Wyatt laughs hysterically. Mooney glares at him. The noise returns. The boys instantly form a circle facing outward, establishing a defensive perimeter. Mooney pulls the bayonet out of the skull of the Mad Dog he killed, fighting back another urge to vomit and trying to ignore the unsettling sensation of wetness running down his pant leg.

McGraw signals at them to follow him across the room. Pausing at a secondary door leading into another hallway, he places his ear against it and listens.

The sound electrifies them.

Mooney feels a hand on his ankle.

He looks down, his heart racing, but sees nothing there. He shakes his leg a little to free himself of the lingering feeling.

The sergeant makes a fist and punches the air several times in the direction of the door.
Prepare for action.
Mooney and the other boys raise their weapons, ready to fire.

McGraw opens the door.

The hall beyond is packed with Mad Dogs, many wearing paper gowns, others filthy and naked, waste running down their legs, shoving and drooling with their breath rattling in their chests. A wave of stink assails the soldiers, making them wince and their eyes fill with water. PFC Chen lowers his carbine and turns away, gagging.

The Mad Dogs begin growling.

Before either side makes a move, Mooney steps forward and kicks the door closed. Instantly, a score of hands begin clawing and banging on the door, which vibrates on its hinges.

“I didn’t get to shoot my weapon!” Wyatt complains.

“That was quick thinking,” McGraw says. “Private Mooney just saved our asses.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“I think we just stumbled on an army of them,” he explains. “The mother lode.”

The boys of First Squad exit the classroom out the other door and enter the hallway. McGraw points at his eyes with his index and middle fingers of his left hand, telling the security team to come forward. He holds his rifle over his head and points in the direction of the corner. He extends his flattened palm towards them.

The boys give him the thumbs up. They understand that the enemy has been sighted and is around the corner, and that they are to stay where they are.

The Sergeant quietly approaches the corner, peers around it, and instantly pulls his head back, holding up a finger to indicate that he guesses there are as many as a hundred hostiles occupying the hallway. He flashes several number signs and then bangs his fists together, telling them the enemy is about fifteen meters down the corridor.

Time to report this discovery to the LT.

He signals the squad to stay put in a defensive posture, and returns to the classroom. The Mad Dogs are still focused on the door, scraping at it with their nails. He gives the door the finger, and then keys his handset.

“War Dogs Two-Six, War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-One, how copy, over?”

“War Dogs Two, message follows, break. Be advised that we have identified a large group of Mad Dogs. Maybe two hundred of them, over.”

McGraw grimaces and says, “Request alternative course of action, over.”

“I say again: Request alternative course of action. Over.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

He returns to the hallway. The boys look at him expectantly. Prepare for action, he signs to them, punching his first.

He tells First Squad’s two SAW gunners that they will move forward, occupy the T intersection ahead, and set up a base of fire. The two grenadiers, Corporal Eckhardt and PFC Rollins, will shoot grenades into the enemy force from the flanks with their M203s, wreaking havoc while buying time for the SAW gunners to set up. The rest will provide support as well as security on their flanks.

The boys give the Sergeant a thumbs-up, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

They want to do this. They want action. For them, it’s payback time. McGraw raises his arm and does a single backstroke, telling First Squad to line up behind him in column file formation with the SAW gunners in the middle. He raises both arms and pushes his flattened palms toward each other until the boys tighten up their intervals to his satisfaction. The length of the column is now about the width of the hallway. Pumping his fist up and down, he tells them they will move at a slow run.

Finally, he does a wide forward “follow me” wave, telling them to move out.

His shooters jog into the open across the hallway, attracting the attention of the Mad Dogs, who snarl at them. A dozen immediately run towards the soldiers.

“Let ’em have it!” McGraw roars, unloading his shotgun at the closest infected and knocking them down with a single blast spraying more than twenty-five pellets of high-velocity buckshot. On his left, the boys hit the ground as Eckhardt and Rollins open up with their M203s, firing high-explosive forty-millimeter grenades over the heads of the Mad Dogs, tearing apart the infected crowded together about halfway down the hall.

Then the SAWs open up, tracers flying in blurred red sparks, knocking over Mad Dogs like bowling pins. They are far enough from the Mad Dogs that the weapons’ beaten zones—the area of ground on which the cone of fire falls—covers the width of the hallway almost perfectly with minimal shifting fire. In other words, a turkey shoot. The guns spit out hundreds of empty shell casings, which ring against the floor and roll away. The devastation is so horrible, so complete and so disorienting that many of the Mad Dogs run straight into each other and into walls. But they do not stop. They do not appear to know fear, only an endless murderous rage that is now directed at First Squad’s eight soldiers.

McGraw crouches behind one of the SAW gunners.

“You’re aiming too high, ” he says, watching the tracers. “Give them grazing fire, Ratliff.”

More come spilling out of a side hallway. McGraw realizes he was wrong. There aren’t two hundred Mad Dogs.

There are at least twice that.

A grenade becomes armed several moments early and explodes near the ceiling, bringing acoustic tile, fluorescent light fixtures, twisted metal tubing and water falling onto the heads of the onrushing horde. A severed arm flies spinning down the hallway and sails over Mooney’s head, making him flinch.

“Did you see that?” Wyatt says.

“Out of HE, switching to buckshot!” Rollins calls out, coughing on dust and smoke.

“All right, Mooney, Wyatt, Finnegan, Chen, it’s time to get in the game,” McGraw says.

“About time,” Wyatt yelps, and begins shooting with his carbine, a sustained series of metallic bangs. “Get some!”

“Rollins, you got any WP grenades?”

“I got three, Sergeant.”

“Keep them handy in case we need to get out of here in a hurry and lay down some smoke to disorient the enemy.”

“Not a problem, Sergeant.”

“Take your time,” McGraw tells his riflemen. “Choose your targets. Conserve your ammo. Make your shots count.”

Mooney lines up his carbine’s barrel using its iron sights, takes aim at the center of a woman’s torso, and fires a short metallic burst on semi-auto,
pop pop
.

The carbine recoil hums against his shoulder, the spent shell casings fly into the air from its eject port, and then she is down. In close quarters marksmanship training, the Army taught him to fire two to the chest and one to the head to decisively neutralize an enemy. Here, however, he does not have to stop the enemy from shooting back, only stop them from advancing. No fancy shooting is needed; he only has to throw enough lead at each target to put them on the floor with the least amount of physical energy.

In fact, it is horribly easy for the squad to massacre all of these people. They are just flesh and bone.

“Reloading!” Eckhardt cries.

Mooney aims and fires again, and a man in BDUs just like his own drops onto the growing mound of corpses and body parts.

And again. And again.

The 5.56-mm rounds are high-velocity bullets that often plow straight through the body, tumbling in their trajectory and shredding organs and tissue as they pass through.

“Reloading!”

After a while, Mooney lets the training take over his body, giving his numb brain a rest and a chance to detach from the horror.

“How do you like me now?” Wyatt yells.

A pack of children dash towards the soldiers, snarling, hands reaching. “Oh, Lord,” Carrillo says, nearly blind with tears, and cuts them down with several bursts of his SAW.

“Reloading!” Mooney calls out.

The Mad Dogs never even get close.

Sergeant McGraw waves his hand in front of his face and yells, “Cease fire, cease fire!”

Mooney slumps against the row of metal lockers behind him and gulps air in quick gasps. The air is thick with cordite and an odor combining the rotten sour-milk stink of the infected with the sickly metallic smell of fresh blood.

The smoke hangs in the air like a shroud.

“That was starting to look a little dicey,” says Ratliff, checking his SAW’s ammo box. “I only got about ten rounds left on the belt.”

Carrillo stares at the carnage while smoke rises up from his SAW, which started to overheat at the end.

“One of those kids looked just like my sister Jenny’s boy,” he rasps quietly, as if he is losing his voice. “But they’re supposed to be in Florida. You don’t think?”

“Naw,” Ratliff says. He looks around for the Sergeant, sees that the man’s back is turned, and pulls down his mask to light a cigarette. “Couldn’t be.”

“But it looked just like him,” Carrillo says. “His name’s Robbie.”

“I can’t believe this freaking carnage,” Wyatt says. “It’s ten times bigger than the hospital. It’s mad sick, like a video game, yo.”

Nearby, Chen quietly retches against the wall, moaning and mumbling to himself.