Tooth and Nail (28 page)

All of them now report to a young second lieutenant who happens to be the most senior officer alive in the entire battalion. McGraw watches him and thinks: We’re lucky the man’s competent. It could be much worse. They could have Knight, who is only nominally still in command of Third Platoon, or Bishop, the type of officer who risks lives to advance his career. McGraw has been hearing rumors that Bishop has been telling some of the NCOs that he wanted to lead a party out to try to help the other companies during the massacre. The sooner LT gets him squared away, the better.

“Jake has been combing the nets to come up with a list of assets and threats,” Bowman says. “Mike has been marking them on this map. If we’re going to survive, gentlemen, we need information.”

The NCOs periodically stand on tip toe to improve their view, squinting at the map. McGraw sees a series of colored circles, squares, long smears and triangles littering the length of Manhattan and the river coasts of the boroughs and neighboring states. It is pathetic. In just a few days, the Army has lost control of most of New York City and its population of more than eight million. The color-coded geometric shapes float on the map like islands in an ocean.

We really do have our backs up against the wall, he realizes. Bowman traces his finger across the map and stabs a red square at Battery Park.

“This here is actually what’s left of a mechanized infantry brigade of marines sent to reinforce Warlord before Command decided against it,” he says. “They’ve got two platoons at Fort Clinton and the rest are stationed in Staten Island, which used to be Twenty-Seventh Brigade’s responsibility. After the government here collapsed, Colonel Dixon declared martial law and cleared Staten Island of Mad Dogs.”

Some of the sergeants grin and nudge each other.

“They, uh, do like to take the initiative, so I hear, sir,” Kemper says, making the men laugh.

“Yeah, well, Manhattan’s got a hell of a lot more people than Staten Island,” Hooper says, reminding them that they work for a rival branch of the military and not to give the jarheads too much credit for anything.

“I could get some work done around here if I had some LAVs, too,” another sergeant says.

“Hooah,” somebody mutters.

“Give me some Bradleys and about thirty bulldozers, and I’ll unfuck this island double quick,” somebody shouts from the back, and the NCOs cheer.

“The Marines have got their own problems,” Bowman says loudly, regaining control. “The only reason the Marines are on Staten Island to begin with is it was being used as a staging point to reinforce us here in Manhattan. The boats dropped off two platoons in Battery Park, then the Brass called off the game and the units ended up stranded. Now they’re effectively cut off from their main force and they are not being resupplied.”

The NCOs stop smiling. If military units in the area stop being supplied, then eventually they will start looting to survive, and once an army crosses that line, they cease being an army and become a rabble—part of the problem, not the solution.

Bowman adds, “Meanwhile, Dixon’s low on food, ammo and fuel, he has a man down out of every four, and he’s now governor and de facto chief of police of an island with nearly five hundred thousand people on it. That’s a half a million people getting hungrier, sicker and more pissed off by the minute.”

The sergeants bury their faces in their coffee mugs, chastened. Bowman returns to the map, pointing at police stations where at least a few cops are trying to hold it together, Financial District and municipal buildings occupied by ragtag National Guard units and the Brigade’s civilian affairs unit, a bridge still held by military police and engineers, and Twenty-Six Federal Plaza, where a handful of FBI agents, immigration officials, Federal judges and their families are apparently holed up. Manhattan is riddled with islands and pockets of friendly units, but nobody is strong enough to link up with anybody else or project their power. The marines at Battery Park might as well be on the Moon. The only real estate any of these units truly controls is right under their feet.

McGraw believes there could be up to fifty, even a hundred thousand Mad Dogs in Manhattan alone. The population grew fast because the problem started mostly in the hospitals and there were thousands upon thousands of people there, lying helpless and easily infected, like tightly packed kindling awaiting a spark. The good news is the Mad Dog population does not appear to be growing as fast as it was. The hospitals have been emptied and most people are staying home, denying the virus a plentiful source of new bodies. In any case, the Mad Dogs now appear to be concentrated into sizable mobs that often end up killing anybody they come into contact with instead of infecting them. Soon, the number of Mad Dogs on the streets is going to start declining as they suffer a massive die-off. The war might end soon if everybody just stays hidden and waits.

Somebody asks about the three yellow boxes in Brooklyn and Queens. “I was getting to them,” Bowman answers. “As far as I can tell, they’re deserters. Nothing bigger than a platoon at this point, but it’s another thing that Twenty-Fifth Brigade has to worry about that’s out there.”

The sergeants glance at each other. The country must really be on the brink of collapse if the Army is starting to fall apart.

But the real problem isn’t people leaving the Army, the LT tells them. He adds quickly: “The real problem, it seems, is the Army leaving us.” His finger traces along Brooklyn’s western coast, a long green smear. “This is Second Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Colonel Guzman. He’s in a good position.”

Another green smear along the north coast of Queens.

“This is two companies of First Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Colonel Powers. He took a real beating last night and is barely holding it together.”

He points at a red X in the South Bronx.

“This is the last known position of the other two companies of First Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Captain Marsh. We have lost all contact with his command. It is believed to have been destroyed.”

The NCOs murmur and step from foot to foot, suddenly restless and angry.

Bowman taps his finger on a blue square in midtown.

“This is us here. First Battalion, Eighth Brigade.”

He points to a blue rectangle in Jersey City, to the west.

“This is Second Battalion, commanded by Colonel Rose,” he says.

“We’re what’s left of the Crazy Eights.”

“Wait, where’s Quarantine?” one of the NCOs calls out.

Bowman shakes his head. “We have lost contact with Quarantine. Colonel Winters and his command are MIA. We are now trying to. . . .” He gives up talking as the non-coms begin murmuring loudly among themselves.

Their headquarters, and all its logistics and signal units—even the brigade band—has disappeared without a trace somewhere across the Hudson River in Jersey City.

“Listen up!” Kemper roars, quieting them instantly.

“The Twenty-Fifth is being loaded onto transports to be taken down the coast to Virginia,” Bowman tells them. “Immunity is withdrawing from the region. As far as I can tell, the new strategy is to consolidate in the more rural areas of the country, where the Mad Dog population is smaller and more dispersed, particularly the bread basket—”

“What about us, LT?” McGraw says. “What are we doing here?” Bowman shakes his head.

“That’s just the thing. I honestly don’t know. Eighth Brigade has not been issued evac orders for the time being, and Division isn’t telling us why.”

“What about Los Angeles? Is it being abandoned? I got people there, sir.”

“This is a goddamn disgrace!”

Several of the other sergeants start shouting at once.

“I already told you everything I know,” Bowman yells over them.

Sherman is pushing his way through the crowd. He reaches Kemper and hands him a piece of paper.

The LT adds: “So we’re going to hunker down here for a while and reorganize our unit. We’re also going to start training for a new mission.”

Kemper reads the note and glances sharply at the RTO, his face reddening.

Bowman continues, “We’re going to try to salvage the equipment H&S Company left when they got overrun. They had weapons, food, water, medicine in storage. An ammo dump. If we don’t get it, the locals will pick it clean. We need those supplies to remain combat effective.”

“How are we supposed to get to H&S?” says Ruiz. “They were over a mile away from here when they were overrun.”

Bowman smiles and says, “We’re going to innovate.”

Kemper approaches and says something into the LT’s ear. By the time he finishes, Bowman is visibly angry, leaving the sergeants wondering.

“Put it on the map,” says the LT.

The Platoon Sergeant draws a yellow border around Second Battalion in Jersey City. Bowman turns to the NCOs.

“Uh, Jake has just heard from Division that we are to avoid any contact with Second Battalion over in Jersey City,” he says. “Colonel Rose and his XO, Major Boyle, are reported dead. Captain Warner is in command, and he is refusing to obey orders.”

McLeod finishes mopping the hallway in the Asylum—what the boys call the wing where they put the soldiers turned Mad Dog—and walks slowly down the virtually empty hall, reading the names carved into the boards nailed over the doors. The visitors are all long gone, as the inmates have all turned Mad Dog.

He passes by one that reads,
JAMES LYNCH
.

Behind the boarded up door, he can hear Maddy pacing in his boots, growling.

“If you had a longer life span, I’d join you,” McLeod says. “Seeing as your side seems to be winning this thing, and all.”

James Lynch snarls and throws his shoulder against the door, making McLeod take a step backward, almost spilling his bucket. Down the hall, Private Becker from Third Platoon, posted on sentry duty, watches and shakes his head.

McLeod grins and waves, then checks his watch. Lunch time. He decides to take his MRE onto the roof to watch Sergeant Lewis bang away at Maddy with his rifle.

He arrives to find the roof empty except for a smiling Private Williams, leading one of the female civilians by the hand. They disappear behind one of the HVAC units.

McLeod walks to the parapet, sets down his SAW, and looks out over the city.

New York.

What a view. Even dying of this horrible cancer, it’s beautiful. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” he says into the chilly air, quoting a poem he read once in English class, in what seems to him now to have been another life.
“Allah akhbar.”

It has never been so quiet. There are no cars moving, no shrill sirens, no babble of voices. Smoke drifts over the looming skyline as fires rage unchecked. Garbage and sewage are tossed out of windows into streets choked with corpses.

Mercifully, the wind blows south, carrying the stench out over the ocean.

A single helicopter buzzes in the distance. McLeod recognizes it as an observation helicopter. Division’s air support is wasting no more fuel or ordnance on New York City. The sky belongs to the birds now, feasting on the dead.

He rips his MRE open and looks down at the street.

It is deserted. Nothing for Sergeant Lewis to bang away at except drifting garbage and a pack of feral dogs, even if he were here. Soon, even the dogs are gone.

Like looking at the frozen peaks of mountains, once the majesty wears off, New York’s skyline could not be more depressing for human survival. There is no money, only a barter economy with little to barter. Few people here have the skills they will need to survive for the next few months. There is no electricity, no plumbing, no sewage, no health system, and little hope for the future. And oh yeah, if you step outside for the next few weeks, you will probably be killed. Long term, your prospects are even worse.

Across the street, somebody taped a sign on the window of a private office, facing outward, that says,
TRAPPED, HELP
. The office appears to be empty.

“Mind if I join you?”

McLeod turns and sees a middle-aged man wearing a neat suit, cardigan sweater and tie, fiddling with a transistor radio.

“Sure.” He nods at the radio. “What are you getting?”

“Nothing local, obviously,” the man says cheerfully. “But I am receiving an AM news station out of Pittsburgh. The government has a cure for Mad Dog disease, they say. It’s only a matter of time now before they fix this and we can get things back to normal.”

McLeod checks out his lunch. Pork rib. With clam chowder as a side. He rips open a packet of barbecue sauce and slathers it onto the ribs.

“You think so?” he says.

“Sure,” the man says.

“So what did you do before?”

“I am a professor at Columbia University.”

“I was going to go to college.”

“You still can, my boy. You got your whole life ahead of you.” He sets the radio down on the parapet and takes out a pipe. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Help yourself, Professor,” McLeod says, his cheek bulging with food.

“You can call me Dr. Potter.”

“Okay, Dr. Potter.”

“I’m joking, young man. You can call me Dave.”

McLeod shrugs. “Okay, Dave.”

They listen to the radio together. A reporter recaps a statement that the Secretary of Health and Human Services made earlier in the day.

Blah, blah, blah, McLeod thinks.

“Do they do any local reporting, Dave?” he asks.

The question appears to startle Potter, who finishes lighting his pipe before answering. The puffs of smoke smell like cherries.

“No,” he says. “They always report from the FEMA bunker at Mount Weather down in Virginia. Which is natural, since that’s where the government is these days. CNN and MSNBC and CBS, they’re all there. They are still operational. That’s a good sign.”