Slaughterhouse
Stephen Knight

Craig DiLouie

Joe McKinney


The Retreat #2






Episode Two of the highly acclaimed THE RETREAT series, from three of zombie fiction’s most popular authors! 

With Laughter, Comes Death… 

Emerging from the smoking ruins of Boston, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee leads the First Battalion, 55th Infantry Regiment on a perilous trek to its besieged home post of Fort Drum. Along the way, the unit must battle through the legions of diseased killers lying in wait, evading clever ambushes and fighting through terrifying attacks. Lee struggles to hold the battalion together while epitomizing its motto, “Bounding Forward.” 






THE RETREAT

Episode Two: Slaughterhouse




















ONE.


Beantown burned.

Dark clouds hovered over the city as thunder boomed with irregular pulses, like the faltering, erratic beat of a titanic heart moments before it finally failed. But the clouds were made of smoke, and the inconsistent rumblings were not that of thunder, but explosions. Artillery, the King of Battle, was firing its final salvos before the curtain finally fell on the stage of murder, death, and madness. Boston was took its final bow, and the crowd went wild.

A wildness born from laughing insanity.

The Infected pranced and darted through the smoke-filled gloom, sticking out their tongues, trying to catch the falling ashes as if they were snowflakes. They carried grisly trophies—severed hands, heads, breasts, penises. They came from all walks of life. Postal workers. Firemen. Doctors. Winos. Actors. Carpenters. Criminals. Priests. Housewives. Dotcom executives. Insurance salesmen. All laughing, cackling in uncontrollable glee as they chased down the ones who cried, who tried to fight, who tried to flee. The adults were easy to catch. The children were tougher, but they earned a special place among the Klowns.

The Infected impaled the young and carried them past Faneuil Hall, writhing and shrieking, living effigies of the prey they hunted.

The Klowns did what the British had only dreamed of centuries earlier. In less than two months, the city of Boston had been murdered, dying a death of a thousand cuts, courtesy of rusty, salt-encrusted blades.




TWO.


“Wizard Six, this is Tomcat Six. Over.”

Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee could barely hear the lead Apache pilot over the roar of twin turboshaft engines and the pounding beat of rotor blades. Through his Humvee’s windscreen, he could see attack helicopters swarming a mile downrange, twenty AH-64D Apache Longbows flanked by four smaller OH-58D Kiowa Warriors. The convoy hadn’t even passed the gate yet, and already, the helicopters were orbiting over North Great Road.

Lee picked up the AN/VRC-89 Single Channel Ground Air Radio System’s handset and put it to his ear. “Tomcat Six, Wizard Six. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. Some light enemy formations on Route Two-Alpha just past phase line alpha, oriented east to west. Looks like a blocking force. They’ve got fire trucks and heavy construction equipment moving toward the intersection of, ah, Two-Alpha and Hanscom Drive. We’d like to go to guns on them, right now. Over.”

Lee grimaced. Phase line alpha was the convoy’s first waypoint, an intersection less than half a mile away, where Hanscom Drive terminated at Route 2A, a two lane route that traveled east to west. The gunships had made a pass five minutes ago and reported that the route was clear. Several columns of black smoke were rising into the air, testament to the fact the Apaches had already had a brief workout. But the Klowns were coming again, and this time with different apparatuses. Lee had to think fast.

The Apaches and their lighter-armed scouts were the unit’s mailed fist, capable of delivering ordnance onto targets miles away. They could decimate an entire skyscraper, if necessary, and had even been used to level hospitals that housed the Infected. But the gunships were a finite resource, and they were needed for the long haul, so he couldn’t have them blast everything on the street and expect them to be ready for the next fight without touching down and rearming. With Hanscom Air Force Base fading in the Humvee’s side view mirrors, Lee didn’t know where the next secure landing zone would be. In the air, the helicopters were death incarnate. On the ground, they were soft targets, like fat old men wearing wife-beater T-shirts that rose up over their bellies, flabby midsections exposed for all to see.

Lee keyed the microphone. “Tomcat, Wizard. One pass. Make a hole for us and then secure phase line bravo. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. We’ll make a fast run and report results. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat. Break. Bushmaster, this is Wizard. Over.”

“Go for Bushmaster. Over.”

“Marsh, you and your guys are up. Whatever the aviators leave for us, your team has to push through. Keep going to phase line bravo and hold the line for Chaos to hop past, just like the plan. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Bushmaster’s on the move. Over.”

“Glad we’re not up front, sir.” Staff Sergeant Michael Murphy said. He kept both hands on the wheel of the Humvee, and for once, a customary wad of chew tucked wasn’t tucked into his mouth.

That suited Lee just fine. He’d always thought the habit was disgusting.

“That’ll change soon enough,” Lee told him.

At every phase line, a couple of squads would fall out of formation, secure the objective, and maintain that security until the rest of the convoy rolled past. The time would come when part of Lee’s headquarters element would need to stop and take their turn. Lee had already decided that he would participate in the operation. Even though it made little tactical sense for him to do so, the subdued lieutenant colonel insignia on his Army Combat Uniform weren’t actually his. He’d taken them from the battalion’s former commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Prince, something that was both irregular and illegal. Without formal promotion, Lee had no right to the rank, but the world had changed. Boston had fallen to the Infected, and he was pretty certain Fort Drum had gone down as well. Lee had assumed command of the remains of First Battalion because the only remaining ranking officer, Major Walker, had declared himself unfit to lead. Not that Lee was thought of himself as particularly suited to it, either. After less than fifteen years in the service, his official rank was captain, and he hadn’t even been designated as promotable to major. To make the transition from company grade to field grade command was one hell of a big step, and Lee knew more than a few officers and enlisted men weren’t just confused by the sudden reorganization, but also resented him for it. Prince—God rest his soul—had been vetted by the Army before being given command of the One Fifty-Five. Lee hadn’t, and even though he was senior in his grade, he still had some things to prove to the rest of the battalion.

One of the first things he had tried to do after assuming command was reach out to the commanding officer of the attack helicopter battalion, a lieutenant colonel named Jacoby. Lee didn’t know the man personally, though he had certainly seen him during ops meetings. But Jacoby had died earlier that day, when his AH-64D went down in a ball of flame. The unit XO, Major Fleischer, hadn’t been interested in Lee’s problems.

“You want to be a lieutenant colonel, you go right ahead,” Fleischer had told him. “I’ve got my own unit to run. We’ll provide all the close air support we can, but if you’re going to put on another man’s rank, then that’s on you. You’re in control of everything below an altitude of fifteen feet.”

“Will you take direction from me?” Lee asked.

Fleischer didn’t even bat an eye. “As far as I know, Wizard Six is still the same guy we were talking to yesterday. So long as you don’t throw us to the wolves, we’ll be there.” Fleischer pointedly didn’t use the word sir, but that didn’t matter to Lee. All he needed was to ensure the aviation units would honor the improvisational org chart.

And that had been it. Harry Lee had become the commanding officer of the 1


 Battalion, 55


 Infantry Regiment, one of the subordinate units of the 10


 Mountain Division (Light Infantry). And because of the irregular chain of command he and Walker had established, Lee felt honor bound to personify the battalion’s motto of Bounding Forward. He had to pull his own weight during the movement back to Drum, and if that meant exposing himself to danger, then that was what he would do.

“Well, let’s not make a habit of getting into dust-ups, Colonel,” Murphy said. “Let’s just concentrate on getting back to Drum, okay?”

“That’s what we’re doing, Mike. That’s what we’re doing.”

Foster dropped down from where he had been manning the big pintle-mounted M2 .50 caliber machinegun in the Humvee’s cupola. “Hey, Murphy? When we finally halt, do me a favor?”

“You want to dance, sweetheart?”

“Huh. No, you couldn’t keep up with me, and I know you hate the way I lead. But when we do finally stop, could you dismount and jump up and down for a while?”

Murphy kept his eyes on the road. “What the fuck for?”

“I’m just hoping that your balls will eventually drop,” Foster said. “You might be full of chewing tobacco, but you’re a little light on the warrior ethic, bro.”

“Check it out, sir. Give a guy a fifty, and all of a sudden he’s a crossbreed of Rambo and Patton,” Murphy said.

Lee smiled vaguely. “Get back on your weapon, Foster.”

Foster nodded. “Hooah.”




THREE.


“One bag of dicks, coming up,” Sergeant First Class Renner said.

Captain Terrence Marsh cradled his M4 carbine in his lap as the uparmored M1116 High Mobility Multi-purpose Wheeled Vehicle—better known in the military as a Humvee—barreled down a tree-lined avenue called Hanscom Drive. The road connected the Air Force base behind them with Route 2A, and even though it was a dual-use road, it had been closed off by the military weeks ago. Just the same, it was dotted with bodies here and there, bloated corpses enveloped in black clouds of flies. Part of Hanscom Air Force Base’s housing community lay off to their left, hidden behind a fairly thin screen of trees. Marsh wished they had razed the trees, so they would have better visibility. While the Air Force had evacuated most of the families from the base, not everyone had been accounted for. Many of them had most likely become infected, and the last thing Marsh wanted was to get into a fight before they even made it to their first phase line. For that reason, he had ordered the soldier manning the Mk 19 grenade launcher in the Humvee’s cupola to maintain a refused left position and keep his weapon trained on the tree line that separated the four-lane road from the housing development.

“Make it tasty,” Marsh said as he stared out the Humvee’s bullet-resistant windows.

Downrange, two Apaches hovered over the intersection, their noses oriented to the west. Light flared beneath their stubby wings, and each aircraft ripped off four Mark 66 rockets. Equipped with fourteen-pound warheads, the seventy-millimeter rockets zipped across the sky, trailing wispy columns of black smoke. The weapons arced toward the ground and disappeared behind the trees, striking targets Marsh couldn’t see.

“Fight’s on,” Renner said in the same tone one would use to discuss the weather. He drove the last vehicle in the column of four Humvees and one M925 five-ton cargo truck carrying two squads of lightfighters.

First Lieutenant Haberman would position his element just past the mouth of Hanscom Drive and secure the Concord Turnpike’s eastern approach in a bid to deny enemy incursion from the east. Marsh’s Humvee would turn right, away from Haberman’s element, and continue on down the turnpike. Phase line alpha was the tactical designation for the traffic circle just past Concord, where a state police barracks sat across from the Massachusetts Correctional Institute. Marsh’s three Humvees and one M925 truck full of lightfighters would stop at the western side of the rotary and dismount. Using their vehicles, the soldiers would form a temporary blocking force that would effectively close off the incoming travel lanes that fed the circle. The element directly behind Marsh—also comprised of Bravo Company troops—would secure the eastern side of the rotary. This, coupled with Marsh’s blocking force, would provide the convoy with safe passage through the area and onto the westbound Union Turnpike. Bravo Company—the Bushmasters—would hold that position until the convoy’s rolling stock had passed through. Marsh would then collapse the blocking force and rejoin the formation, initially playing rear guard until the next phase line, where they would leapfrog forward through the column until they took their next position. That would be at phase line golf, a few hours away.

“Let’s hope they let us get some,” said one of the soldiers in back, an E-5 named Weir. He was a beefy kid from Minnesota, and the rest of the soldiers called him Lars the Viking because of his wide frame, pasty skin, and blond hair.

“Let’s hope they don’t,” Marsh said. “After what we went through at Cambridge, we probably want to save the beans and bullets for when we really need ’em.” The Bushmasters had spent days holed up in Harvard, and Marsh had presided over the gradual attrition of his company. After that, the company commander found he had little stomach for fighting. Hiding was even worse, since that only led to eventual discovery, but fighting was no stroll through the park, either. What Marsh wanted, what he craved right now, was movement, constant movement, the never-ending sound of the Humvee’s big, knobby tires wailing across pavement. He figured they would occupy phase line alpha for no more than ten minutes, and they were guaranteed Apache top cover. Three other units would stop with them, so they would have three fifties, two Mk 19s, and twenty-five lightfighters on station to deal with whatever the Klowns threw at them. Everyone was carrying their weapons in condition red, so if the Klowns came, there wouldn’t be any discussion.

“All right, shooters, let’s go full MOPP,” Marsh said. He pulled off his helmet and slipped on his Mission Oriented Protection Posture chemical/biological overgarment over his head, then slipped on the face mask.

The gunner in the open-air cupola was already fully manned up in MOPP IV gear, the highest level of protection against nuclear, biological, and chemical attacks available to the soldiers. Since the primary mission of the Klowns seemed to be spreading their infection, something more was needed than the slatted metal armor that afforded the gunner fair ballistic protection but did not provide much in the way of deterring biological contamination. The battalion had lost numerous troops to the “dirty bombs” used by the Infected, usually balloons filled with piss or other biologicals, and it had been decided that front-line combatants would conduct operations only under MOPP IV conditions.

Only SFC Renner remained unmasked, as he wouldn’t be exiting the vehicle unless the shit really hit the fan, and in that case his mask was close at hand. The troops had rolled down their sleeves, pulled on gloves, and ensured their ACU trousers were tightly bloused and taped inside their boots. Everyone was already sweating despite the Humvee’s air conditioned interior. The upcoming sultry summer day didn’t promise much in the way of relief. Hydration was going to become a primary concern because the CBR X CamelBak hydration systems the troops had been issued only held three liters of water, which probably wouldn’t last long in the mounting heat and humidity. Despite the protection against contamination, the MOPP IV gear paved the way for substantial tactical degradation. The bulky outfits reduced mobility, visibility, manual dexterity, and the ability to communicate, even with radios. While the gear would buy them some time against biological attacks, the soldiers of First Battalion were going to have trouble just shooting the Klowns.

The convoy reached the intersection, and Haberman’s element broke off to the left, then came to a halt in the middle of Route 2A. Renner pulled the vehicle to the right and accelerated down the highway. Marsh looked out his window. The Humvee drifted perilously close to the guardrail that separated the road from a fallow field. The railing soon ended, only to be replaced by a stone wall set eight feet from the roadway.

Then that petered out, and Marsh stared at more trees as the vehicle slowly accelerated to forty miles per hour.

God damn Humvees…a 1970 VW Beetle has better acceleration.

He checked the side view mirror. The rest of the element turned onto the road behind him as Haberman’s unit dismounted. Rotors thumped overhead, but it didn’t sound like an Apache or a scout. Marsh looked up, and saw a helicopter in red and blue livery pacing the element. A large, stylized number 5 adorned the helicopter’s fuselage, and light reflected off a gimbal-mounted camera slung beneath the helicopter’s nose. The camera was pointed directly at the Humvee.

“Hey, we’re on TV,” Weir said, his voice muffled behind his mask.

Marsh toggled his tactical radio. “Wizard, this is Bushmaster Two-Six. We’ve got a civilian news chopper shadowing us. Over.”

“Roger, Bushmaster. It’s being handled. Over.”

No sooner had the words come over his headset than two OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopters sprinted onto the scene. One positioned itself between the convoy and the news chopper, while the second trailed behind the civilian bird. The scouts were armed with one modified M2 fifty-caliber machinegun mounted on the left hardpoint, and one seven-shot rocket tube on the right side. The olive-drab helicopters paced the brighter civilian aircraft for a few moments before the guy flying the news chopper got the idea. The helicopter slowly climbed away and turned due south. The Kiowa Warriors maintained their position for a bit longer, then sprinted ahead, rotors thumping—scouts, doing what they were supposed to do.

“Damn, and I didn’t get my close-up,” Renner said. He drove with both hands on the wheel, his eyes unreadable behind his Army-issue Sawfly sunglasses.

“No one wants to see your mug on their TV set, Sergeant,” Marsh told him.

“So I’ve been told,” Renner said. “By my own mother.”

Despite the mounting tension, Marsh laughed behind his gas mask.

For the first half mile of the trip, it was easy to pretend it was just another day, despite the MOPP gear. Then Marsh spotted thick plumes of smoke ahead. They slowly rose into the sky, coiling and winding like slow-witted serpents. The Kiowa Warriors orbited the area at three hundred feet, flying in a clockwise formation.

“Bushmaster, this is Birddog Five. Over.”

“Birddog, go for Bushmaster. Over.”

“Bushmaster, we have some car fires in a parking lot about, uh, three hundred meters from your position. Looks like it’s next to some park. Something went down here, lots of bodies but no activity. You might want to keep an eye on the trees. We don’t see anything through our thermal sights, but that’s not much of an insurance policy. Over.”

Each scout helicopter had a mast-mounted thermal imaging sight above the main rotor. Marsh had checked them out and been impressed with the system’s fidelity, especially at night. The system could also designate targets with a laser, allowing another helicopter to attack with Hellfire missiles or other guided ordnance. Despite their age, relatively low speed, and fairly short range, the little armed scout helicopters were pretty useful where the ground troops were involved, even though their rounded, goggle-eyed mast-mounted sights looked like Kenny from South Park.

“Roger that, Birddog. We are eyes out. Over.”

The scouts broke off and buzzed farther downrange. As Renner guided the Humvee down the vacant two-lane highway and approached a stately old brick house with four chimneys, Marsh saw something lying on the side of the road. He straightened up and leaned toward the window. It was a decapitated corpse. Actually, it was even less than that—as the Humvee drew closer, he saw it was really little more than a bloodied torso. A patina of gore covered the road. He saw the door to the house was standing open, and more bodies lay on the doorstep.

“McNeely, eyes out!” he shouted to the gunner in the cupola.

“You got that right, sir!” the gunner shouted back as the Humvee rolled past the remains.

The two soldiers behind Marsh stirred, and he sensed they were drawing their rifles closer. He did the same thing.

Something was burning less than a hundred feet off the road, in a parking area for the Brooks Village Historical Area, apparently a recreation of an old English town built back in the late 1600s. Marsh had no idea what the minutemen of the Revolutionary War would have made of the conflict that currently embroiled Boston. Hell, Marsh didn’t know what to make of it himself, and he had access to more information than the soldiers of that era could have even dreamed of. All he knew was that it seemed that every other person in the state of Massachusetts had turned into a cackling lunatic who wanted to kill, maim, and desecrate. And infect. Always infect. Marsh kept the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his M4’s pistol grip. Something was going to happen. He could feel it in his bones, and he scanned the trees on either side of the road, waiting for the rush of crazies to flood out onto the asphalt in front of them, carrying all manner of weapons.

Marsh could tell from the set of Renner’s jaw that he was expecting things to go pear-shaped, as well. But as the park with its lot of burning cars receded in the distance, Marsh forced himself to relax. Looking down, he found his right index finger was almost lying across his rifle’s trigger, and that the safety was off. He didn’t remember doing that.

Damn. He clicked the selector back to SAFE.

The convoy continued on, driving down to the Concord Turnpike Cut-Off. There, Marsh led the column to the left, sticking to Route 2A. This would take them along the outskirts of Concord, Massachusetts. They already knew Concord center was in a world of hurt, and they didn’t want to get caught up in anything they weren’t ready to handle. While the battalion was armed to the teeth, the goal was avoid contact with the Killer Clowns for as long as possible.

The road spread out into four lanes, two in each direction, and traffic began to mount. The scout helicopters made some low passes over the cars and trucks, attempting to herd them over into one lane. Renner bullied the traffic in the right lane with the Humvee, forcing civilian vehicles over to the side. Marsh smiled. Nothing like seeing an uparmored Humvee in your rearview mirror, complete with weaponry, bearing down on your ass. Ahead, smoking buildings loomed. Marsh checked his map, and saw it was the remains of Emerson Hospital. That made him nervous. The scouts reported no undue activity, but advised them that traffic began to slow as it drew closer to the traffic circle a few miles ahead.

The convoy rolled past the burnt-out hospital, its parking lots vacant save for a few scattered cars and trucks. And bodies. Lots of bodies. Marsh kept his eyes out. The hospital was doubtless full of raving crazies before they burned it to the ground, so they were probably still in the area. Somewhere. He checked his map again, confirming their location.

“Target!” McNeely shouted.

Marsh snapped his head up. Just ahead, another road intersected the turnpike, overseen by dark, inactive traffic signals. As the Humvee bore down on the opening, a battered school bus appeared, hurtling toward the intersection from the right, slamming cars out of its path. Its yellow hide was splattered with blood, and several of its windows had been shattered. Tied to the bus’s grille were two nude, mutilated bodies of teenagers hanging upside down, the whiteness of their pale flesh offset by the dark cavities in their torsos. They had been eviscerated. Written across one kid’s narrow chest in what appeared to be dried blood or possibly excrement was the word GOOD. Written on the other corpse was FUCKS. As the school bus surged toward the Humvee, it shed all manner of debris from its roof—branches, leaves, brush, anything that could have been used to break up the vehicle’s outline from the air and disguise it beneath the leafy canopies of the trees lining the road. The Klowns manning the vehicle had waited until the Kiowas had flown past, then inched into position, hoping to ambush the Bushmasters.

“Shoot!” Marsh shouted.

His command disappeared amidst the din of the Mk 19 autogrenade launcher as Specialist McNeely opened fire. Forty-millimeter high explosive rounds ripped across the front of the bus, blasting apart its grille and the grisly trophies that had been mounted there, sending plastic and sheet metal and ribbons of flesh whirling through the air. In less than a second, the bus’s diesel engine lay bare after the engine compartment surrounding it disintegrated. Next, the engine itself lurched back like a startled cat, shorn off its mounts by bright sparking explosions of orange flecked with gray as the grenades pulverized it.

But the bus kept coming, a victim of its own momentum. Marsh caught a glimpse of its driver. A woman leaned over the big steering wheel, her face painted with blood, her teeth a brilliant white against the darkness of her wide mouth as she laughed uproariously. Her face disappeared as the second Humvee’s fifty caliber chattered behind them, audible over the Mk 19 as it continued to slam round after round into the bus. The driver exploded as the big rounds lanced through the compartment, blasting her into pieces.

The bus kept rolling, even as McNeely shifted his fire, raising the Mk 19’s barrel until it was firing directly into the bus’s cabin. The grenades exploded, sending a shower of safety glass raining across the street. Marsh watched as the bus’s black bumper seemed to target him, growing larger and larger.

Then, the Humvee darted past like a fortunate fat pig that miraculously managed to bolt across the path of a charging hippo without injury. McNeely spun around in the cupola, continuing to fire at the bus. Seconds later, he stopped. Either the soldier had run out of ammo, or he had remembered his training and ceased fire lest he risk blowing away the friendly vehicles behind him. Marsh heard expended forty-millimeter cartridges rolling around on top of the Humvee as he looked in the side view mirror. Trailing smoke from its ravaged engine compartment and smoldering interior, the bus hurtled through the intersection like a mortally wounded B-17 bomber in an old World War II movie. It slammed into traffic on the opposite side of the roadway in a cacophonous explosion that sent shattered glass and sheet metal flying through the air. The bus plowed halfway over a pickup truck and came to an unceremonious halt, its squared rear end pointing toward the sky. One lane on the eastbound side was blocked by its carcass, but it was out of the westbound lanes entirely. The rest of the convoy would be able to get through.

“McNeely, reload!” Renner shouted. “Reload, reload, reload!”

Marsh faced forward again as several dozen people emerged from the tree line on either side of the turnpike. They grinned slavishly, caught up in the grips of some great hilarity, their eyes bright and aflame with madness. Some were naked, adorned with necklaces of fingers, ears, hands, and feet. Others wore clothing, from jeans and sneakers to police uniforms to business suits. They carried all manner of implements, from chainsaws to baseball bats, to golf clubs to hunting rifles. The rifles got Marsh’s attention immediately.

“Wizard, Wizard, Bushmaster is in contact!” he shouted over the radio as the Humvee bore down on the crowd.

“Reloading!” McNeely shouted from the cupola.

Lee responded, instead of the expected radio telephone operator. “Bushmaster, this is Wizard. Say pos. Over.”

Just past the fucking burning school bus in the intersection, Copernicus, Marsh wanted to shout. “Wizard, we are approximately four klicks west of Hanscom. We were ambushed but made it past the first element. Approaching second element now.” Someone stepped out from behind the brush just in front of the Humvee and hurled something. Marsh caught a glimpse of a small figure cartwheeling through the air before it bounced off the windshield, leaving behind a smear of bright blood.

“Did they just throw a fucking baby at us?” Weir shouted through his mask.

Marsh didn’t want to think about it, but the notion chilled him to his very core. He keyed his microphone. “We need some Apaches up here. We are danger close to a platoon-sized enemy element. Over!”

“Bushmaster, Tomcat is enroute. Over.”

“What do you want me to do?” Renner asked.

“What do you think I want you to do, man?” Marsh snapped. “Drive!”

Overhead, the Mk 19 opened up again as McNeely walked rounds through the grouping that was dead ahead. The Klowns didn’t even seem to notice. In fact, every time one of their number fell, legs blasted away, body ripped asunder by shrapnel, they howled with laughter. McNeely swung the autogrenade launcher from side to side, but its cyclic rate was fairly low. If it had been an M2, he could have cut them all down in just a few sweeps. While the high explosive rounds caused horrible damage, the Humvee’s rate of closure made it difficult for the gunner to hose them all. Something else struck the windshield right in front of Marsh’s face, gouging a large chip out of the bullet-resistant glass. A bullet. Another round caromed off the Humvee’s hood, and McNeely swore as a third bullet slammed into the armor surrounding his weapon. He kept firing, but despite the onslaught, the people charged, still cackling with mad glee.

Marsh pushed himself back in his seat as the Humvee roared right into the crowd at sixty miles an hour. The first ambusher met his end when the Humvee’s reinforced bumper slammed into him, driving him backward into the crowd before he slipped from sight. The Mk 19 fell silent, and the vehicle bounced ferociously as Renner cursed, fighting against the wheel while keeping the accelerator pinned to the floor. The din was fantastic. All Marsh could hear were the horrible impacts, punctuated by shouts and jeers and never-ending laughter. The side view mirror struck a woman with a chainsaw, sending her tumbling through the air before it folded against the door with such force that the glass inside its frame shattered. From behind, the fifty cal opened up again, which Marsh took to be a good sign. They weren’t cut off from the rest of the element, and that was positively heartwarming.

“Bushmasters, get ready for close-quarters battle!” he said over the radio. He was pretty certain the rest of the column knew what was up, but he wanted to warn them, anyway. The Klowns were attacking with a zeal he had never seen before. In Cambridge, they had certainly tried their best to kill the lightfighters, but he’d never seen them sacrifice themselves quite so readily.

And then, they were through.

“How’s it holding up?” Marsh asked Renner.

“Could use an alignment,” Renner said.

Marsh turned in his seat to check on the soldiers behind him. Weir and Jacobs looked back at him from behind their MOPP masks, expressions unreadable. McNeely had dropped down between them, holding on to the lip of the cupola with both hands. When Marsh met his eyes, the soldier seemed to sigh before returning to his position behind the Mk 19’s control grips. Behind the speeding Humvee, more gunfire crackled before it was drowned out by the heavy BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the Apache chain guns.

Marsh faced forward again. Ahead, trees exploded. More cackling nut jobs had been lying in wait, but they had exposed themselves too soon, and now the Apaches were delivering their world-famous thirty-millimeter pain killer. Marsh watched no fewer than twenty people disintegrate beneath the withering firepower the attack helicopters delivered.

He got back on the radio. “Birddog, this is Bushmaster. You guys need to do a better job scouting. We’ve been engaged twice! Over.”

The lead Kiowa pilot responded, the aircraft’s fifty caliber chattering in the background. “Roger that, Bushmaster. We’re clearing the intersection just south of phase line alpha. Be advised, the approach to the traffic circle has been barricaded, but you can probably push through it with your Big Foots if you don’t want to go around. Over.”

Marsh grunted. The M925 trucks were nicknamed Big Foot, due to the fact they no longer sported twin sets of dual wheels on their rear axles, just single mammoth tires. “Roger, Birddog. We have some maneuvering room around that barricade? Over.”

“Bushmaster, Birddog. Plenty of room on the medians to get past. Uh, be advised, substantial dismounted forces are in the area. We’re working them over.”

“You have support moving up? Over.”

“Roger, Bushmaster.”

A trio of Apaches raced past the Humvee, bolting toward the still-unseen traffic rotary. More Apaches hung back, still pounding the ever-living snot out of the engagement area ahead. The high-explosive shells left divots in the roadway, and any time they struck near one of the Klowns ahead, the Infected went down…in pieces.

“Renner, slow down a bit. We don’t want to drive into their firing lanes.”

“Hooah,” Renner said, taking his foot off the accelerator.

As the Humvee slowed, Marsh thought he felt it wobbling in the front. They needn’t have bothered. The Apache attack ended, and the blacktop ahead was littered with body parts. Wet gore gleamed in the sunlight.

“You got eyes on the rest of the convoy?” Marsh asked.

Renner checked his side view mirror. “Roger, I see ’em.”

“All right, get back on it.”

Renner stomped on the accelerator again, and the Humvee slowly accelerated back to sixty miles per hour. The tires made wet sloshing sounds as they rolled through the carnage left by the gunships. Marsh saw a few bodies still moving, though not with any purpose, which was understandable, given that they were missing several body parts, and blood literally poured from horrendous wounds. The downed Klowns were still laughing, though, their bloodied faces turning toward the vehicle, lips parted, chuckling with their last breaths.

Oh, man…

“Bushmasters, Bushmaster Two-Six. Maintain your formations. Do not stop to engage—leave that for the follow on units. Break. Wizard, we’re still enroute to phase line alpha. Expect to be in position in about four minutes. Over.”

“Bushmaster, Wizard. Roger that.”

Renner cleared his throat. “Captain, I gotta ask you a question, sir.”

“Go ahead,” Marsh said, happy to have something to take his mind off what he had just seen—shattered, broken people, choking on their own blood… and still laughing.

“Captain—I mean, do I call him Colonel?—Lee. Is this guy off his rocker, trying to pass himself off as a field grade officer?”

It was a legitimate question, but Renner had picked a hell of a time to ask it. “Fuck if I know, Renner. What’s your problem?”

“Just want to know if we’re all going to fry for this. I mean, we know the guy isn’t a lieutenant colonel, right?”

Another fair question, but Marsh wasn’t in the mood to entertain notions of punishment under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. He was certain Lee might have more than a little explaining to do once everything was over, but the rest of them were just following orders, and Major Walker had pretty much told the battalion to listen to Lee. That suited Marsh just fine. While he didn’t particularly care all that much for Harry Lee, he knew Walker was a blue falcon—a “buddy fucker,” someone who would screw over another soldier if it was to his advantage. Marsh had decided back at Hanscom that he’d rather take directions from Lee, who at least appeared to want to save the battalion. Walker, as far as Marsh was concerned, was looking to save himself.

“Thinking’s not your strong suit, Renner. Just drive the fucking Humvee where I tell you, and leave the rest to me. Worrying is my job. All right?”

Renner bobbed his head. “Roger that.”

The Humvee led the way down the turnpike at just over sixty miles an hour, which was probably faster than they needed to go. Marsh told Renner to ease off a bit. The Big Foots hauling the lightfighters behind them were rated for fifty-five miles per hour and would have a tough time keeping up. Marsh didn’t want to invoke any unnecessary separations in the column. The convoy’s only bonus point was its consolidated firepower, and the trucks were depending on the Humvees to provide covering fire, the same way the Humvees were counting on the good-for-nothing aviators to do the same for them. Marsh understood the desire to speed, but arriving at the phase line with insufficient forces to enact the mission wasn’t going to end in a win for anyone.

“Bushmaster, this is Birddog. Over.”

“Birddog, go for Bushmaster. Over.”

“Bushmaster, Birddog. We’ve got civilian traffic in the area. Looks to be non-infected, real John and Jane Q. Publics trying to get the hell out of here. They’re attracting some attention from Infecteds, so they’ll probably get in your way when you move through the area to set up. Advisory only. Over.”

“Roger that, Birddog. Break.” Marsh decided he had to punt that one. The convoy couldn’t reasonably stop and help every civilian they encountered, but he needed some verification on which to base that presumption. “Wizard, this is Bushmaster Two-Six. Birddog reports civilians are in the mix up ahead. I need verification that we are not in the rescue business any longer. Over.”

If he and the rest of the company were going to dismount, they needed to know what was expected of them. Lee had kind of glossed over that aspect back at Hanscom, and no one had pushed him on it. The entire battalion just wanted to get the fuck back to Drum, and the fluidity of the circumstances were forcing the lightfighters to rely on their training without thinking about repercussions. Such as abandoning the civilians they had sworn an oath to protect.

Lee came back on the radio right away. Marsh had to hand it to him, he wasn’t hiding behind some RTO. “Bushmaster, this is Wizard Six. You’re going to have to make some decisions on the ground, Two-Six. We can’t stop and assist every civilian we run across. Our mission is to beat feet back to Drum. Over.”

The fuck you’re putting this on me, you prick. “Wizard, Bushmaster Two-Six. I need you to say the words. Are you telling us to not assist civilians in the zone? Over.”

Lee responded, “Bushmaster, this is Wizard Six. Assist if able, but do not abandon your position to do so. Clear enough? Over.”

“Roger that, Wizard.”

“Coming up on it,” Renner said.

A smoldering Honda Civic sat on the opposite shoulder, and a blackened corpse lay beside it. Whatever had happened to the car wasn’t recent, judging by the large flock of black crows pecking at the body. The birds watched as the Humvee approached then took flight and alighted on the power lines that paralleled the road. If the birds were hanging around, most likely no one else was in the immediate vicinity. Marsh had to hand it to the crows. They had balls, hanging out and grabbing some barbeque while Apaches and Kiowas thundered past them.

To their left, the expanse of the correctional facility presented itself. At first, it looked perfectly normal, then Marsh saw the windows of the guard tower were missing, and several bodies hung from its sills. All wore guard uniforms, and all had been horribly mutilated. To his right, Marsh expected to see the state police barracks, but all that was left was garbage. The entire building was essentially gone, as if it had been hit by a two thousand pound bomb. All that remained was twisted wreckage and curling smoke. Next to the barracks was a public works garage. All its doors were open, revealing nothing but empty bays. Not even a single sanitation truck remained.

Ahead lay the traffic rotary. Two feeder roads allowed traffic to approach the circle, but a battered fire truck lay on its side, blocking direct access to the rotary. Its red hide was pockmarked with bullet strikes. Surrounding it was a ring of corpses, all dressed in what Marsh thought of as “tribal chic,” the mode of attire so many of the Infected had adopted. Nearby, a passenger car had come to a halt with its windshield shattered, possibly collateral damage from one of the attacking Apaches. A family of four cowered behind it, and the husband was frantically waving at the approaching convoy. The mother knelt beside the car, clutching a toddler to her chest, while an older child crouched behind her. Injured Infected crawled toward them, leaving trails of gore in their wake as they dragged their shattered bodies across the ground. The Infected were still laughing, coils of intestine trailing after them. One was so close the man had to stop trying to flag down the convoy and bash its head in with a baseball bat.

“McNeely, you ready up there?” Marsh shouted as Renner slowed the Humvee and drifted into the left lane. Marsh noticed that the sergeant only glanced at the carcass of the small sedan as they passed it.

“Weapon up!” McNeely responded.

Marsh tensed again, pulling his M4 closer once more, then made sure the safety was on. “Okay, Renner…pull around this fucking fire truck.”

“Hooah.”

Marsh spoke into his radio. “Bushmaster Four, you see that family just ahead of you? Over.”

“Bushmaster Four. Roger. Over.”

“Take care of the Klowns that are trying to roll up on them then continue on to your position. Over.”

“Roger, Two-Six.”

The Humvee slid past the family. Marsh saw the man shouting at them to stop, but he couldn’t hear him over the Humvee’s engine. Renner pulled the vehicle around the dead fire truck, bumping over some of the corpses that surrounded it. He accelerated across the grassy median and around an overturned UPS truck that had an open rear door exposing dozens of packages that would go undelivered for quite some time. The scout pilot had been right, there was more than enough room to get around the impromptu road block, and the median was dry and firm, providing adequate traction for the Humvee. In a matter of moments, the vehicle was back on concrete. Renner accelerated again. Marsh saw that the eastbound lanes were mostly clear—hell, who would want to drive toward Boston?—but the westbound lanes were pretty busy, full of heavily-laden vehicles speeding west. Marsh looked at the Gulf service station to their right. Lots of people were still there, staying with their cars. They looked at his Humvee with a mixture of hope and dread.

“Okay, Renner, take us to the right a bit and set up just past this street, here. Keep us to the right a bit; leave enough room for the convoy.”

“Roger that,” the sergeant first class said, cutting the wheel to the right. The Humvee left the concrete again and bounced over the grassy median once more.

“McNeely! Try to look threatening with your Mark Nineteen,” Marsh shouted. “You see anyone making a move on us, you are cleared to fire. You understand that?”

“Cleared to fire. Roger!”

When the Humvee ground to a halt, Marsh threw open his heavy door. Behind him, Weir did the same, and Kragen, the silent black soldier sitting beside him, did as well. Clad in full armor and MOPP gear, they would look like invading aliens from another planet, which would doubtless serve to further terrorize the uninfected people in the passing cars, not to mention those waiting at the gas station.

The M925 rolled up and positioned itself squarely in the middle of the street leading into the rotary—Elm Street, the sign said—and began disgorging a full two squads of troops. The traffic heading their way suddenly came to a halt. The fact that almost thirty soldiers were pointing their weapons at the civilian traffic wasn’t lost on the motorists. Some of the soldiers squared off with the vehicles, rifles at low ready.

Helicopters pounded overhead, and Marsh looked for Second Lieutenant Erskine, the officer in charge of the dismounted troops. He was easy to find. As the newest officer to join the battalion, he carried a pair of Army-issued skis strapped to his rucksack wherever he went. As the 10


 Mountain’s ancestral mission was mountaineer combat, the skis were a symbol of the division’s special position in the combat arms, and the duty to preserve that heritage fell to the battalion’s most junior officer. The skis certainly made Erskine stand out, since only an idiot would be lugging around a pair of skis during a Massachusetts summer.

“Erskine!” Marsh called.

“Yes, sir?” Erskine’s eyes somehow managed to look big behind his mask.

“Listen, if things get fucked up, you and your soldiers are to do whatever it takes to protect yourselves and keep this area secure. If it means putting people in the line of fire, you do that. You get me?” When Erskine didn’t reply immediately, Marsh slapped his shoulder. “Erskine, you hear me?”

“Hooah, Captain. I hear you,” Erskine said. “I’m not shooting defenseless people.”

“No one’s asking you to. Just keep them back, and keep your men safe. All right?”

“Hooah.”

Marsh turned away and shouted into his radio while examining the bottled-up traffic. “Wizard, this is Bushmaster. We are in position. Traffic circle is secure, inbound lanes are blocked. Over.”

There could be dozens of Infected out there, and he’d never know it until they tried something. Could they hold it together long enough to not try and slaughter everyone in a bid to get at the soldiers of the 10


 Mountain?

“Roger that, Bushmaster. We’re making our way toward you now. Over.”

“Recommend you move your ass, Wizard. Lots of people trying to get out of here. Over.”

“Roger, Bushmaster.”

Marsh squinted at the service station a hundred feet away, separated from him by only a grassy median. There were several abandoned vehicles in its parking lot, including one SUV that had been hauling a boat. More sat around the station’s presumably empty gas pumps. The people over there turned toward the troops. They weren’t acting in an aggressive fashion, which probably meant they were just stranded motorists looking for some help. A man in a dirty baseball cap started walking across the parking lot, heading toward Marsh. Marsh waved him back, then raised his rifle to his shoulder. The man in the cap got the message, and he faded back, hands in the air.

The few vehicles behind the blocking force had stopped a good distance away. No one wanted to get close to the men with the guns, especially when they looked as menacing as the troops in their MOPP gear.

A voice crackled over Marsh’s headset. “Bushmaster Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Over.”

“Three-Six, this is Two-Six. Go ahead. Over.”

“Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Western approach to the traffic circle secured, expect the column to start heading your way. Over.”

“Roger that, Three-Six. Keep your troops on their toes. Over.”

“Three-Six, roger.”

The Sky 5 news helicopter was back, circling a couple of thousand feet overhead, well above the Apaches and scout helicopters. Marsh ignored it. If it came into conflict with the Army aviators, they would make it go away, one way or the other.

Marsh kept his attention focused on the ground regime. That was what he was paid to do, and he had half his company on the ground around him. The first elements of the convoy trundled past, with the last two platoons of Bravo in the lead. Under his XO, the remaining members of Bushmaster would head south to phase line bravo, just south of the Interstate 495 overpass, where they would provide area security while the aviation units ensured the highway overpass was clear of goblins. The scouts were already heading that way to put eyeballs on target and begin prepping the area for the convoy.

And prepping meant hosing any enemy formations with rockets and machinegun fire.

Marsh stayed near his Humvee and watched the soldiers set up. Everyone was eyes out. One of the cars that had stopped behind the blocking force, a minivan stuffed full of people and possession, slowly trundled forward. Marsh wondered what the hell they thought they were doing. The soldiers nearest the minivan waved for the vehicle to stop. It did, then it slowly crept forward again. The driver’s window came down, and Marsh caught a glimpse of a frightened face turned toward the soldiers. It was a woman, probably a frightened soccer mom, trying to get her family to safety. The soldiers waved for her to stop once again, and the M240 mounted to the top of the M925A1 barked as the gunner ripped off a short burst into the street in front of the minivan. The vehicle jerked to a halt. The woman rolled up the window, and then the minivan lunged backward in reverse.

Sorry, lady.

Marsh kept an eye on the convoy’s progress. Humvees, more M925s carrying soldiers, monstrous HEMT tanker trucks full of diesel and aviation fuel, generator trucks, water buffaloes, a few M997 ambulances that were based off the venerable Humvee platform, more trucks that serviced the mortar team. It was an entire battalion’s worth of rolling stock, followed by a string of civilian vehicles they had brought along from Hanscom. The convoy took ten minutes to make it around the rotary, and by that time, phase line bravo was already under control. Marsh was heartened by that, since it meant the aviation units and the next company in the chain, Charlie Company, would be leapfrogging ahead to secure the next phase line objective.

Alongside the gas station, a Gulf tanker truck slowly rolled into the station parking lot, diesel engine clattering, air brakes hissing. It pulled past the gas pump islands and lurched to a halt. Another tractor-trailer rig followed. To Marsh, it looked like someone had finally decided to try to fill up the gas station and get things moving again. That was fine by him. The more people who could get out of the greater Boston area, the better.

“Bushmaster Two-Six, this is Wizard. Over.” This time, it was a faceless RTO making the call. Lee apparently had better things to do than correspond with his rear guard.

“Wizard, this is Bushmaster. Go ahead.”

“Bushmaster, Wizard. Convoy has reported clear. Everyone is moving downrange on Union Turnpike, confirmed by aviation. Fold up the tents and follow the order of movement. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Break. Bushmaster Three-Two, you guys are clear to retreat from your position. Over.”

“Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Roger that. We’re mounting up now. Over.”

“How’s the traffic over there?” Marsh called up at McNeely, who was still manning the Mk 19. Standing in the Humvee’s cupola, McNeely had a commanding view of the area.

“Getting busy,” McNeely said, pointing toward the traffic on the other side of the circle. “What the hell are these people doing coming toward Boston?”

“Don’t know,” Marsh replied.

“What?”

Marsh waved the question away. “Never mind, McNeely. Stay eyes out.”

More vehicles rumbled past, heading up the turnpike. Bushmaster Three-Six’s element moved out, closely followed by Lieutenant Haberman’s element. An Apache moved uprange overhead, providing top cover for the two groups as they abandoned their blocking positions. Marsh looked over and saw Lieutenant Haberman shoot him a thumbs-up from the lead Humvee’s front passenger seat. The guy was out of sequence. He should have been the lead element onto the highway, not the tail, but Marsh was too tired and wound up to worry about it. He’d straighten out the lieutenant later.

“Erskine!” Marsh shouted.

Second Lieutenant Erskine turned from his position beside the M925A1’s impressive front bumper. His M4 was pulled tight to his shoulder. “Sir!”

“Have your men mount up. We’re joining the column!”

“Roger that!” Using hand signals, Erskine motioned his senior leaders to round up the men and have them rally back at the waiting Big Foot.

Marsh looked over at Weir and Kragen. They were maintaining their positions on the other side of the Humvee, keeping the vehicle between them and the traffic bottled up by the element.

“Stay on your rifles,” he shouted first to Kragen then to Weir. “Cover the rest of the troops. We’ll mount up last.” The soldiers responded with quick “okay” signals. Marsh shouldered his M4 and watched as the lightfighters mounted the waiting 6x6, the rattle of their gear lost amidst the cackling of idling diesel engines and the dull roar of the traffic to his right. He scanned the blocked cars and trucks, and frightened faces stared back at him through various windshields.

The single Apache slowly floated downrange, staying away from the turnpike, its rotors flickering in the sunlight. Marsh was hot, and the heavy perspiration that dampened his uniform was making his skin itch, especially under his arms and body armor. He could feel sweat pooling inside his M40A1 face mask. At least he knew the seal was still tight. The temperature was approaching eighty degrees, and at least ninety percent humidity. If he wasn’t able to take his gear off soon, the great seal would probably have him drowning in his own sweat.

Behind him, the air was torn asunder by the cacophony of rending metal, squealing tires, and shrieking car horns.

Marsh took two steps back and crouched while turning toward the gas station. At first, he had figured he had heard something as simple as an auto accident. There were lots of distractions to captivate a driver’s attention, what with the maneuvering soldiers, orbiting gunships, competing traffic, and columns of smoke rising into the air from various locations. But the din continued, and as Marsh brought his rifle to his shoulder, he saw why.

The second tractor-trailer rig he had watched pull into the filling station across the street was charging right across the parking lot, slamming into the cars and SUVs and, hurling them aside as if they were children’s toys. Metal crumpled, fiberglass fractured, and glass shattered. Luggage, family pets, and people were torn from the vehicles and sent cartwheeling through the air. The tractor-trailer bounced and heaved as it plowed through the sea of sheet metal and fiberglass like some bizarre, chrome-grilled yacht crossing a turbulent ocean. It was tracking just north of his position, slicing through the traffic with a raucous clamor. The entire front clip of a car flew into the air and bounced along the truck’s long trailer, disintegrating as it went. A severed arm followed it, trailing a thin plume of blood as it tumbled along.

And leering through a windshield already cobwebbed with fractures was a man, shaking with laughter behind his sunglasses.

“Open fire! Open fire!” Marsh shouted. Most of the men didn’t react to his order, not even Kragen, who was standing right beside him. Even with the voice emitters built into the mask, the noise coupled with the mask’s muffling capability made communication almost impossible. But when Marsh started firing his M4, the troops joined in the fun, hosing the truck’s cab with everything they had. The driver disappeared behind an explosion of glass and sparks as dozens of 5.56- and 7.62-millimeter rounds punched through the compartment. The driver’s side mirror exploded, and the door window disappeared in a waterfall of cascading glass. The driver’s body, held in place by the seat belt, jerked to and fro as it was chopped up by the gunfire. The muted thump-thump-thump of the Mk 19 reached Marsh’s ears. Sparking explosions rippled across the front of the tractor-trailer, blasting off its hood cowling and flaying open the engine compartment all the way to the firewall. The diesel engine screamed as it died in a puff of oily smoke. More explosions rocked through the driver’s cab, demolishing what remained of the windshield. Half the driver’s door was blown away, and a geyser of seat padding and body parts erupted through the newly created opening. The truck’s front tire blew, adding frayed rubber to the melee as the truck slammed into the minivan that had approached the blocking force earlier and drove it into another sedan.

Finally, the truck came to a halt. Smoke boiled from its engine compartment and from inside the cab, which had been redecorated with bloody gore. The troops continued spraying the vehicle. Bits and pieces of sheet metal and fiberglass whirled through the air.

Marsh shouted for them to cease fire, but none of them heard. He slapped Kragen on the back of his helmet then ran around the front of the Humvee, waving for the soldiers to stop firing. He made a point of signaling McNeely. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to fire an M430A1 high explosive grenade into one of the truck’s saddle tanks. Marsh breathed a sigh of relief when the last soldier secured his weapon.

Seconds later, people began screaming from the gas station.

Marsh turned.

The doors to the truck’s trailer had opened, and people were boiling out from its depths. Ragged clothes. Ritual self-mutilation. Ornate decorations crafted from body parts, many still bloodied. They brought with them the stink of death, and just to make sure everyone knew the Klowns had arrived, they had a cloud of black flies as escort.

“Soldier booyyyyysss, oh our little soldier booyyyyysss!” one of them sang in a high, chuckling falsetto. He was a hugely obese, bald-headed man whose pasty skin was covered with bloodied handprints. “We’ll be so true to youuuuuuuuu…” As he belted out the perverse rendition of the early 1960s hit, he raised a gore-encrusted hatchet over his head. He ran straight toward Marsh, his huge belly and sagging man-tits flouncing and bouncing with each step.

Marsh shot the fat man in the face as he raced across the median. The man collapsed, and the hatchet bounced across the grass, then skittered across the pavement toward Marsh. Raising his rifle to aim at the other Klowns, Marsh flicked the fire selector to AUTO and squeezed the trigger. He ripped off the eleven rounds that remained in the magazine before the weapon stopped firing, bolt locked back. Several of the Klowns went down, shrieking not with pain, but laughter. Marsh ejected the empty mag and plucked a fresh one from his tactical vest. His thick gloves made his fingers slow and clumsy.

Kragen advanced, moving to stand beside Marsh. Kragen opened fire, covering Marsh while he fumbled with reloading his rifle. Marsh finally got a mag into the carbine’s magazine well, and hit the bolt release, charging the weapon. The rest of the troops began to fire, but half of them hadn’t been able to properly identify the real threat. They were aiming at the shot-up tractor-trailer rig’s cab.

Weir moved into a new firing position to Marsh and Kragen’s left, hitting the oncoming Klowns with grazing fire. It was ineffective. The Klowns kept coming. They just didn’t care about being shot. Marsh sent several rounds into the mass of filthy, insane humanity charging toward him. Several Klowns stumbled and fell, tripping others who scrambled to get past them.

The Mk 19 roared again, and explosions ripped across the rear of the trailer. Torsos and limbs flew as the high-explosive grenades tore through the flimsy metal. When the grenade launcher fell silent, the gunner manning the M240B on the Big Foot started in, punching dozens of holes through the trailer, apparently hoping to perforate any Infected who might still be inside.

“Reloading!” McNeely shouted.

Rotor beats pounded the air as the Apache that had been downrange tilted into a steep bank to the right then flitted across the turnpike.

Marsh hoped the pilots were moving into a better firing position because his men could use the help. Time to call the boss.

“Wizard, Bushmaster Two-Six! Over!”

“Bushmaster, this is Wizard. Over.”

“Wizard, Bushmaster is engaged with a large enemy element at this time! They’re using commercial vehicles to transport dismounts, and they are actively attacking! Over!”

With a muted cry, Kragen dropped to the pavement. As Marsh reached for him, something flashed past his head—an arrow. If he hadn’t moved, he would have been hit.

The projectile skimmed the top of his Humvee, bounced off at an angle, and plunged into the arm of the soldier manning the M240B machinegun atop the Big Foot. He jerked, but another soldier reached up to steady him.

“Weir, maintain fire!” Marsh shouted.

Four more soldiers ran up blazing away at the Klowns, who continued to surge forward. The Infected were cut down with ruthless efficiency.

Kragen writhed on the ground, clutching his leg. His eyes were squeezed shut behind the lenses of his mask. Marsh knelt beside him and looked at the arrow sticking out of Kragen’s left thigh. It had penetrated deep, and he didn’t doubt the arrowhead was lodged in Kragen’s femur.

His radio squawked. “Bushmaster, this is Wizard. Over.” It was Lee again.

“Wizard, go for Bushmaster. Over!” Marsh leaned over Kragen. “Kragen! Hang in there, soldier. I’m going to get you out of here!”

“Bushmaster, Wizard. We’re rotating the Apaches back to you—”

Kragen sat up suddenly, his eyes wide and gleaming. He shuddered mightily, and said something Marsh couldn’t hear over the racket of the fighting. Marsh grabbed the soldier’s shoulders and tried to push him back down.

“Take it easy, Kragen!”

“Surprise, fucker!” Kragen shouted as he pulled his M4 toward him.

He was infected. The Klowns had treated the arrow with something, either piss or shit or some other bodily fluid, and Kragen had gone over to the dark side.

Marsh was quicker. He fired two rounds into Kragen’s mask at close range, blasting the soldier’s brains all over a startled Weir, who jumped away. Two of the soldiers nearest Marsh fell back, looking confused and leveling their M4s at him.

Marsh saw the soldier manning the M240B yank the arrow out of his arm and jam it into the second soldier’s side, causing the other man to yelp and fall backward. The infected soldier then spun the machinegun around on its mount, lowered the barrel as far as he was able, and started hammering the soldiers in the Big Foot’s bed with full automatic fire.

“Take him out!” Marsh yelled, pointing at the soldier with one hand while bringing his M4 around with the other.

Weir looked over at Marsh, saw him pointing back at the truck, and turned. The soldier manning the M240B turned it in Weir’s direction. They both fired at the same time. Weir missed. The soldier on the machinegun did not.

Weir danced and spasmed as a hail of 7.62-millimeter fire ripped into his body. The two other soldiers split off, pulling their sights off Marsh and reorienting on the soldier with the machinegun. Marsh fired his M4 one handed and put three rounds into the Big Foot’s cab before a fourth hit the infected soldier in the thigh. The hit didn’t faze the soldier; he only laughed harder. He finally went down when several rounds slammed into his chest and head in rapid succession.

The other soldier he had stabbed rose up and grabbed the machinegun’s stock. He ripped off his helmet and mask, laughing hysterically as he swung the weapon around to resume firing. Marsh pounded out three shots, and all struck the man’s face and neck.

“One of you get on that weapon!” Marsh shouted to the two soldiers who had taken out the first gunner. He looked over at Weir’s body. Rivulets of dark blood oozed across the asphalt. Lars the Viking from Minnesota was lying motionless on his back. His time with the 10


 had come to an end.

McNeely shouted something and opened up with the reloaded Mk 19, firing the weapon at its full cyclic rate. Marsh spun around and saw several Klowns picking their way across the corpse-strewn median. He raised his weapon and sent them to hell with several shots. He needn’t have bothered because most of them were run down by the speeding gasoline tanker as it bulled its way across the station’s parking lot, paralleling the path the cargo truck had just taken. Several Klowns clung to the cab, standing on its running boards, shouting and jeering even as the soldiers moved forward, forming a perimeter of fire teams that took the riders out one by one with precision fire. More rounds were buried into the truck’s grille, and plumes of steam erupted from under the hood as its radiator was perforated by full metal jacketed bullets. Then, the first of the Mk 19’s rounds found their target, tearing through the cab… and walking back toward the shiny metal trailer the rig hauled.

The one that was presumably full of gasoline.

“McNeely, cease fire! Cease fire!” Marsh shouted. He ripped off his mask and repeated the order, but McNeely was caught up in the act, leaning into his Mk 19 as he pumped round after round at the approaching truck, not letting up even when the vehicle slowly ground to a halt. Marsh sprinted toward him, waving his arms, yelling.

The world turned white and yellow as the sun seemed to rise right from the traffic rotary. Marsh was aware of an increasingly blistering heat before the shock wave slammed into him, hurling him head-first into the Humvee.




FOUR.


Seated in the front seat of Tomcat Six—the lead aircraft in a flight of three AH-64D Longbow Apaches sprinting along the eastbound lanes of the Union Turnpike—Major Brad Fleischer was still a mile away when he saw the huge explosion rip across the roadway. A gigantic white-orange fireball consumed all the vehicles in the immediate area, enveloping them in writhing flame that twisted and turned. Thick black smoke billowed up immediately as the intense heat blazed through everything that was combustible, generating thick carbon which in turn gave rise to the smoke. As an aviator, Fleischer knew that black smoke was not a good thing. Black smoke in a combat setting usually meant someone had met with a very bad end. Fleischer stroked his thin mustache with his forefinger and thumb, watching as the smoke roiled in the sky.

“Whoa!” Smitty, the warrant officer sitting behind him, exclaimed. He was actually flying the Apache, while Fleischer manned the target acquisition and designation system, a turreted platform on the helicopter’s nose that allowed him to observe potential targets and then illuminate them with a high-powered laser to obtain targeting information that would be passed back to the fire control systems. The network of systems would take that information and turn it into data for the Apache’s weapons systems, most notably the eight AGM-114R Hellfire missiles mounted beneath its stubby wings.

“Tomcat Two-One, Tomcat Six. What just happened? Over,” Fleischer asked over the attack battalion’s radio net.

“Six, Two-One. Ah, looks like the Klowns made an attack with a gas tanker…ah, must’ve taken a hot round in the fight. Over.”

“Two-One, this is Six. Were you firing in the vicinity of that target? Over.”

“Negative, Six. When it happened, the chain gun was out of azimuth.” As the pilot of the Apache downrange that had been providing nominal top cover for the blocking force made his report, Fleischer saw more explosions tear through the backed-up traffic on the turnpike. As the heat from the flaming tanker caused the fuel in the stopped cars and trucks to ignite, secondary explosions added even more fire and smoke to the conflagration. Civilians were bailing out of their cars, running from the maelstrom as fast as they could.

“Not much left to shoot at, and it looks like most of the blocking force is gone. Gas station just went up, huge secondary explosion. Over,” the pilot finished as another burst of angry yellow-orange flame roared into the sky.

“Two-One, this is Six. Keep moving. Don’t hover. Keep your eyes open. We’ll be with you in just a few seconds. Over.”

“Roger, Six.”

“Smitty, when we pass Two-One, climb out to five hundred and start orbiting over the engagement area. We need to see who’s still alive down there,” Fleischer said over the intercom.

“Climb to five hundred and orbit right. Roger that,” Smitty responded.

Traveling at over a hundred and fifty miles an hour, they took less than fifteen seconds to cover that final mile. The warrant officer did as Fleischer instructed and eased the helicopter into a climbing turn to the right, holding at five hundred above ground level. Fleischer abandoned the TADS array for his regular Mark I Eyeballs and surveilled the scene below.

It was a catastrophe. The tanker truck had gone up only a dozen yards from the Bushmasters. The flames were yellow-orange, which meant automobile gas was burning. Car fuel was much more reactive than diesel and tended to blow up instead of just burn off. One Humvee had been practically vaporized, despite its armor, and the M925A1 truck that had been transporting the bulk of the troops was awash in flames. The bodies of fallen lightfighters lay everywhere, many of them on fire. A small contingent of troops was frantically trying to haul their comrades out of the burning truck. The last Humvee moved a few dozen yards downrange. A soldier manned the .50 caliber in its cupola, firing past the flaming morass. It took a moment for Fleischer to see what he was shooting at. Klowns, surging out of the first truck’s trailer. Tomcat Two-One was hovering downrange, and he watched several of the infected transform into disassociated organic garbage, courtesy of the Apache’s thirty-millimeter cannon.

“Two-One, this is Six. Work over that entire trailer. Over,” Fleischer said over the attack battalion’s radio frequency.

“Roger, Six. Working on that.” The thin metal that made up the trailer blew apart, peeled back by the Apache’s cannon. It was like watching an invisible butcher flay open a large pig. Inside, dozens of bodies lay on the trailer’s floor, already cut down by the ground fire.

“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. Over.”

“Tomcat, this is Wizard Six. Go ahead. Over.” It was the presumptive “Lieutenant Colonel” Lee himself.

Fleischer shook his head. He had no idea what the guy was up to, taking Prince’s rank. But by the time the unit made it back to Drum, he might be the only light infantry officer left standing.

“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Bushmaster is down for the count. At least seventy-five percent casualties. We’ll cover from up here, but they’re going to need help recovering their fallen. We might want to think about getting Catfish on station. Over.”

The attack battalion had four UH-60 Black Hawk utility helicopters allocated to support them. Before sunrise, Lee had issued a fragmentary order for the Black Hawks—call sign Catfish—to be chopped over to support the infantry battalion’s attached cavalry scout element. The Black Hawks had lifted off, carrying the sole remaining members of Hanscom’s previous tenants, the Air Force’s Internal Security Response Team, which had been left behind after the rest of the zoomies had pulled out to maintain security at the airfield. Apparently, the zoomies didn’t trust an entire light infantry battalion to keep their premises safe. The Black Hawks had taken off for Wooster Regional Airport, where they would land and take control of the airfield’s fueling facility. The Apaches were thirsty beasts, and even though the airport was less than fifty miles from Hanscom, the gunslingers and armed scouts supporting them would need a safe place to refuel. The Black Hawks had made it without incident, and the cavalry unit had arrived with their four heavily-armored Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles a few hours later. The airfield was under friendly control…for the moment.

But the upshot was that the Black Hawks weren’t on station to evacuate the wounded.

“Tomcat, this is Wizard. Can your team hold the area long enough to extract the wounded by ground? Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Tomcat’s got four shooters on station. Situation’s complex, lots of civilians and reduced visibility from smoke, but we can provide top cover for”—Fleischer checked the fuel totalizer readout on the multifunction display before him—“another fifty minutes. Black Hawks would be better. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat. Understand about the Black Hawks, but we need them to stay where they are. We’re sending back two trucks and two Humvees from the Bushmaster Three element. What’s the situation with the westbound civilian traffic? Over.”

As Lee spoke, Fleischer heard another transmission on one of the side channels—an RTO dispatching the movement orders to the Bushmaster Three element.

He looked around, trying to figure out what was going on below. A lot of civilian vehicles were on fire, but many were not. Cars and trucks were jockeying all over the place, trying to get the hell out of Dodge. He reported that to Lee, adding, “Doesn’t look like the convoy’s under any direct threat at the moment. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat. Thanks. Hold station until we can get our people out of there. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Roger that. We’ll maintain top cover for as long as we can, but we don’t have a lot of station time left. We also need to start rotating the scouts out for refueling. Tomcats Two-Seven and Two-Nine will take over aerial recon while the Birddogs do what they gotta do. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat.”

Fleischer gave his unit and the scout team their orders. The OH-58D Kiowa Warriors would transition their scouting mission to the two AH-64Ds that were relieving them, then they would fly to Wooster Regional Airport to refuel and rearm. Once they returned, the Tomcats would bug out for the forward area refuel point, platoon by platoon. Fleischer was happy that Lee had thought to secure enough fuel to keep the battalion going, because their organic fuel supply wouldn’t get them through the day at their current operational tempo.

The trip was going to be long, and so far, it had been one hell of a busy morning.




FIVE.


Sergeant Sandra Rawlings watched as a fireball, wreathed in a halo of black smoke, climbed into the sky. The thunder of the explosion seemed to roll right through her, though the truck she rode in was well over half a mile away. Debris rocketed upward then slowly returned to earth like some dirty rain, tumbling and spinning. Rawlings didn’t know what had happened, and neither did the soldiers seated around her. Everyone was on their guns, maintaining readiness as the big M925A1, positioned somewhere in the middle of the convoy, lumbered down the Union Turnpike.

Rawlings looked at the lightfighters seated across from her on the opposite side of the M925A1’s wide bed. Like her old unit—the 164


 Transportation Battalion of the Massachusetts Army National Guard—they were a mix of young and old, a hodgepodge of races and body types. Unlike the Muleskinners, though, the composition of the 1


 Battalion, 55


 Infantry Regiment was almost entirely male. There were few women amongst the light infantrymen, and most of those were in the unit’s supply company. Rawlings didn’t have to wonder why. Though feminists and liberal-minded do-gooders had finally knocked down all the road blocks that separated women from joining the fighting ranks of The Men’s House, as the Army was occasionally known as, few females had the appetite for actual combat. To find herself floating alone in a sea of testosterone was not unexpected, especially when her new temporary duty station was with the storied 10


 Mountain Division (Light Infantry).

Virtually all of the soldiers around her had become combat-proven long before the Boston “peace-making” operation had begun. Rawlings knew that the 10


’s units in Afghanistan had been rotated home just months ago, so the division could rest, refit, and retrain. It was called a “reset” in military parlance, where an over-optimized unit was taken off the line so it could get its collective shit squared away. New faces would fill old spaces, and old faces would rotate out to other units and share their experience or simply leave the service and enter a hopefully safer civilian society. No matter which avenue they took, it was a fool’s errand. The Bug had seen to that.

Gender aside, it was obvious she wasn’t one of them. They all wore multicam combat uniforms issued during Operation ENDURING FREEDOM in Afghanistan: advanced combat helmets, tactical rigs bulging with spare magazines and other gear pulled tight over body armor, CamelBak hydration systems, many with M9 pistols strapped to one thigh, gigantic rucks full of tactical gear, additional ammunition, Meals Ready to Eat, sleeping bags—their usual load-out exceeded a hundred pounds on a given day. Half of them were in MOPP gear, while the others had their protective paraphernalia laid out and ready to be donned in an instant. “Light infantry” had nothing to do with the weight of their equipment. Even though the 10


 didn’t have much in the way of tanks or heavy armor, they probably carried more equipment on their persons than their counterparts in the line infantry.

For her part, Rawlings was clad in a filthy Army Combat Uniform and a patrol cap. She had no armor, no hydration system, no MOPP equipment, and no rucksack full of gear. In the pockets of her uniform, she had two energy bars, four spare magazines of 5.56-millimeter full metal jacket ball ammunition, and a tire pressure gauge, the only holdover from her previous occupation as a Heavy Equipment Transportation System driver. And clipped to her waistband beneath her ACU blouse was a sheathed K-Bar knife.

Basically, she was a leaf-eater surrounded by carnivores.

She tried to imagine Scott Wade hanging out with soldiers like the ones she was currently riding with. When she’d found him, he was basically a broken kid, his platoon downed by the Bug and cut off from the rest of his battalion. She’d helped build him back up during their brief time together, and truth be told, he had done the same for her. She’d had maybe six or seven years on him, but in the situation at Harvard Stadium, the age gap didn’t seem to matter. And even though he’d looked like a kid, he’d fought like a man. Then he’d been infected and turned into a Klown. He had charged her, his crazy eyes full of murder, and she’d shot him with her M4 at a range of maybe ten feet—three times, because one hit was usually not enough.

Only death cured the Infected.

“So what’s your story?” someone asked, over the rumble of the truck’s diesel engine.

Rawlings looked up from the floorboard she’d been staring at. The big soldier sitting almost directly across from her had his hands draped around his M4/M203 combo weapon. His posture looked almost casual, but Rawlings doubted that to be the case. She was certain the man could go operational in a second’s notice, swing his rifle around, and zero any Klowns who might want to start something. He wasn’t wearing MOPP gear, but the soldiers on either side of him were. The pattern was that every other soldier was in MOPP IV, so Rawlings was also hemmed in by similarly protected soldiers. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. The nametape on his vest read MULDOON.

“Sorry?”

“I said, what’s your story?”

Rawlings thought about it. The rest of the soldiers were glancing her way, waiting for her response, even though they were all supposed to have eyes out, scanning for threats.

“No story,” Rawlings said finally.

“Really.” Muldoon’s expression didn’t change. “No story, but here you are, a beat-up Nasty Girl hitching a ride with a bunch of lightfighters. Who were you with?”

“The One Sixty-Fourth Transportation Battalion.”

“So you were what? A truck driver?”

Rawlings nodded. “Basically. Yeah.”

“What happened to your unit?”

“Overrun at Harvard Stadium. We were hauling supplies and drove into an ambush. Infected police hit us, along with a few dozen others. As far as I know, the headquarters company is still with the rest of the Guard at Logan.” The National Guard had facilities at Logan International Airport, just across the Callahan Tunnel from downtown Boston.

“And what happened to you?” Muldoon tapped his face, indicating the position of the big bruise that covered Rawling’s cheek.

“I fought my way out. Took a shot to the head.”

“Really.” If he was impressed, Muldoon didn’t allow it to show. “What happened to the dude who tapped you?”

“Shot him through the head. In through the chin, out through the crown.”

Muldoon nodded. “That’s the way to do it. How’d you find your way here?”

“Walked,” she said.

“All the way from Harvard Stadium?”

Rawlings found she didn’t have the will or desire to explain her situation any further. “Yeah. Mostly. Caught a ride with some of your guys. They didn’t make it, and was on foot after that.” She motioned toward the front of the column. “I told your XO all about it.”

“Walker?”

“Yeah.”

Muldoon grunted. “He’s a blue falcon. Stay away from him. You know what that means, Rawlings?”

“Yeah. I know what a buddy fucker is.”

“You go through rifleman training?” Muldoon asked.

“Yes, Sergeant Muldoon. National Guard BCT is the same for us as it was for you.”

Muldoon seemed to glare at her, but she couldn’t be certain because of his sunglasses. “Rawlings, you’re nothing like us. Don’t think that you are.” He looked toward the truck cab. “Well, you might be like Lieutenant Crais.”

“I’m in charge,” several of the other soldiers said in unison.

Muldoon nodded toward a pasty-skinned man in the rear of the truck. “Or maybe like Nutter.”

“Colonel Nutter, sir!” the soldiers chanted, saluting the man Muldoon had pointed out, though the salutes were delivered from crotch level. Definitely atypical, in Rawlings’s experience.

She couldn’t see Nutter’s eyes, as he was turned facing the rear, his M4 held at low ready. But he raised his left hand to acknowledge the salutes with his middle finger. Rawlings figured that was regular occurrence.

“Don’t mean to presume I’m even close to being a lightfighter, Muldoon,” she said. “But we’re all soldiers.”

“Not John Wayne,” said a reedy black lightfighter whose nametape read JOHNSON. He pointed at Muldoon. “He’s not a soldier. He’s a weapon, I’m telling you.”

With effort, Rawlings refrained from rolling her eyes. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good,” Muldoon said. “Keep that in mind. Now, you just sit back and—”

Two Apaches roared past, fast and low, drowning out the rest of his comment. Reading his lips, Rawlings was pretty sure he’d finished with “Let us take care of you.”

Great. Just great.




SIX.


The road movement was, for the most part, going according to plan.

Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee kept tabs on the column’s progress as it moved along the turnpike. The next blocking force had already set up, and the scouts had handed off their mission to some of the Apache gunships so the smaller aircraft could head off and refuel.

Lee was a little worried about the scout element. They had a long way to go, and the Kiowa Warriors had short legs, only a little over an hour of station time—less if they had to continually fly and fight as they had been. The Apaches weren’t much better. They could perhaps eke out three hours of flying time, but the aircraft had been running nonstop for well over a week. They would need maintenance, which meant they would have to be pulled off the line, housed somewhere secure, and defended from the Klowns or whatever else God decided to throw their way.

Lee was a lightfighter just like the rest of his men, but he knew the value in having an armed attack battalion on-station to provide close air support when they needed it. He had no idea how many Infected were in Boston, but it had to be well into the hundreds of thousands if not millions. Only a fraction of those were interested in taking out the battalion’s convoy, which was a blessing, though it was equal parts curse. Those that weren’t attacking the battalion were out infecting others, and that was clearly worse for the nation.

And of course, Lee had no idea what lay between his unit and Fort Drum. Their route would take them past several well-populated establishments, but by sticking to the smaller roads, they could avoid the larger cities: Framingham, Worcester, and Springfield, all in Massachusetts. Then on into New York. There, they would bypass Albany, Schenectady, and Utica before rolling upstate toward Watertown, and, just beyond, Fort Drum. Home of the 10


 Mountain Division and several other tenant units. All of whom had apparently gone dark.

Lee didn’t know what to make of that. It had been days since he’d heard anything from the Brigade Combat Team’s tactical operations center, and even longer since a divisional command had been in touch. While the battalion had been working out of Boston, the rest of the brigade and the majority of Drum’s infantry and aviation assets had gone farther south to assist in stabilizing New York. If the Big Apple had undergone the same transformation as Boston, then Lee doubted he would hear anything from higher field commands anytime soon.

As in, ever.

He kept track of the column’s progress using both GPS and a handheld map and marking off their phase lines with a grease pencil. The survivors of the Bushmaster element had been recovered, but there were precious few of them. The element had taken ninety percent losses, including Bravo Company’s commander, Captain Marsh. Losing Marsh stung, not because he was a close friend of Lee’s, but because he was a seasoned company grade commander who had led his men in combat in Afghanistan and, briefly, in Iraq. A good deal of tactical capability and knowledge had died with him, and that was what Lee would miss the most. Added to the casualty list were experienced noncommissioned officers and other skilled soldiers, as well as the loss of at least two tactical vehicles. All of that weakened the battalion, making it less capable at dictating the tempo of operations—in other words, its ability to efficiently kill Klowns.

For the twentieth time, Lee reconsidered their route. Taking the Mass Turnpike and then westward seemed to be the most expedient path—better roadways, more lanes, flatter terrain, less opportunity for attack as they moved away from Boston—but they had no real idea of what lay just beyond their previous area of operations. Their unmanned aerial reconnaissance systems were of the battlefield variety, and they had an operational radius of around six miles. The controllers would also have to stop, launch the small airplane-like devices by hand, then monitor their progress. Flying along at around fifty miles per hour and up to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the small drones could do much to increase Lee’s local situational awareness, but that would mean having to bring the column of Humvees, trucks, support vehicles, and civilian cars and trucks to a halt. And stopping invited an attack. Since they were deep inside Indian Country, the last thing Lee wanted to do was call the column to a halt just so they could launch some toy airplanes and take a look at what lay a few miles down the road. They had helicopters at their disposal, which could fly higher, move faster, observe with superior optics, and if the need arose, cause more than a little bit of damage to any enemy formations in their path.

As they rolled on, Lee looked out the windows of the Humvee. Apaches orbited overhead. The remainder of Bravo Company had deployed and assumed their blocking positions, and there was no sign of enemy activity—other than the fires, of course. To the column’s right, an office building or a depot of some kind was still smoldering, with only skeletal remains of the structures left. The overpass was pockmarked, and bloated, disfigured corpses hung from the light stanchions. When Lee saw that a couple of them were children, he shuddered slightly. He had seen similar things in Afghanistan, but that had been the mujis committing atrocities against their own people in a bid to win their fear and respect and turn them against the Americans. Lee still had a hard time believing that Americans, infected or not, were capable of such barbarity.

Murphy leaned forward, looking at the swinging corpses. “Just hangin’ around, waiting for something to happen.” If the scene affected him at all, his voice didn’t reveal it.

Lee had no comment and merely returned to his maps and GPS display.

“Pull out of formation on the other side of the bridge.”

“Sir?”

“I want to have a quick huddle with Bravo’s commanding officer,” Lee explained.

“Uh, sure thing,” Murphy said, though he didn’t seem to like the idea much. Lee didn’t care. He reached for the radio handset.

“Wizard Five, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Five. Go ahead. Over,” Major Walker responded. He was several vehicles behind Lee, ensconced in another uparmored Humvee.

Lee informed him that he would be falling out of the formation for a few minutes.

“Uh… Six, why’s that? Over.”

“Just having a quick heart-to-heart with Bravo Company. Over,” Lee said as Murphy pulled the Humvee out of the column.

They rolled to a halt behind the M925A1 truck. The soldiers manned up in MOPP gear looked at the new arrival from behind the lenses of their masks.

“Six, are we halting the column? Over.”

“Negative, Five. Keep moving. We’ll get back in the slot. Over.”

“Roger, Six,” Walker said, but he didn’t sound very happy about it.

Lee didn’t blame him. He wanted to get the hell out of there too, but first things first.

“Hey, what’s up?” Foster asked from the cupola.

“Never mind. Just stay sharp up there.” Lee turned to Murphy. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sienkiewicz, go with him,” Murphy said. Lee was impressed. Most of the troops couldn’t pronounce Sienkiewicz’s name—“Sen-kev-itch,” the tall, skinny corporal had constantly corrected—so they just called him “Witch.”

“Not necessary,” Lee said. He yanked on the Humvee’s door release.

“Absolutely necessary, sir,” Murphy said. “Sienkiewicz, get on it.”

“Hooah,” Sienkiewicz said. He pulled on his MOPP top garment, slipped on his mask, and grabbed his rifle.

Lee didn’t bother with the MOPP gear. He just stepped out and slammed the uparmored door shut behind him. The troops manning the security position stood straighter when they realized the Old Man—who wasn’t so old—was paying them a visit.

“Sir, hold up!” Sienkiewicz yelled.

Lee waved at him over his shoulder and continued walking, his M4 slung across his chest and his right hand on its pistol grip. He looked around, mindful of the civilian traffic in the far lanes and the Army convoy in the closest one. The column zipped by at an even fifty miles per hour. Overhead, Apaches orbited in the sky, never staying in one place, always moving in a pattern that kept them from becoming easy targets while allowing their weapons systems as much coverage as possible. On the horizon, smoke rose into the air as downtown Boston continued to burn.

“Where’s your commanding officer?” Lee shouted at the soldiers surrounding the Big Foot truck.

One of them pointed downrange, and Lee took off at a brisk walk, trying not to look too put out at being exposed, though it made his bowels feel as if they might turn into water any second. He puckered up. Now was not the time to explode into Hershey squirts, especially in front of the men.

“Sir, you have to wait for me,” Sienkiewicz said, pulling abreast of Lee. He carried his assault rifle in both hands, the butt of its stock pressed into his right armpit.

“Move faster next time,” Lee said.

“I will, but you should go MOPP too, sir,” Sienkiewicz said. “I mean, you’re the one who ordered all exposed troops to suit up, right?”

“Command prerogative,” Lee said. “Watch the traffic, Corporal.”

“On it, sir.”

They found Bravo Company’s new commanding officer standing next to his Humvee with what Lee presumed to be the company first sergeant. First Lieutenant (Promotable) Cassidy had his back to Lee and didn’t notice his approach. The NCO beside him looked up, and Lee could have sworn he saw the man grimace behind his facemask. Cassidy saw the look, then turned. When he saw Lee, he straightened and saluted. Lee groaned inwardly. Cassidy had just made him a target.

“Sorry to break it to you, Lieutenant Cassidy, but you’re the new commanding officer of what’s left of Bravo Company. I know you’re in the zone for promotion, so you should be ready for it. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. How many are left?”

“Unknown at the moment, but I heard Marsh’s element took ninety percent casualties. As to how many were KIA, I don’t know, yet. Listen, I’m sorry about this. I know you probably had a lot of friends back there, and I need you to come to grips with the fact that you won’t be seeing some of them again.” As he spoke, Lee noticed the company first shirt glaring at him from behind his mask. Lee locked eyes with him.

“Problem, First Sergeant?”

“Well, no, Colonel, I just noticed that you weren’t wearing your MOPP gear. Would be a shame if you became a Klown, sir.” The way the man over-enunciated the rank made Lee think it had been an intentional verbal pinprick, something to get a rise out of him. All things considered, it was probably a pretty gentle slap, but it was still needless confrontation.

“First Sergeant, what’s your mission here?” Lee asked.

“I see to the men of Bravo Company, sir.” The older soldier kept his eyes locked with Lee’s. “I remember what my pay grade is, and I remember what the billet responsibilities are. No delusion of grandeur here, Colonel.”

“Whoa, hey, First Sergeant Urena. Let’s dial that back a bit,” Sienkiewicz said, which Lee thought was unusually ballsy, given that a corporal was to a first sergeant what a ditch digger was to a billionaire.

Urena flicked his gaze over to Sienkiewicz. “Corporal, I know you ain’t talking to me.” The facemask did nothing to diminish the growl in his voice.

“Urena, square your shit away,” Lee said forcefully. “You don’t like it, turn in your weapons and file your papers. I’ll make sure someone at DA signs whatever forms they need to sign, and your merry ass is out of the Army. Those are your choices. Questions?”

Urena glared at Lee, then snorted. “You think you have time to do all that paperwork, Colonel? I mean, you’re the guy who’s going up on charges. Uniform Code of Military Justice mean anything to you? Maybe a little dose of Article One Thirty-Four would do the Colonel good—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Urena?” Cassidy spun toward the shorter, older man like a mongoose whirling on a cobra. “All the shit that’s going down, this is what you’re going to play with? Pull your head out of your ass, First Sergeant. Most of our company has just been taken down! Let’s concentrate on our mission, and forget all this other shit. All right?”

Urena seemed about ready to take another swing at the topic, but he just nodded after a moment and went back to studying the map spread across the Humvee’s hood. The soldier manning the .50 cal in the cupola looked down on them, his face unreadable behind his facemask.

“Roger that, sir,” Urena said finally.

Cassidy turned back to Lee. “Sorry about that, sir.”

“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant. Listen, it’s a shit sandwich, and we’ve all got to take a bite. Urena’s right. This is a cluster, but we’ve got to make the best out of it. Now, you have a severely understrength company to take care of. I just wanted to make sure you knew it was coming, so you can get ready for the transition. You have some qualified people to back you up? First Sergeant, you listening to this?”

“Yes, sir,” Urena said. “We have qualified personnel to sustain the company, sir.”

Cassidy nodded. “He’s right, we’re good to go. We’ve got some good people, and the Bushmasters has the best FSO in the Division, sir.” FSO was the military acronym for fire support officer, an officer whose mission was to coordinate the company’s firepower in support of the commanding officer’s plan of attack.

Lee searched his memory, but he could not recall who might be Bravo Company’s FSO.

“All right, just so long as you’re up to speed on what you need to do. I just wanted to make you familiar with what’s been going on, since they’re your men.”

“I appreciate you stopping for the face-to-face, sir. I’ll make sure everything’s handled, and we’ll be available to take our next assigned phase line,” Cassidy said. The guy was all business, even though he’d just been handed a fifty-pound bag of dicks. Several dozen guys he knew, including his commanding officer, had been zeroed, and he had to pick up the pieces. There was nothing to do but embrace the suck.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Lee said.

“Will do. You should probably get back in the column, sir. We won’t be holding this position for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that. Good luck,” Lee said, directing the wish at Urena as much as Cassidy.

“Thank you, sir,” Cassidy said. “From both of us,” he added, to which Urena nodded without looking up from the map.

Lee headed back to his waiting Humvee, shadowed by the anxious Corporal Sienkiewicz.

It was going to be one hell of a road trip.




SEVEN.


Starter switch energized. Clock started. Hands trembling. So much laughter. It’s all so God damn funny.

DC Voltmeter check. Fourteen volts DC current registering as N1 passes through ten percent. Two rotors with huge chords attached to a teetering rotor head are already starting a slow spin overhead, casting flickering shadows across the cockpit through the eyebrow windows. Copilot giggling over the ICS. Verify voltage continues to increase as N1 picks up.

Exhaust gas temperature is rising normally.

N1 acceleration is normal. Main rotor blades are fully turning now, at fifteen percent N1.

Engine oil pressure light winks out.

Add fuel. THUMP! The big T53 turboshaft engine catches alight, starts delivering over eight hundred ponies to the main rotor shaft. It’s hilarious, thinking about little ponies running on their sides, their little hooves kicking at a main rotor shaft. Release the starter switch once N1 climbs into the forty percent range. Rotors are beginning to slash across the sky, more like a circular wing than two really big boards tied together. Voltmeter reading increases. Transmission oil pressure light, fire warning lights: out. Rotor thumping now. Throttle twisted to ground idle.

“I’m fucking Italian!” the copilot screams over the intercom. “You know how you can tell? My helicopter goes WOP-WOP-WOP!”

Old joke, but it’s suddenly funnier than anything Dangerfield, Carlin, or Louis CK ever said.

Across the flight line, eight other UH-1H Hueys are spooled up, ready for action. Four are loaded with troops. Four are mostly empty, except for the bladders full of piss, puke, and jizz.

Everyone’s laughing.

Everyone wants to kill.




EIGHT.


The first full-on ambush occurred just after the convoy left the overpass to Interstate 495 in its dust.

Rawlings sensed it coming. She didn’t know how, but she did.

The terrain wasn’t exactly optimal for an attack as it was mostly flat, except for the rise to their right, where a road came within a hundred or so feet of Route 2. The eastbound lanes were a mess. There had been some sort of pileup involving a bus and a tractor-trailer, and traffic had come to a dead halt. People were everywhere on that side of the highway, watching the military convoy roll past, their faces filled with panic. Apaches wheeled overhead, ominous and threatening, their rotor beats slamming out Death’s own soundtrack. Someone in the truck had fired up a boom box. Its speakers pounded out Dope’s “Die Motherfucker, Die,” a true warrior’s anthem she had listened to countless times during her tour in Afghanistan. Even in her motor company, it had been the go-to song, despite the fact that the most hazardous things they had to deal with—aside from the generally ineffective insurgent attacks—were grimed-up oil filters, flat tires, and leaking fuel bladders. While other troops were out delivering the Taliban and AQ their orders of whamburgers and french cries, Rawlings and the rest of her compatriots were relatively safe, all things considered.

But the wrongness of the current situation was practically slapping her across the face. She was tense, coiled like a spring ready to unload, and she couldn’t figure out why. She shouldered her M4 and twisted around, aiming the weapon at the northbound lanes. She peered through the 4x optical sight mounted to the upper rail. None of the stranded motorists seemed to be laughing, and they looked normal enough—but she knew the crazies. They could playact for a while until the moment was right for the mask to come off and the laughter to begin.

“Shoot me. Shoot me now.”

I did, Wade, and now you’re dead. Shut the fuck up.

“You feel it too, huh?” Muldoon asked.

“Feel what?” Rawlings asked, still scanning the opposite side of the highway.

“Don’t go all belt-fed on us, Nasty Girl,” said one of the lightfighters on her side of the truck. “Belt-fed” in this circumstance meant the soldier thought Rawlings was getting too buggy, too excited beyond what the present situation merited.

“I’m not,” Rawlings replied. In the near distance, more smoke billowed. Then, something exploded, causing an angry mushroom cloud to appear. A gas station or something similar had just gone up. Pieces of fiery debris arced through the air, trailing smoke. The deep rumble hit her a moment later, causing a vague stirring in Rawlings’s gut. She turned and looked across the truck at Muldoon. The big NCO peered at her for a moment then pushed his sunglasses up on his broad nose.

“She’s on to something,” Muldoon said. “You guys need to suit up. Now.”

“Come on, Muldoon,” a bucktoothed soldier with a perpetual grin said. “You taking tactical cues from a weekend warrior, man?”

“Skeeter, you don’t gotta listen to me,” Muldoon said, reaching for his MOPP overgarment. “You were never worth a pile of shit, anyway.”

Behind him, people moved amid the trees. Rawlings brought up her M4, and Muldoon frowned at her for an instant before putting it together.

The soldier seated to Rawlings’s right saw it as well.

“Klowns to the right!” He raised his rifle just as a Molotov cocktail arced through the air.

Rawlings fired three rounds so quickly it sounded as if she were ripping off a burst on full auto. One of the figures among the trees faltered, then fell face-first to the ground. The area to the right of the column was slightly elevated, not by a lot, but enough to give the attackers a small tactical advantage. As Muldoon ripped off his sunglasses and pulled on his MOPP overgarment, several other troops began firing as well, sending dozens of rounds ripping through the trees, bushes, and infected that were moving toward them.

A Molotov cocktail struck the side of the Big Foot’s bed and shattered, spreading gasoline everywhere. Flames enveloped the last half of the truck, and men shrieked in fear and pain. The attackers were held at bay, not by the soldiers’ return fire, but by the chain link fence that separated the road from the turnpike. That gave the soldier manning the M240B machinegun atop the truck’s cab enough time to spin his weapon around and open up, slashing at the Klowns with a withering stream of bullets.

The Humvee behind the truck was hit with three Molotovs in rapid succession, turning it into a rolling funeral pyre covered by orange flame that danced in the sunlight. The soldier manning the machinegun in the vehicle’s cupola screamed so loudly that they heard him over the truck’s engine and the fusillade of gunfire. The Humvee accelerated suddenly, its driver probably blinded by flame and smoke. Just before it crashed into the back of their truck, it veered to the left and pulled out of the column’s formation. It slammed into a minivan in the next lane.

The pileup that occurred as a result was a horrendous cacophony of rending metal and screeching tires. While the military convoy had been sticking to the right lane and maintaining an even fifty miles an hour, the civilian traffic in the other travel lane was going much faster. Cars and trucks piled up on each other in explosions of glass and plastic and blaring horns. Rawlings saw luggage fly through the air, tumbling end over end, strewing clothing and personal items across the turnpike and the grass median that separated the eastbound lanes from the westbound.

At the end of her truck, a soldier was hitting the flames with a fire extinguisher that had been clamped to the side of the bed. Another soldier clad in full MOPP gear directed him, waving his arms and yelling, “I’m in charge!” through his facemask.

“Fucking lieutenant,” one of the soldiers near Rawlings said. “Guy just doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

Rawlings was about to ask him how he knew it was the lieutenant when something caught her attention—the throbbing wop-wop-wop-wop of approaching helicopters.

Hueys.

Which only the Massachusetts Army National Guard had.




NINE.


Major Fleischer watched the small engagement on the ground. He was trying to coordinate an appropriate angle of attack to bring the fight to the enemy when his pilot spoke over the intercom.

“Hey, Major, we’ve got National Guard aircraft coming in.”

Fleischer looked out the canopy and saw four dots in the distance that were slowly tracking toward them. Farther downrange, another four aircraft flew in a trail formation, but their path would take them well past the column’s rear. The Longbow radar system tracked them as well, and the software that drove the system classified the aircraft as UH-1s. That would be the Guard combat support unit that had been stationed at Logan, along with the rest of the Guard assets.

Fleischer knew from the National Guard liaison officer attached to Hanscom that Logan had been in danger of being overrun by the Klowns; hell, the battalion’s Ravens had overflown the airport just yesterday, and it was surrounded by a veritable army of lunatics. If Logan had indeed fallen, then the majority of the Guard forces there had to be written off.

With that in mind, Fleischer thought that the Huey flight’s sudden emergence from the chaos was concerning.

“What was their designation?” he asked. “Bosox, right?”

“Bosox, yeah. But if Logan’s gone tits up, I figure they’re Nosox now,” Smitty said.

“Let’s hope that’s not what’s happened.” Fleischer switched one of the radios over to the channels the battalion shared with the Guard. “Bosox, this is Tomcat Six. Over.” Nothing. “Bosox, this is Tomcat Six. You’re flying into our area of operations. You need to identify your intentions. Over.”

“Gonna get us some chickenhawks,” came the response. The speaker was doing his best to imitate Foghorn Leghorn, all while chortling.

Fleischer’s blood ran cold. “Bosox, this is Tomcat Six. Say again. Over.”

“Gonna get us some BAH-GAAAWK chickenhawks, and you can call me Colonel Sanders!” the laughing voice jeered over the radio. “I like, I say, I like mine EXTRA-CRISPY!”

The Longbow system calculated that the four Hueys were coming in at a full sprint, making a hundred thirty miles per hour, which would be their maximum speed given the heat and humidity of the day. The Apaches could cruise at a hundred sixty-five miles an hour and sprint at around one eighty-five, so avoiding the Vietnam-era aircraft wouldn’t be a problem. But fighting them off would be. While the Apaches carried a powerful suite of munitions, they were all for use against ground-based targets. The Army had toyed with outfitting Apaches for aerial engagements and had even certified the AIM-92 Air-to-Air Stinger system for their use, but those systems had never been fielded to the attack battalion. The most Fleischer’s people could do was shoot the middle finger at the Klowns in the Hueys.

“Tomcats, this is Six. Red air. I say again, red air. Wingmen, form up on your leads. Stand by for further orders. Break. Wizard, Wizard, this is Tomcat. Over.”

“Tomcat, this is Wizard Six. Go ahead. Over.” Lee sounded all business, even though he must’ve been handling the ambush that was still playing out below.

Fleischer took a second to return to that situation, and he saw a major traffic pile-up was in progress. At least two military vehicles were on fire. Holy fuck.

“Wizard, Tomcat Six. Listen, this is going to hurt, but the Klowns are coming in Guard Hueys. I don’t know what their armament is, but they are airmobile and”—he consulted the Longbow radar data—“less than sixty seconds out. Over.”

“Ah… Tomcat, this is Wizard Six. Understand National Guard forces are coming for us in helicopters. Is that good copy? Over.”

“Wizard, Tomcat. You have that right. Red air is inbound. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat. Go ahead and take them out. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Sorry to break it to you, but we have no air-to-air capability. Over.”

Lee’s businesslike tone suddenly changed. “Tomcat, this is Wizard. Are you telling me you cannot protect the column from red air? Over.”

“Wizard, Tomcat Six. That is exactly what I’m telling you. Ground-based fires are the only option. Recommend you start slamming them with everything you have. We’ll do what we can, but don’t expect more than for us to cheer you on. Over.”

“Tomcat, Wizard. Not good enough, Fleischer. Get in the fucking fight. Over.”

“Lase them,” Smitty said.

“What?”

“Lase them! Our designators aren’t eye-safe. We might be able to blind them!” the pilot said. “Shit, the Hellfires fly at eight hundred knots, we can probably splash them with those, too!”

Fleischer thought about it for a second. The Hellfire missile had been used in at least one aerial engagement, by the Israelis against a Cessna 152. Of course, they’d only succeeded in killing a wayward student pilot, but the precedent had been set.

“Wizard, Tomcat. We have some tricks up our sleeve, but the timing is tight. Expect some bad guys to get past us. Over.”

“Do what you can do, Tomcat. We’re on it down here. Over.”

“Smitty, bring us around,” Fleischer said.

No sooner had he issued the command than the Apache dramatically slowed while doing a hard pedal turn to the left, essentially pirouetting in the sky until its nose was pointed right at the approaching Hueys. The Apache had six Hellfires left.

More than enough, Fleischer thought. He ordered another Apache unit farther downrange to orient toward the oncoming Hueys as well. They would take the aircraft on the left side of the formation, while Fleischer took the ones on the right. There was no chance of hitting all of them, since they would have to lase the incoming helicopters and shoot at them the old fashioned way. The Longbow system didn’t have air-to-air software mods, so it was either do it old school or call class dismissed.

Fleischer reached for the ram horn grips on either side of the targeting display. He thumbed on the laser rangefinder/designator and slewed the TADS toward the first target, the lead Huey heading toward the column. Using the Heads-Out Display mounted between the two multifunction displays on the console before him, he flicked on the laser. Light invisible to the human eye lanced out and struck the approaching Huey, and the TADS read the laser’s reflected light. Transferring that data back to the Apache’s fire control computer, the system was able to separate the target from its background, and feed that data to the main system bus.

At the same time, the Apache’s air data sensors—wand-like devices mounted on either side of the helicopter’s fuselage—took into account the current wind conditions. Those were added into the firing solution as well, and another piece was dropped into the tactical puzzle. That enabled the Apache to know what its target was, where it was in the overall picture, how fast it was traveling, and what likely conditions a Hellfire missile would have to fly through in order to reach the designated target.

As all of that was going on behind the scenes, Fleischer concentrated on keeping the laser focused on the rapidly approaching Huey. The Apache had been designed to destroy tanks and other land-based vehicles. Keeping the Huey in the sights was no easy task, though Smitty helped by easing the Apache into a slight drift to the right, keeping the two aircraft pretty much lined up nose to nose. Despite the complex dance between humans and electronics, Fleischer was ready to fire inside of two seconds. The UH-1 didn’t take any evasive action at all, which was unsurprising. Not only did the Klowns have a general disregard for personal safety, the National Guard aircraft was likely not equipped with laser warning receivers.

“Ready to shoot,” he said.

“Good to shoot,” Smitty said. “Hurry. He’s going to get too close—”

Fleischer launched the Hellfire, and it raced off the rail on the right side with a sharp hiss. “Shot!”

Fleischer kept the targeting laser focused on the approaching Huey, painting it with light that the semi-autonomous seeker in the Hellfire’s nose would home in on. As the aircraft drew nearer, he could make out more of the target’s details. It was armed only with door gunners, and the two pilots were staring through the big Plexiglas canopy and grinning like buffoons. The chopper’s big rotors ravaged the sky, and its blunt nose held a slightly low position as the Huey approached at full speed. The pilots were definitely keeping the turboshaft engine pegged in the red zone. Frying the expensive T53 power plant was of no concern, so long as they could close with their target and do whatever they were planning to do.

The Hellfire slammed right through the UH-1’s rotor disk and pierced its fuselage. The Klowns’ mission ended when the UH-1 disintegrated. Fleischer had wondered if the UH-1 had enough structural density to cause the weapon’s detonator to trigger. He would not have been surprised if the missile had simply traveled right through the Huey without exploding, but apparently, it hit something substantial enough to activate the explosives. The aircraft disappeared into an expanding ball of flame that belched out a cloud of whirling shrapnel. The remains of the tattered, fiery carcass corkscrewed to the right and descended rapidly, crashing into the parking lot of a building that sat just short of a small river.

Jesus, I actually scored an air-to-air kill. Fleischer grunted, and went to work trying to target the next Huey.

Smitty’s response was less contained. “Holy shit, that was awesome!” he crowed.

Presuming the second Apache had splashed another Huey, Smitty roared again, but Fleischer knew it was too late. The Huey was already too close for a Hellfire shot, and there was no way they could hit another aircraft with rockets. He briefly considered opening up with the thirty-millimeter cannon, but the M230 chain gun was just too imprecise for that kind of engagement. All he would do was spray high-explosive armor-piercing rounds across the landscape and possibly kill or maim helpless civilians.

The Apache suddenly wrenched to the left, and its twin engines roared as Smitty applied full power. Fleischer lost all hope of maintaining a target lock as the Apache leaped into a full-on climb, its rotors pounding as they coned upward, scraping as much lift as possible from the hot, heavy air surrounding the gunship.

Before Fleischer could ask what was going on, he had his answer. Several rounds struck the Apache’s belly, one of which traveled right through the aircraft’s outer skin and pancaked against the bottom of his armored seat with a loud thwack! that made him jump against his harness. Clearly, one of the Huey’s door gunners wasn’t interested in becoming Fleischer’s second air-to-air kill. Fleischer consulted the millimeter wave radar display and confirmed that two of the Hueys had indeed slipped past by flying beneath the climbing Apache.

“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. You have two Hueys inside the wire!”




TEN.


Muldoon looked up when he heard the thumping rotor beats of the approaching Hueys. Like most of the troops in the now-scored truck, he’d had no idea what was going on beyond the aborted attack against the column. They’d just finished putting out the fire and were trying to decide what to do—the truck needed to be looked at, and the Rawlings girl was already looking over the side to get an idea of what was up with the left rear tires—so the troops had been unaware there was a helicopter fight going on. But the slapping rotor beat of the UH-1s was a definite environmental change that the big lightfighter gave his attention to.

Two helicopters charged toward the column, big rotors flashing, noses lowered as they powered through the summer day. Behind them, several Apaches banked hard, as if to give chase. Farther downrange, another two Apaches pivoted in their hovers. And beyond them, two columns of smoke rose from flaming wreckage lying in the middle of a distant field.

Muldoon stood up and grabbed truck railing. There was no way to tell what was on fire out there.

But they could be helicopters.

He turned to shout to Lieutenant Crais, but then two Kiowa Warriors came screaming in from the southwest. The modified M2 fifty cals mounted on their left hard points chattered as they raced past, and hot cartridges rained down on the truck as it limped along the highway, still trailing smoke from the burn damage done by the Molotov cocktails. Muldoon noticed the Kiowas weren’t strafing.

They were trying to hit the Hueys with their fixed guns.

Then, he heard the distant pop-pop-pop-pop of an M240 as one of the Huey door gunners returned the favor.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Nutter shouted.

“Lieutenant!” Muldoon yelled. “Hey, Crais!”

Lieutenant Crais turned, his perennially harried expression morphing into full-on pissed off when he realized Muldoon was the one calling him, and by his last name, at that. Lieutenant Crais was an officer who didn’t like hearing anything but honorifics directed his way, which was a shame, because it meant he and Muldoon would never be buddies. Muldoon spent at least three nanoseconds crying over that one night.

“Muldoon, sit the fuck down!” Crais called back. “The truck’s moving!”

Muldoon pointed at the Hueys. “Incoming!”

His response got the attention of the rest of the soldiers, even Rawlings, who snatched up her M4. About thirty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the approaching helicopters. Muldoon saw that the Kiowas had broken off, their attack ineffective.

“So what? Sit down!” Crais shouted.

“Lieutenant! Those are Guard choppers, not ours!”

“Sit down!” Crais repeated, his face coloring with fury. “I know who’s—”

Muldoon turned to look up at the soldier manning the M240B mounted on the truck’s cab. He stared at the approaching Hueys, but he hadn’t lined up on them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon shouted.

“Like, for real?” the soldier asked. Like Muldoon, he wore sunglasses, and his eyes were unreadable behind them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon repeated. He turned back to Crais as the gunner swung the machinegun around. “Lieutenant, stop the truck!”

The machinegun opened up, hurling 7.62-millimeter rounds at the closest Huey, now just over eight hundred meters away. The chances of it being hit at that range from a moving truck were damned low, but Muldoon didn’t care.

Crais leapt to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted at the gunner. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The gunner ignored him. If anything, he tightened up on the M240 and tried to get the lead just right. Crais barreled up the small aisle in the center of the truck’s bed. He shoved Rawlings out of his way, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Cease fire! That’s a direct order! I’m in charge here!”

Muldoon grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders. “Lieutenant! Shut the fuck up for a second!”

Crais gaped up at him. Muldoon was a good seven inches taller. “What did you say?”

“Stop. The. Truck,” Muldoon said.

“Why the fuck would we want to do that?” Crais tried to look past Muldoon as the M240 opened up again. “God damn it, Christensen! Cease fire!”

“Everyone open up!” Christensen called. “They’re closing!”

Muldoon pushed Crais away, and the lieutenant stumbled across another soldier’s boots and fell on his bony ass just as the first Huey raked the truck with return fire. Men cried out as they were struck by rounds that defeated their body armor and tore through their bodies.

Muldoon heard a crack! as a 7.62 round ripped right past his head, and he ducked instinctively. It was a good call. The next burst from the approaching Huey zoomed right through the space he’d been occupying. Several rounds tore through Christensen and the M240, continuing on through the cab of the M925A1. Not all of the Bigfoots were uparmored, which meant the soldiers up front were about as well protected from machinegun fire as a scrumptious bagel might have been in a clear plastic bag after it had been spied by a famished Orson Wells.

The truck suddenly lurched to the right then plowed through the guardrail on the edge of the two lane highway. It bumped across an overgrown field for a few dozen yards before jerking to a halt. Soldiers shouted as they flew in all directions. Muldoon bounced right over the side of the truck. He crashed to the ground on the other side, and his wind left him in a rush.

All he could see was blue sky, scattered clouds, and the waving tops of tall trumpet weeds. A peculiar sense of déjà vu descended. For an instant, he was a young boy again, lying in the tall weeds in a field outside his house in Pennsylvania, playing soldier with his friends. Only he wasn’t playing. It was for real.

The weeds parted suddenly, and Nutter’s goggle-eyed face appeared as he bent over Muldoon.

“Duke, you all right?” He had to shout to be heard over the Huey thumping nearby, its machineguns rattling against what Muldoon could tell was only sporadic fire from his troops.

“Just fucking fine,” Muldoon gasped.

“Well, hey, it’s not a bad day.” Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s harness and tried to haul him to his feet. “At least you got the truck to stop.”




ELEVEN.


Major Walker watched the truck that had survived the ambush suddenly swerve out of the formation. He knew that the incoming Hueys were hostile, but Wizard Six hadn’t yet responded to the threat after the Apaches had handed off the engagement mere seconds ago. Soldiers went flying through the air when the truck slammed through the guardrail then bounced across the uneven terrain of a field overrun with tall weeds.

“Shit, those guys are taking fire!” said the driver, an older NCO wearing the stripes of a staff sergeant.

“Fire on the Hueys!” Walker ordered.

“With what, sir?” one of the soldiers behind him asked.

Walker groaned. His Humvee was unarmed.

The radio came alive. “Wizard Six to all commands—Hueys are red air, fire at will! Red air, red air, red air! Over!”

“Blaster One, this is Wizard Seven. Fall out of the column for engagement. We’ll form up on you for security. Over.” That came from Command Sergeant Major Turner, who was in a vehicle several spaces ahead of Walker’s.

For a moment, he couldn’t recall who the hell was designated Blaster, and then it came to him. A Stinger platoon had been assigned to the battalion, sourced from 60


 Air Defense Artillery Regiment. It was an odd posting, and Walker couldn’t really remember a time he had seen troops slinging MANPADS around the battalion since Iraq in 2004. He was happy to learn that Turner had remained aware of their presence.

Walker picked up the radio microphone. “Wizard Six, this is Wizard Five. Over.”

“Five, go for Six. Over.”

“Six, we have a truck that’s been hit, probably disabled. I’m falling out of the column as well to check them out. Over.”

“Five, this is Six. Don’t stay for long. Get them some help, then get back in formation. Can’t have you and Seven dismounted at the same time. Over.”

“Roger, Six. Five, out.” Walker replaced the handset.

“We’re pulling over now?” the driver asked.

Walker checked his M4 to ensure the weapon was ready as the driver slowed the Humvee. His mouth felt dry, and his hands and feet tingled. He was about to expose himself to a combat situation for the first time in years. He thought he’d left the dirty business behind him once he’d been promoted to O-4, but the world had changed in the past few weeks. Combat had never suited him. Walker had always been more interested in the political regime of command, not in proving he was a war god. The Army was full of combat leaders, and Walker didn’t have much of what it took to excel at warcraft in its purest form. He’d traded his rightful place as battalion commander with Harry Lee just to keep his distance from the bloody work of running the unit. He had wanted to stay in the background and influence circumstances by whispering into Lee’s ear when the time was right.

So what are you doing now? Stay in the Humvee and move on, his sense of self-preservation murmured. These are extraordinary times, and you’re not an extraordinary soldier.

Walker frowned. The temptation to move on was momentarily overwhelming, but he felt a keen desire to fight his caution. No, not caution.

Cowardice.

Walker couldn’t be seen as a coward in front of the men. He was the battalion executive officer, and he’d already indulged his survival instincts by getting Harry Lee to take all the hard knocks on the chin. The chances of Walker getting out of the current fray without having to suffer some body shots was out of the question, so he figured he might as well suck it up and get it done.

The driver pulled the Humvee out of the convoy and onto the shoulder. Behind Walker, the two soldiers in the rear of the Humvee—both battle-hardened NCOs that Walker had pulled from the operations pool to ride with him—got ready for contact.

“Sir, we should go MOPP,” Weide Zhu said.

The hard-faced Chinese master sergeant didn’t much care for him, but Walker had specifically chosen Zhu to ride along because he was one of Doug Turner’s favored troops, a twenty-five year veteran who had served in every theater of operations since JUST CAUSE in 1989. It had been another choice in the name of self-preservation. With the battalion on the move, the danger meter was pegged at 10.5, and Walker wanted to ensure the troops around him were the best.

“Roger that,” Walker said, removing his helmet. He struggled into his overgarment and hood. It took him almost a minute, and by the time he was done, the other soldiers were already manned up and waiting for him, even the driver. Walker felt a flush of embarrassment, a weird counterpoint to the fear that thrilled the edges of his consciousness.

“We all ready now, sir?” Zhu asked, his voice muffled slightly by his mask.

“Ready. Let’s dismount,” Walker said.

Outside, gunfire roared as the UH-1 made another pass. Walker opened the Humvee’s door and gingerly pushed it open, but he found the Humvee wasn’t the helicopter’s target. The chopper was thumping over the wounded truck, heeling over in a hard bank.

Something shaped like a pie wedge fell from the aircraft and tumbled through the air. Walker realized it was a fuel bladder, a flexible construct normally mounted to the rear of the UH-1’s troop compartment in the hell hole, where the gunners sat. As the bladder arced toward the truck, it trailed liquid. Clearly, its self-sealing properties had been compromised, and Walker wondered if the bladder might explode, like a bomb.

What happened was much worse than that.




TWELVE.


Muldoon clambered to his feet, shrugging off Nutter’s attempts to help him. The Huey had finished its first strafing run and was banking around for another pass. One of the Kiowas seemed to stagger in the air, its nose swerving left then right as it moved downrange, descending. The aircraft looked fine, but something was definitely wrong with the pilots, and Muldoon wondered if they had been hit by one of the Huey gunners.

The Kiowa rolled to the left, sideslipped, and crashed into the trees on the other side of Massachusetts 2. Its four-bladed main rotor slashed through the leafy canopy, ripping it asunder with a great tearing noise as the small armed reconnaissance aircraft disappeared from view.

“Whoa! You see that shit?” Nutter asked, awe in his voice.

“Shoot the fucking Huey!” Muldoon bellowed. He grabbed his M4, tucked it in tight against his shoulder, and peered through the scope on its top rail.

Muldoon sighted on the Huey as it came around again. The gunner on the left side of the aircraft was leaning out of the aircraft, supported only by his safety belt as he manhandled an M240 machinegun. Muldoon was momentarily torn. He knew he should try to kill the pilots—that would end the run right then and there—but the machinegun would inflict a lot of harm before he could do that. He heard a chorus of popping noises, like dozens of firecrackers going off all around him. The troops were opening up, finally getting organized. A shrill voice rallied the men into action. It wasn’t Lieutenant “I’m in Charge” Crais. It was the woman, Rawlings.

So she’s hard core. Who knew?

The gunner in the Huey opened up, walking rounds across the highway, through the civilian traffic on the eastbound side, then through the convoy in the westbound lanes, then finally into the truck, where several troops went down. The rest retreated, momentarily abandoning their lanes of fire in the name of survival.

Muldoon sighted on the Huey’s cockpit and began firing on semi-auto as fast and as accurately as he could. The aircraft was a long ways off, but still inside his personal attack radius. He was rewarded with the image of Plexiglas puckering beneath the impact of several rounds, and the helmeted figure behind the windscreen flinched and jerked.

But the helicopter kept coming. Muldoon swung his rifle to the left, going for the pilot in the helicopter’s right seat. Rounds from the M240 slapped the ground around him. Nutter grabbed his arm and pulled mightily, yanking Muldoon right off his feet.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Muldoon shouted, as 7.62-millimeter bullets rained all around them.

“Saving your ass!” Nutter yelled back.

The two men buried their faces in the dirt between the tall weeds. Muldoon heard the rotor beat of the Huey change dramatically, and he rolled over onto his back, bringing his M4 around. The helicopter was banking away once again, but at an angle that was so extreme it had to fight to stay airborne. Something fell away from it, plunging toward the shattered, bullet-torn Bigfoot that sat only fifteen feet away from his and Nutter’s position. The thing landed in the back of the truck, and fluid exploded everywhere. The soldiers in the bed of the truck shouted.

And then, they began to laugh.




THIRTEEN.


Rawlings realized the shit had just hit the fan when the fuel bladder landed on the back of the ravaged M925. Several men lay there, wounded by weapons fire. A group of soldiers, both in and out of MOPP gear, tended to them while others tried to repel the incoming UH-1. On the opposite side of the highway, a second helicopter had just gone down in a flurry of slashing rotors that decimated a good chunk of the sparse forest there. Pale smoke rose from the crash site. Rawlings doubted anyone was going to walk away from that one.

When gunfire erupted from the truck, her dread was confirmed. The fuel bladder hadn’t been filled with aviation fuel. It had contained contaminants that carried the Bug. On impact, the bladder broke, splashing the substance all over everyone in the area.

The Bug was ruthlessly efficient, blessed with a replication rate that was beyond impressive. As soon as it hit a mucus membrane, it went into action, replicating ferociously, penetrating the bloodstream and spreading through the body within seconds. From there, the Bug hijacked the human nervous system like the most capable terrorist ever known. The infected soldiers went to work right away, trying to either kill or infect those who hadn’t succumbed.

The MOPP gear intended to protect from immediate infection worked against those who wore it by reducing fields of vision, smothering hearing capabilities, and impeding movement. The newly-risen Klowns were able to strike before the protected soldiers could adapt to the situation, either by killing them outright or by tearing off their masks and overgarments, which exposed them to the putrid contaminants speckling the truck bed.

Adding to the confusion was the orbiting Huey that continued to fire at those soldiers not in the truck. The remaining uninfected lightfighters were forced to either find cover or return fire.

“Keep firing!” Rawlings yelled.

She was fifty feet from the truck’s tailgate. She had been tossed into the meadow with several other soldiers when the vehicle crashed through the guardrail and rolled down the incline on the other side. She’d lost her M4 and had spent several seconds combing the tall weeds for it. By the time she found it, the UH-1 was almost overhead. The gunners had missed her, but a limping soldier ten feet away had taken a round that had passed through his helmet and into his skull without even slowing. On balance, Rawlings thought he’d been lucky.

The fighting in the truck stopped as the UH-1 wheeled away, trailing smoke. It continued down the highway, its occupants tossing out more fuel bladders and other containers at the open trucks despite the fusillade of small arms fire directed at it. Rawlings turned back to the truck and saw several soldiers arming themselves. Some stopped to smear the blood of the fallen onto their uniforms, cackling as they did so.

“The truck!” she yelled at the soldiers closest to her. “The troops in the truck—they’re Klowns!”

The firing began anew but from the truck outward. One of the soldiers near Rawlings grunted and staggered backward as several rounds struck him. Rawlings had no idea if the body armor saved his life or not as she crouched in the weeds, reducing her silhouette as much as possible. She had no armor, no real protective gear of any kind. She had even lost her cap in the tumble from the truck. The weeds provided conceal-only cover that was marginal, at best. Added to that, she was caught between two soldiers and the Klowns on the truck as they duked it out with assault rifles. She needed to keep her head down and find some substantial cover, and fast.

A Humvee pulled up to the side of the road, just before the twisted gap in the guardrail. She was disappointed that the vehicle didn’t have any mounted weapons, but when its doors opened, a few armed lightfighters stepped out and took up defensive positions. They wore MOPP gear, and they had their weapons oriented toward the truck.

That’s as good as it’s gonna get, girl.

Rawlings started crawling toward the Humvee. One of the soldiers dived to the ground, doing a virtual face-plant on the shoulder of the road as a salvo of bullets struck the vehicle, ricocheting off and leaving its armor pockmarked. The second soldier on that side knelt and ripped off an entire magazine on full automatic, hosing the truck with thirty rounds of 5.56-millimeter ball ammunition. For his efforts, the Klowns concentrated their fire on him, dropping him.

Rawlings kept crawling. Even though it had been hit, the Humvee was still drivable, and she wanted to get some armor around her. The gunfire in the meadow continued, and over the uproar, she could hear the Klowns cackling with wild glee.

She came across the body of the soldier who had been killed in the strafing run. Flies were already buzzing around the corpse. Rawlings took a moment to roll the soldier over onto his back. His face was misshapen, courtesy of the bullet that had passed through his skull and exited out his chin, tearing away half his jaw. One eye peered at her sightlessly. Metal winked from inside the remains of the soldier’s mouth—a dental implant exposed when the crown affixed to its abutment had been shorn off, an expensive piece of hardware that probably cost more than the lightfighter’s M4. Rawlings ignored the gore and went for the soldier’s tactical harness, intending to liberate some ammunition.

She spotted two M67 fragmentation grenades clipped to the front of the harness.

Behind her, the Klowns were starting to dismount, howling and jeering as they fired into the weeds.

Rawlings grabbed one of the grenades, cupped it in her right hand, and squeezed the safety lever. Rolling to her feet, she held the explosive waist-high and gripped the pin with the fingers of her left hand. Unlike how it was done in the movies, she didn’t pull the pin—she pulled the grenade away from it, ensuring she didn’t lose her grip on the safety lever. With the pin ripped out, she rose, spreading her feet to adopt the throwing stance she hadn’t had to assume since basic training. Her back was to the Humvee, and she wondered what the soldiers there would think when she suddenly popped up in their firing lane.

Dear God, please don’t let them shoot me in the back.

One of the Klowns saw her and leered, bringing up his assault rifle. She recognized the goofy platoon commander who had kept repeating, “I’m in charge!” like a healing mantra.

“Gonna fuck you up the ass, bitch!” he shouted.

Rawlings hurled the grenade. “Frag out!” She leaped across the dead soldier’s body and dropped to the ground behind it, using the torso for cover. Rounds ripped past her, tearing the tops off the weeds as Rawlings tried to flatten her body. One of the uninfected soldiers near her ripped off a burst on full automatic then lunged toward her, covering her body with his own and smothering her beneath his weight.

The grenade went off with an ear-splitting roar that left Rawlings half deaf. The soldier on top of her jerked then lay still. A queer silence descended on the meadow, broken only by a muted buzz that filled Rawlings’s ears. Then she heard the distant patter of debris raining down all around her, followed by more firing. Someone was shouting orders, and Rawlings believed it was that giant of a man, Muldoon. The firing rang out in stark, staccato bursts that seemed to come from everywhere, punctuated by the shouts of men in battle against cackling lunatics, a nightmarish orchestra playing over a bed of basso rotor beats.

Get in the fight, or get to the Humvee, she told herself.

“Hey, get off me,” she yelled to the soldier on top of her.

He didn’t move, so she gathered her arms beneath her and literally did a pushup against his dead weight. He rolled onto his side, his eyes open and staring. He was a skinny black kid, maybe no more than nineteen years old, his face smooth and devoid of age lines. Written in neat block letters in black pen across a band around his helmet was the name KEALTY. Rawlings put a finger against his jugular. He had no pulse. She inspected him for injuries and found a small dark slit on the back of his neck. A grenade fragment had hit him, flying benignly right over her and severing his spinal cord before tearing through other structures in his body. He had died instantly, since the expression on his face didn’t show even a hint of surprise.

“Rawlings! Get on your feet!”

Rawlings looked up and saw Muldoon striding toward her like some avenging angel. Beside him, Nutter struggled to keep up. Several more soldiers fanned out behind them, weapons out, scanning for a threat. Beyond, the M925A1 was on fire. Bodies lay everywhere. One soldier in a tattered uniform was still moving near the flaming wreckage. He wore a MOPP overgarment, but no facemask. He was horribly burned, and he shuddered as he coughed.

No. He wasn’t coughing. He was laughing.

Muldoon followed her gaze and saw the soldier. He stopped, raised his rifle, and put one round through the Klown’s forehead. The infected soldier dropped and moved no more.

Muldoon turned back to her, and without his sunglasses, she saw his eyes were a clear blue.

“I said get on your feet!”

“This man’s hurt,” Rawlings said, putting a hand on Kealty’s motionless shoulder.

Muldoon looked down at the soldier with a blank expression then at the body of the other soldier Rawlings had been hiding behind. “That man is dead, Rawlings,” he said, his voice a little kinder. “They’re both dead. Now, unless you’re injured, you need to get up. That Huey is coming back.” As he spoke, the pounding beat of the UH-1 swelled. “Nutter, get Kealty and Sollinger’s tags.”

“Roger that,” Nutter said, stepping forward.

Rawlings hauled herself to her feet. She felt a little lightheaded and realized she had to go to the bathroom something fierce. She looked around for her rifle, found it, and picked it up.

“Chopper’s gonna be on top of us in just a minute!” one of the soldiers said.

From somewhere downrange, more gunfire rang out as another pitched battle was fought. Rawlings figured the bullet-ridden helicopter had dropped another payload of contaminated waste on a Bigfoot, and the infected troops were going at it with the rest.

Muldoon turned and watched the helicopter sprint toward them, still trailing smoke from its big turbine engine. Rawlings thought his expression was almost welcoming. Muldoon apparently wanted combat. “Spread out and get ready to hose it with everything you’ve got—”

Behind the helicopter, a thin trail of gray smoke snaked into the sky. The line rose into the air then swerved, tracking left then right before zooming toward the UH-1. A missile.

“Uh, fuck this, Duke. We’d better get the hell out of here,” Nutter said.

“Beat feet!” Muldoon shouted.

He grabbed Rawlings with his left hand and yanked her after him as the helicopter bore down on their position, unaware that death was right behind it and moving at better than Mach one. Rawlings looked over her shoulder as she ran. The leering gunner leaned out of the Huey’s open cargo door, machinegun at the ready.

Then, the helicopter’s nose dropped as an explosion blossomed right behind it. The aircraft lurched across the sky as if it had been kicked in the ass by some unseen giant. The Huey’s big rotors flexed, slicing through its tail boom. The aircraft tumbled end over end, tearing itself to bits as it heeled hard to the left and crashed into the meadow well short of the burning Bigfoot. Another explosion, another mushroom cloud of smoke.

Rawlings was almost unimpressed. She’d seen more than her share of explosions. The soldiers stopped running, even though two more Stinger missiles raced past overhead. Rawlings turned and followed their progress. The second UH-1 that was harassing the rear of the column pivoted and tried to get away, but it was torn asunder by twin explosions that detonated like muted thunder. The flaming wreckage spiraled to the ground, and a moment later, another cloud of smoke leaped into the sky from behind the tree line.

“Huh. Was wondering what happened to the Apaches,” Muldoon said. “Guess they didn’t want to risk a blue-on-blue.”

“Faggot rotorheads, they’re coming back now,” Nutter said. He spit into the weeds. True enough, the gunships were closing back with the column, flying in pairs. “God damn pussies. We need real men in this fight, not aviation wimps!” He then turned and vomited into the weeds, swearing in between heaves.

Muldoon snorted. “Tough it out, Colonel.”

Three soldiers in MOPP gear approached, cautiously moving toward them from the road. It was the crew from the Humvee Rawlings had tried to get to earlier.

“Hey, is that Kung Fu Charlie?” one of Muldoon’s guys asked.

“Yeah,” Muldoon said. “Which means one of those guys is probably the XO.”

“Walker’s out here?” another asked. “Color me impressed.”

The three soldiers stopped short, weapons held at low ready. “Are any of you infected?” one of them shouted.

“We sure are,” Muldoon called in response. “Rawlings gave all of us the clap.”

“We’re not infected!” Rawlings yelled. She turned to Muldoon and glared up at him. “Totally not smart, asshole.”

Muldoon smiled back. “That’s how I roll. Deal with it.”

The three soldiers slowly picked their way toward them, and Rawlings saw that one of them was in fact Major Walker, the battalion XO. Walker looked around the area, taking in the entire tableau. The Bigfoot still burned, emitting foul-smelling clouds of black smoke. In addition, the breeze carried the sickly sweet smell of burning meat as the corpses in the back of the truck were burnt to a crisp. On the road, another Humvee backed down the highway, coming to a halt in front of the first. The vehicle was outfitted with an enclosed cupola that housed an M2 machinegun. Four soldiers stepped out of it, and one of them started jogged forward.

“How many wounded do you have?” Walker shouted through his mask.

Muldoon looked around. Bodies lay everywhere. “Not many, I think.”

A soldier bearing master sergeant stripes on his uniform stepped forward and stared right into Muldoon’s face. “Why don’t you pull your thumb out of your ass and do a count, Muldoon?”

Muldoon stared back, seemingly unaffected by the senior NCO’s demeanor. “Have a good time hiding behind the Humvee, Zhu?”

“What did you say?”

“I said faggots lose their hearing early,” Muldoon said, louder.

“Muldoon!”

A shorter man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest headed straight toward Muldoon. He wasn’t wearing any MOPP gear, and his face was all sharp angles. His eyes were hard as he locked his gaze on Muldoon, and his bearing told Rawlings that the newcomer was a hundred-percent hard core. The other soldiers stepped aside for him, even Major Walker. While everyone else was sweating in the heat and humidity, the man’s face didn’t show even a hint of perspiration, as if the heat was as unlikely to touch him as the rest of the soldiers before him.

“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Major Turner,” Muldoon said. “Stepped out from behind your desk for a walk on the wild side, huh?”

“Master Sergeant Zhu gave you some guidance on what you’re supposed to be doing right now,” Turner said, his voice barely more than a rough growl. He walked right up to Muldoon and stopped inches away. “You aren’t doing it. Why the fuck is that? This isn’t some God damn Commie labor union, this is the United States Army. Start taking care of your troops, or my size-thirteen boot will have a date with your ass!”

“Threatening me, Sergeant Major?” Muldoon asked, sounding completely unintimidated.

Turner leaned in even closer until he was nearly within kissing range. “Boy, the fact that you are not checking for wounded tells me you are a shit excuse for a soldier. You’re chicken shit, Muldoon. Chicken shit.”

Muldoon didn’t like that, and his face clouded with rage. “You just made a mistake, Sergeant Major—”

“Take a swing,” Turner said, not moving a muscle. “I dare you, sweetheart. Take a swing, and make it count—”

“Stop it!” Walker shouted. He stepped forward and put a hand on Muldoon’s thick arm. “Sergeant Muldoon, step back and start checking for wounded! We need to get back on the road. Sergeant Major, do we have transportation coming for the rest of these soldiers?”

Neither Muldoon nor Turner responded for a long moment, choosing instead to glare at each other balefully. The animosity between the two men was almost palpable, and Rawlings wondered why an E-5 like Muldoon was challenging a full-on battalion command sergeant major. She’d never seen such a thing during her time in the Guard. A soldier didn’t step on a senior NCO’s air hose like that and expect to survive the encounter.

“Swing away, Muldoon,” Turner said finally, “or start acting like a soldier. Your call.”

Muldoon held his position for another moment, then suddenly reached up and stroked his chin. Turner didn’t flinch by even a millimeter, despite the fact that Muldoon had actively made it seem as though he was about to strike. Walker reacted by starting to reach for Muldoon’s arm again, but he canceled the move at the last second.

“Let’s get to it,” Muldoon said to the soldiers behind him. “Nutter, you done puking yet?”

“I was just moving on to shitting my pants,” Nutter said, wide-eyed.

“Do it later. Let’s see if we have any live ones.”

“Great idea,” Turner said. He turned to the master sergeant. “Zhu, go with them. The rest of you, secure the area. We need to get back on the road.” He glanced over at Rawlings. “You know how to use that weapon, girl?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” she said. “I most certainly do.”




FOURTEEN.


Worcester, Massachusetts was a college town, home to the Worcester Polytechnic Institute, Clark University, the University of Massachusetts’s Medical School, and Assumption College, among others. With a population of just under two hundred thousand, the city was the second largest in all of New England, second only to Boston. The bucolic area served as the last stop before a traveler entered the western suburbs of the Boston metropolitan area, and it was also known for its legacy of arts, liberal politics, suburban lifestyle, and fairly well-established regional airport.

Like so many other places in New England, Worcester was in the process of being bludgeoned to death. The city’s short skyline was already blackened and battered from fires that had gone unchecked, and the occasional siren could be heard over volleys of gunshots. Surrounding the city center, residential communities still smoldered, belching columns of gray-black smoke into the air. On the far eastern side of the city, the forest surrounding the Worcester State Hospital was on fire, producing a pall of dirty smoke that hung over the airport like a gauzy veil.

The airport was important to the battalion and its attached units. It had been officially shut down for some time, closed to all air traffic, commercial and private. But several dozen people were on the property, either caught in transit when their aircraft had been grounded or simply seeking some measure of safety. A single JetBlue Airbus A319 sat on the ramp outside one of the two active jetports that had, until recently, still been in use. Almost all of the general aviation aircraft were gone, and the only planes left were an old, battered Cessna 172 and a shiny Beechcraft Baron. The two aircraft were parked right next to each other, which left the majority of the general aviation ramp area available for the cav unit to set up around the four UH-60M Black Hawks they supported.

First Lieutenant Carl Dekker had arranged the cav unit’s four Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles—MRAPs—in a protective formation around the ramp area, their fifty caliber machineguns oriented outward. In addition, they arranged the four airport snow plows into a formation that would funnel ground traffic headed for the ad hoc assembly area into a narrow kill zone attended by two MRAPs and four of his dismounted cavalrymen.

Dekker also had a bit of a bonus to fall back on. While his command was detached from the rest of the battalion, he had been bequeathed eleven airmen and NCOs from Hanscom Air Force Base. Those men made up the remainder of Hanscom’s Internal Security Response Team, the unit that provided security for the base and responded to any physical threats. Dekker and his troops were good at that sort of thing, but he had to grudgingly confess that the ISRT was better. For that reason, he had put them between the cavalry platoon and the passenger terminal, where an attack was most likely. The only thing keeping the people in there from walking out onto the taxiway were locked doors, and while that would be a sufficient deterrent for families who were stranded but still sane, the second the Bug took hold and a bunch of Klowns came into being, that deterrent would quickly fail. So it would be up to the ISRT and its batch of M4s, M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, and shotguns to keep the goblins at bay until the cavalry platoon could get spooled up and stage a more lethal response. Dekker and his men had been spared a great deal of gratuitous contact with the Klowns, but they all knew what the Infected were capable of. The people they had been no longer existed. Only crazed, howling demons occupied their skins, demons who wanted nothing more than to spread the infection or, more likely, to tear a man’s skin from his bones and piss on his internal organs.

Dekker would run over them with the MRAPs.

But part of Dekker’s job was protecting the UH-60 Black Hawks. These provided tactical transport for the battalion, as well as logistical replenishment operations. When Wizard Six had chopped the cavalry unit away from their normal armed reconnaissance mission and had them secure the airport, he had put the troops of Nomad Platoon in charge of some very strategic assets. Normally, that wouldn’t have been tough duty. The aircraft would be stored in secured hangars and brought out only when they had a mission, but the hangars at Worcester Regional Airport were not exactly hardened, and they had no means to ensure entire structures could remain protected from assault. A second option would have been for the aircraft to be placed inside hardened revetments, surrounded by sand bags, HESCO containers, or other obstacles that would serve to protect them from indirect fire, thereby keeping them more or less out of harm’s way. The only thing they had that could even begin to serve as revetment material was several dozen water-filled plastic jersey barriers. The gaily-colored obstacles were hardly bulletproof and were maybe high enough to keep a raging dachshund at bay, but they weighed over a thousand pounds each. That meant they might protect the helicopters from vehicle-born attacks, in turn giving the Black Hawk drivers enough time to get the hell out of Dodge before everything rolled tits up and called it a day. The Air Force guys had used forklifts to move them into position, and they had even angled them a bit to make another choke point in case of attack. That had been nice of them.

The aviation crews had also manned up and were standing security with the rest of the cavalry team. While not as versed in the arcane art of ground combat as the cav and zoomies, they had at least gone through basic infantry training and presumably knew which end of an assault rifle to point at the enemy. Each aircraft had a crew of four: two pilots, one crew chief, and one gunner. That gave Dekker enough of a tactical footprint to make him feel comfortable, even though there were too many faces to put inside the MRAPs if they had to bug out. So some of the snow plows would be coming along for the ride, and with their big blades, they’d be pretty unstoppable, at least from the front.

Another bonus was that the Black Hawks had better communication gear. The cavalry’s radios were pretty much useless so far from the battalion, but the aviators remained in contact with the other air units. That lone pipeline kept everyone who wore a uniform at Worcester at least marginally up to date on current events. They knew the battalion’s convoy had already been attacked twice, and they knew the scouts were coming in to refuel. The airport still had power and a good amount of aviation fuel, which the aviators had already tapped. They’d topped off their Black Hawks then filled up four five-hundred-gallon blivets, inflatable doughnut-shaped bladders that would be slung out by the Black Hawks when the time came to close up shop and retrograde. Two thousand gallons of jet engine fuel sounded like a lot to Dekker, but the captain in charge of the aviation element had informed him that each Black Hawk had a fuel capacity of 360 gallons, and the Apaches could slug down 375 gallons in less than three hours. Suddenly, the blivets didn’t seem like much of a plus.

When the first of the small OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopters buzzed in, Dekker and the rest of the cavalry platoon straightened up and stood overwatch. The Black Hawk crew chiefs handled the refueling operation, apparently not a duty they had practiced to perfection as it took almost twenty minutes to get the two armed scout helicopters topped off. This gave the Kiowa Warrior crews time to hit the latrine in a nearby hangar and conduct their own defueling missions Since they could only go one at a time—the Kiowa Warriors were left running as part of the “hot refuel” plan, so one pilot had to stay with the aircraft while the other took a piss—the refueling delay was a boon for them. By the time the Kiowa Warrior pilots had finished their breaks, the aircraft were ready to go. Exchanging salutes with the ground crew, the aircrews pulled pitch, broke deck, and headed out.

Dekker looked through the windows of the passenger terminal. The people inside watched the helicopters come and go with an expression of relief. Obviously, they thought the appearance of the small gunships meant that the Army was coming—and in force.

Dekker considered telling them they had it wrong, that the Army—or what passed for it, anyway—was actually bugging out, and if they were smart, they would do the same. He passed on that, of course. He didn’t want any of his command coming into contact with the civilians. He didn’t know if any of them were infected, and even though the Klowns were crazy, they were crafty.

“Hey Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

Catfish was the captain in charge of the Black Hawk element.

Dekker adjusted the boom microphone on his radio headset, even though it was already perfectly positioned.

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”

“Nomad, Catfish. Just got a pulse from the battalion. We have red air inbound. Flight of four Guard UH-1 Iroquois helicopters. Over.”

Dekker felt a little queasy. The designation “red air” meant hostile aircraft, and hostile aircraft were a ground pounder’s worst nightmare. “Uh, roger that, Catfish. If they’re Guard, maybe they have the same idea as we do. Drop in and fill up. Over.”

“Negative, Nomad. Another Huey element attacked the column. This is the real deal. Over.”

Oh, fuck. “Roger that, Catfish. Stand by. Break. Sniper, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Go for Sniper. Over,” the senior Air Force ISRT NCO said. Dekker could see the man in his machinegun position a hundred plus meters away. The weapon was oriented on the closest exit from the passenger terminal but could be rotated to cover half the airfield, if required.

“Sniper, Nomad. We’ve got red air inbound. Prepare for contact. Over.”

“Roger that, Nomad. What’s the drill? Over.”

“Stand by, Sniper. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Nomad, go for Catfish. Over.”

“Catfish, Nomad. Any orders from battalion? Over.”

“Nomad, we’ve asked. It’ll take a bit for Wizard’s direction to be relayed to us. Our guys are kind of busy right now. Uh…hold one.” The radio went silent.

There was gunfire in the distance, and a roaring motor that drew near, then faded away. Dekker examined the perimeter fence and saw nothing—no movement, no figures trying to climb over, not even a dog taking a piss.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Report from the scout element that just refueled. Red air is a flight of four UH-1 Victor Hueys loaded with troops and weapons on hard points. Five miles and closing from the east, radial zero-eight-zero, moving at about a hundred knots. Contact in about two minutes. Still no report from Wizard or Tomcat. We have another flight of two scouts inbound, six minutes out. Two Apaches inbound as well, seven minutes out. Over.”

“Ah, roger all, Catfish. Your birds are ready to go? Over.” Dekker knew that the four UH-60s had already been preflighted then left in isolation, so no one but aircrew could board them. This way, the Black Hawks were as ready as they could be to take off on short notice. Dekker figured two minutes was probably too short, but what the hell, there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“Roger, Nomad, aircraft are ready to go. Over.”

“Catfish, get your troops out of here. We need to make sure your aircraft are safe, so get out of here. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. We haven’t received orders from Wizard yet. Over.”

“Understood, Catfish. This is my call. Save your birds. Over.”

No sooner had he given the order than he heard a turbine engine start spooling up. The captain in charge of the aviation element wasn’t going to try and dicker. The site commander had given him an order, and he was going to obey it.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. We’ll do our best. We’ll stay local. We might be able to provide some supporting fires. Listen, once the fur ball starts, you can expect every Klown in the area to want to get in on the action. Over.”

Another turbine wailed into life. Dekker looked over at the helicopter assembly area. The main rotors on two Black Hawks were already starting to turn.

“Roger that, Catfish. Feel free to skip your hover checks. We won’t tell anyone. Over.”

“You the man, Nomad.”

Another Black Hawk started cranking up. Dekker glanced back at the passenger terminal. Several people stood behind the pane glass that overlooked the jet-way apron—scruffy, unshaven men in cargo shorts and T-shirts, women in rumpled sundresses holding tote bags and dog-eared paperback books, kids with toys or comic books. The kids looked out at the helicopters and the soldiers with excitement lighting up their faces. For them, the whole thing was fun. The adults looked a little less enthused.

They saw the Army was bugging out.

Dekker wanted to help them, but there was nothing he could do. He had less than twenty-five men available since the aviation crews were pulling pitch. He didn’t know exactly how many troops a Huey could carry, but he presumed as many as a Black Hawk, which meant his elements would soon be in contact with airmobile Klowns who had numerical superiority.

His platoon had its orders. They were to secure the airport and safeguard the aviation fuel pond, and until Wizard passed on a new fragmentary order, that was what they would do. Dekker was only a first lieutenant, but the tall young officer from Denton, Texas wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t try to maintain control over a lost objective, but he would maneuver his fires and kill as many Klowns as possible before he broke position and rolled out.

And he might be able to give the civilians watching him a bit more time.




FIFTEEN.


Throttle wide open. Engine torque and temperature gauges stuck in the red. Rotor bearings screaming from the load. Helicopter has only a few minutes of life left before the engine shuts down. So much laughter, it’s tough to keep the Huey booming along in a straight line, so that’s why they flew in a trail formation. No chance of an accident.

Flying through clouds of smoke. Below, downtown Worcester burns, its streets filled with beautifully gutted bodies, rivers of shattered glass, destroyed vehicles, mountains of debris. The city’s office buildings look like deboned monsters, reduced to nothing more than charred corpses. Clearing the smoke, the airport can be seen, its VOR still active, leading the flight of four Hueys to it like bloodhounds chasing down a strong spoor. The airport looks pristine. Untouched.

That would change.

Another aircraft appears, rising from behind the airport terminal building—a Black Hawk. It hovers for a moment, then noses over and flies away. Two more rise, hover for a moment, then turn away from the incoming helicopters.

Everyone laughs.

It’s time for some fun.

Time to kill.




SIXTEEN.


“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Over.”

Lee reached for the radio handset. Traffic was opening up on the state highway with Boston falling behind, and the column was starting to make good time. They had survived every engagement with the Klowns, though not without paying for it. He had been in contact with Sergeant Major Turner, who was overseeing the recovery operations toward the rear. Turner had sent the XO and his team on their way after reporting in that they had eighteen KIA and two wounded from the Huey attack. Lee made a mental note to buy the battalion NCO more than his share of beer when they finally made it back to Drum. Because of the sergeant major, the two Hueys that had made it past the Apaches had been splashed before they could inflict even deeper wounds on the lightfighters.

“Tomcat, this is Wizard Six. Over.”

“Wizard, Tomcat. We have a tally on the second flight of Hueys. Definitely approaching the airport, and a scout unit reports they are carrying combat troops. Over.”

Oh, hell. The cavalry unit at Worcester was there to hold the fuel supplies so the helicopters could fly in and out to refuel and rearm as necessary. Establishing that as an airhead was critical to the battalion’s continued survival, as it meant the convoy could keep moving without having to pull the fuel tankers out of formation to service the thirsty helicopters. Losing the airfield would seriously degrade the effectiveness of the battalion’s top cover.

“Roger that, Tomcat. Any estimate on when they’ll arrive? Over.”

“Wizard, Tomcat. They’ll be on station in less than four minutes. Wizard, this looks like an air assault mission—we should consider sending some support their way. Over.”

“Tomcat, this is Wizard. How many attack units do you think you’ll need? Over.”

“We have two rotating in now, but they’re low on fuel—they won’t have much station time. There’s a hotel about two miles up the road. If you can have one of the tankers pull off there, we can use the parking lot to refuel two more birds and send them in to clear the airfield and keep the cavalrymen covered. We’ll still have sufficient assets to maintain top cover for the column. Over.”

Lee considered that for a moment as he went through the maps in front of him. He had zero problem with chopping some Apaches away from the column to give the cavalry troops some close air support, but he was uneasy at fragmenting the convoy further. They’d already taken some losses, and the next phase line was still several miles away. Stopping the entire convoy was out of the question, but he’d have to leave a security element with the tanker and the helicopters to keep the Klowns off them. The fact that Fleischer’s chosen landing zone was a hotel made matters a bit more complicated. The building could potentially house dozens of Klowns, and if not, then it could have dozens of civilians in need of assistance. Try as he might, Harry Lee was finding it increasingly tough to turn his back on Americans in need. Getting to Drum was a priority, but abandoning the nation was not part of his master plan.

“Tomcat, this is Wizard. How long will you need? Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat. We’ll need ten minutes to hot refuel then ten minutes to travel. Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcat. Send some of your guys ahead to secure the landing zone, and I’ll follow up with a truck of lightfighters. Once the LZ is secured, I’ll send in the tanker. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Roger all.”




SEVENTEEN.


A voice crackled in Dekker’s radio headset. “Six, this is One. Hueys are inbound, single file formation. I can see them over the terminal building. Over.”

Dekker heard the characteristic racket the Hueys generated over the buzzing rumble of the final Black Hawk as it lifted off. He turned toward the passenger terminal building, but he couldn’t see anything. Nomad One was the tactical designation of the MRAP at the entrance to the helicopter assembly area, and the gunner there had elevation on his side. His sightline was superior to what Dekker had, standing on the deck.

“Can you hit them, One? Over.”

“I can try, Six. Over.”

“Light ’em up! Fire for effect!” Dekker shouted as he ran back toward the MRAP. The Air Force guys in the M249 SAW nest were hunkering down, getting ready for action. Farther downrange, a second machinegun position was also getting squared away, not that there was much to do in the way of preparation. Everyone was cocked and locked, and a final radio check had been conducted. Everyone could talk to each other, and the aviators were staying within range.

Even though the Black Hawks weren’t outfitted with heavy weapons, every helicopter had two pintle-mounted M240 machineguns, one on each side. Dekker and the aviation commander agreed that the UH-60s shouldn’t be used as attack platforms, but they could certainly provide covering fires if required, as well as airborne surveillance. Avoiding the Hueys wouldn’t be terribly difficult for them, since the Black Hawks enjoyed a fifty-knot speed advantage. Dekker was thankful the helicopters were remaining nearby. He was sure Nomad could use their assistance.




EIGHTEEN.


As the formation of Hueys draws closer to the airport, the lead helicopter bucks slightly. BANG! The engine begins winding down. Fire lamp snaps on. Copilot laughs and pulls on the fire extinguisher plunger as N


 winds down. Fire lamp goes out, but the engine isn’t responding. The pilot rolls off the fuel as the windscreen on the left side of the cockpit puckers inward for an instant before shattering. Something strikes the copilot in the neck and shears his head off. A fountain of scarlet splashes across the overhead console as the man bleeds out. The pilot titters as warm crimson droplets splatter him. The copilot was been shot, and the Huey is still receiving fire as it leads the others toward the airfield ahead. It’s all funny as hell. Death is a laugh a minute.

With power falling off, the Huey doesn’t have a lot of air time left. Rotor RPM is decaying, falling past 260 rotations per minute. The pilot pushes forward on the cyclic, lowering the chopper’s nose, sending it into a shallow dive, using his airspeed to keep the main rotors turning. The helicopter wouldn’t make it to the airfield proper, but it could definitely make the parking lot in front of the terminal building.

As the Huey swoops in and the pilot prepares to make the autorotation, movement at the terminal building catches his eye. Civilians emerged from the structure, watching the helicopters approach. Even from a few hundred feet out, the pilot can see their faces, all turned toward the approaching flight. Waiting to be saved.

The pilot laughs so hard he almost blows the approach, and the UH-1 makes a short run-on landing, scraping across the mostly empty parking lot on its landing skids for thirty feet before coming to a halt.

This is gonna be fun.




NINETEEN.


“Six, Nomad One. First Huey is down! Rest of the formation is breaking up. Over!”

“Roger that, One. Keep up the fires. All units are clear to maneuver as needed. Over.” As he spoke, Dekker ran across the pavement, heading toward the Air Force machinegun emplacement closest to him.

He heard the pounding of Hueys drawing closer, their thick blades slapping through the hot summer air. One of the tadpole-shaped aircraft thundered right over the terminal building, so low that its skids ripped an antenna off the roof and sent the metal pole tumbling to the jet way. Dekker was caught out in the open. He raised his M4 and ripped off a burst on full automatic, discharging the weapon right into the Huey’s belly just before it began to descend for a landing. Dekker slowed and turned with the aircraft, hosing it with burst after burst, none of which seemed to make any difference to the helicopter or its pilots.

Then, a stream of fifty caliber fire ripped through the aircraft, and the helicopter canted to the left, still descending. It recovered before the rotors struck the ground, but the machinegun fire from the MRAPs was relentless as two of them consolidated their fires. The helicopter began a drunken spin while moving farther out across the airfield, bits and pieces of it being blasted off as it bobbed beneath the fury of the attack.

Dekker saw uniformed men in the back of the struggling chopper, attempting to get their weapons oriented on the threat but failing as the fifties chewed them up along with the helicopter. As the Huey drifted toward the taxiway, it finally keeled over and slammed to the deck with a clattering roar. The main body spun around in a circle as its main rotors flailed at the concrete, destroying themselves. The tail boom separated, and the vertical stabilizer sheared off, becoming momentarily airborne. The remains of the tail rotor tried for one last chance at flight before it too returned to earth, bouncing and flipping across the taxiway and into the grass median, a victim of its remaining torque.

The helicopter’s body came to a halt on its left side, mangled landing skids pointing toward Dekker. He opened up once again, emptying his rifle’s magazine into the helicopter’s bullet-torn belly. More rotor beats came from ahead and behind. Dekker heard the MRAPs shifting their fires away from the first Huey to deal with other threats. He continued his run toward the Air Force position, ejecting the empty magazine from his rifle and letting it clatter to the pavement. He pulled a fresh mag from his tactical vest and slammed it into his rifle’s magazine well. With a tap of the bolt release lever, he was back in business.

A second Huey appeared directly ahead as it cleared the terminal building and hovered on the other side of the parked Airbus jet. The door gunner there opened up on the Air Force emplacement as the zoomies did the same with their SAW. The Huey had the advantage of elevation, and it hammered the Air Force position with slanting fire that tore into the sandbags surrounding the two airmen, forcing them to duck and cover.

Once again, Dekker was caught out in the open, and he wondered if that was going to be a persistent hallmark of the current engagement. While running, he fired at the Huey, hoping to hit the door gunner, but happy just to hit the aircraft itself. He was delighted when the Huey descended and settled down behind the Airbus. Dekker redoubled his attempts to get to the sandbagged emplacement. He finally dove into it, scaring the shit out of the two airmen there who were just getting back on their SAW.

“You guys all right?” Dekker asked.

“Peachy, Lieutenant.” The older NCO’s face was haggard, and the beginnings of gray razor stubble stood out on his cheeks. He pulled the bipod-mounted M249’s stock against his shoulder.

The loader lay next to the gunner, another box of two hundred rounds of 5.56-millimeter at the ready. “They’re dismounting!”

Dekker looked over the top of the sandbag wall and saw at least ten figures moving toward the Airbus jet, crouched low, weapons at ready. They all wore Army Combat Uniforms—National Guardsmen, in full gear. Things were about to get interesting.

Then the Huey reappeared, rising just above the Airbus. The door gunner in the right hell hole opened up again, raking the emplacement with 7.62-millimeter gunfire. Dekker flinched as a round tore into the sandbag he was leaning against, but he still sighted on the hovering Huey. Through his scope, he could see the gunner leaning into the M240, shouting with glee as he blazed away at the emplacement. The Air Force gunner returned fire, but he only succeeded in stitching a line across the top of the Airbus.

Dekker shouted into his headset microphone. “Nomad One, come forward and hit this Huey! We have dismounts under the Airbus. We need you with us!”

Ignoring the inbound fire as much as possible, Dekker squeezed off three rounds. He was rewarded by the sight of the gunner sagging in the hell hole, his hands falling off the M240’s grips as his helmeted head lolled forward. The pilots in the Huey appeared not to notice. They held the hovering helicopter in place, giggling behind their controls.

Dekker heard the rumble of a diesel engine above the rotor beats, then a fifty caliber barked. The cockpit area of the UH-1 was besieged by a hail of heavy machinegun fire, and the aircraft rolled to the left and crashed to the tarmac on the other side of the passenger jet. Debris whirled through the air as the helicopter tore itself to pieces, sending chunks of shrapnel rocketing through several of the terminal’s big windows. Heavy shards of plate glass rained down on the jet way and sprinkled across the concrete like oversized diamonds that gleamed in the sunlight.

“Light up those troops!” Dekker ordered.

Following his own command, Dekker exposed more of his body and fired three shots in rapid succession at the chuckling Klowns who emerged from beneath the moribund passenger jet. One Infected took one round to the leg and went down. Several bullets pelted the emplacement, making tapping sounds as they pierced the sandbags.

The SAW gunner opened up, and another two Klowns went down, writhing on the tarmac as they laughed and screamed. Then Nomad One rolled up, the fifty in the open-air cupola chattering as the gunner walked the rounds through the crowd.

The Klowns didn’t care. They reoriented on the MRAP as it came to a halt and charged it, firing as they went. At first, the attack was ineffective. The MRAP was designed to withstand and survive improvised explosive devices, like those used with great effectiveness in Iraq. Bullets ricocheted off the slab-sided vehicle without leaving much visible damage. Then, the gunner grabbed his neck, and a fan of bright arterial blood spurted out from between his fingers.

At the same time, the last Huey thundered overhead. Dekker shouted a warning to Nomad One, telling him that the gunner was down in the cupola, but he could barely hear his own voice over the burst of rotor wash that pounded the emplacement. Dekker raised his rifle and fired at the Huey that lumbered across the area at an altitude of less than thirty feet. As the helicopter flew past, several objects fell from it.

“Incoming!” Dekker shouted, and he leaped to the far side of the emplacement.

The loader looked up while the gunner remained fixed on cutting down the Klown Guardsmen.

Water balloons cascaded across their position.

Dekker threw an arm across his face, shielding his eyes and mouth, as the rubber missiles exploded, spreading a foul-smelling liquid—most likely a mix of urine and feces—all over the two airmen. He shoved his back against the sandbags behind him, his heart hammering as he instinctively sought to get as far away from the liquid as possible. He knew that the Bug was incredibly infectious and that the disease manifested itself almost immediately.

Outside their ring, the firing reached a crescendo, punctuated by shouts of glee. Something exploded nearby, and the SAW had fallen silent. Interspersed with the din was an almost urgent rustling noise, like hand-to-hand combat. Despite that, Dekker could think of only one thing:

Am I infected?

After a few moments, he lowered his arm. He was elated to discover that not a single drop of infected piss had landed on him. He was completely dry, and nothing immediately humorous came to mind. Laughing was not on his current agenda.

However, the machinegun loader was giggling like a school girl. His face was flecked with blood, and his right hand was soaked in it. Sunlight gleamed off the crimson-streaked blade he held as he jammed it into the throat of the gunner, again and again, each strike resulting in a fine spray of droplets that splattered uniform and tactical vest. The gunner gurgled, drowning in his own blood, his lips coated in a pink-tinged froth. His eyes met Dekker’s, and the cavalry lieutenant could see the NCO was already visiting a happier place.

The loader looked up from his work and grinned madly. “A little blue on blue action, El-Tee. Whaddya think of that?”

Dekker grabbed his rifle. The loader lunged at him, lashing out with his knife. The blade hit the M4’s upper receiver and skidded upward, gouging a chunk out of the side of the targeting scope mounted to the weapon’s upper rail before traveling on past Dekker’s shoulder. The blade plunged into one of the sandbags at his back, and Dekker twisted around beneath the airman, struggling to free his rifle. The weapon was firmly wedged between them. The airman laughed, then inhaled and coughed up a load of phlegm, obviously preparing to spit in Dekker’s face.

Dekker pulled his M9 pistol from its holster and pressed the muzzle against the man’s body, right where his chest protector had ridden up, exposing his belly. He pulled the trigger three times. The airman’s eyes went wide as the nine-millimeter bullets tore through his intestines and diaphragm. Dekker snapped his head forward and slammed his Kevlar helmet into the airman’s face before shoving the man off him. The airman coughed as he rolled away, chortling despite the fact he had just been gut-shot. Dekker fired twice more, and both rounds slammed through the underside of the airman’s chin, up into his skull. The airman released a gurgling sigh as he died.

Dekker holstered his pistol and picked up his rifle. Avoiding as much of the piss and blood as he could, he took a quick inventory of the area. The SAW lay on its side, covered in piss and blood. He was unmotivated to touch it, especially since he had left his MOPP gear in the MRAP designated as Nomad One. He stuck his head above the sandbags. Nomad One was trundling away, trailing smoke from its recently emptied cupola. Klown Guardsman swarmed all over it, and one of the maniacal bastards hurled something through the open cupola.

“Fire in the asshole!” the Klown shouted as he stepped back.

There was a muted explosion from inside the MRAP, and a geyser of debris erupted from the vehicle—tattered paper, insulation, plastic, metal, and body parts. The rig hitched twice then coasted to a halt, its windows turned milky white. A thick column of black smoke rose into the air from the vehicle’s burning interior.

The Klowns all laughed, and those on top of the vehicle quickly dismounted as it began to burn. Fifty caliber rounds cooked off with sporadic bangs.

More gunfire sounded, and bullets crashed through the terminal windows closest to Dekker’s position. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, it appeared another avenue of attack was about to open up.

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. We were getting worried about you. Over.”

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you guys swing around to the front of the airport and tell me what’s going on? There’s weapon fire inside the terminal building. I just need a recon. No need for you guys to get too close. Over.”

“Roger that, Nomad. We’re on it. Ah, a couple of things. We see some activity from that first Huey you guys splashed. Second aircraft is a write-off, but there’s still someone alive in the first. The attack battalion is sending four units your way. Two arrive in three minutes but are low on fuel. Two more will be on station in ten minutes, with full tanks. Also, looks like one of your units is on fire. Over.”

“Roger that, Catfish. If you can, reach out and touch those bastards who fried our MRAP. Break. Nomad units, this is Nomad Six. Consolidate fires on that last Huey. Bring it down as soon as you can, then service any ground combatants you come across. Over.”

All units responded affirmatively. On the other side of the airfield, the Black Hawks split up into two elements. One pair raced around the perimeter, heading toward the terminal building. The second flew across the airfield and turned to parallel the smoking MRAP. Standing off at around five hundred feet from the destroyed vehicle, their gunners opened up on the Klowns, chopping away at them as the Infected crawled off the MRAP. The Klowns that tried to stand and fight were taken down by 7.62-millimeter projectiles. Some Infected sought to use the MRAP as cover, despite the fact that it was on fire.

Dekker once again considered the bloody SAW lying beside him but decided the risk of infection was too great. He rose over the sandbags and started firing at the Klowns with his rifle, hitting them from behind as they tried to hide from the Black Hawks. Two went down before they figured out the sandbag emplacement hadn’t been wiped out.

The remaining Klowns surged toward Dekker, hooting and howling, apparently forgetting the UH-60s that prowled along over the center of the airfield. Dekker continued firing from his fixed position, even while the Infected opened up on the emplacement. But they were shooting on the move, laughing uproariously the whole time, and their accuracy was down to nothing.

One of the Black Hawks suddenly reversed, flying backward to bring its gunner into a better firing position. The soldier rained lethal slanting fire onto the Klowns, cutting them down as soon as they were clear of the smoking MRAP.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

“Go ahead, Catfish.”

“Nomad, that first Huey managed to land in the parking lot across from the terminal. You’ve got several infected infantry moving through the building. We presume they’re engaging the civilians inside. Expect an attack from that direction any second now. We can’t tell who’s who, but if we can catch one in uniform, we’re going to take him out. Over.”

Dekker looked up at the terminal building worriedly. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. He regarded the SAW a third time. Even though he didn’t want to touch it, he couldn’t leave it behind for hostiles to recover, and the zoomies in the emplacement still had lots of ammo. He quickly ransacked the bodies, avoiding body fluids as much as possible. He boosted their magazines and one M4—the weapon was pretty much pristine, compared to his battle-tested campaigner—and grabbed their tags, as well. They were somebody’s kids, after all.

Next, he opened the SAW’s loading tray and pulled out the buffer spring. Since the weapon was still cocked and locked, the spring was under tension. As soon as he tugged on it, the spring uncoiled and flew out of the emplacement. He hopped out after it, hunkered down for a moment to ensure no one was going to guns on him, then scooped up the buffer spring and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

“Nomad, this is Six, I’m coming in. We’ve lost Nomad One and the first SAW emplacement. Alpha Two and Three, prep for ground attacks. If it’s coming your way, light it up. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you give me an ETA on close air? Over.” Dekker managed all of that while running across the tarmac toward the water-filled barriers that denoted the refuel area. The cover wasn’t much, but most of his troops were there, and he had a better chance living through the coming fight with them at his side.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Tomcats Four and Five are less than one minute out. I’m in contact with them, and I gave them this freq. Over.”

“Roger, Catfish.”

“Nomad, Catfish. Sorry to brighten your day, but the locals have heard the fuss, and we have a strong element headed toward the airport. Looks like our days of keeping our heads down are over. Estimate OPFOR to be approximately three- to five-hundred strong and equipped with ground vehicles. Unable to get a visual on armaments, but expect whatever they’re bringing to hurt. Over.”

Fantastic. “Catfish, Nomad. Time to contact? Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Expect them to arrive on station in about five minutes. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Over.”

The new voice on the radio net sounded almost bored.

As he threw himself over the first line of barriers—no easy feat, given the weight of his gear—Dekker wondered how an attack pilot running on fumes could sound so blasé about what was occurring. Dekker landed on the other side of the plastic barriers with a thump.

“Uh, Tomcat, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat. We can hose these guys for you if you want and hold up their advance. They’re about a mile south of the airport. We don’t have a lot of fuel left, so we can make a couple of passes with rockets, and then we’re done. We’ll need to recover at your location to take on some fuel. Over.”

“Roger all, Tomcat. It’s your call. We’ve got goblins on the ground here, so either way, it’s going to be a party. If you can bottle that remote element up for a bit, we can try to keep the refuel point secure, but no promises. You guys might get caught on the deck with the rest of us. Over.” After struggling with the weight of his rucksack, Dekker managed to rise to his knees. His kneepads scraped across the cement as he looked up over the bright jersey barriers, his rifle held at low ready.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Rog, we’ll treat this inbound column to some close-in gunnery and see how they like it. We’ll save some for the airfield. I’ll fire you a SITREP in a minute or so. Over.”

“Sounds good, Tomcat. Thanks. Over.”

To the left, two of his soldiers were heading toward him, crouching low. A staccato barrage of pops sounded as fifty caliber rounds cooked off in the flame that enveloped Nomad One’s dead MRAP. Behind him, the other MRAPs, their diesel engines idling, added to the cacophony with their M2s barking out an occasional burst.

“Lieutenant!” one of the cavalrymen shouted.

“Go ahead!”

“We’ve got dismounted infantry to our north!” the soldier reported. “Looks like that last Huey dropped ’em off just outside the fence! Hilbarger and Kent are trying to keep ’em pinned, but it’s not really working out too good!”

Dekker turned and looked to the north, past the refueling area the cavalry troops had secured. Two large hangers obscured most of his view, but another Air Force emplacement had been set up near the fence. If the Klowns came that way, they’d face another SAW, as well as an MRAP backing it up less than a hundred meters away. He could hear the pop-pop-pop of assault rifles chattering back and forth as his two soldiers shot it out with the Klowns.

“Nomad Three, you have Hilbarger and Kent in sight? Over!” Nomad Three was run by the platoon sergeant, an experienced sergeant first class named Heller.

“Six, this is Three. We have intermittent contact with them from this position. Over.”

“Three, this is Six. If you have the opportunity, roll over and give them some suppressing fire. We’ll have close air in just a few minutes, but they’ll need to refuel after a couple of passes. Over.”

“Roger, on that. Over.”

More gunfire sounded from the terminal building. Dekker saw figures moving around in the control tower, which sat just south of the terminal. He couldn’t tell who they were, but he saw rifles. Not a good sign. He shouted a warning to the two soldiers beside him, and as they looked up, the glass surrounding the control tower exploded outward. It wasn’t from hostile fire—but from one of the Black Hawks that orbited on the far side of the airport. The gunner had been sharp enough to take out the Klowns hoping to get the drop on the cavalrymen and airmen below.

“Catfish, thanks for the cover,” Dekker transmitted.

“Nomad, thank us later. There’s some bad juju going on in the terminal building. Some more good news, we’re seeing small groups heading toward the airfield. Don’t seem to be really synchronized, but we see weapons, from firearms to baseball bats. Given the body decorations, they’re not our kind of people. Over.”

“Catfish, give me some numbers. Over.”

“Nomad, call it fifty to sixty so far. Over.”

God damn. “Roger that, Catfish. How—”

Another burst of gunfire tore through the terminal’s few remaining windows. He looked at one of the soldiers crouching down behind the barriers with him and spotted a grenade launcher under the barrel of the guy’s M4.

“Hey, Ramirez. When they start massing to attack, hit them with some grenades.”

“Roger that, El-Tee,” the soldier responded.

The firing stopped. Silence reigned for a few seconds, broken only by intermittent gunfire and the constant throbbing of helicopters in flight. Dekker realized he didn’t hear the pounding of the remaining Huey, which he presumed meant it had either been downed or had retreated from the engagement area.

“Fitzpatrick, you have an M203?” he shouted to the soldier on the other side of Ramirez.

“Negative on that, El-Tee,” the man responded.

“Awesome,” Dekker murmured. They could have used another grenade launcher.

“Hey, you hear that, El-Tee?” Ramirez asked almost conversationally.

“Hear what?” Dekker asked.

Ramirez nodded toward the terminal building. “Laughing.”

Dekker lifted the ear cup off his left ear. Sure enough, he heard laughter, and the voices were getting louder.

“Get ready for it,” Dekker said, letting his ear cup fall back in place. “Nomad Two, you’re clear to engage at your discretion. Bravo Team, you’re cleared to engage as well. Keep eyes out. We’ve got goblins all around the perimeter now. Over.” Dekker glanced at the dun-colored MRAP that sat at the far end of the barrier line. In addition to its gunner, it was flanked by two cav troopers carrying M4s.

Both units rogered their responses.

Two minutes later, the first of the Klowns—civilians who had been infected, judging by their attire—started boiling out of the terminal building with hoots and hollers. Men, women, children, all giggling and tittering, cast their mad gazes across the airfield. Carrying anything from knives to chair legs to broken bottles, they surged toward the long line of orange barriers, feet slapping the tarmac as they ran.

Nomad Two’s M2 chattered immediately, cutting through the advancing crazies like a scythe through wheat, blasting body parts across the concrete. The Air Force emplacement opened up as well, pelting the exits with less impressive but still lethal 5.56-millimeter rounds. Dekker saw people falling to the ground just outside the exit, and those Klowns behind the first tripped and stumbled as they tried to pick their way across the corpses. The fifty roared again, kicking up explosions of dust as the rounds slashed their way across the asphalt, digging divots and ripping limbs off torsos. Dekker and the other troops hadn’t even started firing yet.

“Hey, maybe we’ll be able to save some grenades,” Ramirez shouted.

From the terminal building, something exploded with enough force to rattle the bits of glass remaining in the panes. A brief flash followed, and Dekker had an impression of something was speeding across the airfield, trailing a ribbon of fire behind it. Before he could move, Nomad Two exploded.

The force of the detonation ripped the M2 right off its mount, and the gunner flopped about in the open air cupola like a rag doll before slumping forward, his helmeted head bouncing off the rig’s thick armor. The two dismounted soldiers went down, screaming, as shrapnel tore across them, ripping open legs and arms and faces, anywhere that wasn’t armored.

“AT4s!” Dekker shouted. “They have AT4s! Hit the terminal building!” He raked a burst of full auto fire across the terminal building.

Too late. There was another booming explosion, and another fiery projectile ripped across the airfield and slammed into the Air Force emplacement, sending sandbags and airmen flying through the air. In less than two seconds, the firepower at the refueling area’s southern flank had been reduced to almost nothing. Another explosion, and a third AT4 rocket hurtled away from the terminal. It slammed into Nomad Two once again, a follow-on attack to ensure the big MRAP was out of the fight. The vehicle lurched to the side as the front left wheel was shorn off, and its diesel engine clattered and stalled, emitting dark smoke.

The Klowns emerged from the terminal building once more, a gigantic wave of at least fifty people. They carried anything that could be used as a weapon, and in their mix were soldiers. The infected Guardsmen shot on the run, and Dekker heard bullets slam into the water-filled jersey barriers near his position.

“Contact at the barriers!” Dekker called over the radio. “Ramirez, if you don’t fucking mind—”

“Out!” Ramirez shouted.

The M203 cracked as it spat out a forty-millimeter high-explosive round. The grenade grounded right in front of one of the terminal doors leading to the airfield and exploded, killing at least five or six Klowns immediately and gruesomely injuring a dozen more as they stampeded into the open. But more were behind them, and some stopped just long enough to pick up fallen rifles or other weapons.

Ramirez reloaded the M203 as the soldier beside him opened up with an M4, peppering the advancing Klowns with suppressive fire. Dekker fired a burst into the approaching Infected as well, and he was rewarded with the sight of two Klowns dropping to the concrete. He returned his attention to the terminal building. His biggest fear was of another rocket, or perhaps a machinegun attack. The Klowns in the helicopters had come ready to party, and that was really putting a hurting on Nomad.

Looking through the sight of his rifle, he saw movement inside the building. People in ACUs were walking around but not hurriedly. They carried weapons, including something tubular, probably another AT4. He fired on the figures, but he was at an extreme angle. He hit one, and the others shrank back, using an internal wall as cover. His rifle rounds weren’t likely to penetrate the barrier, but Dekker kept it up, hoping to fix them in place.

“Six, this is Three. Huey is returning, heading in from the east! I say again, red air inbound! Over!” Sergeant Heller’s voice was pitched unusually high, as he had to shout to be heard over the chattering fifty caliber weapon his rig was currently employing.

Dekker dropped his sights and fired on the Klowns closing on the barricades, trying to drive them back. His magazine went dry just as another forty-millimeter round exploded, sending human garbage flying in every direction. Ramirez had saved the day.

“Good shooting, Ramirez!” Dekker yelled as he swapped out magazines.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ramirez sag against the barrier then fall over onto his back. The soldier’s legs twitched as he pissed himself, and Dekker realized Ramirez had been shot in the face.

Gunfire rained down on Dekker’s position. The Huey thundered past with the door gunner leaning out, his machinegun depressed as far as it would go. The gunner stitched a line of fire right in front of Dekker. The heavy rounds blew open one of the barriers, and a torrent of warm water gushed onto the concrete.

The gunner kept firing, slashing rounds through the line of barriers and ripping them open. He continued to the smoking hulk of Nomad Two, and Dekker caught a glimpse of the two wounded soldiers there being savaged by the gunner’s last salvo before the helicopter broke off, banking to the left.

The Huey exploded as a Hellfire missile slammed into it. The flaming wreckage tumbled end over end as it fell to earth, where it crashed into an intersection of taxiways, not far from where Nomad One continued to smolder.

Downrange, two objects raced toward the airport, rotors flashing in the sunlight—two AH-64D Longbow Apaches. Dekker had always thought the attack helicopters were one of man’s ugliest creations, but right then, they were lovelier than an image of Scarlett Johansson waiting for him in bed wearing nothing more than an inviting smile.

He straightened and fired at the approaching Klowns, who were ignoring all the activity. Only a few were left, so he and the other soldier managed to contain them, their M4s barking as they fired into them, dropping them where they stood.

“Tomcat, this is Nomad! Over!”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. We’re on station, where do you need us? Over.”

“Tomcat, Nomad. If you can put a couple of Hellfires into the terminal building to our south, that would help a lot. Be advised, the Klowns have AT4s. Over!”

“Nomad, thanks for the heads-up. Roger that. Party in ten. Over.”

The Apaches slowed their approach and drifted to the right, keeping the building’s roof between them and any potential attackers. In less than ten seconds, one helicopter loosed a Hellfire. The missile climbed sharply upward then nosed down as it accelerated toward the terminal with a hissing roar.

The missile slammed through the roof, and a gigantic thunderclap ripped through the structure. A second Hellfire found its way to the target, and another explosion almost eviscerated the structure. One end of it collapsed into smoking ruin.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. What’s the BDA from your side? Over,” the Apache pilot asked. BDA was Army shorthand for battle damage assessment. In short, the pilot was asking Dekker to declare the attack a success.

“Tomcat, slap another into the northern side of the building, just to be sure. Over,” Dekker replied. He looked to his left and saw the other soldier was tending to Ramirez. The fallen cavalry trooper was still moving, so that was a good sign.

“Another ten seconds on that, Nomad. You guys might want to keep your heads down, you’re going to get some blowback. Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcat.” Dekker got to his feet and sprinted over to the two soldiers. “Fitzpatrick, we need to get Ramirez out of here!”

Together, they grabbed Ramirez’s harness straps and hauled him away, keeping to a low crouch as they moved. An M4 barked, and Dekker saw another soldier from his unit had climbed into the bed of one of the snowplows and was giving them covering fire. Another explosion ripped through the terminal building, sending a shockwave of debris rocketing across the airfield. Something inside the ravaged building started to burn, and thick, acrid smoke rose into the air.

“Nomad Three, SITREP!” Dekker shouted into the radio.

“Nomad Three, we’re holding up over here. Charlie Emplacement is still secure. These fuckers aren’t showing any fear. They’re running right up to the fence where we can shoot ’em. Over.”

“Roger that, Three. Maintain your scans. Don’t let them flank you. Break. Nomad Four, SITREP. Over.”

“Six, this is Nomad Four. We’re engaged at this time with intermittent contacts. Looks like they’re trying a flanking move. Over.”

“Four, any chance you can break off? Ramirez is down. I want to put him in your vehicle. Over.”

“Ah, tall order, Six. Your call. Over.”

Dekker thought about that. He was down to around nine troops now including himself, which meant holding the refueling site was more than just a dicey proposition. As he and the other soldier dragged Ramirez into the area, another soldier ran toward them—Sergeant Edwards, the platoon medic. He was a skinny, narrow-featured black kid from South Carolina.

Dekker spoke into his radio. “Four, hold your pos. Will get back to you. Over.”

“Roger, Six.”

“How bad’s he hit?” Edwards asked.

“Took a round to the face,” the other soldier said.

“Get him out of the open, guys,” Edwards said, pointing toward the lee of a nearby building.

Dekker and the other soldier dragged Ramirez to the shade of the building. When Edwards crouched over Ramirez, Dekker turned to look at Nomad Two. The MRAP was canted to one side, still smoking. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“We’ve got two more down by Nomad Two,” he said. “You guys stay here.” He keyed the radio. “Tomcats, this is Nomad. You guys have enough juice left to give me some top cover? Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat Four. Roger, make it quick. We’ll need to set down in a couple of minutes. Over.”

“Tomcat Four, Nomad. Roger that. I’m headed out on foot to the MRAP closest to our position. Over.” Dekker sprinted back the way he had come, his M4 in both hands.

He kept low, his big rucksack bobbing slightly on his back, making his gait a little clumsy. Water sloshed around inside his CamelBak. The Apaches moved out over the airfield, the chain guns mounted in their bellies chattering as they fired on additional targets. One was aiming at the remains of the terminal building, while another targeted something in the opposite direction. That surprised him, and he looked across the airfield to see what the second Apache was shooting.

A pickup truck had crashed through the fence on the far side of the airfield and was speeding across the field toward them. Thirty-millimeter cannon fire ate into its body, and in less than two seconds, the carcass was spread across the grass. The Klowns in the back got the same treatment as the withering fire walked through them, rending flesh from bone.

Fuckers are all over the place, Dekker thought as he ran to the shot-up line of barriers. He realized then that the cavalry platoon and its attached Air Force security team and Black Hawk unit had been surrounded the entire time. The Klowns just hadn’t moved on them until they started making noise.

He climbed over the barrier and ran to Nomad Two. The vehicle’s rear door had been blown open, and inside, black smoke seethed as something smoldered. Dekker knelt beside the two soldiers who had been providing ground security for the vehicle. Both were dead, killed either by grievous shrapnel wounds or machinegun fire from the Huey. He contemplated the dark interior of the MRAP, then decided there was nothing he could do for the driver and gunner. They were gone. Dekker’s heart ached. He’d been with the cav unit for two years, and he knew all of the fallen personally. He glanced toward the Air Force emplacement farther out, but it had been essentially deleted by the AT4 attack. He saw a decapitated head lying in the grass, eyes blown out, mouth open.

We’re getting wiped out.

“Nomad, if you’re done, we really need to set down,” Tomcat Four said over the radio. “Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcats. You’re good to go. Break. Nomads, tighten up a bit if you can. Provide security for the Apaches. Over.”

“Nomad Three, roger that.”

“Nomad Four to Nomad Six. Will roll back as soon as we can disengage. Over.”

Dekker pulled the tags off the two soldiers lying in the field and helped himself to their ammunition and weapons. He ran back to Edwards and the other soldier who’d helped with Ramirez.

“He’s dead, Lieutenant,” Edwards said as Dekker approached. “Sorry, there’s nothing we could’ve done.” He looked toward Nomad Two. “What about Xiao and Shabelman?”

“Same,” Dekker said. “They’re gone. So are Consuelo and Cromartie and the Air Force guys.”

“Man,” Edwards said, visibly shaken. “Are you sure?”

“Completely,” Dekker said. “Listen, the Apaches need to land. Let’s stay eyes out.”

The Apaches came in, landing one at a time, their noses pointed north. The copilots climbed out of their armored seats in the front of the tandem cockpits and emerged from the aircraft. Apaches were flown by the pilot in the rearmost seat, and those individuals remained with the running aircraft. The copilots took care of the refueling process, dragging hoses from the fuel tankers positioned nearby. Overhead, two Black Hawks orbited in a racetrack formation at three hundred feet, keeping eyes on the area. Dekker didn’t know where the other two utility helicopters were.

He approached one of the aviators as he wrestled with the fuel hose, hooking it over his shoulder and running toward his idling Apache.

Dekker shouted over the noise. “Hey guy, can you hear me?”

“What is it, sir?” the warrant officer yelled back as he fussed with the Apache’s refueling point.

“You need us to help you?” Dekker asked. “We don’t know shit about fueling helicopters, but if there’s other stuff you need us to do, tell me.”

“Just keep the Klowns off us long enough for us to tank up and get in the air,” the pilot said.

“How many are inbound?”

The warrant officer plugged the fast transfer fuel nozzle into the Apache and pulled the trigger. The hose stiffened as Jet A fuel surged through it. “A lot,” he said.

“Can you guys hold back ‘a lot’?” Dekker asked.

“Sir, you guys might want to touch base with Wizard, and find out how long you’re supposed to hold this place.”

That wasn’t an answer, but Dekker read between the lines. The airfield was severe danger of being overrun.

He left the pilot to his duties and went to make sure the remainder of his unit was still in their fighting positions. He took Ramirez’s rifle and grenade rounds, stuffing the latter into his vest.

He then got on the radio.

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“This is Catfish. Go ahead, Nomad. Over.”

“Catfish, Nomad. Can you give a pulse to Wizard and advise we are under direct attack. I’m down to maybe a squad in ground strength, and I need to know how long we’re supposed to stay here and act as ballistics magnets. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Roger, we’ll check. It’ll be a bit. It has to be relayed through the attack battalion commander. Over.”

“Roger that, Catfish.”

“Lieutenant!”

Dekker turned. Edwards and Fitzpatrick were kneeling behind the plastic barriers, rifles oriented outward. Across the airfield, several people loped across the flat terrain, making a beeline straight for them. The Klowns surged past the smoking pickup truck without slowing. Behind them, more came, emerging from the trees that surrounded the airfield. Dekker had studied the maps intently and had even gone for a quick recon hop in one of the UH-60s right as they set up shop. The airport clearing was large, but one finger of trees blocked at least half of Runway 11 from direct visual observation. Dekker hadn’t posted any troops out that way as he had been interested in securing the refueling area and protecting the Black Hawks. But apparently the Klowns had penetrated the fence on that side.

Dekker lifted his field glasses to his eyes and started counting.

He stopped at two hundred.

On the other side of the airport, gunfire intensified as the MRAPs and Air Force machinegun emplacements went into overtime. At the same time, the pair of UH-60s orbiting the airfield opened up on the line of Klowns streaming in from the southeast, hosing them with machineguns from a thousand feet downrange. Dekker saw several of the infected stumble and fall, but more simply took their places. The Black Hawks didn’t hold in position. They kept racing along, firing as they went. Dekker understood why. If the helicopters slowed or transitioned to a hover to draw out the engagement, they’d become targets themselves.

“Six, this is Nomad Three. Over.”

“Three, go for Six. Over.”

“Six, the Klowns are really pouring it on now. We’re taking consistent fire from three directions. Air Force guys are pinned down. We’d like to advance and recover them, then fall back to one of the choke points. Over.”

“Three, stand by. Break. Any Tomcat, this is Nomad. When’s the next pair of Apaches going to show up? Over.”

A static-tinged response came back a moment later. “Nomad, this is Tomcat Eight. We are four minutes out. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat Eight. At this time, be advised that we are danger close. Recommend you make your approach from the south-southeast and service ground combatants that are rolling up on us. They’re using the runways, so they should be easy targets for you. Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat Eight, roger all.”

“Nomad Three, this is Six. Over.”

“Nomad Three.”

“Three, you’re good to go on the recovery mission. Fall back to the northern choke point and deploy your dismounts there. Break. Nomad Four, this is Six. Over.”

“Nomad Four!” The soldier in charge of the MRAP had to shout over the constant bark of the fifty caliber machinegun in the cupola above him.

“Four, hold your pos until Nomad Three completes his recovery, then head back to the eastern choke point. Over.”

“Rog—”

A deafening explosion made Dekker jump, and he turned around to see another column of smoke rising on the other side of the hangar at the far end of the refueling area. A second explosion ripped through the area, then another, and another. The aviators refueling their Apaches looked around nervously.

Fitzpatrick yelled down the three man line, “Hey, El-Tee! Do those Guard guys have mortars?”

Dekker keyed his microphone. “Nomad Four, give me a SITREP—”

One of the Apaches exploded into a ball of flaming fuel as something slammed into it and detonated with enough force to tear right through the ballistic fuel cells. Jet fuel burned bright and hot as the aircraft’s rotors collapsed, the torque tearing the advanced attack helicopter to pieces. Debris flew through the air and struck the second Apache, which was parked seventy feet behind the first. Several loud cracks echoed around the airfield as the remaining Apache’s spinning rotors struck the foreign objects, sending them flying through the air at fantastic velocities. Something began whistling, loudly and shrilly.

Dekker turned to the refueling area while yelling for Edwards and Fitzpatrick to stay on the line. He saw the aviator he had spoken to gesturing madly at the Apache’s pilot. The aircraft’s engines slowly powered down, winding from a high-pitched scream to a rumbling growl. One of the aircraft’s carbon-fiber rotors flapped around madly like a broken board, rising and falling as it flailed at the air. The copilot dropped to his belly as the rotor finally folded up and slammed against the mast-mounted radome, slashing at its exterior shell. The rotors came to a sudden halt, and the pilot in the back seat frantically shoved open his canopy door.

In the distance, above the gunfire and crackle of roaring flames, Dekker heard several faint reports.

Fuck, they do have mortars!

The second Apache exploded as a mortar shell slammed into its cockpit, tearing the pilot into bloody ribbons. The copilot rolled around on the ground, screaming something that was barely audible over the din of combat. He was yelling for a medic. Dekker turned to Edwards, who looked back at the conflagration behind him.

“Oh, fuck!” he cried and started to get to his feet.

“Stay where you are!” Dekker shouted. He keyed his radio button. “Catfish, this is Nomad! Over!”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

“Catfish, we’re being hit with mortar fire! Both Apaches are destroyed. Can you find the enemy emplacement and hose it for us? Over!”

“Ah, Nomad, roger that. I’m already looking for them. Listen, you have Klowns all over the place now. It looks like you’ve lost another MRAP. We can see it burning to your north. It must’ve been hit by a couple of mortar rounds. I see one crew member on the ground, still fighting with an M4, but he’s about thirty seconds from being overrun by at least twelve enemy. Over.”

“Catfish, do what you can, but we need those mortars taken out! Break. Tomcat, uh, Tomcat Eight, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Tomcat Eight. Nomad, we’re sixty seconds out. We’re getting some tracks on the outbound mortar rounds, you have incoming—”

Three more explosions tore through the remaining Apache, ripping it to pieces and obliterating all signs of the injured pilot who had still been writhing on the concrete. A fourth explosion ripped through one of the M500 fuel blivets, atomizing the fuel there. An instant later, the entire cloud of fuel ignited, and the ensuing shock wave lifted Dekker and threw him over the line of jersey barriers.

He rolled across the pavement. It’s so fucking hot. Behind him, Edwards and Fitzpatrick were screaming. Dekker turned onto his side and saw that the entire refueling area was ablaze. Dekker released a strangled cry. So were his men. They thrashed about inside a sea of flame, rolling, trying to put out the fires… but they were lying in puddles of fuel.

His left boot was on fire. He slapped at it frantically, hitting it with his gloved hands again and again. Overhead, one of the Black Hawks roared past, the gunner leaning out of his seat and blazing away with his M240. Rounds pounded into the concrete next to Dekker, and he flinched as he continued trying to put out the flames on his foot. Something thudded to the ground behind him. He heard a wheezing, gurgling laugh that was filled with blood and mucus. The Klowns were right on top of him, and there he was, trying to put out one of his fucking boots. He gave that up and reached for his rifle, turning to engage the enemy.

Someone kicked him in the face, and his first shots went wild. Then hands seized him, slapping him across the face as they stretched him out on the tarmac. The bright sunlight dimmed, and Dekker looked up as a completely naked, overweight woman straddled him. She stared down at him between her ponderous breasts and smiled. Nails protruded from her lower lip like bloodied fangs.

“Check out my cunt, baby,” she said, chuckling as she thrust her fleshy hips forward, exposing perhaps the hairiest crotch Dekker had ever seen.

He thrashed as hard as he could, but several giggling men and women held him in place as the woman began to urinate all over his face. Dekker coughed and retched.

No no no no

Then he laughed.




TWENTY.


He had to admit, it was a beautiful day for a war.

Harry Lee took a few steps away from the parked Humvee, his M4 in his hands. The field he stood in faced a collection of slab-sided concrete structures almost a half mile away. According to the maps, the place was called the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison that housed Massachusetts’s most violent offenders. While the parking lot was mostly empty, the prison buildings appeared to be secure. Lee had no idea how many criminals were housed there, but for the moment, they did not appear to be a threat.

Lee adjusted his heavy body armor and wiped at the band of sweat beneath the rim of his helmet. The day was hot, sticky, and humid, but he was still alive. He’d take hot and sweaty over cold and dead, any day.

Though being dead was perhaps preferable to becoming a giggling, murderous maniac.

Overhead, helicopters orbited. Behind him, the convoy continued rolling down Route 2, which the road signs called the George W. Stanton Highway. Lee had no idea who Stanton was, but the man probably wouldn’t have been thrilled to know the avenue named in his honor had a great view of a maximum security penitentiary.

Beside him, Staff Sergeant Mike Murphy emerged from the Humvee, accompanied by a pimple-faced soldier named Twohy, their Radio Telephone Operator, or RTO. Both men carried their weapons, and they surveyed the field with cautious eyes.

Foster still manned the M2 machinegun in the Humvee’s cupola.

“Contact,” he said suddenly, bringing the weapon around.

Lee shouldered his M4 and peered through the optical scope mounted to the weapon’s top rail. Stepping out of the trees was a man wearing a blue blazer and boxer shorts. His face was covered in dried blood that had been purposefully applied. He carried what looked to be a spear gun, of all things, and he smiled broadly and waved as he started trotting toward them. Lee could see the man’s shoulders shaking as he laughed.

Lee squeezed off two shots, and the man fell facedown into the field four hundred feet away.

“Good shootin’, sir,” Murphy said casually. “Hope he wasn’t just going to ask for a ride.”

“With a spear gun?” Lee asked.

Murphy shrugged. “True. This being Massachusetts and all, I’m surprised he even had that.” The soldier took a moment to shove a chunk of chaw into his mouth, tucking it behind his lower lip.

A truck rumbled over while a second Humvee pulled past Lee’s vehicle. Both came to a halt. Command Sergeant Major Turner alighted from the Humvee and did a full scan of the area. Several lightfighters jumped out of the truck bed. One of them was considerably larger than the others. Lee sighed. It was the Duke himself—Muldoon.

Murphy did a quick inventory of the new arrivals. “Hey, it’s your old buddy, sir.”

Lee grunted. “Everyone needs a mascot.”

Flanked by two other senior NCOs, Turner walked over to Lee’s position and saluted. Lee returned the gesture.

“Sorry for crashing the party, sir,” Turner said.

“What’s the story, Sergeant Major?” Lee asked.

Turner’s gaze fell on the Klown Lee had capped. “Just providing some additional security, sir. This is kind of an unusual set of circumstances. I want to have some more boots in the area.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “Unusual circumstances? You mean the fact that infected citizens want to either kill us or infect us?”

Turner gave Lee a hollow look. “I meant unusual in that the commander of the attack helicopter battalion wanted to have a face-to-face with you, sir, as opposed to conducting business over the radio.”

Lee nodded. “Yeah, I guess that is odd.”

“Thought aviators didn’t like to spend any time on the ground,” Murphy said. “I hear they’re afraid some eleven bravo might put ‘em to work.”

“Sounds a lot like you, fah-go,” Foster said, using the corrupted version of “faggot” to refer to his friend standing near the Humvee.

Murphy smirked. “Easy there, Hoss—it’s an equal-opportunity Army now.”

Lee looked over at Turner, who just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Soldier, why don’t you step away from the Humvee and take up a tactical position,” Turner said. “And by the way, that’s not just a suggestion.”

“You got it, Sergeant Major,” Murphy said.

“Hey, Murph?” Foster asked.

“What, cupcake?”

“The phrase ‘tactical position’ does not mean bend over and spread ’em,” Foster advised.

“I’ll pass that on to your mom and sister,” Murphy said, moving off to stand thirty feet from the Humvee’s front bumper. He took a knee, the stock of his rifle pulled into his armpit.

Muldoon strolled toward the vehicle, accompanied by a shorter man whose nametape read NUTTER.

“’Sup, Duke?” Murphy asked.

“My johnson,” Muldoon said. He marched past the soldier and advanced toward Lee and the others. “Looks like we’re your new security detail,” he said to Lee.

“Is that so?” Lee asked.

Turner nodded.

“Muldoon’s platoon is severely understrength, down to about a squad. I figured it would be a good idea to pull together a silver bullet element to keep the Klowns off you, sir.”

“It’s a bullshit duty,” Muldoon said.

“Duke, take it easy, man,” Nutter said.

Turner was on Muldoon in an instant, getting right in the bigger man’s face. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Muldoon didn’t bat an eye. “I said, ‘it’s a bullshit duty,’ Sergeant Major. Hearing issues, much?”

Turner grinned. “Son, you are going to get severely fucked up.”

“That’s enough,” Lee said, stepping forward. “Back off. Both of you.”

Neither man moved, so Lee pushed in between them, physically separating the two as Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s pack and pulled him away, and another NCO did the same with Turner. Turner shrugged the guy off and glared up at Muldoon. He was the battalion command sergeant major, and Muldoon, for all his skills at war craft, was making a serious mistake in pushing Turner’s buttons.

“Muldoon, you will stop being a fucking prick,” Lee said. “You’re in the Army, and you’re not some four-star general. You’re a fucking E-5. Your missions get picked for you. When did this not become clear?”

Muldoon looked at Lee and grinned.

Lee wasn’t going to take it. “Got something to add?”

Muldoon looked as though he wanted to say something, then the smile faded from his face, and he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m good to go.”

“Then unless you’re here to get additional direction or make a report, return to your men and make sure they’re squared away,” Turner said. “We’re not going to have this conversation again, Sergeant. You need to be one thousand percent clear on that.”

“I’m clear on it, Sergeant Major,” Muldoon said then turned to Lee. “Anything else, sir?”

“You’re free to go, Sergeant.” Lee returned Muldoon’s salute, and the big sergeant stalked off. Nutter followed, looking back at Lee apologetically.

Lee asked Turner, “What the hell was that about?”

Turner sighed. “Muldoon and I have never gotten along, sir. I apologize for the theatrics, but we have differing philosophies on how a soldier should comport himself in combat.”

“Muldoon always did right by me,” Lee said. “Mostly.”

“He’s smart and has no fear,” Turner said, “but usually not at the same time.”

Another Humvee pulled over, and more soldiers emerged. Lee watched as Major Walker climbed out of the vehicle and looked around, clutching his assault rifle. Walker saw Lee and made a beeline for him.

“How’s it going, Walker?” Lee asked when the major was within earshot.

Walker presented him with a ghost of a smile, and shook his head. “It’s going, and that’s about all I can say about that. You have a second for me, sir?”

“Sure.” Lee looked at Turner. “Hold the fort, Sarmajor.”

“Yes, sir,” Turner replied.

Lee and Walker moved away from the vehicles a bit under the watchful eye of the soldiers providing area security. Lee kicked at a rock in the field, and watched as a grasshopper bounded away.

“So I guess the whole thing about making you a lieutenant colonel kind of blew up in our faces,” Walker said. “Someone talked. Any idea who it might be?”

Lee shook his head. “No. Not really. It’s not important, anyway.”

“In retrospect, it was a dumb thing to do. A lot of the troops aren’t happy with it, and that could cost us,” Walker said.

“Turner’s good to go with it,” Lee said. “We’ll let him square away the rest of the NCOs. We just need to keep the rest of the officers in line.” He looked at Walker, who stood beside him, sweating in the sun. “I own this, Walker. Not you. No one held a gun to my head and told me to assume the rank.”

Walker gave Lee that faint smile again. “Well, holding you at gunpoint was one of my contingency plans.”

Lee snorted and shook his head. “It’s done. I’ll deal with it. Don’t sweat it, Major. I’ll take the heat.” He knew that’s what Walker wanted to hear.

“I’ll take some of the heat with you,” Walker surprised him by saying. “It’s not like I wasn’t involved. You’re not in it alone.”

Lee was impressed. “Thanks.”

“Free of charge.”

Overhead, an Apache dropped out of the formation and descended toward the field. Lee waved Turner over before he pulled his goggles over his eyes as the attack helicopter came in for a landing, its wheels rolling briefly through the grass before coming to a halt in the center of an expanding cloud of dust. The pilot in the front seat unstrapped and pushed open the canopy door on the right side of the cockpit, then he climbed out. He ran across the field to where Lee and Walker waited. It was Major Fleischer, the attack battalion commander. Lee started to salute him—old habits died hard—but he checked himself before his hand raised above waist level. Fleischer saw it anyway, and the action caused him to delay his own salute. He finally did so, snapping his fingers to the rim of his oversized flight helmet.

Lee returned the salute.

“What’s happening, Major?”

“Contact with Drum, sir,” Fleischer said.

Lee was surprised. “What?”

“Yes, sir. Contact with Drum over satcom. Authentication codes checked out. Voice-to-voice with Mountaineer Five.”

Lee frowned. Mountaineer Five was the deputy commanding general of the 10


 Mountain Division, a brigadier general named Salvador. That it was Salvador and not Major General McLaren who was making the call was odd, but the world was suddenly a very odd place.

“You’re kidding,” Turner said. “Sir, are you sure about who you talked to?”

Fleischer looked at Turner and shrugged. “No—I’m not sure. But whoever it was didn’t sound infected. No laughing, but definitely a lot of fighting going on. And they had the right codes, which means the aviation liaison officer is still alive to provide them.”

“Okay, what did they say?” Lee asked.

“Aviation units are to return to Drum as soon as possible,” Fleischer replied. “The post is pretty much overrun. Klowns are everywhere, and they’re well armed. The fort has essentially fallen, but Salvador is leading what’s left. He needs us on station to provide fire support and CAS.”

Lee exchanged a glance with Turner then asked, “So you’ve been ordered to leave the column?”

Fleischer nodded. “Yes, sir. Seems legit. You’ve also been ordered to proceed at full speed to the post and assist in combat operations. From the picture I got, this battalion is the only one left outside of Drum. All units in New York are gone.” The aviator paused. “I can leave a couple of units behind, but we’ll need to pull almost everything we have left out, including Catfish. I was asked to see if you could spare some troops, as well.”

“Troops?”

Fleischer nodded. “For defensive operations, sir.”

Lee considered that. Losing their top cover as well as a platoon of lightfighters would cost the column dearly. The battalion had already taken a pounding, and it had barely made a hundred miles yet. Every refueling stop took an hour, and more often than not, they had to repel attacks at the same time. The only saving grace was they weren’t encountering much infected military any longer, even when they had rolled past Fort Devens, a reserve component training center. The attacks that were mounted against them, while savage and occasionally effective, were no longer backed up by hardware and tactics.

“I advise against sending any troops, sir,” Turner said.

“Why’s that?” Lee asked.

“We have no idea what we’ll run into between here and Drum, sir. We’ve already lost more than a few troops. Reducing our footprint is only going to make us easier to kill.”

“I think I agree with the sergeant major,” Fleischer said. “You’ve got a few hundred miles ahead of you, and you’re going to need every joe you can get. Plus, by the time you get there, Drum might be gone. We have to plan for that.”

“That’s correct, we do,” Lee said. “Once you’re over the horizon, Major, we’ll lose contact with you guys. You’ll be operating without a ground element. You ready for that?”

Fleischer shrugged. “Not really, no. But it’s not like I have much of a choice. As far as I can tell, the order’s legal. And to tell you the truth, my family’s there.” He waved at the waiting Apache. “We need to pull pitch and get out of here. Everyone’s been refueled, so we’re going to make for the airfield at Pittsfield, just east of the border with New York. If we can refuel there, that’ll get us enough range to get to Drum.”

“Roger that,” Lee said. “Anything else for us, Major?”

Fleischer shook his head. “Only this, and then that’s it from me.” He handed Lee a piece of paper.

Lee looked at it. There were several radio frequencies written on it, with call signs for the divisional elements still operational at Drum. Lee nodded, folded the paper, and shoved it into a pocket.

“Give ’em hell,” he told Fleischer.

Fleischer nodded and saluted. “Same to you, sir. Same to you.”

He then turned and ran back to the waiting Apache.

Lee looked at the soldiers around him.

“Okay, let’s get back on the road.”




TWENTY-ONE.


All roads led to Hell.

The column moved through Massachusetts as quickly as possible, stopping only when absolutely necessary. As the daylight dwindled, great flocks of carrion birds—crows, hawks, turkey buzzards, even stately eagles—filled the sky, converging on the greatest sites of carnage. The birds were of use; they told the battalion where it was safe to go, for the presence of so many dead meant the Klowns had already gone through the area, killing in a frenzy.

Destruction was everywhere. Cities and larger towns were nothing more than flaming wreckage, home to only rotting, defiled bodies and the animals that fed on them. Huge clouds of flies converged upon them, darkening the sky like some errant, haphazard rain. The battalion avoided the cities at all costs. Not only was the risk of engagement higher, so was the potential for infection by insects. Though there was no evidence to suggest the Bug could be transmitted by such simple hosts, avoidance was the order of the day.

Smaller towns fared better, though death had touched them all. The bodies of the infected lay in their streets, more often than not surrounded by those they had sought to contaminate. And on occasion, the convoy passed fortified farm houses, their windows boarded up, surrounded by sand bags. Several of those were encircled by rings of dead Klowns, shot down as they had attacked. The hardy souls inside these dwellings never called out to the convoy as it snaked past. They were either dead, or hardened enough to take their chances where they were.

As night took reign, the convoy continued on. Operating under the cover of darkness made things marginally easier; even though the Klowns still attacked, still drew blood, they were more easily slain by a unit that was well-equipped for nocturnal combat. In those areas where the Klowns set up ambushes, the advantage of night vision and heavy weaponry proved invaluable. Even the mortar team had some fun, popping altitude explosives into the air that emitted bright bursts of infrared light which allowed the lightfighters to visualize their targets as if they were in the middle of a bright, cloudless day. The Klowns paid a heavy price.

Still, they came.

And died.

The night grew deeper, and the horizon was lit by the glow of distant fires as towns and cities burned, consumed by maelstroms of violence-fueled fire.

The convoy continued on. Into the dark maw of death.




TWENTY-TWO.


“Sir, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Turner said, his voice a low rumble.

“Yeah, that is kind of new for you,” Muldoon added.

Lee looked at the two men in the dim glow of the sliver moon that hovered high overhead. The convoy had finally come to a halt, three miles from the boundary of Fort Drum. To their south, the town of Watertown was a lunatic’s shooting gallery.

“Guys, I don’t understand the problem here,” he said.

“It’s pretty simple, sir. You’re the commanding officer. You don’t lead from the front,” Turner said.

“Going on a recon is hardly ‘leading from the front,’” Lee said. “Besides, I held two phase lines and came under attack both times. This isn’t any riskier. At least this time, we’ll be mobile and have the ability to maneuver.”

“You want to be a captain, then that’s fine. Execute some recon missions,” Turner said. “You want to be a lieutenant colonel, you’re going to have to learn to stand off and watch.”

Lee grunted, but he understood. While it wasn’t unheard of for field grade officers to venture to the forward lines and do some real work, that kind of mission usually rested with company grade officers. Lee had several good ones at his disposal, along with a menagerie of noncommissioned officers possessed of refined fieldcraft that left his in the dust. But in his mind, Lee was still an operator. While he was an officer, at his core he still believed in walking the walk, not just talking the talk. And it was time to do something other than huddle up inside his Humvee and wait for Death to rap its knuckles on the uparmored door and invite him to step outside for one final dance.

“I appreciate your opinion, Sergeant Major,” Lee told Turner. “But we’re all in this one up to our necks. We need to know what we’re up against.”

“Not in disagreement about the mission, sir, just with you personally leading it,” Turner said. “Hell, I’ll do it. I’ve got a lot of miles on my odometer. This kind of stuff is second nature to me.”

Lee shook his head. “You’re the man with the institutional knowledge here, Sergeant Major. Of the two of us, you’re the least expendable.”

“Sir, I’m a soldier—”

“With almost thirty years of experience. A shame to waste it, or even worse, you get infected and then all that knowledge and expertise gets handed to the Klowns. Right?”

“Cuts both ways, sir,” Turner said firmly.

“Colonel, maybe we should make another pass with the drones.” Major Walker said. He was leaning against Lee’s Humvee, his arms crossed over his harness and body armor. He wore his MOPP overgarment, but the mask hung from his belt.

“How many passes will be enough, Major?” Lee asked. “We’ve already gotten good optics on the area. We’re clear on this side of the Black River, and the part of the post across from us appears to be deserted. But we need to get eyes on target in order to find the enemy’s main body, and we can’t have the drones flying all night long.”

“I understand the desire to act, but I’d argue for a more conservative approach,” Walker said. “We have other troops who can do this mission and probably just as well as—”

“Stop worrying, people. I’ve got John Wayne with me.” Lee pointed at Muldoon, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“And who are you supposed to be, sir?” Turner asked. “Jimmy Stewart?”

“I had him pegged for Dean Martin,” Muldoon said. “Just not as drunk. Unless you’d like to make a confession here, sir.”

Lee made the decision final. “I think we’re done,” he said. “Walker, you have operational control of the battalion until my return. Lean on Sergeant Major Turner here if things get tough, and don’t forget the company commanders. They’re all warfighters, and they’re ready to close with the enemy and kill him if he gets too close.”

“Roger that,” Walker said, but there wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice.

“We’ll have the drones up in the air, sir,” Turner said. “We’ll keep eyes on you for as long as we can. But maybe instead of trying to sneak in, you could just radio Mountaineer Five and tell him we’re in the neighborhood?”

Explosions erupted in the distance, followed by a long volley of gunfire. Fifty cals and if Lee wasn’t mistaken, some Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannon fire. There were no aircraft in the sky other than the drones, and the chances they were being engaged by the Vulcans was negligible. The Ravens were just too small to be seen at night. That meant the folks at Drum were using air defense weaponry against ground targets. Mixed in with all of that were volleys of small-arms fire.

“We can’t be sure Mountaineer is still alive and that his TOC hasn’t been compromised,” Lee said. “I want to put eyes on target before we make any calls.”




TWENTY-THREE.


Rawlings crawled up the muddy river bank, shivering in the night air. Even though the night was warm one—well over seventy degrees and humid as hell—the waist-high water of the Black River was icy cold, and the rushing river’s embrace had sucked away a great deal of her body heat as she and the rest of the soldiers forded the tributary, holding their weapons over their heads.

She had been issued night vision goggles—those had been taken from one of the fallen—as well as body armor and a full lightfighter kit. She struggled beneath the weight of all the gear. While she was no dainty kitchen fairy and was used to physical labor—her job with the National Guard had been to keep heavy equipment running, and that involved a lot of heavy lifting—humping a hundred pounds of gear across a fairly swift-moving river was no easy task.

She had to leave the file to grab Nutter when he tripped over a rock and went under. She spent a few frantic seconds casting about in the darkness with one hand, while holding her rifle out of the water with the other. The river’s surface tended to reflect light like a giant serpentine mirror, so she’d lost a visual on Nutter as soon as he went down, despite the night vision goggles. But her searching fingers grazed his rucksack, and she grabbed it and pulled with all her strength as one of the soldiers behind her steadied her, preventing her from going down as well. Nutter came to the surface, sputtering, trying to mute his coughs.

“Fuck,” he said after hacking up at least a cup of water. “I can’t believe I got saved by a girl.”

“Takes one to know one, asshole,” Rawlings said.

“Knock it off and keep going,” the soldier behind them said.

Nutter grunted and pressed on, holding his waterlogged rifle above his head.

Later, slipping in the mud, Rawlings followed Nutter up the bank and into the dark woods that stood silent watch nearby. The soldiers who had already made it into the tree line had taken up defensive positions, waiting for the rest of the element to close up.

Rawlings took a knee and checked her rifle. It seemed to be fine. Water slowly rolled off her, dripping to the forest floor. A hundred meters to their right, New York Highway 26 spanned the river, and a hundred yards beyond that, a small set of waterfalls roared, providing some acoustic cover as the lightfighters behind pressed into the woods. They moved as quietly as they could, but just the same, branches snapped and dried leaves rustled. If there were any Klowns in the vicinity, they would have heard the approaching force and come to investigate.

Rawlings looked up as the commander, Colonel Lee, surveyed the area with light-intensifying binoculars. They were already inside the perimeter of Fort Drum. Beyond the trees, Rawlings could see a good-sized building surrounded by a parking lot. A thousand feet to the northwest lay the post airfield, but Rawlings couldn’t see it just yet. She presumed that the lack of operating aircraft indicated the field was out of service. From deeper inside the post, gunfire ripped through the night and sporadic flashes of light briefly played along the horizon. Hell lay in that direction.

Lee put his binoculars away, dropped his NVGs over his eyes, and got to his feet. He motioned for the rest of the soldiers to do the same. The lightfighters rose to their feet, weapons clanking, feet shuffling, muffled oaths uttered. Lee pushed out of the trees, followed by the hulking figure of Muldoon and the other lightfighters.

The battalion had come home.




TWENTY-FOUR.


Lee led the element across Dunn Avenue and through the vacant parking lot of the Reserve Coordination Center Building, heading toward Colyer Drive. Everything looked normal, other than the fact the street lights were out and there was no sign of vehicular traffic. Fort Drum was a pretty sedate post, not a hotbed of action twenty-four hours a day like Bragg or Campbell, but the base should have felt more alive. A major contingency action was being fought somewhere, though. He could hear the sound of gunfire as they hurried across the parking lot, weapons at ready. Distantly, Lee thought he heard the soft buzz of one of the battalion’s Raven drones puttering across the sky. Lee was gratified to know Walker was keeping some eyes on them.

The unit crossed Colyer and surged in a southwestern direction. Lee’s plan was to get to 10


 Mountain Division Drive, where the divisional headquarters was located. That was over three miles away from their current position, and the ruddy glow on the horizon indicated that was also where the action was. The bulk of the base lay in smoke-choked darkness, save for the areas where fires burned out of control. The problem with military installations was that there was lots of hazardous stuff that could burn, and while Lee was unaware of any biological or chemical agents being housed on post, it wouldn’t surprise him to discover just that.

As if the Klowns weren’t bad enough.

Between Colyer Drive and Nash Boulevard, one of the post’s main arteries that ran roughly east to west, was a large open parade field. Lee remembered it as being a fairly peaceful place, especially in the winter, when a lot of troops would gather to play football in the deep snow or practice their cross-country skiing, one of the hallmark missions given to a mountaineer of the 10


. Like the rest of his planned axis of advance, the area had been thoroughly reconnoitered by the Raven unmanned aerial vehicles, so Lee had already known what to expect. But actually seeing the state of the field with his own eyes almost sent him reeling.

The field had been a killing zone. Thousands of corpses were scattered across the field, which measured at least a thousand feet across. Men and women of all ages and sizes. Animals moved through the abattoir, eating their fill of rotting meat.

As Lee led the troops to the field’s edge, the stench hit him almost like a physical blow. His gut churning, Lee stopped and took a knee, facing the field and examining it through his NVGs. Behind him, one of the troops vomited, and the retching sound attracted the attention of a group of raccoons feasting nearby. They turned their heads toward the noise for a moment then went back to their cold, fetid meal. In the middle of the field, a black bear prowled through the human refuse, its snout glistening in the augmented image presented by Lee’s goggles. The animal carried a man’s leg in its mouth. Flies buzzed everywhere.

Lee turned toward Muldoon, who squatted a few feet away. “Stay put,” he said, then got to his feet.

Muldoon rose as well. “Where you headed?”

Lee gestured at the field. “I just want to see who these people were.”

“What the fuck for, sir?”

“I want to know if they were the good guys, or the bad guys, Sergeant.”

Muldoon shook his head. “Gotta ask again, sir… what the fuck for?”

Lee stepped closer to him. “If these are our dependents, Sergeant, it might be worth knowing. Right?”

Muldoon didn’t respond.

Lee started into the bloody, stinking gloom, rifle shouldered. Someone moved in step to his left.

“You can’t go out here alone,” Rawlings said. Her face looked pale and drawn behind her goggles, and her lips were compressed into a tight line.

“Not going far,” Lee said.

“That’s totally cool by me, sir.”

Lee shrugged. “All right, Rawlings. Come on.” Despite his outward demeanor, Lee was glad the woman was with him.

He led the way into the zone of the dead, somehow managing to keep his gorge at bay. He studied the bodies as he walked. They’d been hit by heavy weapon fire, most likely indirect fires from the post’s artillery units, which hadn’t been deployed with the rest of the combat teams. That left more body parts as opposed to complete bodies, but when he finally came across a few whole people, he was able to easily discern who they had been. Even through the damage done by high explosives, Lee could see the wreaths of fingers, the ritual mutilations, and the wild-eyed expressions frozen on the fly-encrusted faces. They had been Klowns, cut down as they overran the perimeter fences, which meant they were coming in from the outside, from places like Carthage, Deferiet, and Great Bend. He was looking at the entire populations of those towns, cut down right there in that field.

He concluded that the divisional HQ must be under attack from thousands more from Watertown, not to mention the troops from Drum who had been infected and attacked from within. With most of the post’s combat power deployed elsewhere, the division’s headquarters staff, the military police, and non-deployed troops and civilian employees were all that was left to defend the headquarters, which wasn’t some fortified bunker, but a relatively plush office building. Despite how things were portrayed in Hollywood movies, Army bases weren’t really configured to defeat dedicated attacks, and not every headquarters element had a hardened bunker as a retreat sanctuary. That the 10


’s headquarters element had survived as long as it had was nothing short of amazing.

So Lee was being cautious by not informing the 10


’s deputy commanding general that the battalion had arrived. While all the evidence indicated that there was indeed a pitched firefight going on, Lee had no idea if Mountaineer Five was really in charge. He could have been a Klown, and the absence of Apaches indicated that the attack battalion had been wiped out. Lee had no intention of following in Fleischer’s footsteps.

“Hey, heads up,” Rawlings said, dropping to a crouch and raising her M4.

Lee turned and saw two figures bounding toward them, zipping around the piles of the dead and the scavenging wildlife. Lee recognized them almost immediately. The commanding general had two Italian greyhounds—small, fleet animals that he had taken with him everywhere on the base. Their names were Athena and Hera, and one was black and white, while the other was a bluish gray. As they ran, they yipped excitedly. Lee remembered them as being very social animals, the kind that loved to be around people. And presuming the small canines were immune to the Bug, he figured they were probably overjoyed to see normal people again.

Lee raised his rifle and squeezed off two shots, killing the dogs before they got within a hundred feet of him. The noise was loud, but likely blended in with the din of combat taking place only a few miles away.

Somewhere out in the field of the dead, a series of wet rattles could be heard. Someone was laughing while choking on their own blood.

“Gonna get you,” a voice said, between hitching breaths and hacking laughter. “Gonna get you so good…”

Lee heard movement from behind him and stepped to the side, bringing his rifle around. Rawlings did the same.

Muldoon held up his hands.

“I come in peace. Sir, did you just shoot General McLaren’s dogs? Did they make a move, or was it, like, a cold-blooded kill?”

“They would’ve been running all around the place after us, Muldoon. You think some yipping dogs would improve our stealthy entry?”

Muldoon shrugged. He looked out over the field full of dead—and apparently a few not so dead—then turned back to Lee. “Get what you were looking for?”

“Yeah. They’re not ours. These are Klowns.” Lee tugged at the front of his harness, adjusting the set of his body armor. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got some territory to cover.”




TWENTY-FIVE.


The unit pushed through the post, paralleling the main roads and crossing them only when necessary. They stuck to the pools of darkness that punctuated the areas between buildings and avoided the glow of fires wherever possible. They came across bodies—lots of bodies. Almost all were Klowns, but they did find some of their own who had fallen as well. One group of soldiers had apparently fought it out until their revetted machinegun position was overrun, and the bodies had been mutilated and torn apart, their intestines strewn about like foul-smelling streamers. Lee also noticed their gear had been left pretty much untouched. The Klowns weren’t interested in armament. They were interested in blood.

Paralleling Tigris Valley Road until it met Restore Hope Avenue, Lee turned to the left, leading the unit through the open areas between Restore Hope and Oswego Avenue. Some scrub and overgrown weeds lined the road, nothing that provided a remarkable amount of cover, but they could potentially hunker down and avoid detection if a unit of crazies stumbled too close. There were some storage units to their right, dark and vacant, completely uninteresting to both Lee’s troops and the Klowns. The unit marched as fast as they were able, taking a knee when they had to rest and drink to replace the fluids they were sweating out in the humid night. The sounds of combat were much closer, and amidst the chattering, sporadic gunfire and occasional explosion, they could hear the titters and guffaws of the infected. Apparently, the Infected were still cheerfully throwing themselves into whatever crucible the remains of the military had left to repel them.

Major Walker’s voice came over Lee’s headset. “Six, this is Wizard.”

“Wizard. This is Six. Go. Over.” Lee kept his voice low and his eyes out.

“Six, Wizard. Hold your pos. You’ve got a group of vehicles headed your way. We watched them pull out of the Sustainment Brigade area at Euphrates, heading your way down Restore Hope. Don’t know their target yet. Over.”

Lee held up a fist in the air, and the troops behind him took a knee. Lee couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of combat to their north, but he saw a splash of lights as a Humvee turned toward him, three blocks from their position. It was followed by four trucks. People stood in the beds of the trucks, hooting and hollering, each holding makeshift weapons. Lee pushed his goggles aside and brought his binoculars up to his eyes. He zeroed in on the Humvee, which was moving erratically. The soldier—or former soldier, actually—in the cupola was in full-on laugh mode, holding on to an M2 machinegun. The Klowns had apparently gotten tired of sacrificing themselves on the altar of combat. They were bringing some new toys to the fight, though the trucks they had liberated from the Sustainment Brigade compound were unarmed.

“We gonna do something about that?” Muldoon asked.

Lee thought about it. They had AT4s and M203 grenade launchers as part of their load-out, so the unit had the capability to stop the Klowns. But before he could order anyone into firing positions, the small Infected convoy turned left up Second Street and headed away from them. Mosquitoes danced around him, their tiny wings whining like small turbojets.

“Six, this is Wizard. You’re good. Looks like they’re headed up the engagement area around the Hays Hall,” Walker reported. “Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. That was a Klown element. Are there any more in the area? Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Negative on that. You look clear. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. Have one of the Ravens make a circuit around the Sustainment Brigade’s motor pool. Give me an idea of what’s left over there. And tell me how long it will take. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Stand by. We’ve got a unit overhead right now. Shouldn’t take long. Over.”

Lee waited, panning his binoculars across the area. There were other vehicles in the motor pool ahead, but most looked like trucks—nothing that really suited his fancy. The chances of finding anything serviceable were a long shot, but the Klowns had apparently discovered some live trucks, and maybe there were a few more left.

“Are we getting tired of marching, sir?” Muldoon asked.

“We might be changing the axis of approach a bit, yeah,” Lee said. “Got a problem with that?”

“No, sir. My dogs are tired, and I’m not the sort to pass up a free ride.”

Lee grunted, and dropped his NVGs back over his eyes. “Eyes out, Muldoon.”

“They are, sir. Count on it.”

Lee knelt in the grass, listening to the whine of mosquitoes and the hammer of gunfire. The rest of the troops silently held their positions. On the horizon, over in the direction of Hays Hall—the large, brick building that housed the divisional command elements—something exploded. Closer, amidst the burned out shell of the Columbia College building which was located over on Camp Hale Road, Lee spotted the fragmented wreckage of two Apaches. He had wondered what had happened to Major Fleischer and his aviators. He guessed they’d been sandbagged while trying to provide close air support for the troops at Hays Hall. At some point, the Klowns had been out there, and as Lee looked around, he saw signs of concentric defenses that had been erected, either by the Army or by the Klowns. There were bodies lying not far from where the element knelt in the darkness, and Lee could smell the rot emanating from them, a vague, sickly sweet smell carried by the light breeze.

“Six, this is Wizard. Over.”

“Go for Six, Wizard. Over.”

“Six, you’ve got what appear to be a few functional trucks, and that’s about it. Most of the compound is empty. Don’t quote us on the operational condition of the rigs we can see from the Ravens. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Any sign of hostile ground units in our vicinity? Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Negative, you look good. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Stand by. We’re going to move to the Sustainment Brigade compound and take a look around. Over.”

“Roger, Six. We’ve been getting traffic from Mountaineer. They’re broadcasting in the blind, asking for our location. Over.”

Lee motioned to Muldoon, urging him to get the element up and ready to move out. “Roger, Wizard. Do not respond. Over,” Lee said, rising to his feet.

“So we going in with some trucks?” Muldoon asked.

“We’ll get close,” Lee said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to get inside their lines and start making some mischief.”

“‘Mischief?’” Rawlings asked.

Lee smiled. “The kind of mischief the Klowns love—the lethal kind.” He turned and looked at the rest of the element. Everyone was up and ready. “Wizard, this is Six.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Over.”

“Wizard, Six. Is Thunder set up? Over.” Thunder was the designation for the battalion’s attached mortar platoon.

“Six, this is Wizard. Thunder’s ready. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. I want you to start moving. Get the battalion up to the Forty-Fifth Infantry gate. Once you’re there, pass on to Wizard Seven he’s to take his biggest and baddest and take the Seventy-First Cavalry compound. There might be some toys there. Once the area is secure, move the battalion forward to the Cav motor pool and wait for further instructions. Over.”

“Roger that, Six. Wizard is on the move. Over.”




TWENTY-SIX.


Command Sergeant Major Doug Turner sat in the passenger seat of the lead Humvee, staring down the length of 45


 Infantry Division Drive as First Sergeant Boats drove. The road had been cut through a large rise in the land, and on either side, walls of sedentary rock rose like the twin, humped backs of some prehistoric beasts, arcing upward into the night sky. The Ravens had overflown the area just a few minutes before Turner’s element made its approach. There were no indications that any Klowns lay in wait along the ledges, but Turner still felt a squirming nervousness in his belly. They were in the perfect place for an ambush.

Nothing happened. The four Humvees sped through the cut and emerged on the other side.

“Well, that was certainly uneventful,” Boats said. Before joining the Army a millennia ago, he’d been with the Coast Guard. Turner thought the change suited the man. Certainly, Boats probably had an easier time lugging around his beloved Remington 870 tactical shotgun in the Army than he had in the USCG.

“Don’t sound so down about it,” Turner said.

“I’m not complaining,” Boats told him. “It’s just that I need to rotate the stock in my tool kit. Lots of old rounds in there I want to get rid of.”

“You’ll have your chance, Sunshine,” Turner said. “I promise.”

“Oh, goody.”

To the right, a large white water tower rose into the darkness. The fence around it seemed secure, so the tower had most likely remained unmolested during the fall of Fort Drum. Turner was happy about that. A soldier or two up there with a rifle or a few AT4s could have ruined their day big time. To the left was the post’s large dining facility. The lights were still on, but the DFAC looked deserted.

“No wait for chow,” Boats said. “And it is South of the Border Tuesday.”

“Lord knows I could use a burrito right about now, but let’s not stop just yet. Besides, the best chow I’ve ever had at a DFAC was in Taji.” While Turner had no love in his heart for Iraq, the best dining facilities he’d ever experienced had been in that war-torn nation.

“They did make some good burgers. That’s for sure. Nothing like hunting hajjis on a full stomach.” Boats took his foot off the accelerator, and the Humvee began to slow as they approached an intersection. “We still on for the main gate?”

“Yeah. Slowly.”

“Don’t worry about that, man—Humvees don’t have a fast button.”

The Humvee was traveling heavy, with four lightfighters in the cabin and a fifth manning the cupola, which was outfitted with an Mk19 grenade launcher. Boats rolled the vehicle up to the main gate of the 1


 Squadron, 71


 Cavalry Regiment. Ghost Squadron, as it was called, was one of the last units to retrograde home from southwest Asia. As such, it had been in reset mode when the Bug broke out and deemed unfit to deploy with the majority of Drum’s combat forces. As far as Turner knew, the squadron had been selected to serve as a follow-on force to either New York or Boston, but he had no idea if it had ever deployed. Looking through the chain link fence that surrounded the motor pool, he could see that a good number of vehicles were missing. Most that were left were support vehicles, trucks and unarmed Humvees. The cavalry traveled light, but they still had enough gear to pack a punch when required, and most of that gear was gone. That was disappointing. Turner was hoping to find some goodies to bring to the fight around Hays Hall.

“Gate’s locked,” Boats said.

“Not a bad sign. Let’s go, guys.” Turner stepped out, his M4 at the ready.

He was shadowed by two other senior NCOs, Master Sergeant Riggs and a Sergeant First Class Courtney. Boats and the soldier on the Mk19 remained with the vehicle. Turner advanced toward the gate, weapon out. The front gate still had a padlock on it, which indicated that the motor pool had been under Ghost Squadron’s control when they left it. Otherwise, the gate would have simply been left open.

“Do it, Courtney,” Turner said, falling back.

Turner and Riggs kept their rifles shouldered while Courtney advanced, holding a pair of bolt cutters. Less than a minute later, the padlock was tossed aside, and Courtney shoved the gate open. The three soldiers stepped inside the motor pool, took a quick look around, then waved for the Humvees to enter. Once the vehicles were through the opening, Courtney pushed the gate closed.

“Stay here and keep an eye out,” Turner told him. “Riggs, you stay with him.”

“Roger that,” Riggs said.

Turner went back to the lead Humvee. “Boats, come with me.”

Boats pulled his shotgun out of the vehicle. “What’s the plan?”

“Humvee inspection. I want to find the cav’s anti-armor rigs.”

Boats grunted. “I could get into sending a few TOW missiles downrange.”

Turner called out. “Hey, Weide!”

Master Sergeant Zhu Weide stepped away from his vehicle. “Yeah?”

“Take a look around, but stay out of the buildings for the moment. I’m headed off with Boats to find the cav’s TOW rigs.”

“Going off by yourselves before we can secure the area isn’t really smart, Doug.”

“So secure the motor pool,” Turner said.

“And if you hear gunfire, that’s just us making things easy for you by killing all the Klowns,” Boats added.

Weide grunted. “Go ahead, heroes. I’ll see you both in Valhalla.”

Turner and Boats split up and walked through the motor pool, looking at the remaining Humvees left in the compound. All the units left were uparmored and had cupolas on them, but no TOW missiles were to be found. They’d all either been dropped onto other units, or they were still in lockup. Turner heard footfalls behind him—well, more like a boot scraping across cement—and he tensed. At first, he thought it was Boats walking up on him, but then he spotted the taller first sergeant at the other end of the line of Humvees.

Turner spun, tucking in his M4. He found himself face-to-face with a short, scrawny soldier who already had Turner lined up in his sights.

“I wouldn’t move, man,” the soldier said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Turner barked.

The soldier studied Turner for a long moment. He seemed jumpy, which Turner could understand. He felt as if he’d just spent three hours knocking back Starbucks coffee.

“You’re not laughing,” Scrawny said.

“I don’t have shit to laugh about, soldier. Now, once again. Who the fuck are you?”

“Right back at you, Sergeant Major,” Scrawny said. “Identify yourself in two seconds, or you’re fucking dead.”

Turner sighed. The kid did have the drop on him. “Sergeant Major Turner, senior NCO, First Battalion, Fifty-fifth Infantry.”

“Bullshit,” Scrawny said, his eyes narrowing. “The One-Five-Five died in Boston.” His index finger shifted from his weapon’s trigger guard to the trigger.

“Au contraire, sonny boy,” Boats said, stepping around the Humvee behind the soldier and placing the serrated end of his shotgun barrel against Scrawny’s neck. “At least most of the One-Fifty-Five is here. Now, unless you want to taste some nice lead double-ought buck, why don’t you take your booger-picker off the bang lever and stop pointing your rifle at the nice sergeant major?”

“This is bullshit,” Scrawny said. There was no trace of laughter in his voice, no evidence of the quaking, nearly hysterical manic glee in his eyes. Turner figured the trooper wasn’t infected with anything other than a reasonable dose of fear.

“Put. It. Down,” Boats said.

Footfalls sounded behind Turner, and he heard the noises of several weapons being raised and shouldered.

“What do we have here?” Master Sergeant Zhu asked.

“Take it easy,” Turner said. “Everyone be cool.” He looked at Scrawny, who still had his rifle trained on him. “Son, we are from the One-Five-Five, and we are not infected. We pulled out of Boston when the city fell. We’re here to see what we can do to help out the division and to check on our families.”

“How can I be sure about that?”

Turner almost laughed then thought better of it. “Given the position you’re in, I think it’s best to trust us.”

The soldier sighed and finally lowered his weapon. “Oh, fuck it.”

Boats stepped back, still holding his shotgun on the man. “That’s better.”

“Where the rest of the cav?” Turner asked. “Did they get deployed to the other combat teams?”

“Part of the unit was sent out,” Scrawny said. “The rest of it was part of the push to keep the crazies out of Drum. Thing is, they were already inside when we figured out we were under attack.”

“What do you mean?” Boats asked.

“Guys from Boston and New York turned after they got back. We were already fighting them on the inside when Watertown became Looneytown, and all those suckers headed up here, looking for a fight.”

Turner nodded. It made sense. “And why are you here?”

“Someone had to stay behind to guard the motor pool. There were three of us, but the other two cut out. They had girlfriends in Watertown.”

“What about our dependents?” Zhu asked, moving closer.

“Gone. Most of them were sent to Philly. There was a big National Guard presence there out of Indiantown Gap. The city was supposed to be clean, so the brass decided to send all noncombatants on post property there. That was almost two weeks ago.”

Philadelphia… If that was true, then Turner’s family and the families of hundreds of other lightfighters were well outside the battalion’s combat radius. But in a way, the news was liberating. They would be free to maneuver with all fires while trying to extract the personnel trapped in Hays Hall.

Turner told Zhu. “I need an RTO to relay that to Wizard Five.” He turned back to Scrawny. “Name and rank?”

“Corporal Wallinsky, Alpha Troop, First of the Seventy-First Cavalry, Sergeant Major.”

“Wallinsky, are there any TOW missiles left around here?”

Wallinsky smiled. “Hell yes, Sergeant Major. Hell, yes.”




TWENTY-SEVEN.


“Wanna check our work, sir?” Muldoon asked.

Lee walked up to the two M939 trucks the element had secured in the 10


 Sustainment Brigade’s motor pool. Corpses had been tied to the front of each vehicle and battered with crow bars to give the trucks a look that roughly approximated the modes of transportation the Klowns seemed to favor—bloody urban chariots. It had been grisly, heinous work, and Lee doubted he would ever feel clean again, even after a dozen scalding-hot showers.

But each truck also had some welcome additions: four Claymore mines attached to their bed side rails, two on each side. The convex-shaped mines were directional weapons loaded with C4 high-explosives that propelled a series of seven hundred steel pellets outward in a sixty degree arc, like a shotgun blast on steroids. The mines were positioned roughly five and half feet off the ground, and their effective kill radius of fifty meters promised to turn dozens of Klowns into just so much human garbage if they got close enough.

Which, of course, they would. Lee was counting on that. Once the crazies got inside the effective range, the mines would be command detonated from inside the truck cabs. It would be a wholesale slaughter, and any left standing would be dealt with by the troops.

The Klowns wouldn’t be expecting that.

“Looks good,” Lee told Muldoon as the rest of the troops drew near. “Everyone clear on how we’re going to handle this?”

“We roll up on the Klowns, laughing our asses off, and get deep inside their lines. Then we go crazy on the crazies,” Muldoon said. “Pretty simple, except there’s about twenty-five of us and about two thousand of them.”

Lee smiled. “Have some faith, Muldoon.”

Muldoon shook his head. “Faith isn’t a very good tactical solution.”

“That’s not so,” Rawlings said, stepping up to stand next to Lee. “We have surprise and an entire battalion staging nearby. You don’t have faith in your battalion, Sergeant?”

Muldoon glowered at her. “Lady, you really need to start getting a handle on this water-walker attitude you like to shop around.”

Rawlings was undeterred. “Have faith, Muldoon.”

“I have faith that the meek will not be inheriting the Earth. How’s that?”

Lee made a cutting motion with his hand. “Stow the bullshit, both of you. Is everyone clear on what’s expected, here? We go in laughing, get as close to the center of their formation as possible, and then we start cleaning house. On our command, Thunder hits them at the same time, and battalion comes in from the north. We pin the Klowns to the south, evac the headquarters troops, and pull the fuck out. Questions?”

“How long do you think we have, sir?” Nutter asked. “I mean, we’re going to need battalion to close on us mighty quick.”

“I figure we’ve got fifteen minutes,” Lee said. “Stay cool, and do what you do best: kill those giggling fuckers.”

The element gave a collective hooah, which Lee accepted with a nod. He motioned toward the trucks.

“Mount up.”




TWENTY-EIGHT.


“Wizard, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Go ahead. Over,” Walker said.

Walker sat in the command Humvee, which had moved forward with the rest of the battalion to stage at the intersection of Tigris Valley River Road and Korengal Valley Boulevard. They were just over half a mile from the divisional command building, Hays Hall.

Bodies were strewn everywhere, and destroyed vehicles and parts of vehicles littered the landscape. Buildings were aflame, casting flickering shadows that danced across the terrain. The firelight reduced the effectiveness of their night vision goggles, but Walker was convinced the lightfighters still had the fighting edge. The din of combat was everywhere, and while he couldn’t see the front lines, Sergeant Major Turner’s element had been able to identify the forward line of troops.

Hays Hall was surrounded by shipping containers and truck trailers that essentially formed a physical wall around the brick building. Defenders manned battlements overlooking hastily built funnel zones and choke points, areas that forced the enemy to bunch up and form easily engaged targets. Turner’s report had been backed up by video surveillance from the Raven aerial reconnaissance platforms, which showed that thousands of Klowns had already been killed. But Hays Hall seemed to be defended by far less than two hundred troops, maybe not even a hundred, and the enemy was able to dictate the tempo of combat. The siege was coming to an end, as it appeared that the defenders were simply running out of ammunition.

“Wizard, contact Mountaineer. Advise them that we’re about to join the party. They’re to orient as many fires to the south as they can and avoid engaging enemy formations to the east the north. We’ll hit the enemy on those flanks. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Roger that. Can you give me a time? Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. Five minutes. Break. Thunder, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Thunder. Over.” Thunder was the officer commanding the mortar platoon located on the other side of Fort Drum Road, more than two miles away. Their six mortar units had already been stood up and dialed in as best as they were able.

“Thunder, this is Six. Stand by to deliver concentration fire. Over.”

“Six, this is Thunder. Ready to fire on your command. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. We’re on the move. Make that call. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Roger.” Walker dialed in another frequency. “Mountaineer, this is Wizard. Over.”

Walker repeated the hail twice before he got a harried response. “Wizard, this is Mountaineer. I send ‘shield.’ Over.”

Walker consulted the code book that had been issued to the battalion prior to jumping out for Boston. Knowing how the military mind operated, Walker had presumed the response would be ‘sword’ or ‘arrow’ or something similar. “Mountaineer, this is Wizard. I send ‘Excalibur.’ Over.”

“Wizard, this is Mountaineer. Good to hear from you guys. You must be close, right? Over.”

“Mountaineer, this is Wizard. Roger that, we’re close. Wizard Six has some requests for you. Stand by to copy. Over.”




TWENTY-NINE.


The two trucks drove through the night, heading toward the glow of combat in the center of Fort Drum. Lee had ordered Murphy to drive a bit erratically, as if he were under a tremendous laughing spell. Silhouetted against the glow of the headlights, Lee could see the head of one of the corpses strapped to the grille lolling back and forth, its hair matted down beneath a paste of dried blood and gore. The stink of death was everywhere. Lee didn’t know how they were able to do it, but the soldiers in the back hooted and howled, acting infected.

They began to roll past groups of Klowns. The soldiers in the back cackled madly, and the Klowns laughed back, raising their weapons and waving them in the air. Lee saw uniformed military among them, but most appeared to be civilians. The truck jounced a bit as it rolled over a body.

“Getting kind of weird, sir,” Murphy said.

The Klowns were using torches and bonfires to light up the night, and sparks wheeled about in the air. The stench of burnt meat reached them, accompanied by screams. Lee looked to the right and saw living soldiers—presumably uninfected—being burned alive. They’d been tied to office chairs and plopped in the middle of large bonfires.

“Weird isn’t the word I would use, Mike,” Lee said after a moment.

More like nightmarish. It was hard to keep up the laughing act after witnessing that.

Lee checked his watch. Two minutes had elapsed since his communication with Walker. Ahead, he could see the outer bands of the Klown force, a huge, ragtag collection of pulsing insanity armed with every weapon. Lee was thankful the Infected hadn’t taken over some heavy armor units. Those would be almost impossible to overcome with the forces presently under his direct command. But the Klowns did have vehicles, trucks, Humvees, and even construction equipment. The Infected were flailing against the outermost ring of the defenses that had been erected around Hays Hall. Shipping containers, tractor trailers, earth-filled HESCO and concrete jersey barriers topped with concertina wire—already decorated with dozens if not hundreds of Klown corpses—surrounded the two-story, metal-roofed brick building that housed the brains of the 10


 Mountain Division (Light Infantry). The corpses that littered the grounds around the defensive perimeter numbered in the thousands. For headquarters guys, the surviving elements of the 10


 had done an awesome job at keeping the goblins at bay.

Murphy slowed the truck as it started rolling over more bodies. The rig swayed from side to side like a powerless ocean liner drifting in a beam sea.

“Wizard, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Go ahead. Over.” Walker’s voice sounded high-pitched and strained.

“Wizard, Six. Did you pass on to Mountaineer that we’re rolling up Division Drive? Over.”

“Roger, Six. Mountaineer knows you’re close to making station. It’s all up to you now. Orders for us? Over.”

“Wizard, this is Six. Get the battalion in the fight. Start rolling. Six, out.” Lee had just finished the transmission when someone thumped on the door then clambered up onto the running board. A grizzled, blood-soaked face peered in through the window, blue eyes glittering brightly in the flickering light generated by fires and firearms. Lee started cackling and glanced at Murphy.

“Laugh,” he tittered as he cranked down the window.

Murphy started chuckling as well as he was able.

“Hey, fuckers, who are you?” the man on the running board shouted through hysterical laughter.

“We’re the fucking U.S. Army, asshole!” Lee said, laughing himself. “We got us some shit to bring to the party!”

“You know this place?” the man cackled.

“Fuck, yes! We’ll blow a hole right through the wall!”

The man laughed even harder, and Lee thought the guy was about to lose his grip on the window sill. He peered into the truck’s cab, looking at Lee’s filthy uniform. “Man, looks like you guys’ve been through some shit already. But where’s your junk? We all wear junk here, man!”

Lee had anticipated the question. Presuming “junk” meant the gruesome decorations of body parts most of the Klowns wore on their persons, he reached down to the floor. When he straightened, he was holding a severed hand he had cut from one of the corpses they had used to decorate the trucks.

“You need a helping hand, bro?” he asked, inserting more laughter. He was beginning to understand the insanity. If he had to keep laughing much longer, he might go crazy himself.

The other man laughed then fell away from the window as the truck lurched over a stack of bodies. The tires doubtless kicked up a fountain of gore as they spun for a moment before finding traction.

“Now this is one fucked-up mission, sir,” Murphy said, fighting with the wheel, a stupid grin frozen on his face.

“Just get us to the barrier, Mike,” Lee said. “Just a little farther, man.”




THIRTY.


The world had slipped into total insanity.

Rawlings looked around as the truck rolled through the Klowns, giggling as much as she could beneath her armor. A necklace of twine bearing three rotting fingers encircled her neck, their stink lingering in her nostrils. The odor of decay overrode all the other smells—smoke, ash, exhaust, cordite from expended munitions. The only scent it couldn’t overpower was the reek of her own fear and that of the men in the truck with her as the vehicle rocked around like a ship foundering at sea.

All around them, thousands of Klowns swarmed, pealing in macabre delight as they hurled themselves against the remains of Fort Drum’s defenders, hooting and hollering in the night. Many of them were military, and despite the ravages of the Bug, they still operated in a coordinated fashion. The only reason their attacks weren’t successful was that someone in the headquarters building had seen fit to erect machinegun emplacements on the building’s roof and on the crude walls that surrounded it. The three twenty-millimeter antiaircraft guns roared as they flung thousands of rounds per minute downrange. The defense was incredibly effective. Bodies and parts of bodies lay all around the perimeter. The emplacements were hidden behind banks of sand bags and metal plating that defeated all but the most expert sniper fire. Just the same, Rawlings could see dead soldiers who had been gunned down during the pitched fighting.

Several Klowns tried to climb into the trucks. Muldoon and the others, laughing as maniacally as they could, pushed them off.

“Military only!” Muldoon would shout. “You ain’t a lightfighter, you ain’t shit!”

“I am military, you fuckin’ gorilla!” one NCO shouted back. In his old life, the soldier would have been a wizened, Yoda-like lightfighter. In the grips of madness, he was no more than a cackling lunatic.

“My ride, my rules, Master Sergeant!” Muldoon said, chuckling. Rawlings couldn’t see a good deal of his face behind his night vision goggles, but she was certain the mirth he feigned wasn’t mirrored in his eyes.

“Hey, fires are shifting!” Nutter tittered, grabbing onto the side rail as the truck lurched again.

Rawlings could barely hear him over the din of combat, but she saw the defenders had slewed most of their guns to the south and started hammering away at the combatants downrange, slashing through them with twenty-millimeter rounds and forty-millimeter grenades. The trucks had a fairly clear avenue of approach, and the chances of fratricide had just been markedly reduced.

The Klowns saw the shift, as well. They surged forward, jeering and rushing toward the container walls like some gigantic, single-celled organism. The trucks accelerated, racing them to the edge.

So did several Klown-driven Humvees.

“Okay, here we go!” Muldoon shouted. “Get ready, fuckers!”

Rawlings moved to the center of the truck’s bed with the rest of the soldiers. They crouched, steadying each other against the rig’s incessant swaying.




THIRTY-ONE.


Turner saw the trucks begin their push through the Klowns from his position to the north. Sitting in an uparmored M1045 Humvee equipped with a TOW missile tube mounted in its cupola and two more in the back, Turner watched scene unfold through the TOW’s optical sight. Several Klown vehicles—mostly Humvees and trucks, along with a mix of battered civilian vehicles—surged toward the wall surrounding Hays Hall. A couple of those closed with the trucks and pulled alongside them, effectively cutting them out of Turner’s line of sight.

“Six, this is Seven,” he said into his radio headset’s boom microphone. “You’ll have to take care of the vehicles closest to you. We’ve got no sight picture. Over.”

“Roger, Seven,” came the terse reply.

“Wizard, this is Seven. Party in ten. Over.”

“Seven, this is Wizard. We’re in position. Break. Thunder, fire in ten. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Thunder. Rounds out in ten. Over.”

Turner turned and checked the second Humvee parked abreast of his. Boats was in the cupola, already leaning into the sight of his Tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire-guided missile system. Behind the Humvee, two soldiers stood with spare TOW tubes that contained one missile each. After each unit fired, the gunner would need seven to ten seconds to rearm. Ahead of each Humvee, more soldiers crouched down with their weapons out and ready, prepped to repel any reprisal the Klowns might launch when Turner’s element attacked.

“Boats, fire in five,” Turner said over the radio.

“Five. Roger,” Boats responded perfunctorily.

Turner leaned back into his weapon and lined up on one of the Klown Humvees equipped with a Mk 19. The gunner was already leaning back in his cupola, grenade launcher elevated and firing over the wall.

Five seconds couldn’t come soon enough. Turner and Boats fired at the same time, each tube ejecting a missile that trailed fire. The projectiles were surrounded by bursts of brilliant light as their eight flight fins deployed and the booster motors fired, keeping the projectiles oriented on their targets. The missiles rocked briefly in the air as they made final adjustments then hurtled toward the Klown vehicles at speeds approaching nine hundred twenty feet per second. Turner watched with no small delight as his missile slammed into its targeted Humvee and obliterated it, turning it into flaming wreckage and propelling huge chunks of it through the air. The high-explosive warhead’s detonation caused a shock wave to rip across the battlefield, mowing down a dozen Klowns in an instant. Turner had no idea if they’d been killed by the blast, but they’d certainly had their bells rung in a big way.

“Reload!” he shouted as he began unclipping the expended tube from the base of the launcher. Another explosion blossomed into being as Boats’s round hit a tactical truck, completely eradicating it and leaving only the twisted frame remaining.

That’s how we do it, Turner thought. Take that, you fucks.




THIRTY-TWO.


The ferocity of the two explosions surprised Lee, even though he had been expecting them. However, the Klowns surrounding the two trucks didn’t even seem to notice. They just continued their run to the container walls, screaming and yelling and generally having a good time. Lee rolled up his window then reached down and grabbed the M57 Firing Device from the seat. More commonly referred to as “the clacker” because it consisted of a large, flat trigger that made a distinctive noise when it was depressed, the unit would detonate the Claymore mines attached to the truck’s side rails.

“Claymore!” Lee shouted into the radio.

Then, he slapped down on the M57’s trigger.




THIRTY-THREE.


The night erupted once again as the mines on either side of the first truck exploded within microseconds of each other, blasting their payload of steel pellets outward like lethal, metallic fans. The Klowns jammed in tightly around the vehicles were instantly mowed down, no more capable of surviving the onslaught than a field of wheat could withstand an attack from a farmer’s combine harvester. Bright sparks erupted across the nearby vehicles. While the armored Humvees withstood the barrage of pellets, softer-skinned civilian vehicles were turned into something akin to Swiss cheese as the projectiles ripped right through them—and their occupants.

At a hundred feet out, Klowns continued to fall to the ground, their flesh shredded and bones shattered as the pellets did their nasty work. But farther out, the effects of the Claymore blasts were not as immediately lethal. The Infected still fell, perhaps mortally wounded, and writhed on the ground, twisting and laughing and shrieking in pain-fueled ardor.

The second truck released its payload of mines a moment after the first, and more overlapping cones of destruction blazed across the battlefield, ripping, tearing, maiming and killing. In less than two seconds, over two hundred Klowns had been slain, and in the seconds and minutes that followed, twice that number would also perish from the grievous wounds they had sustained from the mine blasts. For a moment, the two trucks were isolated from the rest of the Klowns, surrounded by a barrier of dead and twitching bodies.

“Up!” Muldoon shouted. “Get your MOPP on and fight!”

The soldiers pulled on their MOPP overgarments and face masks and got to their feet, leaning against the side rails of the truck as they raised their weapons. Rawlings did the same. She shouldered her M4 and opened up on one of the Klown-controlled Humvees, riddling it with fire. The attack was mostly ineffective. The uparmored vehicle’s plating and special glass panes turned her rounds, though the already-dead gunner in its open cupola shuddered and jerked from bullets passing through its mangled corpse. Then the Humvee transformed into a ball of expanding fire as it suddenly accelerated toward the container wall as if kicked by a giant. The vehicle slammed into the container and turned into a twisted hulk of burning metal. It took Rawlings a second to figure out what had happened. One of the soldiers in the second truck had hit the Humvee with an AT4, right in the ass, and the ensuing explosion drove it forward. From the rear of her truck, another AT4 roared, and a second Humvee exploded with such ferocity that it leaped into the air and came crashing down on its side.

Several hundred feet away, the Klown force that finally figured out that something was going on. They turned toward the two trucks as the vehicles came to a halt just before the container wall and, in the flickering firelight, Rawlings could see that they had no problems understanding what had just gone down.

The enemy was among them. Outside the walls. Fresh meat.

With a roar, they charged toward the two trucks.

The lightfighters responded with withering firepower from their assault rifles and SAWs, cutting down the first ranks of attackers. Those with M203 grenade launchers added more fire to the fight, and bright, sporadic explosions ripped through the Klown lines, tearing off limbs and rupturing bodies. More and more Infected fell writhing to the ground, howling and screaming with delight even as their blood gushed out of them. Rawlings leaned into her rifle, capping off round after round into the approaching mass of deranged humanity. Men and women fell—some dead, most not—but for all of those she removed from the fight, a hundred more took their place.

Thunder roared.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

Six explosions rent the night, back to back, sending bodies flying through the air as the mortar unit’s first rounds slammed into the Klown force, shredding flesh and shattering bone. The lightfighters cheered, emboldened by the sudden violence of the mortar attack, even as bits of debris and torn organic matter rained down on their heads. The Klowns cheered as well. Death was what they lived for, and pain was a welcome addition to their existence, even if it meant their demise was just around the corner.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

Another salvo of mortar rounds tore through the Klowns, bottling them up and delaying their approach because they had to pick their way across the limb-strewn landscape, slipping and sliding in the blood-wet earth. But still they came, inching their way closer and closer to the trucks, focused on getting to the soldiers and either killing them or infecting them.

A piss-filled balloon splattered against the truck’s bent side rail, and rancid urine splashed across Rawlings, dripping down her waterproof MOPP gear. She gained a new appreciation for the sight-restricting mask that prevented her from smelling the foul liquid as it pooled in the truck bed. She continued firing, draining one magazine then another. Expended cartridges, coupled with the slickness of the cooling urine in the truck, made maintaining solid footing difficult. Rawlings found herself slipping more often than not.

Atop the container wall, more soldiers moved behind the layers of concertina wire. They fired down into the crowd of Klowns and hurled fragmentation grenades into their midst.

Focused on getting to the trucks, the Klowns ignored them.

They were now less than a hundred meters away, too close for mortar engagement. It was up to the troops to hold them back.

Something streaked across the sky as another volley of mortar rounds slammed through the Klowns, and from the corner of her lens-shielded eye, Rawlings saw a TOW missile annihilate another Humvee that came barreling toward the trucks, the M2 fifty caliber machinegun in its cupola chattering. The Humvee’s speed prevented the gunner from hosing the trucks, and the resulting explosion removed it from the tactical picture.

“Dismount! Dismount!”

Rawlings recognized Harry Lee’s voice, and the colonel appeared on the ground in front them, waving the soldiers out of the truck while his driver opened up on the approaching Klowns with a pouch-fed M249 SAW. The soldier held the light machinegun low and ripped off several bursts before he dropped to the ground and deployed the weapon’s bipod before he resumed firing.

“Bound out!” Muldoon shouted. “Rawlings, you’re with me!”

“Roger that!” she replied.

The lightfighters began dismounting in pairs while the troops still on the truck kept pouring on suppressive fire. Rawlings saw that “suppressing” the Klowns was no easy task. They didn’t try to duck and avoid the incoming fire. Instead, they just kept coming until they were taken down. The SAW gunner on the deck was helping stem the tide, however. He was aiming low, taking their legs right out from under them.

The truck quickly emptied out.

Muldoon slapped Rawlings’s shoulder hard enough to rattle her teeth.

“Go!”

She turned and headed for the lowered tail gate, slipping on spent cartridges as she moved. A spray of bullets suddenly raked the truck, forcing her to duck.

Muldoon wasn’t having any of that. He pushed her forward roughly.

“Come on, Nasty Girl! The vehicles are becoming ballistics magnets! Move your ass!”

Rawlings half-fell, half-jumped out of the truck. She rolled across the ground as another Klown vehicle exploded, shorn in two by a TOW missile. More mortar rounds slashed into the attacking Klowns, causing disarray in the center of their formation. That didn’t stop several hundred of them from surging forward, shouting and jeering as they bore down on the lightfighters. Rawlings rolled onto her belly, checked her lane of fire, then added her own M4 to the mix, popping away at targets as quickly as possible. But the Klowns had the numbers, and despite the mortars, the rifle and machinegun fire, the twenty-millimeter cannons, and the flying grenades, they had the mass.

A raging firestorm erupted, and Rawlings thought someone had decided to have a New Year’s celebration early. Dozens—no, hundreds—of assault rifles and machine guns and grenade launchers opened up. Tracers ripped across the sky, slamming into the Klowns and blasting them backward as the rest of the battalion surged forward and joined the battle. The troops released fearsome battle cries. A score of Mk 19 grenade launchers blasted the advancing Klowns into obliteration, filling the air with whirling chunks of organic matter that trailed viscera and gore.

She checked left and right. There was movement on all sides of her position. Two light infantry companies had arrived, and brought all their toys to the fight.




THIRTY-FOUR.


“They’re here! First of the Fifty-fifth, they’re actually here!”

Brigadier General Ernesto Salvador had been aware the battalion was on post, but he’d had doubts that it was a friendly unit. He’d bottled up what little optimism he had left and waited for a full battalion of infected lightfighters to descend upon the defensive elements surrounding Hays Hall. Once that happened, it wouldn’t be long before the last remaining vestige of the 10


 Mountain Division was eradicated. There was just no way his collection of defenders could repel an entire battalion. He’d been encouraged when the first elements to come in contact with the Klowns began attacking them, and that feeling eventually blossomed into a pale sense of hope when indirect fire rained down on the infected hordes. All of that had been dutifully reported to him by the senior NCOs manning the rooftop defenses and the officers commanding the platoons defending the walls. But full-on joy hadn’t materialized until he’d heard the reports that the hundreds of troops amassed to the north were advancing—and engaging the Killer Clowns.

It appeared that the 1


 Battalion, 55


 Infantry Regiment (Light) appeared to be full of a bunch of joes who were still good guys. Salvador knew Lieutenant Colonel Prince well, and he wasn’t surprised that the cocky son of a bitch had not just survived the situation in Boston, but made it all the way back to Drum.

Salvador looked around. Only three other soldiers were with him in the basement, which served as the division’s final tactical operations center. The upper floors of Hays Hall had been riddled with bullets, and the brick-faced structure hadn’t been designed with the thought of withstanding direct enemy contact. The basement was the only place that was still secure, and Salvador had ordered the operations personnel to head underground while the rest of the troops—a collection of military policemen, cavalry, and the remains of the post’s garrison—tried their best to defend Hays Hall from the Klown onslaught. Those professionals had been backed by cooks, orderlies, medics, even two chaplains. A week ago, when Salvador’s boss Major General Lew McLaren had still been alive, they’d had a force three hundred strong. Since then, the numbers had been severely diminished, and with the last head count, Salvador had been told that only ninety or so troops remained combat effective. And a good percentage of those were wounded.

“Okay, get me Wizard Six Actual,” Salvador ordered his radio telephone operator. “We need to seriously consider unassing, and we’re going to need Prince’s troops to do the heavy lifting.”




THIRTY-FIVE.


“Six, this is Wizard. Over.”

Lee almost missed Walker’s transmission in the heat of battle. The battalion was fully engaged, with two companies on either side of the Hays Hall defensive perimeter, slowly rolling back the Klowns. It was a tough fight. The Klowns weren’t afraid of getting killed, but they weren’t interested in dying needlessly, so they were getting crafty. The military members in their ranks were rising to prominence, and they were clearly directing the rest of the crazies as they rallied and counterattacked.

Since Lee had deployed forward with the rest of the combat troops on the eastern engagement area, he had lost most of his overall situational awareness. As such, he’d ordered Walker to hang back with the rest of the headquarters company staff to coordinate resources while Captain Hayes oversaw combat operations in the western engagement area.

“Go for Six,” Lee said. He hunkered down behind Murphy and fired his M4 over the soldier’s prone figure.

Murphy was still working on the Klowns with his SAW. He had already gone through a couple of two hundred round ammo pouches.

“Six, this is Wizard. Mountaineer Five wants a heart to heart on foxtrot four three three. Wants to discuss retrograde options.” Walker paused. “Six, Mountaineer thinks Prince is still commanding the battalion. Over.”

Lee heard a quaver of nervousness in Walker’s voice. As the battalion XO, Walker had willingly stepped aside to let Lee assume command. While that wasn’t illegal—Lee had much more direct field experience than Walker—the fact that he had encouraged Lee to also assume the rank of lieutenant colonel was doubtless weighing heavily on him. General Salvador would certainly wonder just what the hell was going on, with a captain pretending to be a lieutenant colonel, and he’d probably expect a really good explanation from Walker.

“Roger that, Wizard. Listen, I need you to put some Ravens over the far side of the engagement area, over Sexton Field. Are any of the Klowns breaking off for an envelopment attack? Need to know that right away. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. We’ll have a bird in that area in about two minutes. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. If there’s a breakaway element down there, see if Thunder can hit them. And let’s get some trucks staged forward. I’m sure Mountaineer doesn’t have much in the way of transportation resources. Questions before I flip over to four three three? Over.”

“Negative, Six. Wizard is good. Over,” Walker replied.

“Roger. Switching now. Talk to you in a few. Out.” Beside him, Murphy grunted and stirred uneasily on the ground. “What’s up, Mike?”

“Other than the fact that these fuckers keep coming, and I’m running out of ammo? Nothing, sir,” Murphy said.

“Oh, stop your bitchin’. You’ll still have time to fix your makeup, sweetheart.”

Foster crouched down beside them. He had three bags of ammunition for the M249, and he dropped them on the ground beside the gunner. “Here, don’t say I never gave you nothing.”

“Dude, I could kiss you,” Murphy said.

“Really? You know, this is like the tenth time you’ve suggested we get into a tongue fight. I’m starting to get worried about your orientation, man.”

“Blow me,” Murphy said as he reached for one of the pouches.

Foster looked at Lee. “See what I mean, sir?”

“When this is over, the two of you should go see a couples counselor,” Lee said. “Keep them back, guys. I need to check in with Mountaineer.” Lee switched frequencies. “Mountaineer, this is Wizard Six Actual. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Mountaineer Five Actual. Prince, is that you?” The responder’s voice was vaguely Latin-sounding.

“Mountaineer, this is Wizard. Negative, Colonel Prince was Kilo India Alpha. We need to pull you guys out of there, Mountaineer. How many faces do you have left? Over.”

“Wizard, this is Mountaineer. We have about eighty troops left, and several are injured. Wizard, if this isn’t Prince, is this the XO? Why are you using Prince’s call sign? Over.”

Lee chose to ignore the question. “Mountaineer, we have to abandon this post. We don’t have sufficient mass to hold on to Drum, so we need to get the hell out of Dodge. We’re holding the north side of the emplacement, and we have trucks staging nearby to take you out. Start rotating your troops to that side, and we’ll take it from there. Over.” Lee had to shout over the chatter of the SAW nearby, plus the crackle of over a hundred assault rifles and dozens of exploding grenades. Farther downrange, mortars began impacting the area. He figured the drones had identified a Klown staging area, and the mortar team was servicing it as directed.

“Roger, Wizard. How long can you hold the Klowns back? Over.”

Lee looked around. He was only able to view his flank, and it appeared secure. Captain Sommers was leading Charlie Company, call sign Chaos, into forward positions, where they could start segmenting the Klowns and chopping them into pieces. He didn’t doubt that Hallelujah Hayes was doing things any differently.

“Mountaineer, I think we’re good for at least ten minutes, but let’s not put that to the test. The quicker you can pull back, the quicker we can hit the road. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Stand by. We’re hitting the northern wall by squads. Over.”

“Roger, Mountaineer. See you soon. Wizard, out.” Lee switched frequencies. “Wizard, this is Wizard Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. I heard the conversation. I was listening on one of the other radios. We have six empty trucks lined up, but we’re starting to get a little light on transport. We can’t take multiple losses and still move effectively,” Walker reported. “Just the same, we’re ready for Mountaineer. Over.”

“Roger that, Wizard. There are more trucks in the Sustainment Brigade’s motor pool. We’ll fall back there and resupply on our way out. I’m looking to pull back inside of ten minutes, so make sure we have adequate transport for our troops, as well as Mountaineer. And pass on to Thunder that we’ll be counting on them to cover our retreat, so they better start pacing themselves. Over.”

“Roger all. I’ll get it squared away,” Walker said. “Uh… Six, stand by.”

As Charlie Company continued its advance, rolling up the Klowns with judicious use of firepower, Murphy suddenly stopped firing.

“Sir, we’re going to have to move forward—Charlie’s in my lane of fire. I can’t keep firing without the chance of blowing away some of the good guys.”

“Hold your fire for a moment. I don’t want you moving just yet,” Lee said.

“Six, Wizard. Over!” Walker was back, and he sounded mighty excited—but not in a good way.

“Go for Six, Wizard. Over.”

“Six, we’ve got a good-sized element of Klowns rolling up on us from the east-northeast. On foot, several hundred in number, coming out of the barracks on Fifth Armored Division Drive, heading down Fifth Division toward Euphrates. Looks like a good portion of their force was taking a nap while the other portion was pressing the attack. I’m going to uncage Echo on them. Over.”

Lee turned and looked down the line. “Muldoon!” When he didn’t get the response he was hoping for, he loosened the straps of his face mask and lifted it, exposing his face. The tang of combat hit him like a sharp slap, making his nostrils burn. “Muldoon!”

Muldoon stepped around one of the trucks and trotted over.

“Don’t tell me—you need me to save the day again. Right, sir?”

“We’ve got another force coming. Get ready to jump out. Get your team together.” Lee lowered the mask back over his face. “Wizard, Six. Hold Echo in place. Order Thunder to redirect fires for three minutes on that formation on command. I’m sending out a harassing force to slow them down. Over.”

“Roger, already passed word on to Thunder. They’re standing by to shift fires away from Sexton Field. Not so sure holding Echo in place is a good idea. This is a big dismounted force, we need to bring enough firepower to bear to stop them. Over.”

“Walker, we don’t need to stop them, just hold them up. Hold onto Echo. Break. Wizard Seven, Wizard Six. What’s your pos? Over.”

Sergeant Major Turner responded almost instantly. “Six, this is Seven. We’re providing security for the trucks standing ready to evacuate Mountaineer. This area is secure for the moment, and we are in line of sight of Echo. Where do you need us? Over.”

“Seven, this is Six. Say equipment. Over.”

“Six, Seven has five uparmored Humvees ready to go, mix of TOWs, Ma Deuces, and Mark Nineteens. Over.”

“Roger, Seven. Displace to Tenth Mountain and Riva Ridge. Stick close to the trees. Don’t expose your vehicles unless you have to. I’m sending a silver bullet element led by Sergeant Muldoon to link up with you. They will engage the Klowns from the trees and slow them up. Over.” As he spoke, he looked at Muldoon. The big sergeant shrugged and nodded, then turned and started yelling at the remainder of his element.

“Roger, Six. Seven is on the move. Over.”

“Muldoon, you clear on the mission?” Lee asked.

Muldoon gave him a sardonic thumbs-up. “Crystal clear, sir. You just stay here and make sure Mountaineer gets out. We’ll save your bacon.”

“Murphy, Foster, go with him,” Lee said.

“Fuck, sir, you’re already saddling me with Turner. You want me to take your personal chauffer and luggage porter, too?” Muldoon asked.

“Knock off the shit, Muldoon. You’ll need the firepower.”

“Yeah, Muldoon. You might’ve noticed I’ve got a SAW, man,” Murphy said.

“And I’ve got really bad gas,” Foster added. For effect, he rolled onto his side and let a big howler rip.

Murphy groaned. “Thank God we’re already in MOPP.”

Muldoon looked over at Lee and shook his head. “Seriously? These guys? With me?”

“It’s the Army of One, Muldoon,” Lee said. “Embrace the suck, and get going. You don’t have a lot of time, so take one of these trucks with you. And remember, shoot the fuckers in the face.”




THIRTY-SIX.


Onward, Christian soldiers.

Muldoon hunkered down in the darkness with the rest of the troops remaining under his command, a total of thirteen, including Lee’s personal footmen and the Nasty Girl, Rawlings. The soldiers had spread out in the trees, which provided substantial conceal-only cover that would prevent them from being easily seen but would do virtually nothing to shield them from being shot. Turner’s Humvees sat lights-out a couple of hundred feet behind them, hidden by the same trees. Despite his personal dislike for Turner, Muldoon was glad to have the old man around. Turner knew his way around a battlefield, and having him in charge of their heavy weapons made Muldoon feel a little better.

He heard the approaching Klowns ahead—cackling, hooting, and chanting some sort of incomprehensible bullshit that kind of resembled a cadence. For Muldoon, that last increased the pucker factor. If they were trying to sing cadence, there was a lot of military in the mix. Or maybe it was just his amped-up mind fucking with him while he lay beneath a huge, leafy canopy in the dark, waiting to die.

They had two remaining Claymores, which they’d placed well in advance of their position. The idea was to kill or maim a lot of the Klowns right off the bat then hit them with everything they had to fix them in position. Once that happened, Turner’s grenade units would open up with indirect fire, lobbing forty-millimeter rounds over the trees and into the middle of the Klown element while Thunder dropped some sixty-six-millimeter antipersonnel badness right on their heads, as well. And if that didn’t work, Turner’s machinegun units would unmask from the terrain and go to guns on the crazies with their fifties. There was no way they would be able to kill all of them—though it was technically possible, Muldoon was convinced they weren’t going to be that lucky—but they could keep them bottled up long enough for Mountaineer to be evacuated, and then maybe one of the lightfighter companies could roll up and put paid to the Klowns before the battalion hit the road.

The sounds of combat still rent the air as the battle for Hays Hall continued. Through his night vision goggles, Muldoon could see his troops in their fighting positions. Nutter was to his left, Rawlings to his right. Muldoon considered the irony of having a woman as his right-hand man. While he was far too young to be considered a Cold War relic, Muldoon had never much fancied women participating in combat, and he had certainly never expected to serve with any, especially not a National Guardsman. But he had to admit that she handled her small slice of warfare just as well as his men did, perhaps better. While the rest of the troops bitched about everything—soldiers loved to bellyache—he didn’t hear so much as a peep from her.

Finally, a woman who can keep her trap shut. Not that it means anything now.

He turned his attention back to the chuckling and shuffling Klowns as they headed toward them. He pulled the Claymore clacker closer.

Around him, the sounds of his troops shifting were barely audible as they prepared for the engagement. They hadn’t had much time to discuss tactics, other than him giving orders to maintain their firing lanes and not let up. In other words, “Let go, and let God.”

The Klowns advanced toward the trees the team hid in, on their way to 10


 Mountain Division Drive, where they expected to turn right and continue on to attack the battalion from the rear. There was no caution in their approach. They believed they were safe for the moment, and they were moving as quickly as they were able.

Muldoon let the first group get well inside the kill zone before he hit the M57’s trigger. The Claymores dutifully detonated simultaneously, and fifty Klowns dropped dead while another sixty or seventy staggered around or flopped about on the ground, direly wounded.

The element opened up. There was no bigger signal to pour it on than when Claymores went off fifty feet from your position, and their fires ripped through the next echelon of Infected. Bullets tore through uniforms and civilian clothing and garish body decorations to cleave open torsos and rupture organs. Of great effect were the two SAWs. They hammered at the Klowns relentlessly, slicing them down with an almost godlike accuracy, even as the targets ducked and tried to run.

Muldoon stopped firing for a moment to pull a grenade. “Frag out!” he shouted as he hurled it right in the middle of a clump of Klowns that were beginning to organize for a counterattack.

The explosion chopped them down in a heartbeat. Several writhed about on the ground, laughing their heads off as they tried to stanch the flow of blood from severed arms and legs. Several more grenades went off, sending bodies flying, a beautiful sight brought to Muldoon courtesy of the NVGs mounted to the front of his helmet.

“Thunder, Thunder, this is Crusher Three-One! Fire mission. Over,” Muldoon shouted into his radio over the noise of the rifle fire.

The term “fire mission” indicated that several rounds were to be fired, without any spotting rounds out to verify adjustment angles. That was another increase in the pucker factor. While Muldoon was well versed in the use of mortars, he had never ordered a fire mission without calling adjust fire. If he got the grid wrong in relation to the lightfighters slugging it out with the Klowns, it was going to be a very short fight.

“Crusher Three-One, this is Thunder. Fire Mission. Out.”

“Thunder, Crusher Three-One. Grid four five seven two eight seven. Enemy formation in the open. Direction twenty-four hundred, distance one hundred meters. Danger close. Over!”

“Crusher Three-One, Thunder has grid four five seven two eight seven. Enemy formation in the open. Direction twenty-four hundred, distance one hundred meters. Danger close. Out,” the mortar section leader responded.

“Thunder, Crusher Three-One. Fire when ready! Over!”

“Crusher Three-One, Thunder. Fire when ready. Roger. Out.” A moment later: “Crusher Three-One, Thunder. Shot. Over.”

“Thunder, roger—shots out. Over.”

“Crusher Three-One, Thunder. Splash. Over.”

“Incoming rounds, five seconds!” Muldoon shouted. “Thunder, Crusher, splash. Over!”

It was more like three seconds later that the night lit up when three mortar rounds, less than a second apart, impacted the street in the rear of the Klown formation. Muldoon grimaced beneath his mask. He’d hoped they would have landed a little deeper inside the group, but the rounds still had a substantial effect on the Klowns. Dozens of them died immediately, and dozens more were taken out of the fight.

But the leading edge of the Klown reinforcements had zeroed on Muldoon’s element, and they charged now, running right into the men’s fires with a furious zeal that was astonishing to behold. Scores more died, laughing until their tickers stopped ticking and their brains shut down. But there were more behind them, many more, and they had weapons. Soon, enemy fire started slapping into tree trunks and blasting leaves off the forest floor right in front of Muldoon.

“Thunder, Crusher Three-One. If we can get you for another pass, adjust fire! Drop one hundred, fire for effect! Over!” The deal was that Thunder would give them one pass then resume supporting the fight at Hays Hall. Muldoon was playing his whiny-bitch card by asking for more rounds, but he didn’t care. If Thunder turned him down, he was just going to be dead a little sooner. He got back on his rifle and started returning fire.

“Reloading!” Rawlings shouted beside him.

“Crusher Three-One, this is Thunder. You owe me a case of Guinness for each round. Fire for effect, drop one hundred. Shots out. Over.”

Muldoon didn’t have time to reply. Three Klowns made it to the tree line and crashed through the foliage, firing assault rifles and aiming for the muzzle blasts of Muldoon’s men. He heard a tick as something slipped past his helmet, a graze so light that it didn’t even alter the angle of his NVGs, but a close call nevertheless. He raised his rifle and banged out eight shots. Two of the attackers stumbled and faltered, still wheezing with laughter that his rounds failed to stifle. The third kept coming. Muldoon had missed him entirely. He went down suddenly as Nutter ripped off a burst on full auto.

“Damn, Duke! You shoot like a school girl!” Nutter shouted.

“Crusher Three-One, this is Thunder. Splash. Over.”

“More incoming!” Muldoon yelled. One of the Klowns he had shot struggled back to his knees. He was a civilian, and Muldoon recognized him as one of the public works guys he had seen around the post, a former NCO who had retired and gotten a job driving snow plows during the winter and cutting grass in the summer. Muldoon shot him in the face, and the man fell over into the brush.

The three mortar rounds landed, much closer, and Muldoon swore as the shock waves tore through the trees, kicking up a storm of grit, leaves, branches, and bloody ribbons of flesh. Muldoon continued firing, even though his sight picture was mostly full of obscurants. He had no idea whether he was hitting anything or not, but the potential to at least wound a Klown or two was worth the time and effort. Behind him, he heard the Mk 19s opening up, and he hoped their grenades would traverse parabolas short enough to hold back the attackers but not so abbreviated as to start landing among the lightfighters in the trees.

He needn’t have worried. The explosions rippled outside the tree line, pretty much dead on target.

Fuckin’-A, Sergeant Major.

But as the dust cleared, Muldoon was monumentally disappointed to discover that neither the mortars nor the grenades had dissuaded the Klowns from surging into the trees.

Then, the mag in his rifle ran dry.




THIRTY-SEVEN.


It took a lot longer than ten minutes to get Hays Hall evacuated. When the troops had built the walls surrounding the two-story headquarters building, they’d dragged one final container in place to seal the vehicle access then used a crane to hoist a second container on top of it. The crane had been taken out of commission earlier in the battle, so the only way out was to rappel from the wall or come down caving ladders.

The delay was one of the longest in Lee’s life, virtually unendurable as he crouched next to the wall with Twohy, his radio telephone operator, and four other soldiers who had clustered around him, trying to provide protection while he quarterbacked the fight from the front. Charlie Company had halted its advance and formed a trailing wedge, becoming a type of wall that the Klowns would commit suicide trying to scale.

From the roof of Hays Hall, the remaining defenders poured it on with everything they had left as the first of the soldiers trapped inside the compound made a break for it. The wounded went first, several of whom were litter-borne. Lee called for the ambulances to be moved up, so those men could immediately be transported off-site. That involved pulling some of Echo’s soldiers forward out of the blocking position they had taken in the rear. Lee couldn’t leave the ambulances unguarded, as the medics operating them were armed only with pistols. The Klowns would have loved to take them down, and Lee was quite predisposed to ensure they didn’t have the chance.

Twenty minutes after the evacuation began, the rooftop defenders had abandoned their posts. That left only the ground combatants standing between them and the Klowns. Lee ordered Hallelujah Hayes to retrograde his elements back toward Walker’s position, where they would be directly backed up by the remaining Echo formations. That way, the battalion would be more centrally located and better able to defend itself should the Klown reinforcements make their way past the small task force led by Turner and Muldoon.

Not that there’ll be much left to defend with. The battalion had been expending its munitions at a fantastic rate. It was difficult to know how much longer the unit could maintain its current tempo, especially with Echo deployed in a battle formation. While the unit was still supplying the battalion, it was doing so with only a small percentage of personnel. No one was able to keep a good count of what was going down to the company level, and the battalion had been fighting pretty much the entire time on the road to Drum. Lee hoped—prayed, actually, which was the first time he’d resorted to that in quite a while—that they could pull Mountaineer out of Hays Hall and get the hell out of Fort Drum.

“Colonel!”

Lee turned. Two Alpha Company lightfighters were escorting another man with them. Unlike the lightfighters, the newcomer didn’t have any MOPP gear on, though he was armored up and carried an M4 carbine. He was shorter than Lee but more squared off in a heavy-jawed sort of way that reminded Lee of Sergeant Major Turner. The olive-skinned man had bright green eyes that shined beneath a furrowed brow.

“Colonel?” the man echoed.

Lee felt the blood leave his face. The man was Brigadier General Salvador, the deputy commanding general of the 10


 Mountain Division.

Lee saluted.

“Sir, you need to get behind the line!”

Salvador looked Lee up and down then leaned forward, staring right at the subdued lieutenant colonel oak leaf insignia on Lee’s armor. He raised his eyes back to Lee’s masked face.

“I don’t know of any Colonel Lee attached to the First Battalion. Who the hell are you, soldier?”

Lee decided not to sidestep the issue. It wasn’t very important at the moment, anyway. “Harry Lee, former S-3, First Battalion, Fifty-fifth Infantry Regiment,” he said. “You need to get off the battlefield, General. As in, right now.”

“The S-3? So you’re a captain?” Salvador snapped. “Why the hell are you wearing lieutenant colonel insignia? Where’s the XO, Walker?”

“Major Walker is not here, sir. If you follow these soldiers, you’ll be taken to him, and he can fill you in on everything that’s gone down since the battalion pulled out of Boston. I’m busy here.”

Salvador pushed his way forward and got right in Lee’s mask-covered face. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea how badly you’ve basically butt-raped military tradition, not to mention how many regulations you’ve violated? Boy, you’re in some serious trouble here!”

Lee looked at the two soldiers who had accompanied the general. Both were half crouched because of the gunfire ripping through the air, and not all of it was coming from the battalion. The Klowns were rebounding since Hayes’s company had pulled back. The void had given the infected enemy time to regroup, and they were focusing solely on Charlie Company, hammering them with everything they had.

“Get this man out of here!” Lee yelled at the pair just as several soldiers still manning the wall above them opened up with full automatic gunfire.

Everyone dropped to the ground, including Salvador. The general might have been pissed, but he hadn’t forgotten he was out in the open, in the middle of a shooting war. Something buried itself into the shipping container wall behind him with a sharp noise, and Lee looked back to see an arrow lodged there.

Higher up, one of the infantrymen manning a defensive position was reacting to the fact he had one stuck in his left thigh.

Oh, fuck!

“Get Salvador out of here!” he shouted, bringing up his rifle.

The soldier with the arrow in his leg started shaking as the first wave of giggles hit him, and he immediately lowered his weapon and opened up on the men below. One of the soldiers who had escorted Salvador jerked as several rounds struck him. Next, Salvador grunted and started discharging his M4 into the ground. Lee’s RTO curled up into a ball as the general’s errant volley stitched a trail right in front of him. Lee pulled his rifle’s trigger, sending three bullets through the infected soldier above him, just as the others on the wall brought their own weapons around and began firing on the same man. The infected soldier danced a ballistic-driven jig as a score of rounds slammed into him, driving him off the wall and out of Lee’s view.

Lee turned to the men beside him. The first soldier who had been hit was lying face down on the ground, a puddle of blood forming near his head. Salvador thrashed next to him, his left hand clamped over his right shoulder, where his short neck met his body. Blood pulsed from between his gloved fingers. His eyes were wide with fear and shock. He knew he’d been hit, and he knew it was bad.

“Get him out of here!” Lee shouted to the remaining soldier and the RTO. “Twohy, get him to a medic, right away!”

More people ran toward them, and not all of them were in uniform. Lee took up a fighting position, but one of them threw up his hands, waving in the darkness.

“No, no! We’re from Hays!” the soldier shouted.

“How many of you are left inside?” Lee asked.

“I think we’re it, other than wall security. They’re on their way out now.” The man looked down at Salvador as the Twohy helped the other soldier heave him into a fireman’s carry. “Shit, is that the general?”

“It is,” Lee said. “Help these men get him out of here. Twohy, you know where the ambulances are?”

“Yes, sir,” said the RTO.

“Then get him to Nightingale, right now!”

“On it,” Twohy replied, and the group moved off, carrying the injured general with them.

Lee turned back to the fight. Charlie Company was continuing to fall back. They were extracting a healthy penalty on the Klowns. Bodies were stacked up four deep only a few hundred meters away. But the Klowns kept coming, clambering over the dead and twitching near-dead and cackling with glee as they retaliated with assault rifles and hand grenades of their own. One of the containers down the line exploded when an AT4 round burrowed into it and detonated, sending red-hot shrapnel whirling through the air. The fire had come from behind the Klown lines. The crazies were bringing some heavy weaponry to the party, which meant it was time for the battalion to beat feet.

“Wizard, this is Six!”

Walker came back immediately. “Six, this is Wizard. Over!”

“Wizard, are we about done with the extraction? We’re losing the line over here. Chaos is being pushed back. Time’s up, we have to go. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Roger, we’ve got a few stragglers, but they’ll be out in less than two minutes. We’re ready when you’re ready. Over.”

“Wizard, Six is ready right now. Pull Alpha back under covering fires, then do the same for Charlie and any other forward units. Start that right away. Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard. Roger that.”




THIRTY-EIGHT.


Muldoon rolled onto his side and snatched a fresh magazine from his harness. Rawlings started firing again, shouting behind her mask as the Klowns toppled to the brush right in front of her. Nutter ripped off another blast on full auto then shouted that he had to reload.

On the other side of Nutter, a soldier got to his knees and hurled a grenade, yelling “Frag out!” Before the lightfighter could cover, he jerked backward with a choked scream as a bullet tore through his mask. The soldier toppled onto his back and lay still, his legs curled up beneath him.

Muldoon fired three rounds into the Klown rifleman staggering through the brush. The attacker’s movements were made clumsy by the fact he didn’t have night vision gear and was laughing like Frank Gorshen’s Riddler from the classic Batman TV series. More shapes loomed behind that one, and they returned fire. Muldoon heard bullets crack as they zipped past, missing him by mere inches.

“Be an awesome time to shoot the fuckers in the face, Duke!” Nutter shouted, his voice a high-pitched shriek as he frantically tried to reload his M4.

Muldoon obliged, firing six rapid shots into the approaching gunmen. One of them curled up with a giggle and fell to the ground, while another only laughed harder while one of his arms flopped uselessly at his side. The third ducked to the right, putting a small tree between him and Muldoon as he blindly fired around it. His rounds went high, killing nothing more than leaves and possibly a couple of robins in the tree branches overhead. Rawlings drilled the Klown twice, and he sagged to the ground, gurgling.

Muldoon heard shattering glass as a sudden glow grew in feverish intensity, almost as if the small forest they lay in had been hit by a nuclear weapon. He smelled gasoline, and as his NVGs went into white-out, he knew that one of the Klowns had tossed a Molotov cocktail at them. Flame burned, bright and hot, and it found more than just gasoline to feed it. Dried leaves and brush and tree trunks that hadn’t seen a decent rain in quite a few weeks added fuel to the blaze, and thick smoke billowed.

Muldoon flipped up his NVGs. The fire was only twenty feet away, and he could see Lee’s boys—Murphy and Foster—retreating from the conflagration. In fact, Foster frantically slapped at the flames on his uniform with his gloved hands while Murphy, his SAW slung across his chest, dragged the man away.

Muldoon didn’t have time to worry about it, because more Klowns rushed into the trees. He cut several of them down, but more than a few wore body armor, and he had to hit them repeatedly to have any effect.

Then, his magazine ran dry again.

“Reloading!” he shouted, turning onto his side to reach for a fresh mag as more Klowns pushed their way in.

One of them spied Rawlings and lunged for her with a hitching whoop. The Klown raised an ax over his head.

“Fuck!” Rawlings screamed. She fired her M4 directly into the Klown’s crotch.

The man howled with laughter as his pelvis disintegrated beneath the force of several full metal jacket rounds. He collapsed to the ground, still swinging the ax as he fell. Rawlings turned at the last moment, and the ax head plunged into the earth beside her.

Muldoon lashed out with his empty rifle, and the M9 bayonet at its tip pierced the man’s chest. That only made the Klown laugh louder. The laughter amidst the sound of the sucking chest wound was a horrible sound, but Muldoon kept stabbing him, again and again. He could feel the heat of the blaze mounting, and the fire roared as it consumed every combustible in its path. Nutter finally got his rifle loaded, and he fired two rounds into the Klown as it sagged, falling away from Muldoon and his bayonet.

“Thanks for nothing, Nutter!” Muldoon yelled as he pulled his rifle back and yanked a fresh mag from his vest. “Rawlings, you all right?”

“Good to go,” Rawlings said.

“Gotta pull back, Duke!” Nutter shouted. “This fire’s getting too hot!”

“Roger that,” Muldoon said, slapping the magazine into his rifle and hitting the carrier release. Click! The M4 was back in business. “Fall back fifty meters!” He fired several shots through the growing smoke, hoping to keep the Klowns off balance long enough for the team to retreat. “Nutter, Girard is down, grab him!”

“Hooah!” Nutter grabbed the fallen soldier’s vest and dragged him through the brush.

Rawlings hung back while the rest of the soldiers vacated their positions, joining Muldoon in firing at the shapes that swam about in the smoke.

“Go on, Rawlings! Fall back!” Muldoon snapped.

“What about you, Sergeant?”

“Don’t worry about me—I’ve got this! Get the hell out of here and reform fifty meters back!” He paused long enough to pull a grenade from his vest, yank the pin, and hurl it into the smoke. “Frag out!” That was his last one.

Muldoon crouched down as Rawlings reluctantly retreated, sidestepping away, rifle held at low ready. The grenade exploded, and the detonation caused a chorus of laughter just outside the tree line. The weapon had put a hurting on the enemy, even if they thought it was great fun.

He checked the area, and saw that all his soldiers had pulled out. He got to his feet and made to follow them. More figures emerged from the smoke suddenly, guffawing with manic glee when they saw him. Muldoon swore and turned to engage them, and found he couldn’t. His rifle got hung up momentarily in a vine-laden bush. Four Klowns rushed him with a communal, cackling howl.

Muldoon ripped his rifle free of the vines, flipped the fire selector to AUTO, and ripped a burst into the first Infected at a range of less than four feet. The man died instantly, but his inertia carried him forward until he impaled himself on Muldoon’s bayonet. Muldoon backpedaled but couldn’t move fast enough. With a dry chortle, the Klown crashed into him, hands flopping against Muldoon’s mask.

“Fuck!” Muldoon screamed as his feet got tangled up, and he fell onto his back.

The twitching Klown fell with him, still impaled on his bayonet. Muldoon fired off another burst—no target in sight, just an attempt to put the fear of God in his attackers, if that was possible—then rolled the corpse off of himself. For his trouble, another Klown landed on him, a young woman wearing a Lady Gaga T-shirt and ripped jeans, her black hair a wild and wooly nimbus around her head.

She drove a butcher knife right into Muldoon’s chest with all her strength. The blade met the metal plate in his chest protector and skidded off harmlessly, tearing some fabric before it got hung up in the tougher material of his tactical vest. Muldoon punched her in the lower ribs, and was rewarded with the sound of bone parting as the girl’s wind left her in the rush. As she doubled over with a hitching titter, Muldoon jabbed her in the neck. That stopped the girl from laughing, and she fell off him, eyes already glazing over as she tried to breathe through a shattered trachea.

“Throat-punch Thursday, bitch!” Muldoon shouted, even though it wasn’t Thursday at all.

A shotgun went off, and Muldoon flinched as he was covered in a shower of dirt, shredded leaves, and twigs. Another Klown bore down on him, racking the slide of the twelve-gauge shotgun. Muldoon tried to bring his rifle up as the laughing, infected man raised his shotgun to bear on Muldoon’s face. To Muldoon, the shotgun’s muzzle looked bigger than the Holland Tunnel.

The back of the Klown’s head exploded in a gooey mess that splattered all over the heaving, obese woman behind him. The tunnel disappeared as the man dropped to the ground.

Muldoon didn’t even have time to blink before the female went down too, a stitching eruption racing across her prodigious bosom. She’d been wearing a frumpy house coat and nothing else. Her bulk crashed to the forest floor, legs kicking as she tried to breathe with lungs that had been turned into the equivalent of blood-soaked shredded wheat. He had no idea what had just happened.

“Muldoon, get on your feet!”

Muldoon sat up and turned. Rawlings knelt a short distance away, rifle shouldered, looking like some demonic warrior in her MOPP gear and NVGs. She fired again, and Muldoon heard something thrash about in the brush near the fire.

“Hee-hee-hee-HEEEEEEE—!” A Klown’s high-pitched giggle grew in intensity.

Muldoon slogged to his feet and cast a quick glance over his shoulder as he tucked in his rifle. A Klown thrashed on the ground. Not only had Rawlings shot the man a couple of times, but he was also on fire. Despite the fact that he was burning to a crisp, the infected soldier was still trying to crawl toward Muldoon, leering at him with blackened lips. Rawlings fired again, letting loose a single round that flew straight and true through the Klown’s forehead.

But behind the bodies, more Infected flooded the woods. Many were severely wounded from the continuing grenade attacks, but many were whole and healthy, and they were looking to get it on in a bad way. Muldoon ripped off a burst at them then joined Rawlings as she rose and sprinted through the trees. They found the rest of the troops in a rough skirmish line deeper inside the trees.

Nutter shot Muldoon a thumbs-up.

“Now I don’t feel so bad about being saved by a girl,” the small, wiry lightfighter crowed behind his mask. “I just wish I’d been there to take a picture of her saving you, Duke!”

“Suppressive fire!” Muldoon shouted as he flopped to the ground beside Nutter, ignoring the soldier’s comments. “We’ve got heavy contact coming!” Into his radio: “Wizard Seven, this is Crusher Three-One. We need your fifties right now! Over!”

“Crusher Three-One, this is Wizard Seven. Roger. Put your faces in the dirt and keep your asses down, and call the BDA. Over.”

No sooner had Turner ended the transmission, three or four M2 fifty caliber machineguns started chattering in earnest behind Muldoon’s fighting position. Big rounds, several of them tracers, ripped through the trees at an altitude of maybe four feet, tearing through brush and soft-bodied Klowns who walked right into the shit storm without a care in the world.

Muldoon’s men ducked down and resumed firing as soon as they had targets. It didn’t take long for the bodies to start hitting the deck, but the Klowns died eagerly. But machinegun bullets weren’t death rays. They could only kill what they hit, and there were plenty of trees in between the Humvees and the Klowns. While a lot of Infected were hit, several more surged forward, facing down the buzz-saw defense the lightfighters threw at them. To Muldoon’s delight, the Klowns didn’t fare well in their strategy, and more shattered, bleeding bodies fell as they died laughing.

But the fire was growing, and the Klowns were moving away from the engagement area. Muldoon knew the Infected were seeking to flank them, and he ordered his troops to reposition, so their fires could be oriented more to the right of the formation. Fire was to the left; dark, empty woods were to the right. He radioed Turner to cease protective fires.

“I think they’re going to hit us on the right flank. Over,” he added, after filling in the sergeant major on the current situation.

“Three-One, this is Seven. Roger that. You and your troops need to start falling back. We’ll advance toward the intersection and draw some of their interest while you guys make for the truck. Over.”

“Seven, this is Crusher Three-One. Our mission isn’t complete yet. Over.”

“Crusher Three-One, this is Wizard Seven. Battalion is on the move, your mission is ended. Feel free to stay if that’s your preference, Muldoon, but send the rest of your element out while we can still support them. Over.”

Muldoon shook his head. Turner would love it if he were to go gonzo and hang out in the woods, dealing with the Klowns all by himself. Too bad he’d have to deal with another dose of bitter disappointment. “Wizard Seven, Crusher Three-One. Roger that, we’re falling back now.”

“Beauty,” was Turner’s cryptic response, but Muldoon smiled at the brimming disenchantment the message contained.




THIRTY-NINE.


The battalion bugged out, fighting a rear-guard action the entire way. They paused at the cavalry motor pool, taking a precious ten minutes to raid the facility for ammunition, food, vehicles, fuel, even spare uniforms. The Klowns didn’t make it easy, but Thunder kept up the pace, burning through their mortar ammo at a blistering pace until, in the end, they were hitting the infected horde with smokers. It was enough.

The battalion had killed thousands of Klowns, severely attriting the Infected’s forces until they were down to several packs of hard-core harassers that were easily bottled up by the newly-rearmed Alpha Company as it swapped places with Charlie. They didn’t have to hold the line for long. First Battalion wasn’t staying, and while Echo jumped forward to escort the civilian convoy element further up the road and cover Thunder’s retreat, Alpha mopped up.

By the time the convoy was back on the road and barreling northbound on Fort Drum Road toward the small town of Evans Mills, there wasn’t much left in the way of pursuers. Walker had the foresight to send a Raven buzzing over Evans Mills. They had determined the town was mostly vacant, as it had apparently burned to the ground over a week ago. The news was welcomed by Lee, who didn’t want to run from one fight into another. The plan was to skirt as much of the town as possible then drive out into the farmlands around Jenkins Road.

There, they would halt the column for a fast refit and repair before continuing.

The lightfighters of First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Infantry, had earned a few minutes of rest.




FORTY.


Lee walked with Walker toward the line of ambulances. There were more wounded than the medical vehicles could hold, so others had been pressed into MEDEVAC service, from monstrous HEMT cargo trucks to civilian SUVs. Walker seemed nervous, fidgety, trying to look everywhere at once despite the presence of Turner and three of his top NCOs. Lee understood why the major was so ill at ease. After all, they were going to check up on General Salvador, and there was little chance the general was going to take it easy on Walker for abdicating command of a lightfighter battalion.

But Lee wasn’t really even thinking of Salvador. As the sun rose above the horizon, he was happy to be starting a new day without having to wear a MOPP face mask. He could smell the warm air, feel the light breeze on his face, and hear the chirping of birds and the rustle of equipment as the battalion set about conducting a quick reset. Of course, he could also smell his own rancid body odor, but every silver lining came with a little bit of cloud.

Salvador was housed inside one of the ambulances. The medical company commander had been killed days ago, and his executive officer, Captain Wurst, was in charge. Wurst had been treating Salvador directly, and when Lee and Walker approached, he shook his head.

“He’s taken damage to a heart valve. There’s not a lot we can do out here,” Wurst told them.

Lee nodded with a sigh. “How long does he have?”

“He should have died two hours ago. I don’t know how he’s holding on,” Wurst said. “Listen, we’re infusing him with plasma, but there’s not a lot left to go around, and we do have other patients who can use it…”

Lee exchanged a glance with Walker, than asked, “So you want permission to deny treatment to Salvador?”

Wurst looked up at Lee, suddenly hard faced. “Sorry, aren’t you the guy I’m supposed to ask?”

“Yes,” Lee said. “Answer the question.”

“Do I really need to, Lee?” Wurst stepped back and waved a hand at the row of stretchers holding other patients. “I’ve got thirty-four wounded, three of those critical, one whose injuries are pretty much untreatable in a field situation. We need to find a surgical hospital to save that guy, and the general. We can’t go back to Drum, and we can’t go into Watertown. Or Brownville, or Dexter, or any other town where there’s a trauma center. Can we?”

“Probably not,” Lee agreed.

“Then it seems to me we need to start using our supplies on those we can save, and stop wasting them on guys who are about to answer a greater calling. But you have to make that call, Lee.” Wurst pointedly avoided addressing Lee as sir.

Lee didn’t punt. “Save as many as you can,” he told Wurst. “If you’ve triaged patients and know who can respond to primary care and who can’t, then do what’s necessary. Keep the terminal patients as comfortable as possible, but heal the ones you can save. Including Salvador. Is that enough guidance for you?”

Wurst nodded. “That’ll do it.” He looked at Walker. “You agree?”

Walker looked surprised. He ran a hand over his bristly chin and nodded slightly. “Yeah, Captain. I agree.”

“Can we see Salvador?” Lee asked.

Wurst gestured toward the ambulance behind him. “Sure, he’s not going anywhere. And it’s not like you’re going to make matters any worse. Anything else? I’ve got patients to tend to.”

“Have at it,” Lee said. “Thanks for all your efforts. Seriously.”

Wurst took in a deep breath, and nodded. “Yeah, all right. And thanks for yours. Seriously.” The narrow-shouldered physician hurried off, heading toward the row of litters.

“Let’s get it over with,” Lee said, advancing toward the ambulance. Its diesel engine still ran, clattering away in the morning light.

He pulled open the back door, and climbed inside.

General Salvador on a stretcher on the right side of the ambulance. An enlisted male nurse was tending to him. Salvador wore an oxygen mask connected to a tall, green metal tank in one corner. IV bags hung from the ambulance’s metal overhead. The general’s uniform had been cut away, and his lower body was covered with a blood-dappled sheet. Blood-soaked bandages covered the wound in his upper chest. There was also a larger wound in his stomach, where the tumbling rifle round had managed to exit after tearing its way through his abdomen. His flesh was pale, and his chest rose slowly as he took shallow, laborious breaths. Through half-open eyes, he stared at the ambulance’s overhead.

Lee waved the nurse out. “We need to talk to the general. We’ll call you if we need you.”

The nurse looked down at Salvador. “He’s not really too talkative at the moment, sir.”

“Go,” Salvador said softly behind the oxygen mask. “Leave me… with the liars… and cowards.”

The nurse looked from Salvador to Lee then back again, then he sighed and slipped out of the ambulance. Walker and Turner climbed inside, the latter pulling the door shut behind him. In the cab, a uniformed soldier peered around the bulkhead separating the two compartments. When he saw who had come aboard, he pushed open the driver’s door and got out, leaving the ambulance running.

“Walker,” Salvador whispered.

“Yes, sir. I’m here,” Walker responded.

“You’re… a coward. Get… get out… of my… sight.”

Walker started to protest, but Lee frowned and nodded toward the door. Walker glanced at the dying man, then opened the door and climbed back out. He closed it gently behind him.

“From S-3…to battalion…commander…in a…what? Month? What a… career,” Salvador said, taking harsh breaths between his words. “Hey… Turner…”

“Yes, General?” Turner leaned forward to look down into Salvador’s face.

“Why… you follow… this liar?” Salvador asked. “Why do… you let him… pretend to… be a colonel?”

Turner thought about that for a moment. “Because you’re right. Walker’s a coward and isn’t fit to lead a battalion of lightfighters outside to grab a sundae, much less into combat. Lee, on the other hand, can get things done, sir. He’s proven that to you. And with that, you should probably let the matter rest.”

Salvador grunted. “Huh. Rest. Honor… heritage… code of… conduct… yeah, should… forget about that… right?”

“Deconflict the battlespace, sir. What was important two months ago isn’t really relevant today. We’re here, and we’re going to stay here.”

“You… do that, Sergeant… Major.”

Turner looked at Lee.

Lee bent forward so that Salvador could see him.

“General, where are our dependents? The men need to find their families. Someone told Turner they were sent to Philadelphia. Is this true?”

“Yes. City secure… as of three weeks ago. Lost contact after Drum… overrun. National Guard in… in charge. They were sent there. All… all made it.”

“Tell me about Florida,” Lee said.

Salvador breathed slowly and heavily for a long moment before responding. “Special Operations Command… Central Command… Air Force, Navy… even fucking… Marines… all around Tampa. Forces Command… relocated… too. Bragg’s gone. NCA made… decision… to secure Florida… after lost DC… New York…”

“When did you last communicate with them? Who’s in charge?”

“Last night… SATCOM still up. Merrill,” Salvador said. Lee nodded. General Jackson Merrill was the commanding general of U.S. Army Forces Command, formerly of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He was one of the oldest general officers left in the Army, and his time in grade alone dictated he be in charge in the event of a contingency situation like the one that currently afflicted America. Lee looked at Turner, and the sergeant major sighed.

“Tampa, by way of Philly,” Turner said. “Hell of a road trip.”

“Lee…” Salvador’s voice was barely a whisper now.

Lee leaned forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Liar,” Salvador sighed, then died.




FORTY-ONE.


Another truck, another road, another day. Muldoon sagged against the side rail, dog-ass tired but unable to sleep as the truck with twenty-five other troops barreled down yet another back country road, just one vehicle in a convoy of over a hundred. They’d been travelling for two days straight, only calling a halt every four hours or so for chow, latrine duty, and to swap out drivers.

Out in the country, the Klowns were fewer but no less dedicated. Twice, they’d been attacked by “country Klowns” driving giant combines and other farm equipment so big that it had taken TOW missiles to stop them. Fortunately, they had a lot of those to go around at the moment. The cavalry motor pool had been pretty well stocked with anti-tank weapons, since those weren’t the handiest implements to use against ground attackers. The battalion had scarfed them up, along with pretty much everything else that wasn’t nailed down, as long as it could fit on a HEMT cargo truck.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip. There was still plenty of action to be seen, but they’d only lost two troops and a car full of civilians. The Klowns weren’t very discriminate when it came to attacking, so unarmed women and kids were fair game for them. That kind of pissed off Muldoon. He thought—hoped—that if he ever became a killer clown, he’d at least still be a man about it and go after the guys with the guns.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget about it. He needed sleep, and most of the soldiers in the truck with him were eyes shut, mouths open. Four of them were still manned up in MOPP gear, weapons out, watching the countryside roll by at forty miles per hour as the convoy wound its way down yet another rural road. They were in Pennsylvania, Muldoon’s home state. His parents had left long ago, for Georgia of all places. They’d grown tired of the winters, but Muldoon still loved them. That was one reason he’d joined the Army, so he could get into a unit like the 10


 Mountain. Winter was what they lived for, even if it had been in places like Afghanistan as opposed to, say, Aspen, Colorado.

Just the same, in an odd way, it felt good to be closer to where he’d grown up.

“Muldoon… go to sleep, man.”

Rawlings looked at him blearily with bloodshot eyes. She was sitting across from him, her M4 between her legs. She’d been asleep when he’d last looked over at her and had been for a good hour. There was grime all across her face and her uniform, and she didn’t smell very good at the moment. None of them did. The Army wasn’t for body spray addicts—that was why God had created the Air Force. But Muldoon thought that if Rawlings ever had the opportunity to get cleaned up and get those busted teeth taken care of, she might rate a seven or so on the hotness scale.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m good to go,” Muldoon said, even though his eyes felt as if sandpaper was being dragged across them every time he blinked. He attributed that to the fact his sunglasses had wound up a combat casualty, and as such, the only shades left available to him were his goggles. And since they weren’t tinted, what was the point?

“Not worried about you, man. Just telling you to get some sleep,” Rawlings said.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

Rawlings shrugged. “Hey, whatever.” She closed her eyes again and slumped back against the side rail.

“You handled yourself pretty well, Rawlings,” Muldoon said, after a long moment. “You sure busted some heads out there.”

Rawlings didn’t reply. Muldoon realized that she’d already fallen asleep.

“So, like, are you guys dating now?” Nutter asked. He was leaning against the front of the truck bed, eyes closed.

“What, you jealous or something, Colonel Nutter?”

“Hell no, Duke. I don’t fancy you one bit.”

Muldoon snorted and looked back at Rawlings. He really wondered what kind of woman she was, when she wasn’t trying to be a man and kill every Klown she saw.

He didn’t wonder for long. Sleep finally laid its claim, and deep blackness enveloped him like a mother coddling a favored child.




FORTY-TWO.


Liar.

Lee snapped awake. He was strapped into the front passenger seat of his Humvee. Beside him, no worse for wear, Murphy drove with his eyes glued to the rear end of the Humvee in front of them.

Lee blinked and looked into the back seat. Foster, smelling faintly of burn cream, slept in the left rear seat. He wore a fresh combat uniform because a good deal of his old one had been burned up during the holding mission against the Klown reinforcements at Drum. The young soldier hadn’t been badly hurt, but he hadn’t come through it without paying a price. No one knew how it had happened, but despite his MOPP mask, his right eyebrow had been singed off. So he always seemed to have a quizzical expression. Behind Lee’s seat sat a dour-faced first sergeant who went by Boats. He packed an interesting weapon, a pump-action shotgun backed up with an enormous kit of various ammunition and accessories. Lee and Boats hadn’t talked much since Turner had pulled Sienkiewicz and assigned Boats to the command Humvee, but Lee knew the man was disappointed not to have run into his ex at Fort Drum. Apparently, he had some special ammunition for her.

“Silver shot,” Boats had told him. “Supposed to be able to kill vampires.”

Liar.

Lee rubbed his eyes. Salvador’s final word was locked inside his noggin, nice and tight, like some sort of demonic ear bug. So instead of having something like the theme to I Dream of Jeannie stuck in his head, it was Salvador’s final assessment of Lee as an officer and a soldier. Lee couldn’t believe how much it stung, after everything he’d been through. To be denounced in such a way had a powerful effect, and it left Lee feeling as he had been cast adrift.

The Humvee slowed suddenly, jarring Lee out of his funk. He looked out through the windshield and saw the Humvee ahead was slowing as well.

The radio squawked. “Wizard Six, this is Wizard Five. Over.”

Lee reached for the radio handset as the soldiers in the rear stirred. “Wizard Five, Wizard Six. Go ahead. Over.”

“Six, this is Five,” Walker said. “We’re approaching the Pennsylvania Turnpike, so we’re halting as ordered. Over.”

Lee sat up straighter and took a good look outside. It was getting dark, and the convoy was on a three-lane road called the West Germantown Turnpike. A darkened sign for AMC Theatres stood on the next corner. Beyond that, a huge shopping mall loomed… or what was left of it.

Everything in the area had been pretty much destroyed, as if that part of Pennsylvania had traded places with London during the German Blitzkrieg attacks. When he and Walker had decided the place would be the battalion’s final rest stop before pressing on into Philadelphia, it had just been a spot on a map. No one could have guessed that it had become a deserted battlefield.

“Five, this is Six. Let’s not stop here,” Lee said into the radio. “Let’s keep moving toward Philly. You agree? Over.”

“Six, this is Wizard Five. I agree. We’re only about fourteen miles outside the city. Let’s keep moving. Over.”

“Wizard Five, this is Wizard Six. Let’s get it done. Over.”




FORTY-THREE.


Sneaking through the night like a long serpent gliding through tall grass, the 1


 Battalion, 55


 Infantry Regiment eased toward the city of Philadelphia through shattered, blackened neighborhoods that smelled of ash, death, and rot. Bodies had been piled high and burned, as if an orderly process was being applied to deter the spread of infectious diseases beyond the bug which turned normal human beings into cackling, bloodthirsty monstrosities. But there were signs that such things lurked nearby—a row of heads on stakes, each wearing ludicrous hats; disemboweled corpses strewn across the street; an entire family, each member with their throats cut, sitting at a dining table on the sidewalk, forks and knives in hand, as if waiting for some service; two naked male corpses, positioned so it appeared one was heaving into the other next to a handmade sign that read WELCOME TO PHILLY, THE SHITTY OF BROTHERLY LOVE.

It was a drive through Hell, and all the troops manned up in MOPP gear got their weapons squared away and ready. Nothing in the blackness of the Philadelphia suburbs seemed comforting or even easily recognizable. Whatever fantastic orgy of violence had torn through the area had essentially eradicated everything in its path.

The battalion turned onto North Broad Street. In the lee of the old, abandoned husk of the Divine Lorraine Hotel, the convoy finally rolled to a stop. Lightfighters and civilians alike peered into the darkness ahead, and in a land that looked as if it had been ravaged by Satan’s own army, something curious happened. Hope was born.

For in the near distance, behind enormous barricades topped with razor wire and adorned with fixed machinegun emplacements, the city of Philadelphia was awash in lights like a ship in the middle of a vast, black sea.

Surrounded by the pall of death, Philadelphia still lived.




Copyright


Copyright © 2014 The Retreat Series, LLC

Kindle Edition

THE RETREAT is a work of fiction including a fictionalized portrayal of the U.S. Army Tenth Mountain Division, the Massachusetts Army National Guard and the City of Boston and its surrounding metropolitan region. It is not intended to depict actual persons, organizations or places.