Tooth and Nail (9 page)

The scuttlebutt about the platoon moving to rejoin the company is they might be lined up and shot for what they’ve done, the LT included. The boys fought in Iraq and they know their duty but they signed up to shoot bad guys, not Americans, and what they are doing doesn’t feel like real service anymore. Instead, they feel like war criminals, regardless of what the new ROE lets them do. Some have had it and are ready to quit and go home. Others want somebody to blame. This is a dangerous mood. The NCOs sense it, and kick ass to keep the boys hopping while keeping an eye peeled for symptoms of post-traumatic stress.

In the lobby, the LT says his goodbyes to the hospital chief and the cop. “Sorry we can’t stay and continue to support you,” Bowman tells Dr. Linton, who appears to have aged another ten years overnight. “What are you going to do?”

“We’re staying right here, Lieutenant,” Winslow cuts in, answering for Linton. “The doc and I are going to try to keep the place running and convert it into a recovery clinic.”

“We’ve got plenty of food and water, gas and a generator,” Linton adds. He clears his throat politely. “We could use a gun, though.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I’m certain.”

Bowman hands Winslow back his Glock 19 handgun.

“I’ll arrange for the sidearms and ammunition to be returned to you that we recovered, um, from your men, sir,” he says.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the cop says, grimacing.

“Well. Good luck to you both, then. You’re very brave.”

Brave and doomed, he thinks.

One psycho cop with a couple of handguns won’t be able to protect an entire hospital against people who will certainly use force to break in and demand medical care for their families. That, or junkies looking for drugs, will finish them.

If only his platoon could stay in place, they could remain secure and finish what they started here. But orders are orders.

“Somebody has to survive, Lieutenant,” Winslow tells him.

Bowman frowns in response to this odd statement. He puts on his patrol cap and salutes, then leaves Trinity Hospital without looking back.

Outside, the boys are sitting on the ground with their gear, cleaning their weapons and chowing down on MREs. They look at the LT expectantly, with scared eyes, but say nothing. The silence, in fact, is the first thing Bowman notices upon walking out of the hospital. The boys are all business. None of the usual sparring and grab-ass this morning. They are still trying to wrap their heads around what they have done.

Today, Bowman will lead them northwest to a middle school that has been turned into a Lyssa clinic and is the current area of operations for First Platoon and Charlie Company HQ. The distance is over a mile. They have no transport, so they will hoof it.

Bowman nods to Sergeant McGraw and says quietly, “All right?”

“Managing, sir,” replies the leader of First Squad.

“Find Private Mooney and Private Wyatt and bring them to me, Sergeant.”

“Right away, sir.”

Kemper approaches and salutes. Bowman returns it.

“Good morning, sir.”

“All right, Mike?”

“All present except for Private Boyd. He’s still MIA.”

“Well, we combed the hospital good last night. We’ll have to assume he slipped out past the wire and went AWOL. Let’s take a walk and see what we can see.”

They move out past the wire and climb onto the roof of an abandoned car to get a good view down First Avenue. Bowman uses the close combat optic on his rifle, Kemper a pair of Vortex Viper binoculars. The road is choked with abandoned vehicles as far north as they can see. Smoke hangs like a pall over the scene, drastically reducing visibility. Some of the cars are on fire, billowing thick, oily smoke.

They see no people.

Gunfire snarls in the distance, intense and violent.

A chill trickles down Bowman’s spine.

“Other than that shooting, things seem pretty calm this morning,” the Platoon Sergeant says.

“Right. No sirens. No traffic. For that matter, I don’t see any new patients trying to get into the hospital. It’s eerie.”

“I sure would like to know where all the people went who were driving those cars. Looks like some kind of battle took place out there last night, just outside those roadblocks. Maybe you are right about one thing, sir.”

“What’s that, Mike?”

“Maybe we are in a
Twilight Zone
episode.”

Behind them, Mooney and Wyatt hustle up in full kit, followed by McGraw.

“Sir, Private Mooney reports!” says Mooney, standing at attention.

Wyatt repeats the ritual.

Bowman turns and regards them. “So you’re the guys who like recon missions.”

Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance, fidgeting.

The endless lines of abandoned vehicles stretch into the gloom, surrounded by piles of luggage, clothing, junk and dead bodies. The soldiers weave slowly through the wreckage, carbines at the ready, heading north. Mooney fights the urge to vomit as he notices that the driver of one car has been mostly decapitated with the exception of his jaw, which sprouts a red beard. Wyatt excitedly points out another car that plowed into a McDonald’s restaurant and now stands riddled with bullet holes, blood splattered across the windshield, the driver nowhere to be seen.

Shock and awe, Mooney thinks.

“Some kind of war happened here, cuzin!” Wyatt says. “Hey, lookit!” He rushes forward, leans his carbine against a car, and starts stuffing his pockets with something he found on the ground. “I’m rich! Too bad all the stores are closed.”

Mooney coughs on the toxic haze. The unending horror of this patrol is sucking the life out of him. Every step feels sluggish, like swimming through air, like running from his worst fears in a dream.

“This lady is naked!” Wyatt crows. “Oh, gross, I can see her brains! Hey Mooney, you want some of this money? It’s everywhere.”

“Joel, put that back. We’re already in enough trouble without you looting. And you’re going to get sick if you keep picking stuff up off the ground.”

The stress is causing an incredible headache to bloom in the front of his skull. He can feel the veins in his forehead begin to throb. He squats, leans forward and retches over a pile of clothing soaked in black oil. Baby shoes, a bra, a couple of pairs of gym pants.

Wyatt appears in front of him and says, “You don’t look so good, dude. Maybe you’re the one who’s got the bug.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Oh, you got vertigo. Just pretend we’re back in Iraq. Then it’s all good.” His eyes widen and he does a double take. “Wow, that cop car is upside down!”

“Shut up, Joel,” Mooney says, spitting. “Please shut the hell up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up when I’m just trying to help!”

“Just keep your voice down. You’re going to bring those things down on us again.”

“Oh my God, wouldn’t it be cool if we woke them all up and they came at us again in a human wave, like a million of them?” Wyatt laughs his shrill laugh. “No sweat, boss. I’ve got a gun this time. There are many like it, but this one is mine! If the crazy people show up, I will terminate them with extreme prejudice. It’s like Christmas came early this year. It’s legal to kill people!”

Mooney stands, ready to resume their expedition, but immediately sees a dead young girl with vacant eyes seemingly staring back at him from the rear window of a Volkswagen Jetta. He closes his eyes.

Shock. And. Awe.

Wyatt says, “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if you could kill everybody you hate?”

“No, Joel, I don’t want to kill anybody.”

“More for me.” Wyatt swaggers away, puffing his chest out. Exhaustion has only made him more manic. “Back to work then, dude. The Lieutenant said to haul ass.”

“In fact, I swear to God I’m not going to kill anybody if I can help it.” Wyatt checks his watch. “It’s almost time to report in on these cool Icom radios they gave us. You coming or what?”

Mooney sets his jaw and hurries to catch up, his boots crunching on broken glass. He dulls his sense of vision until he has “fly eyes,” not focused on anything in particular but able to take in subtle movements everywhere across his entire field of view. He used this technique during patrols in Baghdad.

As he passes a truck in the next block, he hears a rustling.

And beneath that sound, a bestial growl from deep in the throat.

He whistles at Wyatt to halt.

Wyatt immediately crouches, looks around, then turns back and signs,
What?

Mooney shakes his head. He’s not sure what the sound was or where it was coming from. It could have been a plastic bag caught in the wind. Except there is no wind.

Wyatt motions for Mooney to join him.

Mooney stands and out of the corner of this eye sees the leering face in the truck.

The creature lunges, snapping its foaming jaws and slapping its hands against the window, leaving bloody smears on the glass.

Yelling, Mooney staggers backward and fires a burst point blank into the face, which disappears in an explosion of smoke, glass and blood.

“Holy sheepshit, killah!” says Wyatt, appearing at his side. “You smoked that chick. Give her a chance to surrender next time, why don’t you?”

Mooney turns away from the wreckage, holding his hand over his face, and groans.

“Uh oh, War Dogs Two-Six wants to know who you murdered for scaring you,” Wyatt says, then keys his handset. “Standing by to copy, over.”

We heard shots fired in your vicinity. Give me a sit-rep. Over.
“Private Mooney got surprised by a cat and accidentally discharged his weapon. Break.” Wyatt grins at Mooney and pumps his fist to produce the universal sign language for masturbation. “Be advised that we are within a block of our designated turnoff and about to head west. Over.”

“Roger that loud and clear, sir. Solid copy, out.”

“LT’s cranky.” Wyatt winks at Mooney. “Let’s move out, killah.” They’ve gone about half a mile. The soldiers step over scattered open luggage strewn across First Avenue, then turn onto Forty-Second Street.

Halfway up the block west of their position, they see a soldier standing guard outside an office building. Beyond, far down the street, they can see cop cars parked at roadblocks set up to keep sections of Forty-Second clear for official traffic. Figures are moving around the cars, barely visible through the smoky haze hanging in the air.

“Hey!” Wyatt says, giving a big wave.

The soldier turns but does not react to them.

“Does he see us?”

From the east, across the river, they hear intermittent bursts from a heavy machine gun, the sound distant and booming and angry, like a primitive war drum.

“Hang on,” Mooney says. He raises a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

The soldier is PFC Richard Boyd.

“It’s Rick Boyd,” he says, his eyes stinging.

Wyatt grabs the binoculars, takes a look, and gasps.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

“I’d better report this to the LT.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt repeats. “They bit his nose off.”

“War Dogs Two-Six, this is Romeo Five Tango, over,” Mooney says into his handheld, sounding calmer than he feels.

“There are goddamn flies in the wound,” Wyatt says, gritting his teeth.

“We found Richard Boyd, over.”

“He’s, ah, wounded, over.”

“Negative. There’s more to it than that.”

Wyatt snorts and whispers, “You could say that again.”

Mooney waves at him to zip it.

“He’s one of them, sir. He’s been bitten and he is . . . one of them now.

Over.”

“He’s showing symptoms of being a. . . .” He suddenly can’t remember the politically correct term the soldiers have been told to use. Finally, he sighs and finishes, “A Mad Dog, sir. He’s a Mad Dog, over.”

A long pause.

“Negative contact. How copy, over?” says Mooney.

“Affirmative. One hundred percent, sir. Over.”

The soldiers crouch and keep an eye on Boyd, who wanders aimlessly around, then stops and stands still, his jaws moving.

“There are flies in the hole, laying babies,” Wyatt says, lowering the binoculars and glaring at Mooney, “where his nose used to be.”

“We can’t do anything about that right now,” Mooney says. “Keep an eye out behind us, will you? We don’t want anybody sneaking up.”

“Okay,” Wyatt says, sounding strangely tamed.

They wait like this for several minutes. Mooney sighs loudly. “Come on, already. Let’s get on with it.”

As if on command, his handheld comes to life.

Romeo Five Tango, this is War Dogs Two actual. Message follows, over.
Mooney keys his handset and says, “Send message, over.”

Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance.

“Um, roger that, sir. You want us to avoid detection and abort mission. Wilco, out.”

Mooney stands. “You heard the man. Time to go home, Joel. Joel?” “We can’t leave him out here like this, Mooney.”