The Killing Floor

by Craig DiLouie

  Ahead, more people leave their homes and businesses to watch him approach, some of them waving. Again, he waves back.

  “These people are a little nuts,” he tells Lola, who surprises him by laughing out loud.

  Something is definitely wrong with these folks.

  Then it hits him. They’re infected.

  Infected teachers and waiters and cashiers and housewives pour onto the sidewalks, all waving at him like he is some kind of celebrity. Ray knows it’s fake. Either the bug is manipulating him or he is subconsciously controlling the crazies, but ultimately it doesn’t matter.

  I like it.

  Ray drives along at a snail’s pace, waving back.

  “Look, honey. They’re waving at you.”

  Lola raises her hand and waves feebly, her face a blank, more robot than human.

  He stops the truck in front of a tangled pile of vehicles blocking both lanes of the road. Concentrating, he summons work crews to push the wrecks out of the way. Dozens of people swarm across the knot of vehicles. Ray lights another Winston and watches them work.

  “Nobody ever treated me special like this before, Lola. Hell, I don’t want you to think I’m getting a big head or anything, but I could get used to it. I honestly could.”

  The last wreck is moved aside. Ray throws the transmission back into gear and nudges the gas.

  “Thanks for the help, you guys.”

  The waves turn into Nazi salutes. A forest of hands pledging absolute obedience.

  “That’s right,” he chuckles. He sees a man wearing a pistol in a shoulder holster and broadcasts, Bring guns to my boys here. And bullets. Whatever you can dig up.

  Within minutes, several Infected run out of the mob, chasing after the truck to hand rifles and pistols to the boys of Unit 12.

  “Thank you, my subjects. I shall never forget you.”

  Now we’ll see if anyone wants to screw around with me.

  He laughs and stomps on the gas, roaring out of town on squealing wheels. Lola smiles at the sound of his laughter. Ray notices an ant crawling across her face and brushes it off.

  “That’s right, honey. It’s you and me against the world.”

  What now? Stick to the plan. Go to Washington. Contact the Army. Make a deal.

  Ray glances at the fuel gauge. The rig still has half a tank of gas in it. It feels a bit underpowered when he steps on the gas, but it runs true. It will get him to the city, or at least close enough to walk.

  He pats Lola’s knee and smiles at her while he drives. He was hoping his return would offer him a second chance, and here she is in the flesh.

  “We’re going to fix you, honey. We’re going to make things right as rain again.”

  If they want me to cooperate, they’re going to have to cure you, too. That’s the deal.

  Cool Rod

  The lumbering Chinook heaves into the air with thundering rotors as the Stryker rolls out of the sunny field and onto the road, picking up speed as it heads toward its objective. Twenty minutes later, the Stryker’s gunner, standing behind the heavy machine gun, crouches inside the passenger compartment and says to Rod, “You should check out the birds.”

  Rod opens the hatch and peers outside. The old, cracked country road, flanked by trees and telephone poles and marked by centerlines faded to mere suggestion, is empty. The wind in his face smells like green, living things. The sky is deep blue here, free of the smoky haze hanging over Washington like a permanent shroud. It feels free. It feels like home.

  A cloud of black birds swirls over the distant town visible miles down the road. They are crows, scavenging, fighting over an unprecedented feast.

  Crows will eat just about anything, including dead meat if it is soft from rot.

  Rod’s smile fades.

  “What’s it mean, Sergeant?” says the gunner.

  “It means stay frosty on the fifty,” Rod tells him, closing the hatch over his head.

  Soon they will enter Morgantown nice and quiet, the way they did in Afghanistan during their nighttime patrols. His team will wait for their guy, grab him, and bug out.

  He blinks in the heat and the gloom of the Stryker and regards his team. The vehicle holds a squad of nine, but today they are carrying the scientist and the spook and reserving an empty seat for Typhoid Jody. He brought Fireteam B and loaded them up with heavy weaponry and ammunition: Sosa with a flamethrower, Arnold with a machine gun, Tanner with a rifle, and Lynch with a SAW. He also brought Davis with a rifle and field radio. Between the Stryker’s machine gun and the squad, they have enough firepower to make short work of anything in their way.

  The young faces look back at him expectantly, but he just nods, and they return the gesture with some relief. No news is good news. Sosa gives him a cocky grin that looks like lipstick on a pig. Rod’s shooters have faith in him, but they think the mission is screwed up. The scientist is dripping with sweat that smells like fear. Next to him, Fielding sits looking sour, probably resenting being taken out of the safest place on the continent and thrown into the shit.

  Don’t worry, Captain, we’ll get you back to your cushy desk job. We’re all going to get through this in one piece.

  Major Duncan and Captain Rhodes made a big deal out of the mission. They made it sound like the squad was being sent to save the world. It’s a chance, yes, but a long shot to be sure. Saving the world apparently is not even important enough for the Army to give him some air support and keep eyes on the package. Someone is watching, possibly by satellite, but they’re not being very giving with their information, and what they do share, by the time it filters to Rod’s level, is old. In short, this is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack.

  A haystack that is on fire and trying to kill you and eat your flesh. The mission is important, but I’m not going to allow it to become a slippery slope where good men end up taking big risks and dying for nothing. We’re going to do this like we do everything—as professionals.

  The Stryker gunner swears loudly.

  The nauseating smell has already seeped into the rig, making the boys wince. They know it well from DC. The sweet, beefy, putrid stench of dead bodies left rotting in the sun. They will never get used to it. It’s just a hint now, but getting stronger by the second.

  Lynch produces a bottle of menthol vapor rub from one of his front cargo pockets and wipes some under his nose with a cotton swab, sniffing. He passes it on.

  “Two minutes,” the commander announces.

  Rod opens the hatch as the Stryker rolls into the outskirts of Morgantown on its eight wheels. Behind him, the commander sweeps the fifty across the length of an old red brick apartment building, its windows filled with cheap air conditioners.

  Past that, a shopping center, and beyond, main street.

  The Stryker passes five bloated, grinning corpses hanging from a traffic light, three by their necks with their hands tied behind their backs, two by their ankles. The calling card of the militia groups. Signs on their chests bear the inscription: INFECTED.

  The militia, it seems, are every bit as ruthless as he heard through the grapevine. Some of them wear necklaces made from monster teeth. Others cut off the Jodies’ heads and mount them on spikes to mark human territory. Rod has seen what men can do in war and believes these people are insane. He’s just glad they’re on his side.

  A seething carpet of crows bursts shrieking into the air at the Stryker’s approach, revealing piles of blackened, half-eaten bodies covering the street. As the birds take to the air and settle in the hundreds on the rooftops, thick clouds of flies materialize over the dead.

  Armageddon visited this place. The storefronts lining the town’s main drag are shattered and burned out, the walls peppered with bullet holes, the sidewalks glittering with broken glass and empty shell casings. The asphalt is coated with a paste of hardening blood. Rod covers his mouth and waves away the hungry flies buzzing around his face. The stench is incredible and he resists the urge to vomit, reminding himself that
decorated combat infantrymen do not hurl on over three million dollars’ worth of taxpayer-funded military equipment. He thinks about Gabriela’s letters, about baby Victor squeezing his fist, signing for milk, and smiles a little.

  The commercial district turns into a residential area, its homes waiting patiently for their owners to return and take care of them. Thankfully, the flies disappear and the stench of death loses its bite the further they get from downtown. Beyond, they drive through another commercial district made of up a car dealership, strip mall, small office building and Walmart store.

  Rod slaps his gloved hand against the metal skin of the Stryker. The driver rolls the rig to a stop in the Walmart parking lot about halfway between the junction of the nearby east-west roads and the big box store’s front doors. He closes the hatch and tells the squad to dismount.

  “It’s time to earn our money, vatos,” he says.

  ♦

  Morgantown dominates the entrance to a long, lush, green valley flanked by tall, thickly treed hills. From the west, two roads lead into town from the valley. On the other side, three offer multiple routes to Washington. If Typhoid Jody is in a vehicle and heading to Washington from Camp Defiance, Rod is fairly certain he will come through this town. If the man is on foot, it is at least probable he will come through the area rather than hoof it over the hills, with their steep approaches that would challenge even the physically fit.

  All assuming, of course, the man is going to Washington at all. The last information they received indicated Typhoid Jody was on the move and heading east, based on the assumption that the large crowd of Jodies is following him. They have nothing else to go on. They do not know whether the man is leading his little army on foot, or whether he’s gotten a ride.

  They are not completely without sight, however. Higher Command gave them two James Bond-grade systems normally issued to recon units. The first is a tripod-mounted surveillance sensor offering radar capability. The second is a package consisting of a long-range TV camera, laser range-finder and thermal imager. Using the first sensor, they can detect any moving object within twenty kilometers. Using the second, they can see what’s coming, learn how far away it is, and identify thermal signature—that is, see if what is coming at them is human or not.

  The boys fan out around the Stryker, establishing security. Deciding there are no threats in the area, Rod whistles, calling them together.

  “Aieeyah,” he says.

  “Aieeyah, Sergeant,” they grin.

  Rod eyes them with pride, noting their high morale. “Everyone clear on what they’re supposed to do?”

  The soldiers nod.

  “Then get to it, vatos,” he tells them.

  Sosa and Lynch help each other unload motorcycles tied to the sides of the rig, and perform a last-minute spot inspection. Satisfied, they throw satchels over their necks, kick start the bikes, and roar out of the parking lot, leaving behind the acrid smell of exhaust.

  Their job is simple: drive five miles down the road and spray paint messages on billboards, the sides of buildings and on the road itself along their return telling Typhoid Jody that they are waiting for him in Morgantown.

  Rod does not want a panicked civilian trying to evade his people. He does not have the resources for an extended car chase. Typhoid Jody is going to have to want to come to them. Rod believes he will, as long as they do not make him feel threatened.

  Arnold and Tanner, meanwhile, have unloaded the tripods and are jogging with them toward the Walmart. Their job is also simple. They will scale the wall, deploy the gear on the roof facing west, and return, running the fiber-optic cable back to the Stryker. Arnold will stay on the roof to operate the sensors and provide overwatch with his machine gun.

  His shooters know where to go and what to do. Now they wait. Rod pats the bulge in one of his front cargo pockets, where he keeps Gabriela’s letters. He has read all of them except the last one, and they have gotten darker over time. His wife is depressed, and there is nothing he can do about it except do his duty and win so that maybe he can get a little R&R with them at Fort Hood.

  Tonight, he will read the last letter, aware it may have to last him for a while.

  “What do you want me to do?” the scientist asks him, breaking his reverie. “Can I help?”

  Fielding stands with his back against a light pole and stares at the scientist with an amused expression, as if the entire mission is an experiment to test the other man’s response to stress. Rod senses he is not here to help, but as a minder. The good doctor is something like a prisoner.

  During the airlift and subsequent drive in the Stryker, Rod found himself warming to the scientist. Dr. Price does not fit the egghead stereotype. The man appears to be socially detached and unable to connect with other people, but he is not haughty or arrogant. Instead, he beamed with obvious excitement at the chance to elaborate on his theories, half of which involved molecular biology that went straight over Rod’s head. Otherwise, the man’s entire being appears to be focused on coping with his terror and trying to stay alive.

  Fielding is another matter. The man is unreadable. He appears to have no value to the mission other than to keep an eye on Price. Rod wonders what orders the man has, and who gave them to him. He will have to treat Fielding as a wildcard—a potential threat to mission integrity.

  “We’re going to set up our roadblock right over there by the entrance to the parking lot,” Rod tells Price. “Just you, me and Captain Fielding.”

  He gazes down the road past the Walmart and takes in the bowling alley, gas station and seedy shopping center with a bar. On the other side of the street, the small office building stands dark and derelict. He imagines Typhoid Jody’s approach and tries to visualize the outcome. If the man is on foot, they may be here for a while. Typhoid Jody will see the signs and have miles to ditch his entourage if he agrees to give up. If he doesn’t, the Hellraisers will have ample warning to jump in the Stryker and get the hell out of here.

  If the man arrives in a vehicle, he will be alone. They’ll detect his approach from miles away and have plenty of time to get ready even if he’s driving fast. When he sees the roadblock, he will either stop to negotiate, or keep driving. If he agrees to surrender, they will slap a bio suit on him and put him in the Stryker. If he does not, or if he tries to run the roadblock, they are authorized to use deadly force. Because if he does not surrender, he is a threat and must be terminated.

  Is that why Fielding is here? To make sure Typhoid Jody dies?

  “How much time will we have?” Price asks him. “When the time comes, Fielding and I will have to get into our Racal suits.”

  “Anywhere from ten minutes, if he’s driving fast, to hours, if he’s on foot.”

  “We should be able to make that work. You should know that our suits are yellow, and the subject’s suit is orange, so you will be able to tell us apart at a glance.”

  “Dr. Price, you might as well ring a dinner bell.”

  The scientist gapes at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The Jodies make a beeline for bright colors like yellow. Red, orange, anything like that.”

  “Well,” Price says.

  “Not to worry. We should have enough spray paint for you and the Captain to use.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rod nods. “So why don’t you tell me how much danger we’re in here?”

  “Danger?”

  “From Typhoid Jody. What kind of a threat is he, exactly?”

  “You want facts or speculation?”

  “Facts, please.”

  “The man you call Typhoid Jody is an asymptomatic carrier of an airborne variant of the Wildfire Agent. But we know about as much about how he does it as we do about Wildfire itself—that is to say, not a whole hell of a lot.”

  Rod laughs at the man’s candor. As usual, facts appear to be in short supply. “So we don’t even know if our MOPP suits will offer any real protection.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on it.�
��

  “Great,” he says dryly. “What do we know for sure about how he controls the Infected?”

  “Again, very little,” Price tells him. “All we know is the human Infected are drawn to him. Thousands are following him. But we don’t know otherwise what level of control he has. With hope, he won’t have any Infected with him.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping,” Rod agrees, and then adds, “Do you really think he could end the war?”

  “I definitely think it’s very possible.”

  Another ironclad, definite, absolute, solid maybe, Rod thinks, and sighs.

  And yet the world has gotten so bad even maybe sounds like something worth fighting for. He thinks about Gabriela, and his kids, and wants to believe.

  It’s a slippery slope for sure, but Rod cannot help but begin to feel hope.

  Anne

  Anne whistles, letting Marcus know she is approaching and to stand to arms. The large man stiffens and snatches up his rifle.

  She emerges from the woods, sniper rifle slung across her back, the brim of her cap pulled down low, casting her face in shadow.

  She is finding it difficult to process what she has just seen; she wonders how she is going to communicate it to the others. Visions of the Infected swarming over each other like termites to build human pyramids continue to haunt her, making her feel nauseous and frazzled.

  Evan and Ramona sit cross-legged on the ground, eating cold ravioli from cans with chopsticks. Evan nods to her, stands and throws his can into the woods.

  “Thank God,” Jean says, her Chanel suit now wrinkled to the point of looking like a wrung out washcloth. She and Gary sit huddled on the ground, their backs against the side of the bus. She looks furious. “Now we can go to Camp Nightingale, right?”

  Anne ignores her, scowling.

  “Was he there?” Marcus asks her.

  “He was there.”

  The Rangers gather around, waiting for her to explain.

  “What’s with her now?” Anne says, tilting her heard toward Jean.