“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 10th 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 10th 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 wh
ile 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.
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