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 a
mbulances. 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, do
g-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 10th 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.
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