THE RETREAT

Episode Five: Crucible

by Stephen Knight

with

Craig DiLouie and Joe McKinney

THE RETREAT, Episode #5: CRUCIBLE

©2018 The Retreat Series, LLC

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in the novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

Cover design by Jeroen ten Berge.

http://jeroentenberge.com/

Published by The Retreat Series, LLC.

www.TheRetreatSeries.com

Sign up for Craig DiLouie’s mailing list here to be the first to hear about new releases of The Retreat.

ONE.

“This is the President of the Disunited States speaking. To my fellow infected Americans, I say...

“HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW! It’s killing time!

“But seriously, now. I want all military units under my command to make for Fort Stewart, Georgia. One of the Four Horsemen is there. I don’t know which one, and I don’t really care! But I want him or her saved from the vile Uninfected and brought somewhere safe, where I can pay my personal homage.

“Infect all who oppose you. If you can’t infect them? Kill them! Kill any who get in your way—but get me the Horseman!

“Do it now!

“HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW, make the fuckers bleed!”

TWO.

Lee awoke to the sound of distant gurgling pipes, the whisper of air-conditioning, and the echoing thrum of far-off machinery doing whatever it had been designed to do. The darkness that enveloped him was complete, rendering his eyes essentially useless. Stevie Wonder would have a better go of seeing what lay only a foot away than he would. If he had to ever visualize what screaming into the void might look like, he faced it now.

He lay in the darkness and listened. Nothing indicated any element of danger. The glowing dial of his watch told him it was 0423; well before his scheduled wakeup time of 0500. Just the same, he didn’t feel tired. Weary, yes...the weariness would be with him for months if not years, given what the battalion had gone through under his short command. But the mounting exhaustion that threatened to drop him in his tracks was held at bay now, for just a little longer. His XO had been right. Getting some shut-eye in an environment where he didn’t have to worry about some klown pouring a cup of infected piss on his face had been a great idea.

But the separation from the battalion and the command staff left him feeling uneasy, unmoored. He needed to get out of the reclaimed High Point facility and make his way back to the surface, where the Fifty-Fifth was still encamped in defensive positions, waiting for the next wave of infected to attack. Lee was almost seventy feet below them, separated from the troops by a heavy blast door and tons of sculpted rock and fortified superstructure. It wasn’t right. He should be up topside, taking the same risks as they were, not lying on a rack underground where he could have a hot shower, three hots, and shit in a normal toilet as opposed to a waste bag.

The fact of the matter was, Lee realized he still couldn’t shake the company commander mentality. In his last career arc, he was much closer to where the rubber met the road. Commanding troops, yes. But also still one of them. Now the silver oak leaves he wore conferred a separation he did not feel. He was supposed to be one of the men, but partitioned off; some great military strategist who wore the same uniform, but who was able to impartially consider combat losses an acceptable sin in order to achieve the mission. To Harry Lee, that was crazy. The troops were the oil that made the military machine run. Lose too much, and the entire contraption would seize and stop entirely.

He needed to get back topside. He’d had his few hours of uninterrupted rest, safe and sound while allowing the men and women under his command to guard his pale white ass and keep the crazies at bay.

It was time to get back.

THREE.

The battalion was bleeding out.

Command Sergeant Major Doug Turner stood and regarded his senior noncommissioned officers from across the dented hood of his Humvee. Dawn hadn’t arrived yet, so the men were more like phantasms than soldiers, their features generally unreadable despite the slowly brightening sky to the east. He could have turned his red-lensed flashlight toward them, but there was no need. Turner knew what he’d see. Four men with over a hundred years of military experience between them bringing him nothing but a huge bag of dicks.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked. “Weide? You sure?”

“We didn’t just miss them, Doug. This is what the unit commanders told us, and we did our own look-see. They’re gone.”

Turner looked at the man standing next to Weide Zhu. “Boats?”

First Sergeant Boats shrugged slightly, the motion barely visible in the inky darkness. He held his trusty Remington 870 tactical shotgun in both hands. “What can I say? Shit’s for real.”

“It’s been happening for a while,” Master Sergeant Riggs said. “It was just ones and twos before, and we couldn’t be sure they weren’t KIA during all the contacts we’ve been through. But now? We’re pretty sure.”

“After everyone discovered the president was a klown, more Joes starting beating feet,” Sergeant First Class McAllister said. “To tell the truth, I’d probably do the same thing if my family wasn’t here. Knowing the senior leadership of the country is throwing in with the goblins is enough to make me wanna say ‘fuck you’ to all of you guys.”

Turner turned his flashlight back to the handwritten list the soldiers had delivered to him only a few minutes ago. He regarded the names there, all written out in Boats’s impeccable block script. And at the bottom, the tally had been totaled.

“So you’re telling me that in four or five days, over sixty troops have deserted the battalion, and taken all their gear with them.” It wasn’t a question. Turner had felt the battalion’s strength seeping away himself, a kind of queer foreboding that resonated in his bones. That his bully boys had brought him evidence of the dissolution shouldn’t have been surprising, but Turner still felt like he’d been gut-punched. Army Joes were only men, and men grew tired and worn out under continuous stress. But lightfighters were a different breed. They should have been able to shrug it off. Sure, they’d bitch—all troops bitched, it was a prerequisite. But to actually desert?

“Yeah, but only after helping themselves to extra ammo and other stores,” Riggs said. “Didn’t bother with any vehicles, though. Lots of civilian transport around that’s higher grade.”

“Don’t sweat it, Doug,” Boats said. “They’re probably congregating around the nearest Cadillac dealership now, bogarting all the Escalades they can get their hands on so they can go grab their stripper girlfriends. Should be easy to find ’em.”

Weide stirred. When he spoke, there was no bantering tone to this voice. He was all business. “Yeah, okay. This is where we are, Sarmajor. The longer we stay here, the more we’ll bleed out. When we move out, there’ll be less inclination for the boys and girls to desert. They’ll be too fucking busy to think about it. Right now, we’re in control of this area, and the klowns can’t fuck with us. It’s easier for Joes to go over the fence. Out on the road, though, that’s a different matter.”

“And we have about sixty fewer guns than we did on Monday. I’m not reading that as a positive on my quad chart,” Riggs said. “Fuck, maybe I’ll desert, too.”

“Would you? Please?” Boats said.

“Blow me, Boats. You were in the Coast Guard, I’m sure you’re awesome at it.”

“How do you think I became the richest man in the entire regiment, sweet cheeks?”

“You got all these numbers from each unit commander?” Turner asked, looking at Weide. Losing sixty or so guns in around a week’s time was a serious issue. The battalion was already well understrength from being hit repeatedly by the crazies as the unit wended its way southward from its original duty position at Boston.

“Yeah. And if not from them, from the senior NCOs.” Weide paused. “Some of the guys said they reported it up to headquarters.”

“They did? To who?”

“To the XO.” The way he said the position told Turner Weide didn’t think much about Major Walker, the battalion’s executive officer. Turner himself didn’t necessarily disagree, seeing as he’d been working with Walker pretty much full-time since the major had arrived at the battalion, but that wasn’t important now. What was important was if Walker hadn’t notified the colonel of the manpower situation.

“I’ll tell Lee,” Turner said, folding up the list and placing it in one of his pockets.

“Yeah, somebody sure should,” Boats said, “because it seems Major Buddy Fucker might not have.”

“I get it, Boats. I’ll handle that. Thanks for doing the legwork, guys. Now get back to your assignments—we have what still passes for a light infantry battalion to take care of.”

The men nodded and faded away into the inky darkness. Turner stood alone by his Humvee, wondering what the hell was going on, and wondering if Florida was an achievable goal, or just a dream not worth having.

FOUR.

“Sorry, Major. The guy just won’t leave, and...” The young sergeant facing Walker looked uncomfortable in the dim light of the tactical operations center trailer. “Well, he looks pretty senior.”

“Senior?” Walker said, rubbing his eyes. They burned, as if on fire. On the road, he’d been able to keep things under control and hadn’t had to deal with too many inane interruptions—movement under fire pretty much kept things like that at bay. But in the days the battalion had been encamped surrounding the contingency site, all the normal day-to-day bugaboos had come at him full force. Usually, these things didn’t bother Walker. He was talented enough to dispatch almost every trivial issue with ease, but that was during normal peacetime operations. In the here and now, where savage lunatics ran the world, nothing was mundane. Every complaint, hiccup, and fuckup had to be looked at long and hard to ensure it wouldn’t come back and bite the battalion—or more importantly, him—in the ass.

And now, one of the civilians the battalion had been nursemaiding wanted to speak with him. Not Lee, but him. With only three hours sleep under his belt, the last thing Walker wanted was to hear another list of grievances from someone who should be damned thankful he’d been saved by the battalion.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “Definitely senior.”

“Define senior, if you don’t mind?”

“Like an O-6.”

Walker blinked. “I’m sorry. A colonel?” He had to stop himself from asking A real colonel? “I thought you said he was a civilian?”

“Yes, sir. He is, or at least he’s dressed like one. But, uh, he has command authority, you know what I mean?”

Walker rubbed his chin. It was bristly; shaving was no longer high on his list of priorities. “What does he want?”

The soldier shrugged beneath all his battle rattle. “You could ask him yourself, sir.”

Walker sighed and looked around the TOC. The generators that hummed outside kept it fully illuminated, and even though there were no operations underway other than keeping track of patrols, it was fully staffed. Lots of listening ears, and Walker decided he would prefer to keep the conversation more private.

“I’ll meet him outside,” he told the sergeant. “I don’t want any non-military in here.”

The sergeant nodded. “Your call, sir. I’ll take you to him.”

Taking Walker to the man who wanted to meet him involved turning and opening the trailer door beyond them which led outside. Once the sergeant had stepped through the opening and alighted on the ground, Walker could see the individual who wanted an audience with him. He was a tall man, rangy and a bit raw-boned in the light that spilled out of the TOC—the blackout curtains hadn’t been dropped, but the day beyond was getting brighter so it didn’t really matter. The man was dressed in faded jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that revealed a substantial musculature. Despite the fact his hair was mostly gray and going white at the temples, he was in good shape. Walker assessed his age to be around sixty or so.

And sure enough, something in his bearing told Walker this was a man not to be fucked with.

“Sir, you wanted to see me? I’m Major Walker, battalion exec—”

“Walker, you realize your unit has a desertion problem?” the man asked.

Walker blinked. The question had stopped him cold, and worse, it made the sergeant who had led the man right to him turn and look at Walker quizzically. Walker turned to the man and pointed into the distance.

“Sergeant, you are dismissed,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure thing, sir.” The soldier adjusted the set of his M4 and turned on his heel, marching off into the gloom. Walker sighed and turned back to the older man, confronting him. There was no deference to his posture, no indication that Walker’s rank or the uniform he wore held any sway. That worried him. While he hadn’t met many of the civilians under the battalion’s protection, he had met some, and they’d always had an air of gratitude about them. The man before him seemed to want a piece of Walker’s ass, and that worried him.

“Sir, can you identify yourself?”

“Kief Tackaberry. Former commander of the Seventh Light aviation brigade. As in, Colonel Kief Tackaberry. Lightfighter, just like you.”

Walker blinked again. “Ah...Seventh Light...weren’t they inactivated?” He struggled to recall the exact information about the old division. He felt it had been based out of Fort Ord in California that had been forced closed during the Clinton Administration, back when Walker himself was still in high school. He did the math. If the man before him was a brigade commander back in the 1990s, then that would make him at least seventy years old.

“It was, back in 1994,” Tackaberry affirmed. “I was the last commander of the aviation brigade. I may be old, Major, but I’m not an idiot.”

Walker held up his hands. “Sir, maybe we can step back a bit. What is it you want, exactly?”

“You seem to have a retention problem, Major. As XO, this should be something you’re acutely aware of.” The tall retired colonel paused for a moment, then leaned in. “You are aware of it, aren’t you?”

As Walker struggled to formulate a reply, the battalion command sergeant major emerged from the gloom surrounding the TOC. He glanced at Tackaberry, then focused his attention on Walker.

“Excuse me, Major. We need to have a talk,” Turner said.

“Ah, Sergeant Major Turner. Right. Meet Colonel Tackaberry...retired lightfighter out of Fort Ord,” Walker said.

“The sarmajor and I will get around to our introductions shortly, Walker,” Tackaberry said. “But son, I asked you a direct question, and you haven’t answered that yet.”

“Colonel, with respect, I don’t believe I have to tell you a damned thing,” Walker shot back.

“Really.” Tackaberry cocked his head to one side. “Okay, then. Sarmajor Turner, how many desertions have there been over the past week or so?” As he asked the question, the tall colonel spun toward Turner like an automated gun battery locking onto a target. Turner actually took a step back, then smiled like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming tractor trailer rig.

“Sir, by my count, there have been approximately sixty desertions,” Turner said. Walker gawked at him, wondering why the command sergeant major of all people would stab him in the back.

Tackaberry slewed his eyes back to Walker. “Major? Are you prepared to tell me your CO knows this? Because I’ve seen no effort to amp up retention, and this is a pretty serious matter.”

“It’s being handled, sir,” Walker said. The reply sounded lame even to him.

Tackaberry practically whirled back to Turner. “Is this true, Sergeant Major?”

“Ah...” Turner waffled, looking first at Walker, then back at the towering retired colonel. “Sir, I’m certain it’s being addressed—”

“When did you find out about the retention issues, Sarmajor?”

“Some time ago, sir,” Turner replied.

“Exactly how long ago, Turner?” Tackaberry pressed.

“Some...some time ago, sir,” Turner reiterated.

“That’s a little imprecise, Sarmajor.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, memory’s failing me right now. You give me and the major a few minutes, we can straighten it out.”

Tackaberry grunted. “Yeah. I’ll bet. I know the lightfighter shuffle when I see it. How many years in, Sarmajor?”

“Almost thirty now, sir. You?”

“Had thirty-three. The Army’s changed a bit since then, but I’m not a dummy. You can go ahead and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about here, Sarmajor—I’ll take it up with your XO, here.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Turner said.

Tackaberry suddenly swung back to Walker. “Walker. How many years in? You promotable yet?”

“Ah. No, sir. Just made grade about two years ago.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand when I tell you I have twenty hard-charging shooters who want to hook up with you guys. We might be old, but we can still do everything we used to do, and we’re all senior leadership.”

“Uh—what? Sir, I’m not sure that’s possible—”

“I’m sorry, Major. Let me make myself clear. I’m not asking you for a God damned thing. What I’m telling you is that I’ll be addressing this with your CO directly. As in face to fucking face.” Tackaberry swung back to Turner. “Sarmajor, issues with that?”

“No sir,” Turner said immediately.

“Major?” Tackaberry demanded.

“Sir, Colonel, whoever you are—I don’t think so. Colonel Lee is a busy man, and—”

“Walker, you’re what? An AI or something?” Tackaberry asked. “I mean, does your entire life experience exist in a conf file somewhere?”

Walker was truly confused. “Sorry?”

Tackaberry stepped toward him, allowing his at least six-foot-three-inch frame to tower over Walker. The old man looked down at him, and in the growing light, Walker could see his almost pitiable smile.

“Walker, you are one hundred percent Blue Falcon. I can see it. Turner can see it. Everyone you meet can see it. You’re a backstabbing prick, and you’ve been withholding the retention issue from your commanding officer, because you don’t want him to get sidetracked. Right?”

Walker was scandalized. “Listen, I don’t have to take that shit from you—”

“Are you sure?” Tackaberry leaned in close then, until his face was within inches from Walker’s. “Are you completely sure you don’t have to take it from me? Do you think you’re the first buddy fucker I’ve ever met?” The tall man receded then, stepping back a foot or so. “You think your CO doesn’t know what you are? You think you’re that good at fooling people?” To Turner: “Sarmajor, this man pull the wool over your eyes?”

Turner’s silence was damning.

Tackaberry smirked as the sun crested the horizon. He glared down at Walker. “I’ll meet with your CO as soon as his schedule allows,” he intoned. “Set it up, Walker.”

“Yes, sir,” Walker said automatically.

FIVE.

Lee was on his way to the lift that would take him to the great vault door that served as the base’s primary exit when one of the Third Infantrymen pounded up.

“Colonel! Wait!”

Lee turned. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was as young and fresh-faced as anyone who had spent weeks fighting the klowns could be. That the klowns in question had been members of Congress and the president’s detail didn’t seem relevant at the moment.

“What’s the problem, Sergeant?”

“General Reynolds needs to speak with you in comms,” the tall, lanky soldier told him. Like most of the Old Guard, he’d been recruited for his height. In the past, the Third was a mostly ceremonial unit, the division that tended to Arlington National Cemetery. It was only after Afghanistan and Iraq had boiled up that they’d been returned to a more traditional active duty status. The Third’s past didn’t bother Lee. He knew the troops in its ranks had seen some serious duty, and they’d proven that to him personally in trying to keep the facility from being overrun.

“When?” Lee asked.

“Now, sir,” the soldier replied.

Lee snorted. “You mean Reynolds is waiting for me? I’ve got to write this one down.”

If the soldier caught the sarcastic humor, he didn’t let it show. “Yes, sir. He’s waiting for you right now.”

“Okay. Let’s see what he wants.”

Lee followed the big soldier back down the corridor and down a narrow flight of stairs. The command center was a fairly large room, dominated by workstations and video screens. When he had first seen it, the room was mostly deserted. Now, troops from the Third and liberated civilians from the secure quarters below were present, operating High Point’s various systems. The command center had been the scene of several bloody battles, and the pockmarked walls gave silent testimony to the fact that some pitched fighting had occurred inside its confines. Some of Lee’s own men had died trying to take and hold the center, and he felt their loss keenly.

It wasn’t the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who was waiting for him, but his attaché, a full bird colonel named Stewart. Stewart was a lean and rangy officer, the kind of leader who looked more comfortable in an office environment than in the TOC of a combat brigade. Lee tried hard not to prejudge the man, but when contemplating Stewart’s sallow visage on one of the big flat-screen monitors, it was hard not to picture him acting the part of the rear echelon commando.

“Lee, glad I could catch you,” Stewart said when Lee sat down in front of the monitor and its attached camera. “Things holding up at High Point?”

“We’re good to go here, sir. Enemy contacts are sporadic, and the facility remains under uninfected control.”

“That’s excellent news, Lee. You lightfighters really saved some serious bacon down there.”

“Thank you, sir. Uh, I was told General Reynolds wanted to see me?”

“He does—he’s getting a last-minute briefing. We didn’t expect you to be local to the comms center so quickly. I have eyes on, he’ll be with you momentarily. Ahead of that, you have your current stores inventory?”

Lee frowned. “On me? No sir, I do not.” He paused for a moment. “Are you going to plus us up here?”

“That’s what the general is being briefed on. We do have some capacity right now, and we’re trying to break something free for the Fifty-Fifth. We’ll need a list though. Not immediately, but soon. Good copy?”

“Roger that, sir. Good copy.”

Stewart looked away from the camera for a moment, then turned back to Lee. “All right, the general’s on his way over. Good luck, Lee.”

“Thank you, sir,” though Lee had no idea why Stewart was wishing him luck.

Stewart hoisted himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in and moved out of the flat-screen display’s frame. A moment later, General Armand Reynolds, USMC and current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, lowered himself into the chair’s confines. Reynolds looked every bit the prototypical Marine: craggy, timeworn, and without regrets. The general regarded the screen before him, and Lee suddenly wished he’d shaved a little more closely before starting his trek to the surface.

“Sleep well, Harry?” Reynolds asked.

“As well as anyone can these days, sir. Yourself?”

“Sleep and I aren’t on speaking terms, son. I overhead Stewart giving you a quick pulse on what’s going on down here. Thing is, I can send two C-15s your way with six pallets of whatever you might need. They’re on their way to DC to resupply the Eighty-Second, and we have just enough room left over to give the Fifty-Fifth a little early Christmas gift. These aircraft go wheels up in thirty-five minutes. You have ten to get your list to me.”

“Sir, we’ll take two pallets of Class VIII a and b, one pallet of Class I, and the rest should be all Class V,” Lee said immediately, even though he was flabbergasted at the sudden offer. “We could also use some fuel for the vehicles, so if you can find your way to make a Class III drop, I’ll ransack the nearest liquor store and send you whatever it is you want.”

“Colonel Stewart is writing this down as you speak,” Reynolds said. “Define the Class V.”

“Rifle ammunition, pistol ammunition, HE rounds for the mortar team,” Lee replied. “We have a MANPADS unit attached, they could use some new shots. Forty mike-mike and fifty cal would be a great add-on.”

“Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth here, Lee. This isn’t a mercy mission, and I have only so much supplies to pull on this end. We’ll do our best, but this might not be a white Christmas for you.”

“Understood, sir. Anything you can spare. The munitions are most immediate, and then the medical supplies. Especially the blood products. Chow we can go without if necessary; we can scrounge what we need off the land.”

“Lee, tell me what you’re going to do with the civilians under your control,” Reynolds asked.

“We’ve moved them into quarters here, sir. It’s safer than keeping them aboveground, and there’s suddenly a surfeit of room at High Point. We’ve eradicated all the klowns, and the Third is standing tall keeping the peace. There won’t be another outbreak here. No one’s going to take that chance. Anyone who shows any sign of infection is immediately quarantined, and if the infection manifests itself...the infected are killed. No questions asked.”

“Tough rule,” Reynolds said, “but the only safe course right now. How’s the Third holding up?”

“There’s enough of them left to still be effective, sir. We’ve plussed them up with representatives from the Pennsylvania Guard. Effectively, there are about seventy shooters down here at all times. More than enough for a quick reaction force.”

“That’s all good news, Lee. So you’re getting everything squared away down there? What about Major Scott?”

Lee hesitated a moment too long. “Sir?”

“Major Scott,” Reynolds said, and there was an undercurrent of impatience to his voice. “The ranking officer with the Third. What did you do about Scott? Was his request accommodated by you or one of your men?”

Lee didn’t know what to say. Major Scott was the ranking office with the Third Infantry unit on station at High Point, and he’d been infected during the original outbreak. The one thing that kept the officer from flying off the rails were the razor blades embedded in the chair he was restrained in. The pain had provided enough of a focal point for the man to stay focused and on target, but even those had been becoming less dependable. In the few days since the Fifty-Fifth had retaken the contingency site and begun enacting stabilization operations, Scott’s ability to withstand the effects of the madness virus had begun to degrade.

And Scott knew it. Resisting the effect of the bug had taken an enormous toll on him, but he still remained operational for as long as he could. He had been asking, begging for his final release for days. Lee wanted no part in that, but the truth of the matter was, the officer was a klown. There was no getting better, there was no path to recovery, there was no Twelve Steps program.

“I took care of him myself, sir,” Lee said finally. “There was no other way out for him, and he was suffering.”

Reynolds took that in for a moment then nodded. “I didn’t know him personally, but it seems to me that he was in a neverending cycle of torture. Scott was a warfighter, despite his condition, and he should have been killed by one of his own. I’m glad you manned up and took care of that, Lee. It had to be done, not because of imminent danger, but because it’s the only humane thing to be done.”

“It wasn’t all that easy, sir. Even if he was a klown.”

“The only easy day was yesterday, Harry. But it’s been done, and I thank you for it. Now: I need to give your unit a mission.”

Lee stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “Roger that, sir. Go ahead.”

“I need the Fifty-Fifth at Fort Stewart as soon as you can get it there. Conduct forced entry operations and locate and obtain a specific individual. It’s going to be bloody, lightfighter. I know you’ve seen it before, breaking out of Boston and up at Drum. This is going to be no different, but there’s a greater concentration of infantry there.” Reynolds paused for a moment. “On both sides.”

Outwardly, Lee tried to present the air of a calm, cool military officer. Inwardly, the sudden tasking made him seethe. The First Battalion was being ground into dust already. What Reynolds was instructing him to do would likely see to its final demise.

“Understood, sir,” he said regardless. “What do you need us to do? Who is the objective?”

“The objective is one of the individuals who created the bug. She was taken by federal authorities in Georgia almost six weeks ago. She was supposed to be held at Stewart only temporarily, but then things flipped on us. To be honest, she’s been mostly forgotten about until just recently, which is why you and I are having this chat,” Reynolds said. “A lot’s falling through the cracks here, Lee. A lot.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir. Can you give me the individual’s name and location?” As he spoke, Lee reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small personal memo pad. There was a pen attached to it. He slipped it out of its cap, flipped open the pad, and began writing.

“Courtney Moreau. Apparently the most junior member of the team that created the bug, but from what I’ve heard, about as mad as a hatter. We need her where we can get to her, Lee. And we can’t get to Stewart right now—that post is about to be overrun. You heard any of the broadcasts?”

“Broadcasts?”

“The president is broadcasting over every radio station that’s still operational. Urging the infected to march on Stewart and take Moreau back. Whatever her disposition is, Doctor Moreau is now considered a national asset, and we need to get to her first. Stewart’s closer to us than to you, but right now, we can’t spare the manpower. All my ground combatants are holding the line against a very determined enemy, and I can’t break out a silver bullet unit right now. All our special operations forces are engaged elsewhere, so giving them a snatch and grab is out of the question. We figure the battalion can make it to Stewart in twelve hours max. You’ll need to plan the movement and get underway as quickly as possible.”

Lee felt a sharp pain in his gut, both at the fact President Marion Gray was still trying to drive a stake through the battalion’s heart, and at the unconscious notion Reynolds might just be helping her to do just that. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll have the OPORDs sent to a secure FAX there, so you don’t need to write anything down. Save yourself the trouble. I’ll also have all the salient intel we have sent over from SOCOM—General Stanton’s running herd on that. We have aerial recce of the Fort Stewart area, and it’s not pretty right now. I’m sorry to tell you, son, it’s not going to get any prettier before you lightfighters get there. We’ll do what we can, but right now, intermittent close air is about the best we can do.”

“I guess I appreciate that, sir.”

Reynolds glared at Lee over the video conference gear for a moment. “I know it’s a shit sandwich and your battalion’s about all run out, Lee. But you still wear a uniform and you’re still operational. Get with the program. Act like a field grade officer and execute your orders.”

Lee felt his face flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry if I seem put out, sir. The First will do whatever you need the First to do.”

“OPORDs are being transmitted now. Return your shopping list to the sending station. You have SATCOM gear there on the site—take some with you so we can stay in contact during your movement. Call sign here in ops is Rock. Out here.”

With that, the screen went as black as Lee’s mood.

SIX.

Sandra Rawlings watched as Muldoon harassed his lightfighters and the other troops supporting them. Three five-ton trucks sat at the edge of a small clearing, their empty beds pointed toward the field, heavy tailgates lowered. The small collection was guarded by one of the remaining Stryker combat vehicles that stood off fifty yards or so, its diesel engine idling. The eight-wheeled infantry combat vehicle was adorned with a GAU-19 .50-caliber Gatling gun mounted in a remote-controlled Protector turret, one of two that remained in service with the battalion. Rawlings didn’t care much for the Stryker as a platform in general—it was a bitch to work on, and as a former wrench turner she hated shit that was difficult to care for—but the tri-barreled GAU-19 was another matter entirely. The weapon was a wonder of engineering, and the amount of lead that thing could emit was truly terrifying.

Except to the klowns, she reminded herself.

She hefted her M4 and watched as Muldoon walked over to Nutter, who was busily spooning food into his mouth from a glass jar. That was an oddity; Army chow rarely if ever came packaged in glass, so she surmised it was something he’d rat-fucked from the dining facility in High Point. Muldoon approached from behind, so Nutter didn’t see him coming. And even though the grass was tall in this meadow she stood in, Rawlings didn’t hear Muldoon make a sound. Despite his size, he moved with the grace of a ninja.

“Colonel Nutter, sir!” Muldoon barked.

Nutter kind of choked at the sound of Muldoon’s voice and turned toward him, a stricken expression on his face. As Muldoon shot the smaller man a jaunty salute—right from his crotch—all Nutter did was quickly chew and swallow whatever was in his mouth.

“Oh hey, Duke,” he said.

“Whatcha eatin’ there, Slick? Buffalo balls or something?”

“Um—no, they’re not buffalo balls, Duke.”

Muldoon stopped in front of Nutter and looked down at him, a half-smile on his face, hands on his hips even though they should have been around his M4. Rawlings knew Muldoon was making a statement with his easy stance. Everything was cool. The big NCO’s eyes were unreadable behind his sunglasses.

“Well, if they’re not buffalo balls...what are they?”

“Uh, they’re marinated mushrooms.” Nutter cleared his throat. “You, ah, want some?”

“Mushrooms?” Muldoon took half a step back and grinned. “Mushrooms? Hey, Rawlings, you hear this shit, ba—” At the very last moment, Muldoon censured himself. The last thing Rawlings wanted to hear was a man like Muldoon call her “babe.”

“I can hear fine from where I am,” Rawlings replied. “Guarding my lane and all.”

Muldoon snorted and looked back at Nutter. “So, Colonel. Where did you get marinated mushrooms from? Are they funny mushrooms? Laced with PCP or something?”

“No, no. Just plain old marinated mushrooms, Duke.”

“I think the bigger question here leads us to matters of class, Nutter. Why are you eating marinated mushrooms? Were you short of, like, the rest of the salad they should garnish? I mean, really, you have to admit. A soldier eating marinated mushrooms in a combat zone is some pretty weird shit, right?”

“Come on, Duke. They taste great. Not like something we’d get in an MRE.” Nutter paused. “Well, except for maybe the jalapeno cheese, but no one will trade me for any of that stuff. It’s like the currency of a new nation, you know? So a man has to make do with what a man has. Am I right?”

“I’ve honestly never had a marinated mushroom that I can recall,” Muldoon said. “Am I missing out on some great delicacy, Colonel? Were you going to slalom all those down your little gibbon monkey neck without offering any to the rest of us?”

Nutter shifted about on his feet for a moment. “Well, listen. I’d be happy to give you one, Duke.” With that, Nutter poked his fork into the jar, speared a glistening mushroom, and held it out to Muldoon. The big NCO regarded it like it was an alien life form for a long moment, then snatched the entire jar out of Nutter’s hand in a flash.

“Hey—!” was all Nutter could say.

Muldoon lifted the jar to his mouth and chugged back its entire contents. Rawlings made a sound of disgust. He didn’t even chew the mushrooms, he just shotgunned them down like he was knocking back a beer. Nutter made a sound of his own, though it was infinitely more mournful as vinegar-laced fluid disappeared down Muldoon’s apparently endless gullet in a single stream. If there was a single chug to the sequence, Rawlings couldn’t see it from where she stood.

Muldoon finished up, cleared his throat, and handed the empty vessel back to Nutter. Nutter looked at it, eyes sad, mouth curled downward in a crestfallen frown.

Muldoon smacked his lips. “A little too much vinegar for me, but—oh, hold on...” The big man paused for a moment, then released a cavernous fart that even the driver in the Stryker a hundred feet away heard. “Yeah, that’s gonna be fire later. Thanks for the warning, Colonel.”

“Damn, Duke.” Nutter looked at the empty jar in his hand. “I mean...ain’t even a stem left.”

Muldoon leaned forward and poked Nutter in his chest protector. “I want you on your fucking rifle, paying attention to what the fuck is going on in your lane. I do not want you stuffing your hillbilly face with mushrooms or artichokes or lima beans or whatever the fuck you find in the Underground Hotel, you get me? You’re here to shoot klowns, and that means you need to have your shit in your hands, not hanging around your neck by its patrol strap. You read me on this, Colonel?”

“Yeah. Yeah, loud and clear, Duke. Shit.”

Muldoon leaned in even closer. “Then drop that jar and get on your fucking rifle!” he thundered, voice so loud that no one in the field could miss it. Rawlings cocked her head to one side. All the running, all the fighting, all the waiting for the klowns, all the killing. It was finally getting to Muldoon, and unfortunately for Nutter, it was coming right at him. Rawlings found that curious. Curious as hell, actually. It meant Muldoon was as human as the rest of the unit, and even he was starting to unwind a bit.

“On it,” Nutter said, a quaver in his voice. He tossed the empty jar into the grass and snatched a hold of his rifle. As Muldoon did the same, he looked over Nutter’s helmeted head and smiled at Rawlings. She was certain he probably threw in a wink too, but she couldn’t see it past his sunglasses.

Rawlings shook her head and went back to scanning the tree line in her firing lane. While it had been quite some time since the klowns had attempted a coordinated attack, they were still out there, lurking about. There had been daily intermittent contact with them, but their numbers were diminishing. That meant the crazies were either up to something, or they had found another area of interest greater than the First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Infantry Regiment.

Rawlings didn’t believe the latter for an instant. The klowns were still out there, plotting and planning something. She felt it in her bones. They didn’t give up, they didn’t retreat. Ever.

The lieutenant commanding the drop recovery zone waved his arm in the air. “Two minutes!” he shouted. “Muldoon, make sure your people are ready!”

“Done, sir,” Muldoon shouted back. As he spoke, Muldoon turned from side to side, ensuring his shooters were in their assigned locations and ready for the drop. “Everyone’s in position.”

Rawlings listened. The day was warm and only slightly overcast. Birds chirped, insects buzzed, and in the near distance, the sound of men and machines could be heard moving around High Point’s fortified entrance. Rawlings paid close attention to the trees and brush surrounding the meadow, listening for the telltale noises of a mass of enemy fighters pushing through the overgrowth. Beyond the usual rustle of leaves in the irregular breeze, she heard nothing untoward.

Then: a distant rumble. Jet engines.

“On your rifles,” Muldoon snapped.

The rumble swelled to a shrieking roar as two C-15 cargo jets cruised past overhead. At an altitude of six hundred feet and an airspeed of two hundred fifty knots, they didn’t remain in view for very long. The fat, four-engined jets practically darted over the meadow in a staggered formation. One jet dislodged four objects, the other two. For an instant, the palletized container delivery systems plummeted toward the earth in complete free fall, tumbling and turning. Then their parachutes deployed, snapping full of air before the containers they were attached to had fallen more than a hundred feet. As soon as the loads were clear, Rawlings heard the C-15s spool up as their pilots increased power to get the hell out of klown territory as quickly as possible.

The containers didn’t sway much on their parachutes, as these were what the Air Force designated high-velocity deliverables—the chutes only slowed them down a bit and kept them more or less stable during their transit to the deck. The first one landed only a few seconds after being ejected from the jet, and it bounced in the tall grass, its chute still full of air as the breeze suddenly picked up. In response, those drops still airborne began shifting uprange, riding the wind. They actually moved toward the waiting five-ton trucks, which Rawlings thought was rather fortuitous. It meant the troops could load up that much faster and return to the main encampment surrounding High Point.

“Hey, is that one gonna hit the truck?” Nutter shouted suddenly, pointing at one of the rapidly descending containers. One of the OD green straps that secured the load to the pallet had come loose, flapping in the air like a streamer. Rawlings glanced up. Sure enough, the pallet was heading almost right toward one of the waiting five-tons. As she watched, it struck the truck right in the center of the bed, moving at almost sixty miles an hour.

“God damn Air Force!” Muldoon thundered.

The racket was immense. The truck bounced on its suspension, and its driver bailed out of the cab, thinking it was taking enemy fire. The remainder of the straps broke loose, and crate after crate of supplies spilled all over the place. The pallet itself disintegrated, sending shards of wood hurtling through the air. The parachute remained inflated by the wind, and it dragged the remains of its cargo across the truck’s bed and enveloped the cab. The gunner manning the M240 in the ring there struggled against it, trying and failing to keep his weapon clear. Finally caught up, the chute fluttered in the breeze. To Rawlings, its rippling sounds vaguely resembled that of some constipated giant farting.

“Fuck! Get that shit clear, sir!” Muldoon ordered, looking at the lieutenant presiding over the recovery team.

The lieutenant looked a little put out at Muldoon’s form of address, but waved a hand in contrition. “Yeah, we’re on it. You guys watch your lanes!”

A PFC named Campbell from the Pennsylvania National Guard suddenly stepped back, firming up her grip on her M4. “What was that?” she snapped, eyes sharp beneath the brim of her helmet.

“What was what?” Rawlings replied.

“Listen!” Campbell snarled as another container hit the ground. As expected, the recovery team went for it immediately, but Campbell kept a war footing. “I hear laughing!”

Rawlings tucked her rifle in closer. She listened as well as she was able. She heard the containers hitting the deck, the directions shouted by Muldoon and the rest of the troops, and birds chirping in the trees.

Then she heard a titter, one with an irregular cadence. She’d heard it before. And as the soldiers wrestled with the parachute that was enveloping the M925’s cab, she knew exactly what it was. She’d never be able to forget it for the rest of her life.

A klown. Chortling with uncontained, demented delight.

And it was close.

“Muldoon!” she shouted.

The first shots rang out, and soldiers to her left shouted and fell as hot rounds struck them. Rawlings took a knee a millisecond after Nutter, and the scrawny soldier immediately slewed his weapon around and began firing into the trees to his left, his M4 ejecting spent cartridges that twinkled in the bright summer sunlight. Rawlings added her own rifle to the fray, though she had no targets, and there were friendlies in her lane of fire. She avoided them as best as she could and pumped several rounds into the forest. She saw shapes moving amidst the greenery there, and for an instant, she wondered if she and Nutter were opening up on a security patrol she didn’t know about. Things were so fluid and so dynamic in the new world that she didn’t dare take the time to verify her targets. Friends could be mistaken for foes in a heartbeat, something she realized was a paramount danger. Yet here she was, leaning into her M4 as it barked and shot hot rounds into the surrounding woods, all without first verifying that she was actually in contact with the enemy.

But more weapon fire came from the tree line, and more soldiers went down.

Yeah. This is enemy contact.

The klowns exposed themselves a moment later, pouring out of the trees, an element at least fifty to sixty strong. They streamed toward the waiting trucks in a picket formation, those with weapons firing on the move. That and the fact they were laughing uproariously did little to improve their accuracy. The soldiers were able to recover almost immediately, and their return fire wasn’t anywhere near as imprecise. After months of constant contact with the crazies, the soldiers of the Tenth and the Pennsylvania Army National Guard were battle-hardened and knew what to expect. Their defensive fires, while not nearly as surprising as that of the attacking horde’s, was disciplined and constrained. Klown after klown went down within a hundred feet of the trees.

And then, the Stryker’s engine bellowed as the armored, eight-wheeled vehicle advanced into the clearing. Its cupola-mounted GAU-19 roared its electric song, sending hundreds of fifty-caliber rounds hurtling downrange. The klowns literally exploded beneath the onslaught of such a capable weapon, disintegrating into loose collections of pulped, bloody matter as the heavy bullets sliced through their targets and continued on until next Thursday. The attacking force was blunted in less than thirty seconds, and the only thing left to do was separate the dead from the dying.

“Hey, that didn’t last for long,” Rawlings called out to Campbell.

“Don’t trust ’em,” Campbell replied. She kept her rifle shouldered and oriented onto the engagement area. She had braces, and they glinted in the sunlight when she spoke. In the near distance, Muldoon exhorted the troops to maintain security and remain focused on their firing lanes. The Stryker came to a halt, its turret still oriented toward the tree line to the left from where the klown attack had originated. Many of the fallen enemy there still squirmed, hacking out their dry laughter as they bled out, marinating the soil beneath them with their circulatory fluid. Already, Muldoon had soldiers walking amongst them, popping any who might still be deemed a threat while the medics treated the wounded friendlies. There were only two soldiers down that Rawlings saw, and one of them was already being helped back to his feet.

“Come on, let’s get the wounded out of here, then get this shit loaded up!” Muldoon shouted to the drop recovery team. He waved one thick arm toward the delivered pallets, the last of which had just grounded in the field.

As the situation stabilized, the troops went to work. Rawlings and Campbell exchanged a glance before both went back to watching their lanes.

Thunder clapped to Rawlings’s right. Something hissed—a quick sssst! as a trail of fire raced across the field. She started to turn toward the noise when the Stryker exploded. She let out an involuntary shout when the shockwave hit her and she saw the vehicle’s turret separate from the rig’s body, its tri-barrel .50-caliber weapon mangled and trailing a tongue of belted ammunition. Something slapped her in the shoulder as she started to crouch. It was the gunner’s severed, sleeveless arm, naked and without a trace of uniform aside from the glove on the hand. There was a barbed wire tattoo around the bicep, right below the bloody tear where the limb had been deboned from the explosion.

The Stryker began to burn, and Rawlings heard the driver screaming as smoke boiled out of the stricken device.

“Never trust ’em!” Specialist Campbell cried as she turned, orienting her rifle toward the trees beyond the burning Stryker. Rawlings did the same, just as a mass of klowns emerged. This force was substantially larger than the first, and there were plenty of uniforms in the mix. That caused a chill to form around Rawlings’s heart, one that deepened as the new wave of attackers opened up. Bullets flew.

Rawlings and Campbell opened up immediately, returning fire. Something landed beside Rawlings, and she caught a glimpse of Nutter, dropping down to one knee a few feet away, adding his own M4 to the mix. They fired on semiauto, dropping attackers as they emerged from the trees. Behind her, more rifles cracked, and more attackers fell, cackling and guffawing. To the klowns, bullet wounds hurt so good.

Rounds ripped past Rawlings. Those that passed a few feet away made a buzz. Those that passed a few inches from her made a firecracker-like pop. Many of the attackers didn’t have firearms, but they held weapons regardless—bats, knives, machetes, axes, hammers, and in one case even a croquet mallet. The horde was filthy, decorated with all manner of tribal-like adornments. Some were naked. Others wore full-on business suits, now soiled with blood and mud and food and excrement and Rawlings didn’t know what else. The crazies charged right into the recovery team’s guns, even if it meant their deaths.

Which it did.

The driver in the Stryker finally stopped screaming. Several .50-caliber rounds began cooking off as the vehicle continued to burn, sending a thick pillar of twisting, black, undulating smoke into the clear blue sky. It smelled harsh and acrid even from over a hundred feet away, but Rawlings actually appreciated the smoke. It would tell everyone at High Point where they could be found.

“Shit’s gettin’ close, gonna lay down a frag!” Nutter said, his voice high-pitched, bordering almost on girlish. He released his rifle and pulled a fragmentation grenade from his tactical harness.

“You know how to throw that shit, little guy?” Campbell yelled over the din. A soldier with a SAW ran up and flopped down beside her, setting up the automatic weapon where it could do some good.

“I’m sure you’re probably better at hurling balls than I am!” Nutter grabbed the grenade’s pin and pulled the explosive away from it, ripping it loose. It wasn’t done like in the old movies. He actually yanked the weapon away from the pin, not the other way around. He wound back and lobbed it toward the oncoming band of combatants.

“Frag ou—!” his warning was cut short and Rawlings thought she heard a metallic ping from where he stood. He staggered backward with a loud sigh and fell onto his narrow ass. Nutter had been hit, but he’d still managed to deliver the goods.

“Frag out!” Rawlings shouted.

The fragmentation grenade arced through the air, and one of the klowns actually swung at it with a bat, tipping it slightly. But the explosive was too heavy to be deflected by anything other than a perfect connection, and it disappeared inside the tall grass. The klown with the bat laughed and pointed at it, then leaped toward it. Arms outstretched in an award-winning Superman demonstration. The grenade went off while the man was still in midflight, blasting his body backward ten feet in the air, tumbling ass over tea kettle. More klowns went down, screaming in laughter as they coiled and writhed, caught up in the clutch of hysteria-fueled amusement at their own injuries. Then the SAW came to life, and one side of the attacking skirmish line imploded as bodies fell.

Rawlings kept her rifle shouldered and continued firing. The grenade had halted the klown advance, but it was a temporary fix to an everlasting problem. Her mag ran dry. As she ejected it and allowed it to fall to the grass before her, she glanced over at Nutter. He was sitting in the grass, bent forward a bit, holding his chest.

“Nutter! How bad are you hit?” she yelled, pulling a fresh mag from her vest.

“I’m cool—chicken plate stopped it!” Nutter sounded amazed at his good fortune.

“Then get on your rifle, you little prick!” This came from Muldoon as he thundered forward, taking a knee beside the SAW gunner. “Ain’t no time to be gazing at whatever’s growing outta your navel!”

Rawlings went back to firing. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nutter seize up his M4 and commence shooting from his seated position. In the tree line, more figures emerged, a good fifty to sixty more cackling lunatics. They lunged forward as if of one mind, howling at the hilarity of it all as they threw themselves into the mix. Rawlings and the others fired as fast as they could, and even with the SAW gunner kneecapping as many klowns as his weapon could fire, the new wave fed the first. Within moments, the klowns were within feet of them.

Campbell’s rifle ran dry, and a klown leaped toward her. The short black woman didn’t fall back, didn’t quail in fear. She released her weapon and darted forward, slamming the crazy right in the face with her helmet. Blood poured down the man’s face courtesy of his now broken nose, but it didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“Oh yeah, baby! Where you been all my life?” he jeered as he slashed at Campbell with a knife. She danced back, but the blade slashed open the right sleeve of her uniform blouse. The close call didn’t deter her. As soon as the blade was on its downward arc, she stepped back in and threw a solid right jab that was instantly followed up by two solid lefts. The attacking klown was much larger than she was, but his eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, collapsing into the tall grass. For an instant, Campbell stood over him, fists raised, and looked down on him with hard eyes.

“That’s right, white man—you just got your ass kicked by a five-foot-two-inch can a’ fucking cool!” she shouted. She dropped down on top of him and slugged him again and again, putting her one hundred pounds of body mass behind each punch.

A clutch of klowns reached for her then, and Campbell stepped back. Her eyes were still hard, but she snatched a magazine from her vest and ejected the empty one from her rifle. She wasn’t going to be fast enough. Rawlings couldn’t turn her weapon away from the targets before her—she was danger close as well.

The crazies reaching for Campbell jerked and howled as Muldoon hit them with quick three-round bursts, sending full metal jackets tumbling through their bodies. That gave Campbell enough time to reload. She slapped the mag into her rifle, hit the bolt release, and got back to the business of killing.

“Awesome display there, Leon Spinks, but it’s better to shoot ’em than box with ’em!” Muldoon snarled at her. “You stay the fuck on your rifle, or I’ll kick your narrow ass so hard you’ll have two cracks in it instead of one!”

“See you try that,” Campbell said without looking at him. Her voice was barely audible above the din of firing.

A filthy woman clad in only a soiled pair of cotton panties ducked beneath Rawlings’s lane of fire and tackled her, ignoring the hasty round Rawlings put in one of her shoulders. The wound began to bleed almost immediately, and Rawlings found that to be the most horrifying thing about the entire situation. As the woman slammed into her, driving her onto her back, all Rawlings could think about was the blood. And the infectious bug it carried.

Rawlings was not dressed in MOPP gear. Almost no one on the recovery team was; they were far enough inside the lines that an attack hadn’t been thought possible, but here it was, in living color.

“What’s up, sister?” cackled the woman on top of Rawlings. The woman grabbed for Rawlings’s M4 while spitting at her. Rawlings turned away at the last moment and felt the warm, stinking saliva strike her cheek. For a moment, the women wrestled for control of the rifle as more klowns stormed up. A ponderously fat man with pins stuck all over his head raised an ax high. Despite the fact one of his companions in craziness was right on top of Rawlings, the man was obviously going to swing anyway. He’d chop them both up to get to Rawlings.

Rawlings heard Muldoon shout, but the noise was lost beneath the fury of the fat man’s shriek as he began his swing.

Then something roared, and his head literally exploded like an overripe watermelon at the terminus of a fifty-foot fall. Blood, bone, and pulpy gray matter accelerated away from Rawlings and her combatant in a grisly plume. The ax fell from the now headless corpse and struck the woman in the back of her skull. She let out a surprised squawk at the sudden pain, then began grinding against Rawlings as if she was about to have an orgasm.

“Fuck yeeeeeaaaahhhh—”

A shotgun barrel with a serrated tip entered Rawlings’s field of view. The barrel was shoved right into the woman’s forehead, driving her back, eliciting another gout of laughter. Something detonated, and the woman’s entire head disintegrated, the chunks of bone and gore carried away on a tidal stream of fire. Rawlings cried out at the noise and fury, grappling with her M4. A man with severe features looked down at her. Beneath his helmet, his face was all planes and angles. An NCO she had seen around but hadn’t met.

“You infected?” the man thundered, swinging the shotgun her way. He racked it, and Rawlings could literally hear the shell slamming into the breech.

“No,” Rawlings gasped.

The man kicked her in the side. “That’s ‘No, First Sergeant!’” he snapped. Rawlings cried out at the blow, and that seemed to be answer enough for the man. He nodded curtly.

“Get back on your rifle,” he said, then turned away from her, shouldering his shotgun. He aimed at an approaching klown and blasted it right in the face. Three more went down, as the pellets continued downrange and struck more attackers. Snack-snack! The first sergeant racked the weapon again and fired immediately, dropping another attacker as more soldiers surged forward, their M4s chattering against the shotgun’s basso boom.

Rawlings struggled to her feet, surrounded by lightfighters and their cackling rifles. And like that, the klown attack was broken apart. While they had the ferocity, they didn’t have the training and the composure to engage with dedicated combat troops. They were routed in less than two minutes, falling to the field, bleeding and howling in hilarity. Even then, they still tried to fight, spitting and clawing and hurling bloody matter at the approaching soldiers. None of it worked. The lightfighters were relentless, executing every man, woman, and child where they lay. Rawlings did the same thing. She popped a pudgy housewife right in the head, then turned her weapon right on a five-year-old boy and did the same. There was no regret in her heart. These weren’t people. They were automatons, driven to do insane and horrific things to themselves and others by a microscopic virus that had fucked up their wetware so significantly that their humanity had been essentially eradicated. They were crazies. They were klowns. There was no possibility of coexistence, so they had to die.

Even if they are little kids, she told herself. A small part of her marveled at how fucked up the world had become, when even children were to be sacrificed in fields of war.

Eventually, the gunfire petered out. The first sergeant who had saved Rawlings stalked around the field, barking orders in a minimalist fashion. He was like a raging war god, intense and demanding. To Rawlings, he was what Muldoon would one day become. A force to be reckoned with, complete with rocker bars and hashes on his sleeve to denote every year of service, every campaign successfully completed.

“All right, who’s leading this shit trap?” the older man shouted. He cast his gaze across the field, looking at the collection of soldiers who were still executing the fallen.

“There’s a lieutenant,” Rawlings offered. “I don’t know his name—”

“Not the officer, you asshole,” the first sergeant said. “I want to know who’s the senior soldier who was supposed to secure this zone!”

“Boats.” It was Muldoon, and he strode toward the older man like he had just won the latest Powerball drawing. “That would be me.”

“Sergeant Muldoon, is it?” The first sergeant regarded him with a thin smile. “Yeah—the sarmajor has a total woody for you. You know that?”

“I am an attractive man,” Muldoon said.

“Turner told me you were smart, but a bit impractical,” the first sergeant said. “I have to say, I disagree with him completely.” With that, the older man stepped up and kicked Muldoon right in the nuts. Despite his size, Muldoon let out a loud sigh and pitched forward. The man he had called Boats kept it up, stepping in again and shoving Muldoon so hard that he toppled right over, collapsing onto his back. The older man wasn’t done. He shouldered his big shotgun and aimed it right at the stricken man’s head.

“Stop!” Rawlings shouted. She raised her M4, wondering just what the hell she was going to do next. Shoot a first sergeant? From the corner of her eye, she saw Nutter do the same, his eyes wide with fear.

“Securing this field was nothing,” the first sergeant growled. “Scan the tree lines. Send out patrols to look for ambushers. Protect the air drops, and the trucks, and ensure your people are safe. But you’re too full of yourself, Muldoon. You’re a fucking E-5—a God damn kid. You haven’t seen shit yet, boy. So tell me...why shouldn’t I blow your little pinhead into next fucking week?”

Muldoon just stared up at the first sergeant, expression neutral. More rounds cooked off from the burning Stryker. The first sergeant’s finger was still on his shotgun’s trigger.

“Boats!”

There was no mistaking Command Sergeant Major Turner’s voice. Rawlings’s knees almost turned to jelly when she heard it. By simple voice alone, Turner exuded calm confidence, the product of decades of seasoning. The man standing over Muldoon’s prone form didn’t outwardly seem to recognize it, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor. Even he knew that when the command sergeant major was on-station, you stood up and paid attention.

“Boats!” Turner shouted again as he ran into the field, followed by his senior staff. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cleaning house, Doug,” the first sergeant said. “This sack of shit forgot all about his basic soldier skills. The way I see it, this is the only way out.”

“Put down that weapon or I will shoot you,” Turner said. His M4 was in his hands, and as he spoke he shouldered it.

Boats looked over his shoulder at Turner and flashed what to Rawlings appeared to be a devil-may-care smile. “You man enough for that, Doug?”

“You know I am, Boats. You know I am.”

The first sergeant looked down at Muldoon for a long moment, then raised the shotgun. “Better kowtow to the sarmajor from now on, boy,” he said. “He just saved your miserable redneck ass.”

“I’ll remember you fondly, First Sergeant,” Muldoon said. Still trying to be the badass, even though he’d just been taken down by the nuts.

Boats grinned. “You’ll have to shoot me in the back, Muldoon.”

“Boats, move out!” Turner said.

“On it—someone has to provide security, eh?” With that, the older man stepped away from Muldoon and began feeding shells into his shotgun. Turner advanced toward Muldoon and offered his hand, but the bigger man practically leaped to his feet unaided.

“I was just pretending,” he told the command sergeant major.

“Oh really,” Turner replied.

“It’s true, Sarmajor,” Nutter offered. “Duke, he has him some balls of steel.”

“In this humidity, they’re probably a little rusty,” Turner said.

Muldoon adjusted his sunglasses and cocked a brow. “You want to rub some oil on them, Sarmajor?”

Turner favored Muldoon with a glare that would have killed Godzilla. Muldoon smiled at him crookedly for a long moment, but the smile eventually slid from his face.

“Muldoon, you are going to experience a world of fucking hurt if you don’t start toeing the line with the rest of us,” Turner intoned, his voice hard and dry. “That first sergeant? He will kill you if you continue to fuck up and step off tempo.”

“Maybe it’ll happen to him first, right?”

Turner stared at Muldoon for a moment, then stepped closer. “Son...Andy, you are witnessing extreme restraint on my part right now. You close ranks and start acting like a lightfighter, or next time I’m not going to collar Boats, or Zhu, or anyone when they come across your shit again. You need to read me on this, and you need to read me five by five, because you are simply not that important.”

Muldoon said nothing, and to Rawlings, that was remarkably uncharacteristic.

Turner pointed to the trees surrounding the field. “Secure the area. I’ll see that the supplies are loaded up. Do your job, and do it now.”

“Hooah,” Muldoon replied, though the tone of his voice indicated he’d rather wipe his ass with sandpaper. Turner drew the line there and didn’t contest anything further. The sergeant major went off after First Sergeant Boats, apparently with another ass-kicking in mind.

“Hey, Sergeant, you want a clue here? You ain’t too smart to be fucking around with first shirts and sarmajors.” Campbell calmly reloaded her M4 and looked over at Muldoon with narrowed eyes.

“Who the fuck asked you?” Muldoon replied.

Campbell slapped a mag into her rifle and released the bolt. “No one. Because while my opinion doesn’t matter worth shit, I can tell who’s going to get me killed.”

Muldoon barked a laugh. “You’re with the fucking National Guard. What the hell do you know?”

“What I know,” Campbell replied immediately, “is that the Tenth Mountain needs me on my rifle, because you lightfighters are all sorts of fucked up.”

Rawlings liked that answer, not because it exposed Muldoon as a glory-monger, but because it reflected the accuracy of the entire situation. The truth of the matter was, the remainders of the First Battalion needed everyone on a rifle they could get.

If Muldoon reflected on the precision of the statement, he didn’t allow it to show. “Get into the trees,” he rumbled. “Kill anyone you find there who isn’t one of us.”

SEVEN.

Lee was late to the fight at the drop zone, so he had to be briefed on it as he sprinted toward the tactical operations center truck. Gunfire still echoed in the near distance, and he noticed all the troops around him were oriented toward the threat. The battalion command sergeant major had already mounted up a silver bullet task force to attend to the circumstance. In reality, there was little left for Lee to do but wait for the after-action reports.

The tactical operations center was essentially a mobile command trailer mounted on a Light Medium Tactical Vehicle—more colloquially known as a “truck.” With expandable sides that could be set up or torn down in under an hour, the mobile TOC was faster to deploy than the traditional general-purpose tent, and it provided better ballistic protection for the operators inside. Usually there were only three staffers aboard, in addition to himself, the sarmajor, and Walker. Today, he saw there were more people clustered around the vehicle, including a tall man in civilian clothes who turned toward Lee expectantly as he rushed forward.

“Colonel Lee?” the man said.

Lee ignored him and turned to Walker. “What’s the SITREP?”

“Engagement at the drop zone,” Walker said. “Surprise attack. The troops have it all under control, and Turner’s gone to ensure everything is secure.”

“How is it the klowns were able to mount an attack inside our own perimeter?” Lee asked. He motioned at the area where the majority of the battalion was encamped. “We’re all right here. How did the enemy manage to infiltrate our lines?”

“It was an attack of opportunity...” Walker began, though not very convincingly.

“Colonel Lee? It’s because your manpower is bleeding away,” the tall man in civilian clothes said.

Lee turned to the man, annoyed at the intrusion. “Sir, I need you to be quiet for a moment.”

“You’ve been drowning in silence, son. Time to face the music.” The man turned to Walker. “Major, you might want to confess your sins, here.”

“Sins?” Lee looked to Walker. “Walker, what’s this about?”

Walker sighed and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. “This was given to me by Command Sergeant Major Turner right before the fight broke out.” He handed it to Lee, who unfolded it immediately. It was a list of names, handwritten in neat, block print. Lee recognized several of the names there. After each name was a specific identifier: AWOL. Away Without Official Leave.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, looking back at Walker.

“Your men are deserting, Colonel,” the tall civilian said. “Your combat power is eroding a little more every day, and it’s been like this for days, if not weeks.”

Lee couldn’t contain his frustration any longer. “Who the hell are you?”

“Colonel, meet Colonel Kief Tackaberry, formerly of the Seventh Light Infantry,” Walker said. “Retired colonel, I need to mention.”

“Seventh Light?” The division had been inactivated long before Lee had joined the Army. “Okay well, good to meet you, sir—”

“Like hell it is,” Tackaberry said. “Lee, you’re in a very tight spot here.”

Lee looked from the tall retired officer to Walker. “Listen, we have a contact situation going on. Is there any reason why Colonel Tackaberry is standing here busting my balls, Major?”

“Your men are deserting,” Tackaberry reiterated, speaking slowly as if Lee was an idiot. “You cannot provide security any longer with organic forces. You need to plus up, and the longer you stay here, the more inviting a target you will become.”

Lee grunted. “Well, we actually have movement orders, Colonel. So thanks, but we’re squared away.”

Walker raised his brows. “We have orders, sir?”

Lee nodded. “From the CJCS himself. Once we get everything under control and pull in those supplies we were sent, we need to get on the road.” Lee turned to Tackaberry. “Colonel, you and the rest of the non-combatants are going to stay here. When we pull out, close the damn vault door and don’t open it for anything or anyone.”

“Coming with you, Colonel,” Tackaberry said. “You need more men.”

Lee snorted and shook his head. “Sir, I have no doubt you were a fine soldier and a fantastic leader, but we don’t have time to integrate new faces into the spaces we have open. We need to roll, and we need to roll hard.”

“I have twenty-seven troops, all prior service,” Tackaberry went on as if Lee hadn’t spoken. “We came together in Philly, and they’re all under my nominal command. All are senior, all are battle-tested, and all are committed to taking this nation back from the crazies. We know the stakes, those being that if we cannot succeed in this mission, then everyone we care about will die.” He pointed at Lee before he could speak. “The First of the Fifty-Fifth is being driven into the ground, Colonel. I see you’ve assumed that rank, and by now, I would imagine it’s been officially conferred—congratulations, promotions should be by merit and not committee. I’m glad you got around that. But the truth of the matter is, you don’t have all the experience you need to run a battalion. I’m offering you myself and the fighters under my command, and we will help you keep the remains of your unit safe and combat capable.”

“We can’t take you on, Colonel. We just can’t.”

Tackaberry cocked his head to one side. “Boy, that is a load of bullshit and you know it. You can do anything you want, and it makes tactical sense to plus-up where you can. Down below, the Third has things in hand, and with the paramilitary folks who are staying behind, they’ll be able to keep this facility secure for however long the supplies last. Our services are not needed here. To you we may just be a bunch of old men, but we can still do everything we could do when we were younger. And for all of us, the road in the rearview mirror is a lot longer than the one we see out the windshield. We can still contribute, but put us on ice at your own peril, because we’re approaching our best-by date.”

“We do need more shooters, sir,” Walker interjected. “We’re still pretty far away from Florida.”

“Florida?” Tackaberry shook his head. “Even better. We can fight our way down, then retire. It’s a win all around, Lee.”

Lee sighed, frustrated by everything that was going on. The desertions, the ambush attack, the fact that an old field grade officer with too much rank and too many years suddenly wanted to foist a platoon of senior citizens on him. And frustrated that he couldn’t decline the proposition, not if the list he still held in his hand was accurate.

“Colonel, I need to discuss this with my senior staff. Major Walker here, as well as Sergeant Major Turner and Captain Beach, who’s my new battle captain. If they disagree—especially Turner—then I’m going to have to respectfully ask you remain here at High Point and assist the Third in whatever sustainment operations they might need help with.”

“And if we join you on the road?” Tackaberry asked.

Lee considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “We’ll discuss that later.”

“Not going to make trouble for you, Lee,” Tackaberry said. “If that’s a concern, I don’t want to run a battalion that’s now essentially two companies in strength. That’s not what I’m about here. I want to make that clear.”

“Understood. And very much appreciated, sir.”

“When can I expect your decision? My guys can be ready to go in fifteen minutes. It’s well past dawn, I’m sure we’ve all had our Geritol and statins and multivitamins by now,” the tall colonel added with a smile.

“Tell you what, sir. Get your team together and meet me back here in an hour. I should know how things are going to go then,” Lee said. “Major Walker and I have some things to discuss, so if you’ll excuse us—”

Tackaberry nodded. “Sure thing, Colonel. I’ll synch up with you in an hour.” And with that, the tall retired colonel strode off. A single rifle shot rang out in the near distance, and Lee turned toward it speculatively.

“Sir, if we have a mission, we’d better get down to planning,” Walker said. “Turner’s out there, he has the situation under control.”

“How long have we been losing troops to desertion, Walker?” Lee asked. He kept staring into the tree-lined distance, toward the drop zone that had been set up. Black smoke rose into the air, and it was copious enough to tell him the battalion had just lost another vehicle.

“Since Philadelphia, sir,” Walker said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We had other things to worry about, Colonel. Like staying alive. Like getting out of Philly, like safeguarding a convoy of civilians, like liberating High Point.”

“You didn’t think this is something I should know about?” Lee turned back to Walker then, facing him directly.

For his part, Walker didn’t flinch. “Is this really a surprise to you?” he asked. Before Lee could answer, he pressed on with, “You needed to stay focused on the mission, which is to get the battalion to Florida. Bringing manpower issues to you now was only going to be a distraction. Besides, are there any incentives to offer a soldier to stay with the unit when the people they care about might be under attack somewhere else?”

“Aside from the fact that we’ll have more capability to help in Florida? Of course not,” Lee said. “Walker, we keep having this kind of discussion. You hold stuff back, especially items like this which directly affect my ability to lead? I’ll have your head on a stick. Don’t think that I won’t. You need to become extremely cognizant of that. Understand?”

Walker nodded slowly. “Understood, Colonel. Understood.”

Lee jerked his chin toward the trailer. “Let’s get inside, get our updates, and then start planning the road movement.”

EIGHT.

There were no more klown attacks during the remainder of the drop recovery operation, but Rawlings and the rest of the soldiers in her squad combed through the woods anyway. They moved slowly and purposefully. Half the squad was in MOPP gear, out of an abundance of caution should the crazies have left any biological traps behind. But due to the vision restrictions imposed by the hoods and facemasks the protected soldiers wore, those without protective gear—most notably Sandra Rawlings—had to move along with them and scan the area anyway. It was a bit of a cluster. If someone set something off, most of the unprotected troops would get caught up in it regardless. There wasn’t a lot of troop density left, and as Rawlings took a quick count of the mix of soldiers and Guardsmen crawling through the brush around her, she realized how diminished the battalion had become.

Soldiers were becoming an endangered species.

They found the various points where the klowns had laagered, waiting to launch their attack. They didn’t inspect those sites very closely, for they had shit and pissed and fucked and whatever all over them while waiting. Blood was splattered everywhere, a result of the near-constant compulsion among them to mutilate themselves and each other. All of it was biohazardous, and Nutter warned them off. Like Rawlings, he was unprotected against biochems, wearing only his duty uniform and battle rattle. Even though he’d taken a round right to the chest, the scrawny little man was still up and at ’em, though his eyes looked as big as dinner plates to be this close to what had only recently been the lair of the Killer Klowns.

Eventually, they declared the area secure. There were two bodies in the thickets, klowns that had gotten so carried away with mutilation that they had killed off two of their own. The scarred, bloody bodies were gruesome, but their faces were slack and at peace, despite the crude, garish tattoos that adorned them. Rawlings still kept her distance. It wouldn’t be beyond the crazies to be feigning death, only to snap back to life and hurl infected offal in her face.

“They look like babies.” Campbell’s voice was soft, barely audible above the rustle of leaves as the breeze riffled through the branches overhead.

There was a forlorn note in the comment that caused Rawlings to half-turn toward her, while still keeping her eyes on the motionless corpses. “You have kids?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” Campbell said before turning and heading off to her left, rifle shouldered as she covered two soldiers in MOPP. “You guys be careful now, two dead klowns over here. Don’t take that as gospel, they could still be alive and waiting for some new meat.”

“Roger that,” said one of the soldiers, his voice muffled behind his mask. Rawlings recognized him as Sienkiewicz, one of the lightfighters from the headquarters company. No more easy duty for the TOC personnel, they were out here hauling and fighting with the rest of the troops.

As she continued scanning the area, looking beyond the corpses, Rawlings suddenly thought of Wade. Back in Boston, as dead as yesterday and as alive only in her memory. She wondered what it had been about him that had caused her to gravitate toward him. There were absolutely more competent soldiers around her, so it wasn’t because she thought he could protect her. And there were many more who had been even worse off; troops who had seen their entire units wiped out, their humanity shredded, their sense of self annihilated by the twisted, arcane horrors the klowns had inflicted on their quarry. But Wade had held on to that despite going through the wringer. He was still whole, though frightened. Even though likely younger than Rawlings, he had stamina and the remainders of a gung-ho attitude. He needed rest and refit, but he still soldiered on. In his own quiet way, Wade had been indefatigable.

Rawlings suddenly missed him intensely, and she wondered why. She had barely known him. In reality, they were essentially passengers on two trains that had passed each other in the night, only briefly visible through windows as they ripped past each other. Of all the people she had known in her life, she was puzzled that memories of Wade were the ones that came to her most often.

“All right, we’re secure here!” Nutter shouted suddenly. “Form up on me, we’ll file out of here and head back to the drop zone!”

Rawlings released a sigh of relief and dropped back with Campbell, heading back to where Nutter stood. Nutter looked up at her, then waved her back.

“You’ll be number three, Rawlings,” he said.

Rawlings raised a brow. “What, you don’t want a Nasty Girl behind you, Colonel?” She thought about adding a crotch salute to the query, but that just wasn’t her style.

“Heh. Yeah, but not you.” He pointed at Campbell. “That is the most effective Nasty Girl I done ever seen, so I sure want her watching my back.”

Campbell snorted. “You think I consider this sweet talk or something, guy?”

“I’ve seen you fight, and you’re absolutely the biggest swinging dick in this outfit aside from Duke and maybe the sarmajor and his bully boys,” Nutter said. “So oh yeah, you got the security position, kid.”

“Oh really?” Campbell hefted her rifle. “What if I stumble? What if I rip off a burst in your back because of ineffective trigger discipline?”

“Just make it quick, girl. Make it quick—no one wants to live through this shit anyway,” Nutter replied. He looked past her as the rest of the squad started forming up, and he waved them to follow. “Form up!” With that, he turned and started trudging back toward the field. Campbell exchanged glances with Rawlings, then started off after the bantam lightfighter. Rawlings smiled to herself as she fell in behind the smaller woman but kept eyes out.

No one was ever safe, so everyone had to stay eyes out. Always eyes out.

The squad made it out of the trees without incident. Nutter led them back toward the trucks, which were now loaded and preparing to pull out. They’d brought more transport than what was necessary; the content of the air drop didn’t even fill the bed of one five-ton, much less three of them. The remains of the Stryker continued to smolder, releasing clouds of foul-smelling black smoke into the air. Rawlings caught the scent of burning meat as the vehicle’s crew continued to cook. There was no way to retrieve the corpses from the wreckage, at least not without risking the lives of those who might make such an attempt. The rest of the troops remaining in the field finished their work, and the lieutenant overseeing the operation yelled for the trucks to pull out.

Just the same, Rawlings kept eyes out.

“Cool, looks like shit is squared away,” Nutter said, looking around. “Once Duke and the rest of the boys get back, we’ll be rolling back to High Point.”

“You got something important to do?” Campbell asked.

“Hell yes, I gotta change my underwear. I let out a big fart during the attack, and now I’m feeling something trickling down my leg.”

“Nutter, you sure know how to wow the ladies,” Rawlings said.

“Hey, it’s in my DNA,” Nutter said with a shrug. “I’m a five-foot-six-inch sex machine. Babes can’t keep their hands off me.”

“Probably ’cause they like to hit you,” Campbell said.

“I provide whatever lovin’ I can, it’s my only duty,” Nutter said. He regarded the far tree line nervously as he spoke, as if waiting for something. His face brightened an instant later, and Rawlings looked over to see what he was so happy about. She saw Muldoon emerge from the greenery as he led the other squad out of the trees. The fire team looked no worse for wear. Muldoon advanced toward them with his customary swagger. Just another day in paradise.

Good old Muldoon, still shucking and jiving.

“That boy’s a bit sweet on you,” Campbell said, regarding the approaching troops.

“Who?” Rawlings asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Don’t play stupid, Rawlings. You know who I’m talking about.” Campbell shifted her rifle in her hands a bit. The torn sleeve of her uniform flapped in the breeze. The exposed arm beneath was muscular, and Rawlings caught a glimpse of an armband tattoo encircling Campbell’s dark bicep. The tattoo looked like a link of chain wrapped around her arm.

“He doesn’t have much of a chance,” Rawlings said with a shrug. “At least while I’m still breathing.”

Campbell made an uh-huh sound in her throat. Rawlings snorted at that.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“Don’t matter what I believe, Rawlings. One thing, girl—men like that, they always think we can’t carry our weight on account we have pussies instead of dicks. We are carryin’ it. Don’t let them think we’re not.” Campbell looked at Nutter, who was standing nearby. “That means you too, Nutter. You have a pussy too, right?”

Nutter looked scandalized. “Why are you beating on me? What the hell did I do?”

“Don’t sweat it, Nutter. You’re just one of the girls here.”

Nutter shook his head and stomped away, muttering under his breath. Rawlings and Campbell both smiled at his discomfort.

“Little guys are so easy to take down at the knees,” Campbell said.

“You know their platoon commander before?”

“Nope. Why?”

“He was a little guy too. Kept telling everyone ‘I’m in charge’ all the time. The rest of the platoon, they’d end every radio transmission with that. ‘Klowns at four hundred meters, stand by to fire. I’m in charge. Over.’ It was hilarious.”

Campbell laughed at that. “Little guys…they can be so funny sometimes.”

“What the fuck are you two giggling over?” Muldoon asked as he drew to a sudden halt. His face was a hard mask as he shouldered his rifle.

“People still laugh, Sergeant Big Ugly,” Campbell snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you? Forget about humanity and shit?”

Rawlings held up her hand. “Muldoon, we’re good,” she said. “We’re not infected. Just swapping stories.”

Muldoon glared at them from behind his sunglasses. “Do not laugh,” he said. “Never fucking laugh.”

Nutter hurried over then, probably wondering what the hell was going on. “Hey, Duke, I don’t mind if you shoot Campbell,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I kinda encourage that.”

“Pissant,” Campbell replied.

“You’re evil and must be destroyed.” As he spoke, Nutter held up a scolding finger.

“Not before I tell your sergeant about your pussy and all,” Campbell said. “Word’s out, fem boy.”

“Nutter, you find anything on the other side?” Muldoon asked. He was still on his rifle, and the remainder of his fire team noticed. They slowly pulled in their own weapons, eyes on Rawlings and Campbell.

“Nothing. No klowns left in there. We’re good to go.” Nutter looked at the other soldiers. “Yeah okay, guys, let’s not get all hot and bothered. There’s nothing going on here—the ladies aren’t infected with anything other than Chlamydia.” He leaned toward Muldoon. “But Campbell really is evil, Duke.”

“Rawlings, you know the shit,” Muldoon said. “You know not to laugh. What the hell has gotten into you?”

Rawlings felt a flush of embarrassment. “It’s no big thing, Muldoon—”

“Yeah, until one of the guys pops five warning rounds into your face. Then it would be a big thing, right?”

Rawlings nodded slowly. “Yeah. Then it’d be a big thing.”

Muldoon nodded back and looked at Campbell. “You’re all mouth, girl. You need to tighten your shit up if you want to run with the big dogs.”

Campbell made a great show of looking right to left, then pointed to the burning Stryker behind them. “Yeah, you big dogs really know how to put on a hell of a show, Sergeant.”

Muldoon shrugged. “Think of it whatever you will, kid. You won’t last for long if you don’t learn to get along. But hey, you’re going to stay here at the Underground Hotel, right? Nice cushy security job while the rest of us go forth and do great things, so I guess you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not staying here,” Campbell said. “Not going to make your life easy out there on the road, Sergeant. I’m tagging along with you sad sacks, ’cause you need someone who actually knows how to do shit.”

Muldoon snorted and lowered his rifle. “Well, well. Look who’s a regular water walker all of a sudden.”

“Hey, Muldoon!” The lieutenant commanding the recovery team waved him over. “Get your people mounted up, we’re rolling!”

“On it, sir,” Muldoon called over his shoulder. He then turned back to Rawlings and Campbell. “Girls, you really need to remember who you are, where you are, and who you’re with. This shit’s all been dress rehearsal so far. The real deal’s about to land on our necks with both boots, so you need to get yourselves squared away.”

Rawlings didn’t like that. “Hey, Muldoon? Go fuck yourself,” she said.

“Damn straight,” Campbell added.

Muldoon cracked a vague smile, but Rawlings sensed his eyes were locked on her behind his sunglasses. “You think you know the lay of the land better than I do...babe?”

Rawlings narrowed her eyes at the intentional dig. “What I know is that we’re the same rank, Muldoon. So you don’t really have a lot over me.”

“Saved your ass a few times,” Muldoon responded.

“Saved your ass a few times,” Rawlings countered.

“Gosh, Duke, sorry to break up this little lover’s quarrel here, but what do you mean when you said this is just a dress rehearsal?” Nutter asked. “I mean, I guess I haven’t been paying attention, but we’ve killed like two thousand klowns and lost a lot of guys in the process, so this has all seemed pretty real to me. You think shit’s gonna get worse than what we’ve already been through?”

“You know it, Colonel. You know it,” Muldoon said.

“Muldoon!” It was the lieutenant again. “We’ve got injured, so let’s mount up! You don’t come now, you walk!”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s get to the trucks and get the hell out of here.”

NINE.

“That’s some pretty prime intel we have here, sir,” Command Sergeant Major Turner said after he and the rest of the command staff had reviewed the orders and intelligence summaries sent over from US Special Operations Command, located at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida. The commanding general of USSOCOM, an Army four-star named Stanton, had transmitted the intelligence data along with General Reynolds’s operation orders. Lee had to hand it to the special operators. The snake eaters had gone in close to reconnoiter Fort Stewart by ground, and the imagery Special Operations Command had shared was a fantastic addition to the aerials Reynolds had promised. Lee felt that he had a very good idea of what the One Fifty-Fifth would be rolling up on.

It would be hell.

Army forts were rarely as they were portrayed in movies. Unless located in a hostile environment on foreign soil, they were hardly impenetrable. Great swaths weren’t even fenced in. The most challenging security at several points were blunt warning signs that threatened interdiction and prosecution. But aside from those, anyone could literally walk right into a majority of Army posts inside the United States and do what they wished until they were detected and the MPs or special reaction teams picked them up. Fort Stewart wasn’t any different than most bases in that regard, and in fact, it was even less secure physically than, say, Fort Drum had been.

As such, a massive klown force numbering at least ten thousand had lain siege to the fort for weeks. They had organized concentric defensive positions that kept them safe from counterattack while they in turn went on the warpath. Most of the buildings on the post had been torched or severely damaged, but it looked as if the defenders had been able to give back what they received. The terrain was scored with craters left from artillery and, tellingly, deep divots that could only have come from airstrikes. Lee estimated at least a dozen one- to two-thousand-pound bombs had been dropped on attacking klown formations in a bid to keep the post secure, and the hundreds and hundreds of dismembered bodies lying strewn about the landscape were testament to this. All of that was in the intelligence summary that had been forwarded to the battalion. Air Force elements out of Florida had launched a withering attack against the klowns over the course of four days, with special operators on the ground designating targets and quarterbacking the engagements. The bombardments had tapered off once the special operations forces in the area had been overrun and apparently infected. According to the INTSUM, this had been discovered only after the infected SOF troops had arranged for two low-level bombing runs which had resulted in the attack aircraft being shot down. That convinced the Air Force—and General Reynolds—that close air support in such an environment was too risky. Aircraft were at a premium, and their numbers were more finite than ever.

In the absence of close air, the klowns had regained the upper hand. Fort Stewart and its attached military airport, Hunter Army Airfield, together served as the home of the Third Infantry Division and several other first-line military units. The post was established as the Army’s premier power projection point on the Atlantic Coast, so even in peacetime it was a busy place. The Third had been dispatched mainly to Atlanta, with some subordinate units sent farther north to back up the Eighty-Second Airborne in the defense of Washington. That would leave the usual hodgepodge of tenant units behind, mostly the garrison itself and some support and logistics units that weren’t battle rostered. To most soldiers, that would mean Stewart was a soft target. But the numerous bodies lying strewn about in the photo intel told a different story. Stewart wasn’t down for the count, at least not yet.

“The road movement will have to be fast,” Lee said. “We can’t be too cautious in our approach. We have to get there fast, before the new swarms of enemy beat us to it.”

“Agreed, sir,” Turner said.

“We do need to conduct scouting operations,” Walker interjected. “We have to know what we’re rolling up on.”

“With what, Major?” This came from Captain Beach, who had replaced the fallen Hayes as Lee’s battle captain. As much as Lee and Hayes had disagreed with each other, Hallelujah Hayes had been absolutely fearless when pressing the attack against the klowns. Beach, on the other hand, was more thoughtful and diligent. It was a night and day circumstance, but Beach would do well in the heat of the moment. “We lost the cavalry unit back in New York. We don’t have any organic scout units, and no aviation. We have the drones, but they’ve got short legs. We can’t scout for the main advance and provide enough movement intel to make it worthwhile.”

Walker looked at Lee. “Reynolds has to be able to provide something for us, right?” He tapped the pictures on the table before the men. Not only were there photographs, but also a collection of radar and infrared imagery. “This looks like some serious Air Force technology to me.”

“Navy,” Turner said.

Lee raised a brow. “How do you know that, Sarmajor?”

Turner pointed to the legend on one of the photographs. “See this right here? MQ-4C?”

“Sure.”

“Naval version of the Global Hawk,” Turner said. “There’s a unit out of Jacksonville. Pretty sweet devices, able to fly for a couple of days at over fifty thousand feet. Seems like it might be worth asking the general to chop one over to scout the route for us. We can get the surveillance updates in almost real time, if our C4I gear can receive it. We’d only need it for, what, twelve hours?”

“It’s worth the ask, sir,” Walker said. “We could really use it, and if our objective is what the general says it is, then he’ll make something available to us.”

“I’ll do that,” Lee said. “But we need to firm up the route first, and plan our approach. Based off the imagery and intel, we’ll have to find a way to infiltrate the objective without becoming decisively engaged—as we all know, we’re a bit low on manpower right now, so getting into a protracted engagement too early isn’t going to end well for us.” He pulled out one of the images that provided a high-altitude picture of the post, and pointed at one of the roads to the north of the installation. “Route One Forty-Four seems the best. We can dogleg over toward this range here and set up the assembly area there. It’s far enough away from the post that we might be able to approach unobserved, but close enough that if we have to react to a sudden incident we can do so in a timely manner.” Lee looked around the TOC. “Anyone here actually done time at Stewart?”

Turner raised his hand. “Advanced NCO course about nine years ago, sir.”

“You familiar with the lay of the land?”

“Yes, sir. What you picked out is a pretty good spot. Lots of tree cover off the roads, and there are a thousand and one trails all over the place. We don’t need to encamp in plain sight, we can get under cover if it suits us to reduce our visible footprint.”

“Walker? Beach?” Lee looked at the two men.

“Seems like we’d have a couple options to retreat if things blow up in our faces, but they’re all linear,” Beach said, looking at the photo. “That can work to our advantage, but could work against us at the same time.”

“It’s going to be a shit sandwich no matter how we play it, sir,” Turner said. “But we can’t stage to the east where there are more approaches—look at the concentration of klown forces there.”

Lee looked at the imagery again. For certain, the eastern-facing side of the fort was more heavily exposed to the klowns. There was more civilian infrastructure there, including dwellings and roads that allowed the enemy to form more robust defenses—after all, structures such as buildings and the like afforded more protection from the remaining indirect fires coming from the troops that still held parts of Stewart. The infected were crazy, but they weren’t necessarily stupid. He could also see where Beach had a point. If the battalion had to move, there were only a few directions it could strike out in.

“I’m thinking the forests will channelize any enemy attacks right into our firing lanes,” he said after a moment. “Sure, they can disperse into the woods and come at us that way, but moving through the brush is going to slow them down and make them less effective as a dismounted force. I think the sarmajor is right, the eastern approach to the post is too heavily defended. We could never get in and out that way without a fight. So while I understand and agree with your issues concerning the western approach, Beach, it’s the only show in town that I can see.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Lee regarded the intel materials on the table before him for a moment, then checked his watch. “All right, gentlemen. In ten minutes, I have to advise Reynolds and his staff of our planned movement. Let’s establish the final route so I can get that done before I beg for more resources.”

TEN.

For Colonel Kief Tackaberry, US Army retired, it was the beginning of a new life.

Standing in the bright morning with the rest of his men, it wouldn’t have taken a lot to convince him it was just another day heading up another command. The troops were mustering, going over their gear, engaging in the usual grab-ass conversation endemic to all soldiers who were manning up and preparing to ride out into harm’s way. He felt twenty or thirty years younger. Retirement hadn’t really suited him all that well, though truth be told, there hadn’t been a lot to complain about. When the pandemic that turned good people into murderous maniacs had first begun to spread, Tackaberry had felt a small sliver of resentment; all the work he’d put in to secure a sedate life in his golden years was about to be swept away, sucked right out of his hands as if it had been caught up in some great whirlpool against which he had no hope. But then, as events worsened and the body count began to climb into the thousands, he heard it: the call to action. The last time it had happened was in the 1990s, when his aviation unit had been mobilized to support the LAPD during the Rodney King riots. It was hardly worthy duty, but it was duty, and Tackaberry had given it his best.

And shortly thereafter, he had been passed over for promotion. The writing was on the wall. Promotion into the ranks of general officers was competitive, and over the course of his career Tackaberry had stomped on toes he shouldn’t have and deferred kissing asses he should have. The price for these transgressions was that he would retire as a full bird colonel and trade in his battle dress duty uniform for civilian duds. He’d enter the civilian work force as a middle-aged man who had more experience in life than virtually anyone around him, and he’d have to compete for low- or mid-level jobs with fresh-faced kids right out of college who were babbling about something called the Internet.

It was a warrior’s worst nightmare.

Then the pandemic began, and Tackaberry was suddenly restored. It was a grisly trade-off, of course. His opportunity to become an actual contributor to national security was offset by a mounting wave of tremendous destruction that decimated families and threatened the way of life he had become used to as an American. But he accepted it for what it was and set about getting back to work.

He took a moment away from securing his own gear—a backpack full of supplies, tactical gear, clothing and ammunition, a LaRue PredAtor OBR rifle, and a Glock 23 pistol—to survey his current command. More than two dozen men just like him, ranging in age from fifty-nine to seventy-two years of age. Some fat, some skinny, almost all on some sort of medication. Some even had dentures, and their hair—those who still had any, at least on their heads—varied from salt-and-pepper to full-on white. But there was no hesitation in their movements, no fear in their eyes. They’d seen it all, spread across their various services. One of them, a surly-faced former Marine lieutenant colonel named Billy Haynes, was even humming “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones. Only Haynes’s version was different. Had he been singing aloud, as he often did during weekly poker games where tumblers of scotch served as the only real social lubricant, the verse would have been “I Can’t Get No Metamucil.” Tackaberry liked Haynes a lot. He was a tough old campaigner, but he still managed to salvage his sense of humor. Real humor, the kind that could bond men and women together and give them the opportunity to forget the pressures of the day, was in short supply. Especially now, given that a good deal of the American populace was being wiped out by crazy people who thought inflicting pain and mutilation and death were the gateways to hilarity.

His men were all old, a few bordering on positively ancient. But they handled their weapons and gear with a surety that left Tackaberry impressed. Age hadn’t robbed them of the one asset that would be most valuable over the course of the coming days. They were still competent, and they still retained their skills.

These men, these relics of another time…were still lethal.

ELEVEN.

“We’ve contrasted your planned axis of advance against the latest intel we have, Colonel Lee. We agree, it’s a good route,” General Armand Reynolds said over the video link.

“Gratified to hear that, sir,” Lee replied. He was sitting in the communications room back inside the Underground Hotel. “We’ll be jumping out in an hour. Was wondering if you could provide us with real-time intel of the route, especially as we get closer to the objective.”

“Believe it or not, Colonel, you’re not the only military asset we’re in contact with,” Reynolds said. “We’re wrangling a lot of cats right now.”

“Are any of the other assets headed to Stewart to secure one of the Four Horsemen, sir?”

Reynolds smiled thinly at that. “No, Colonel. Yours is the only assigned unit to that mission.”

“Then, sir, you might want to chop some assets our way. That is, if you want the mission to be completed successfully.”

Reynolds’s wan smile evaporated in an instant. “Lee, you think that we’re not dispatching assets under our command to where they’re needed most? You think the remains of your battalion are in such shit shape that they can’t go on for a moment longer? Is that what you’re bitching about, Colonel?”

“Not bitching, General. Requesting. There’s a difference.”

Reynolds regarded Lee for a long moment over the teleconference gear, then let out a dry chuckle. “Seems like you’ve more than earned your stripes, Harry. No one else stomps on my air hose like you have just now.”

Lee remained silent.

“Tell me what you want, Lee,” Reynolds said.

“Real-time recce of the post before we roll up. My sergeant major tells me you have access to Merlin surveillance assets—I’d like one of those surveilling our entire route so we have some idea what we’re driving into. If we can arrange for CAS on short notice, that would be fantastic. We’re going to need that—we both know it, so if you can make some high-level attack assets available that we can direct onto target, that would help us a hell of a lot. I’ve got maybe three hundred guns available to me, and there are around ten thousand enemy surrounding Stewart. Our only chance is to infiltrate. If we try to fight our way in, we’ll get wiped off the map. But we’ll absolutely have to fight our way out. We’ll need your help on the egress, and if you can contribute mud movers, that’ll be a great help.”

“No promises,” Reynolds said. “Aviation assets are scarce right now, and we can’t run them into the ground. Every airframe we lose is permanent at this point, Lee. Sorry to hear about your manpower issues, but that sounds like your problem. Not mine.”

“General Reynolds? With all respect to you and your legendary status, go fuck yourself. You want the One Fifty-Fifth to execute this mission, you provide the tools necessary.”

“Otherwise what, Lee? You and your battalion go off the grid?” Reynolds glared at Lee through the video camera on his side. “Won’t be the first time.”

“Whatever remains of the Tenth Mountain Division under my command is ready and willing to execute the mission, General. But if you can’t be bothered to provide support, then that’s on you,” Lee shot back. “You need this objective delivered? Help us make that happen.”

Reynolds was silent for a long moment, and from what Lee saw, he didn’t look around the conference room he was sitting in. Reynolds was making the decisions, without consulting his staff.

“Lee, you’ve requisitioned the SATCOM gear from the facility?” Reynolds asked. High Point had a full suite of portable communications gear, including handheld satellite phones. Lee had already pulled five of the units and disbursed them to his senior staff so the battalion could remain in communication with Reynolds’s forces in Florida while on the move.

“We have.”

“I’ll try and dispatch a Merlin your way during the second half of your movement,” Reynolds said. “But for the next six hours, you’re on your own. You’ll have to do the best you can. We’re recovering one unit now, but it has to be refueled and inspected before it can be launched again. Like I said earlier, aviation assets are precious, and that includes unmanned aircraft as well. You get that?”

“Got it, sir.”

“I’ll make sure you have additional eyes on target during your approach to Stewart. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to provide close air; we have problems of our own right on our doorstep. But if I can, I’ll peel something your way. Don’t expect this to be an immediate response. If things are going pear-shaped and you think you need air support, then you make the call earlier rather than later. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. Understood.”

TWELVE.

“So where we rolling out to, Duke?” Nutter shouted as the remains of the Bushmasters mounted up in one of the five-ton trucks.

“Fucking Stewart, I heard,” Muldoon replied. “Next stop is the Peachtree state. Don’t worry, Colonel Nutter—you don’t have to get all dolled up. Carter isn’t there any longer.”

“Aw shucks, I was gonna break out the No-Pest strips and hang ’em from my crotch.”

Muldoon sniffed. “You won’t need to worry about those, Nutter. You smell like you haven’t wiped your ass in about four weeks. Even flies won’t want to come near you.”

Nutter shrugged as he sat down on the bench seat opposite Muldoon. “Yeah, that’s about right. A man’s gotta get the appropriate amount of fermentation, you know.”

“Since when you become a man?” asked the Guard girl, Campbell, as she clambered up the back of the truck. Muldoon noticed Rawlings was right behind her. He must’ve smiled or something, because Rawlings looked at him sternly for a moment as she hauled herself into the truck’s bed.

Nutter rolled his eyes. “Aw no, you’re coming with us? I thought you Guardies were going to stay in the Underground Hotel!”

“Not gonna stay trapped in a hole in the ground,” Campbell said as she dropped down beside Nutter. “Those aren’t my people, anyway.”

“What, we are?”

Campbell looked at Nutter squarely for a long moment, her dark eyes flat and unreadable. “For the moment, Nutter. For the moment.”

“Gee, that’s great,” Nutter said.

“You think you don’t need every gun you can get, lightfighter?” Campbell asked. “Why you down on me, man? Because I’m Guard? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m black?”

“None of the above,” Nutter said. “You just talk too much.”

“A little conversation bother you, Nutter?”

“Only when words have multiple syllables, like ‘delicatessen,’” Muldoon said. “Our Colonel Nutter isn’t exactly an intellectual heavyweight, so conversation tends to leave him bewildered and confused. A lot like a Navy sailor trying to order a cheeseburger in a Whole Foods.”

“Like you know anything about Whole Foods, Muldoon?” Rawlings said as she settled in beside Campbell. The two National Guard girls were like peas in a pod all of a sudden, and Muldoon didn’t know if he liked that. And that bothered him, too. He was slowly coming to realize that he rather liked it when Rawlings was around, especially since she could dish out what she took. But to an extent, she depended on him more than she would ever admit. The Campbell girl would diminish that, and Muldoon found he was irritated by the notion.

Knock that shit off and get yourself squared away, boy.

“So Sergeant Muldoon. Why we headed to Fort Stewart?” Campbell, his new rival, asked.

Muldoon considered his response. “I’m not really in the know. The colonel and I aren’t on the best terms, but I’m pretty certain we’ll all know when we get there. For now, though”—he nodded toward the two armed Humvees idling in front of the truck they sat in—“it looks like we’re getting scout duty. We’ll be on the column’s point.”

“God damn it, why us?” Nutter said. “We’re always in the shit! This makes my balls retract, man!”

“Hadn’t noticed they’d dropped, sweetheart,” Campbell said.

“Campbell, shut the fuck up,” Nutter snapped as the rest of the troops climbed aboard the truck.

“Hey, take it easy there, Colonel,” Muldoon said. “You know you’re in the Army, right? We’re lightfighters, we always get the shit duty.”

Nutter looked across the truck bed at Muldoon. “It’s getting kinda old, Duke,” he said. His eyes looked hollow, and that worried Muldoon a bit.

“Can’t promise you nothing bad’s going to happen,” Muldoon said. “But I can’t promise you anything good is gonna go down either, so there’s that.”

Nutter slumped back against the truck’s side rail. “You’re a bright beam of sunlight in the darkness of my eternal night, Duke.”

“Damn. That sounded profound.”

“That’s because I forgot to add ‘motherfucker’ at the end to make it profane.”

Muldoon was about to release a salty salvo of his own, but the soldiers at the rear of the truck suddenly stirred. Rawlings turned toward the lowered tailgate and straightened suddenly, mouthing a silent Oh shit! before she swung her eyes back to Muldoon. Muldoon frowned and leaned forward a bit so he could look down the length of the five-ton’s truck bed.

He found himself locking eyes with none other than First Sergeant Boats.

“How do, Sergeant Muldoon,” the senior NCO rumbled, his thin lips barely moving as he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind if I have a seat?”

“Hey, First Sergeant, what’re you doing here?” one of the soldiers nearest him asked.

Boats kept his eyes on Muldoon. “I was tasked to provide some much-needed adult supervision and demonstrate necessary tactical proficiency when dealing with enemy threats through the appropriate use of precision fires in accordance with the warrior ethic. What are you doing here, soldier?”

“I’m just here to kill klowns, First Sergeant,” the soldier replied.

“Then we are brothers in arms, son.” Boats stalked up the truck’s bed toward Muldoon. Muldoon gritted his teeth and kept his eyes locked on the older man. Boats carried an M4 in his hands and a heavy ruck on his back. Sticking out of one of the ruck’s flaps was the butt stock of his beloved shotgun.

“Kind of far away from the headquarters company aren’t you, First Sergeant?” Muldoon said.

Boats stopped right in front of him and gazed down at Muldoon with eyes that were as full of emotion as a barracuda’s. His thin lips spasmed slightly, as if he was trying to smile.

“HHC is in this fight as well, Sergeant Muldoon,” Boats said. “Everyone gets their turn putting their face into the grinder.”

“Hey, aren’t you the guy who tried to kill Muldoon?” Campbell leaned forward, peering up at Boats. The first sergeant slowly turned his gaze toward her. Campbell drew back a bit when she felt the weight of the man’s cold stare.

“You need to move, Guardsman. You’re in my seat.”

Campbell couldn’t scramble to her feet fast enough. She grabbed her gear and scurried to the front of the truck bed, where she wedged herself in between another soldier and the troop manning the M240 in the rig’s gun ring. Boats shrugged off his pack and slid in between Rawlings and Nutter, then pulled his ruck back toward him.

“So what gives, Boats?” Muldoon asked as casually as he could. “You coming out into Indian Country like this? A little old for it, aren’t you? I hope you brought your own Geritol, because we don’t stock that in this platoon.”

“You’re a funny guy, Muldoon. But looks aren’t everything.” If Boats was bothered by the jibe, he didn’t let it show.

“Seriously. Why are you here?”

“Equal parts punishment and reward,” Boats said.

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m being punished for pointing a firearm at you when you lost control of the drop zone and cost us a Stryker and some troops,” Boats said. “Because of that, I now have to watch over you. That’s punishment.” Boats cleared his throat, turned, and spat over the side of the truck. “The reward is you might fuck up again, boy. And if that happens, the next time I point a firearm at you, it will absolutely go boom.”

“Oh really,” Muldoon said.

Boats smiled then, big and bright. “It’s all on you now, John Wayne. Or is it Duke? It’s Duke, is it?” Boats nudged Nutter roughly. “That what you call this towering piece of shit with the gorilla face and sunglasses, soldier?”

“We call him Duke like John Wayne, First Sergeant,” Nutter replied. “And hey, easy on the elbows. All right?”

“Duke.” Boats looked across the truck bed at Muldoon and snorted. “Duke. That’s fucking hilarious.”

“First Sergeant, did someone order you to come here?” Muldoon asked. “Because honestly, I really don’t have a lot of time for your bullshit.”

“Of course I was ordered to come join your merry gang, Sergeant.”

“Lee,” Muldoon muttered, shaking his head. “God damn that pencil-necked motherfucker.”

“Lee?” Boats let out a loud guffaw. “Muldoon, seriously—you can’t actually think the colonel has your interests in mind? Fuck that. It was Turner who ordered me to step up. Because just like me, he knows you’re going to lose your shit again, and he wants someone on hand who can clean up the mess and save your troops after you go all belt fed. But until then?” Boats reached forward and patted the exposed stock of his Remington shotgun. “My buddy and me, at the moment we’re just along for the ride. So don’t bother us, all right?”

“Sure thing, Boats,” Muldoon said. “Sure fucking thing.”

THIRTEEN.

After days of easy duty—if guarding the High Point Special Facility from almost continuous klown attacks could be considered easy—the battalion was on the road again. Winding its way along back country roads, the Humvees and tactical trucks slowly began their movement, carrying just over three hundred lightfighters, National Guardsmen, and armed civilians steadily southward. The plan was to avoid the more built-up cities and residential areas, which meant the One Fifty-Fifth had to bypass the highways and stick to the narrower, winding roads that at first led them along the northern ranges of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The battalion would remain in the higher elevations for as long as possible, as Lee figured the majority of the infected would still be lurking amongst the larger population centers to the range’s east. There, if not embroiled in combat with the remaining defenders of Washington, DC, they would be preparing for their march onto Fort Stewart. And beyond that, the safe haven in Florida. While the battalion might have the initial lead, their route was necessarily more circuitous. And the klowns wouldn’t have any problems hopping on Interstate 95 or any of the other highways that ran straight into Georgia.

Lee wasn’t too worried about it just yet. There were already thousands of enemy fighters encircling Stewart. A few thousand more wouldn’t make a difference. The battalion was still going to have to fight at some point, possibly on the way in, definitely on the way out.

Beside him, Foster whistled an aimless tune as he drove the Humvee down the road in the number eight position of the column of vehicles. This time, it was Murphy who manned the big fifty in the cupola. Sienkiewicz sat directly behind Lee, surrounded by cans of .50-caliber ammo that had been secured with a strap. One of the belts ran up to the weapon; if Murphy had to burn through a belt, Sienkiewicz would link up another so the soldier could keep projecting hate at anything that got in their way. Lee studied his maps while simultaneously trying to keep an eye out. Foster’s aimless whistling suddenly transitioned to humming. Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.”

“Johnny Cash fan, Foster?” he asked.

“Hell yes, sir. Greatest singer there ever was.”

“Surprised you even know about him,” Lee said.

“Yeah, they called him Thin Gray Duke, right?” Sienkiewicz asked.

Foster snorted. “What? Who the fuck is that?”

“I think he’s talking about David Bowie,” Lee said. “Witch, Johnny Cash was the Man in Black. David Bowie was the Thin Gray Duke, among other names.”

“Damn straight,” Foster emphasized.

“Well, hey. Wasn’t he married to that black girl?”

“Who, Bowie? Yeah, married to a model named Iman.”

“Then I rest my case. David Bowie was the man in black—as in, he was really in black.”

Foster sighed and shook his head in disgust. “Dude, you are one fucked up unit. How did you get assigned to us again?”

“Come on, man. It was funny,” Sienkiewicz said.

“It was sad, not funny. There’s a difference, you freaking knob,” Foster said.

“All right, guys. Settle down and keep eyes out,” Lee said. “Murphy, you still awake up there?”

“Roger that, Colonel. Be better if you ask Foster that question though, he’s all over the road.”

“Blow me, you freaking mutant,” Foster hollered back.

The radio crackled and Lee waved Foster to silence as he listened. The lead element had just rolled up on a small town and had indicated there was no hostile contact. As per the plan, the scouts would motor on while the security team a few vehicles ahead of Lee’s would pull off and maintain control until the rest of the convoy passed through. It was standard procedure, and Lee marked off the phase line on his map.

A few minutes later, the Humvee drove through the town. It was eerily vacant, and Lee saw nothing that indicated it was still inhabited. Old newspapers rustled across the dusty street. Store windows were smashed and broken, and the shattered glass gleamed in the sun like a scattering of rhinestones. A police pickup truck lay on its side in an intersection, twisted and burned. Something had T-boned it and with some great force, but there was no other vehicle at the site. One of the uparmored Humvees sat nearby, the soldier manning its Mk40 grenade launcher keeping eyes out while the rest of the vehicle’s complement provided additional security from dismounted positions. They all wore MOPP IV gear. On the other side of the town, a gas station had been set ablaze. It was surrounded by a horde of blackened corpses arranged around a fair-sized crater. All manner of charred vehicles sat in the parking lot, everything from small cars to recreational vehicles. Lee couldn’t begin to guess what had happened there, but the end result wasn’t pretty. That the klowns were involved was obvious.

“Looks like one of the tanks lit off,” Foster said. “Kinda weird, I thought they weren’t able to do that.”

“Where there are klowns, unfunny shit always happens,” Sienkiewicz said.

Despite the fact the battalion stuck to back roads, there were still problems. The infected had cut through parts of the area like a red-hot knife through butter, and there were areas where they remained in control. Lieutenant Cassidy’s Bushmasters scouted ahead and radioed back the enemy positions. Even here in the mountains, the klowns were an occasional force to be reckoned with. Lee couldn’t afford to get decisively engaged, so the battalion was forced to maneuver around the enemy formations. Sometimes, the detours cost the unit hours. But at other times, the unit made good time. It rolled past a series of small towns, some of which were virtually untouched by the pandemic and the crazies it created. Others were no more than rubble and cinders. Desecrated bodies were a usual sight, hanging from trees, telephone poles, or simply lying out in the open. Most were what appeared to be helpless civilians, though on several instances, the bodies of klowns were a delight to see. Lee had no doubt the backwoods population in the area was well armed, and they could give back what the klowns tried to dish out on occasion. Every now and then, the battalion would roll by farmhouses that had been heavily fortified, transformed from simple country residences to virtual fortresses hidden behind stacks of sandbags, fencing, and carefully positioned farm equipment. The people of Virginia—and now North Carolina—were taking no chances.

“Wonder what’s happening over at Bragg,” Murphy asked. He was back on the wheel while Sienkiewicz manned the fifty. Foster was sacked out in the back, snoring softly.

“We don’t need to find out,” Lee said. When Murphy didn’t respond, Lee asked, “What’s the interest in Bragg, Murph?”

“My dad’s posted there,” Murphy said. “He’s a master sergeant with the Eighty-Second.”

“No shit. Well, he’s probably with the rest of the division in DC, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’ll be fine, Murph.”

“Just like we are, right?” Murphy replied.

Lee had nothing to say to that.

At nightfall, the satellite phone Lee had taken from High Point trilled, rousing him out of the sudden lassitude that had descended over him during the course of the past hour. He picked it up and put the handset to his ear.

“This is Wizard.”

“Wizard, this is Warfighter. Triton on-station, initial recce underway. Good visuals, and we have your lead element in sight. We can send you the signals over SATCOM when you’re ready. Over.”

“Warfighter, roger that. Stand by.” Lee abandoned the phone in favor of his radio headset. “Five, this is Six.”

“Six, send it,” Walker said.

“We have our recce bird in place. Go ahead and start monitoring the real-time video. Something comes up, you reach out right away. Over.”

“Roger, Six. We’re setting up to receive now. Over.” Walker was traveling several vehicles back in the TOC rig. The tactical truck was outfitted with satellite communications gear that had also been liberated from High Point. Lee moved one of his earphones so he could speak through the SATCOM phone.

“Warfighter, Wizard. We’re standing ready to receive the data stream. Over.”

“Roger that, Wizard. Warfighter Six wants to know your timeline. Over.”

“Warfighter, Wizard has about another six hours of road time. We’ll need a couple of hours to set up, so we don’t expect to commence infiltration until around zero five hundred. Over.”

“Ah, Wizard. It’ll be daylight by zero five hundred. Over.”

“Warfighter, Wizard. Understood, but unless Warfighter is willing to give us another twenty-four hours, then this is going to be a daylight op. I’d prefer the extra time if it’s available. Over.”

“Wizard, wait.”

Lee checked his watch. In less than fifteen minutes, the convoy would come to a halt to refuel their vehicles and refit for night vision operations. More troops would slip into their MOPP gear, as the nighttime hours would be cooler and through night vision goggles, the masks wouldn’t be as much of a hindrance. The one thing about using night vision goggles, they pretty much made a soldier’s peripheral vision useless anyway.

“Wizard, Warfighter.”

“Warfighter, send it.”

“Wizard, Warfighter Six says you’re good to go with your plan. There are thousands of additional enemy headed for the objective. You can’t wait—you won’t make it out if you do. Over.”

Lee winced. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Infiltrating Stewart during daylight hours would be incredibly difficult. Lee had hoped to be able to accomplish his mission and evacuate the battalion under the cover of darkness, but that wasn’t going to happen. The delays had cost them too much time. He’d hoped that Reynolds would have seen that and understood that the battalion needed the night as much as it needed ammunition. But the stakes were too high, and further delay was impossible.

Of course, if the old bastard had chopped surveillance assets to us earlier, we could have avoided all of this…

Lee tamped down on the bitter thought. “Roger that, Warfighter. Depending on the remainder of the movement, we should be in pos in around six hours. Over.”

FOURTEEN.

The approach to the western side of Fort Stewart was surprisingly easy with the assistance of the MQ-4 Merlin UAV—call sign Triton—orbiting over the area at an altitude of forty-five thousand feet. Walker and the rest of the crew in the tactical operations center had been able to relay enemy formation information with enough rapidity to prevent the battalion from encountering any heavy klown resistance. With active fires still coming from the troops defending Stewart, the klowns were oriented toward the besieged fort. They weren’t patrolling their outer perimeters as efficiently as they should have, and Lee considered that a boon.

Of course, the klowns weren’t really worried about death. That was one of the casualties of insanity. Rational thought went out the window.

So under the cover of darkness, and while using as much stealth as a motorized force could, the battalion set up near the rail marshaling area. As Stewart was one of the premier force projection posts in the eastern United States, it had its own rail head, where all manner of equipment and troops could be loaded onto trains for transportation elsewhere. The RMA was essentially a gigantic clearing, and using the trees as a screen, the battalion’s soldiers were able to watch without being easily seen. Lee positioned the fighting elements closer to the RMA, while the support units were displaced to the northeast where they hid in the trees around one of the artillery training fields. This way they were farther away from the klown formations, but still close enough to provide supporting fires if necessary. Even though Thunder only had mortars, essentially the entire post was within their effective range of just over two miles. So long as the required fires were concentrated in one region, Thunder would be able to produce enough steel rain to make the klowns have to walk through a shit storm.

Because of his rank, Lee would have to occupy the TOC to the west of the artillery training range. Like the RMA, it was a wide field, essentially devoid of any remarkable features after having been routinely pummeled by the big guns for a century or so. He dispatched several squads to patrol the tree line and ensure the support groups were safe for the time being, and as they melded into the darkness, he hoped they would report negative enemy contact. The last thing he wanted was for the First Fifty-Fifth to be setting up in the middle of klown central.

He assigned Captain Beach the commander of the direct action units positioned at the rail head. While Beach wasn’t the most senior commander he had available, he was adroit enough to be able to direct fires onto target and support the units that would actually be journeying into Indian Country. Beach would be Lee’s conduit to the lightfighters that would be facing down the enemy. While he instinctively wanted the mission for himself, his position as battalion commander dictated that he remain behind and orchestrate resources as needed by his troops in contact. It was still foreign to him; Lee was a field operator at heart, and sticking to the relative safety of the tactical operations center felt almost profane. Even though there was not an ounce of cowardice to it, Lee still felt a gulf was forming between himself and the rest of the light infantry under his command. The distance of rank and the measure of responsibility.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth and a peculiar hollowness in his chest.

The heavy lifting fell to Lieutenant Cassidy. He would lead the remainders of the Bushmasters down the railroad tracks and closer to the fort, leading the element designated Eyes. Eyes would conduct special reconnaissance of the western approaches to the post. Upon ascertaining enemy strength and movements, essentially confirming what was being transmitted by the large Navy UAV orbiting downrange, Lee would direct Beach to launch two offenses. One would be a distraction that would hopefully draw the klowns to the south; this unit’s call sign was Inveigle. The second movement would be the actual operation itself, with an entire company of dismounted troops surging in through the void left behind. This element, call sign Desperado, would link up with Eyes and together the two elements would penetrate the klown lines and establish contact with friendly forces still holding Fort Stewart. As of the moment, no contact had been established with Stewart. This was due to the fact that Lee had no idea who to talk to, and if that contact was friendly or hostile. Reynolds’s command in Florida would handle that. The plan was that Reynolds’s staff would initiate contact with Stewart, inform them of a friendly attack from the south, and tell him to prepare to hammer the klown forces as they split up to deal with the threat. If the forces at Stewart counterattacked the klowns, then Reynolds would repurpose them to support the advance of Lee’s troops. If they didn’t, then stealthy infiltration would be the only way to gain access to the fort.

Still, there was an enormous amount of setup to do. Advance teams scouted the intended assembly areas, and then the vehicles had to be brought in. Even though they were a few miles from Fort Stewart proper, ensuring low observability was paramount. That meant everything was done at half speed, without lights, and under cover of darkness. Vehicles had to be unloaded, troops positioned, and defenses erected. Neither staging area was intended to be held for long, and once the sun rose, the battalion was living on borrowed time. While the remnants of the First Fifty-Fifth  had the training and seasoning along with the necessary tools of war, the klowns had the mass. Though Lee’s troops could wipe out a thousand of the enemy in less than ten minutes, the klowns knew no fear and had no hesitation at committing everything they had to wiping out what was left of the Tenth Mountain Division.

Or infecting it, which was immeasurably worse.

Lee went in with the headquarters group after the advance team signalled the intended deployment site was secure. As they slowly rolled their vehicles into the area and began setting up, Lee conferred with Beach and the command sergeant major. One last meeting before the captain was sent off to oversee the meatier part of the operation.

“Beach, you have everything you need?” Lee asked. “Are Cassidy’s people ready to go? You’ve spoken with Thunder Six to ensure you have all the grids identified?”

“Done, sir. We’re all good. That resupply from Florida really helped out, but…well, if you can get more of it, that would be a good thing.” Beach was maybe two or three years younger than Lee, a narrow-shouldered sort who hailed from Utah. Lee had heard he was a devout Mormon, which meant he must’ve been tough as nails to handle all the foul-mouthed grab ass that went on during a day in the life of the United States Army.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen, Beach,” Lee said. “Not this close to the klown formations. Reynolds has already lost aircraft in a close support role, so air drops aren’t something he’s going to want to be coordinating—especially in daylight.”

“Got that, sir.”

“Captain, fighting in daytime’s going to be a tough proposition,” Turner said. “Remember, son, you need to keep your head down but your eyes out. There’s a lot of cover out here, but that goes both ways. The enemy has sufficient force to encircle you without you knowing about it, so keep your sentries posted at all times.”

“Roger that, Sarmajor. I know this isn’t Boston or Drum. If the Killer Klowns come my way, I’ll have plenty warning.”

“From your lips to God’s ear, Captain,” Turner said.

“You good with the M-TOE?” Lee asked. “Once you deploy forward, pushing stuff out to you is going to be tough once we’re in contact.”

“Good to go on that, sir. Seriously, we’re ready.”

Lee felt Beach’s desire to jump out and start work. The sooner his element set up for movement, the sooner they could get things underway, hopefully before the sun came up. He nodded and clapped the captain on the shoulder.

“Get to it, bro,” he said.

Beach smiled. “‘Bro’? You sound like a captain again, Colonel.”

“Ah, happy memories,” Lee said with a shrug.

Beach saluted as his smile faded away. “Good luck, sir.”

Lee returned the salute. “And to you, Beach. Give ’em hell.”

FIFTEEN.

Weapons at the ready, the Bushmasters pushed through the forests that surrounded the rail line extending from the rail marshaling area to Fort Stewart proper. The klowns had pushed through here several days ago; the troops came across obvious signs of use, including several bodies that had been left behind to decay in the summer heat. The stench was unbearable, and Rawlings was thankful for the MOPP gear she had finally been issued. She was reasonably safe from any biological contaminants, and while the reduced vision and hearing were bothersome, she figured she’d make that trade-off all day long.

The forests were still black, trapped in deep shadow dark enough for her light-sensitive night vision gear to be entirely useful. The eastern horizon was beginning to brighten, and the faint illumination gave the night vision gear more than enough light to see by. While the field of vision was narrow, the light-intensifying tube of her monocle revealed virtually everything. If infected were lurking nearby, they’d be seen.

Just the same, stealth was the name of the game. Branches snapped and twigs cracked as the troops slowly pushed through the brush, so if infected were in the vicinity, they’d likely have enough warning to respond. It was difficult to mask the noise of a dozen of heavily armed soldiers moving through forest topography, and in a bid to prevent the enemy from getting a premature heads-up, Lieutenant Cassidy had ordered a reasonably slow approach.

In the near distance, gunfire erupted. The troops halted dead in their tracks and crouched, listening to the rhythmic pulses of heavy machine guns firing. Explosions tore through the predawn gloom. Rawlings recognized the din as coming from forty-millimeter grenades. Someone was having a field day with one or more Mk40 grenade launchers. Rawlings crouched and waited with the rest of the soldiers, sweating beneath her uniform as the heat and humidity began to rise...not to mention the terror as the din of combat continued to rage away.

It became obvious after a few moments that the lightfighters weren’t the target. Slowly, laboriously, the troops got back to their feet and continued pushing through the foliage. Ahead, Muldoon turned and faced her. He pumped his fist in the air, urging her and those troops behind her to move forward at a faster pace. Rawlings replicated the gesture and hurried forward, pulling the stock of her rifle against her shoulder. The gunfire grew louder. The lightfighters were obviously rolling into a fight, and they were going to join it.

The tree line began to clear ahead, and through gaps in the foliage Rawlings glimpsed a series of defensive revetments across the rail line. Hundreds if not thousands of bodies lay on the ground, many of them swollen and bloated from days of baking in the hot, humid Georgia summer. Many of them were in the remains of uniforms, but from where Rawlings was, she could tell many of the slain were klowns. There had been more soldiers here, she knew, guarding the same approach the lightfighters were now trying to exploit, and they had fallen in battle. Sandbagged fighting positions had been set up across the rail line, and to her surprise, Rawlings saw several of them were still manned. Fifty-caliber and Squad Automatic Weapons roared, firing into the forest downrange from where the Bushmasters were rallying. A lone Mk40 grenade launcher was the star of the show, though—it hurled death at its full cyclic rate, and explosions tore through the trees a couple hundred yards from her position. As she hurried toward the rest of the troops, Muldoon was there, waving the soldiers to adopt a wedge formation. Rawlings pushed around a tree and crouched down.

Campbell dropped down beside her. “So what the fuck is going on?” She had to half-shout because of the firing and because of her mask.

“Looks like some local troops are engaging a klown element downrange,” Rawlings said.

“How the hell you know that, girl? For all we know, the dudes in the revetments are the fucking klowns!”

Rawlings considered that, then shrugged beneath her battle rattle. The truth of the matter was, she didn’t have the foggiest clue what was going on.

To her right, two soldiers clustered around Lieutenant Cassidy. They were the first shirts, Urena and the one called Boats. The men had a quick pow-wow before the group evaporated. Cassidy and his first sergeant started waving the rest of the troops up. Rawlings stayed in place and waited for Muldoon to mimic the movement, which he did after a long moment. He stood up and shouldered his rifle, shouting something to the rest of the soldiers as they pushed past him.

“Klowns in the trees, on our side! Form up on Cassidy and Urena!” Muldoon bellowed at her through his mask. He repeated the words to Campbell, and to the soldier who filed up after her. With all the noise, Rawlings was finally free to move at more than a snail’s pace. While she didn’t go running through the forest, she was able to make great progress. In less than a minute, she joined the line abreast formation that Cassidy and Urena were arranging. The plan was clear; they would open up on the klowns from a slant, keeping them out of the defenders’ fire lanes.

Something roared, and the Mk40 in one section of the revetments disappeared in a thunderclap. Through the explosion of dust and ripped sandbags, Rawlings actually saw the weapon fly into the air, tumbling barrel over handgrips. It was either an AT-4 strike or a hit from a Carl Gustav; either way, it had taken the teeth out of the defenders’ position, and that was something to worry about it.

From the forest, raucous jeers erupted. In the near distance, Rawlings saw people rising from their fighting positions—some within several meters of Cassidy’s skirmish line.

The lieutenant himself fired the first shot, and the rest of the unit responded in kind.

SIXTEEN.

“Eyes is in contact,” Lee heard over the TOC radio net. It was Beach reporting in. His elements had just gotten settled in over at the rail marshaling area and were still spooling up their operations. Inveigle had just jumped out, while Desperado was assembling before commencing its advance. The news that Eyes had just gone hot, while not entirely unexpected, was unwelcome nevertheless. Lee looked at the displays that framed the aerial intel being pushed down from the MQ-4, orbiting almost fifty thousand feet overhead. He studied the imagery for a moment, but it did not seem that the klown forces were reacting to the firefight. There were several klown attacks going on at the moment as they continued to harass Fort Stewart’s defenders. It was possible that the noise being generated by the Eyes element wasn’t enough to attract any special attention.

“Find out if we can get an estimate of the size of the OPFOR,” he said to Walker. “If Eyes is walking into a substantial element, we’re going to need to adjust some things.”

“On it, sir,” Walker said. He was on the radio an instant later, relaying the request.

“Sir, we’re in it. And we’re in it good,” Turner said. “Doesn’t matter what the size of the enemy element is, they’re going to have to fight their way through it.”

Lee gritted his teeth. “I know, Sarmajor. I know.”

SEVENTEEN.

The Bushmasters caught the klown element in a slanting engagement from their rear quarter. There were only twenty to thirty of the enemy in the woods firing on the Army revetments across the rail tracks, and they’d had absolutely no rear guards posted. When Cassidy gave the orders to roll up and start dispensing hot hate, the klowns were caught completely off guard. A lot of that was due to the tenacity of the troops manning the fighting positions they were attacking. But a good deal of that was due to the fact the lightfighters knew how to do their job, and Muldoon made sure everyone was up and on a rifle before the bullets began to fly.

They cut through the klowns with a practiced efficiency that made even Muldoon proud. The newbies like the girl Campbell were as proficient as the most seasoned of the lightfighters, and that left the hulking sergeant with a case of the warm glows. His people were ready, they were experienced, they were fucking killers. When the enemy lay before them, they did not hesitate. They weren’t bound up by emotion or thought. It didn’t matter if the person they were snuffing out had been a gold star dad, a movie star, a renowned scientist who was within an eighth of an inch of discovering a cure for cancer, the first woman CEO to lead a Fortune 20 company, an activist who managed to capture the attention of the media for a nanosecond, a fucking Kardashian. They hosed them all, and did so with discipline and an economy of force that told Muldoon they weren’t just thinking about this engagement, they were thinking about the next one, and the one after that.

Warriors, all.

Muldoon was impressed.

Even the old fucker Boats was a juggernaut, slashing through the infected like a total force of nature. There was no holding him back. He stood and delivered, up to and including war howls that Muldoon was certain would have raised the hairs on the back of even the hardiest mujahedin’s neck. For an old guy—hell, even for a young guy—Boats gave hell like no other, cutting a deep swath into the enemy ranks through which the rest of the lightfighters poured, raining hell on anyone who opposed them. It was beautiful.

It was fucking art.

“Come on, let’s move it out! Smoke ’em where you find ’em!” Muldoon bellowed behind his mask. “Don’t leave any of them alive!” It was a gruesome order, but it was a correct and sane one in the wake of a world gone mad. He was rewarded with a smattering of rifle shots as the troops came forward and dispatched those klowns who were only wounded in the initial assault. They lay writhing on the forest floor, cackling and chortling, even as they choked on their own blood.

Muldoon bounded forward but kept an eye on the killing floor before him, traipsing through the dead and dying. A haggard woman with wild hair and bloodied tattoos scraped across her cheeks reached for him, giggling even though a froth of blood eddied out of her mouth like a weird red foam, twigs and ribbons in her salt-and-pepper hair. He brought his rifle around and fired a single shot through her dirty forehead. She shuddered for a moment after the bullet had done its job, obliterating whatever remained of her brain, but her body held on. Reluctant to die. For a fraction of an instant, Muldoon wondered if that was a sign she had a fighter’s spirit, or if it was just the bug doing what it did before finally being snuffed out. He dismissed the wonder almost immediately. It wasn’t important, and it distracted him from doing what needed to be done.

Killing my American brothers and sisters.

There weren’t really that many wounded left to dispatch. In less than five minutes, Muldoon was satisfied that they’d gone over the kill zone and taken care of any stragglers. The lightfighters had been perfect in their attack. They’d caught the klowns by surprise and massed fires with such rapidity that even the insane combatants couldn’t rally and inflict any harm. As far as Muldoon could see, not one of his troops had been hurt. He found a secure spot to stand in and began a visual inspection of his teammates, just to be sure. If someone was hurt, they would need care.

And if someone had been infected, they needed to die.

“Stay on your toes!” This came from First Sergeant Urena, who had actually removed his face mask to bark out the order. His voice reminded Muldoon of water-soaked gravel being poured into a barrel, all hard edges and about as loving as a snapping turtle with a bead on a tasty fish. “Want rear lookouts posted, we’re not alone out here!”

“Already done, you lazy fuck.”

Urena looked like he’d been hit with a taser. “Who the fuck said that?” he bellowed.

“I did, princess. Look over here.” It was Boats. “I know you usually only respond when someone’s waving a doily, but this’ll have to do.” Boats waved his shotgun back and forth. Urena glared at him, but Muldoon could tell who was the bigger fish in this pond.

“Glad to hear you’re actually doing something outside of the TOC, Boats,” Urena said.

“Somebody has to, Urine-Ah Virgine-Ah,” Boats shot back.

“Boy Boats, you just about piss off everyone,” Muldoon shouted through his mask. “Sounds like it might be an interesting discussion between you and your mental health professional, but maybe we can go over that later. What do you say?”

Boats shot Muldoon the middle finger.

“First Sergeants, get your collective shit squared away,” Lieutenant Cassidy snapped. “Save your personal shit for later. Muldoon, get your people lined up and orient on Urena. Boats, that means you too, in case you were wondering. We have to make contact with the fighting positions across the way.”

Muldoon waved his team forward while looking past the tree line. The fighting positions Cassidy was referring to were quiet now. Smoke slowly rose into the air from the destroyed grenade launcher emplacement; some of the sandbags there were smoldering. He saw no signs of life, but judging by the amount of bodies surrounding the fighting positions, they’d been hotly contested for at least days now.

“We have any commo with them?” Muldoon asked.

“Negative,” Cassidy responded.

“Well hell, Lieutenant. We step out of the trees and start advancing toward them, they’re gonna light us up big time,” Muldoon told him. “They have no idea who’s who.”

“I get that, Muldoon,” Cassidy replied. In the near distance, more gunfire sounded. Another klown engagement was underway, and Muldoon hoped it went just as well for the infected attackers as this one had. He watched as Cassidy regarded the fighting positions for a long moment, then turned and looked from Urena to Boats.

“Which of you is senior in grade?” he asked.

“I am, sir,” Urena said. He jerked a thumb toward Boats. “This cupcake was in the Coast Guard before he enlisted in the Army.”

“But your wife loves my tan lines, Urena,” Boats replied.

Urena glared at Boats from behind his face mask.

“Knock off the shit, guys. We have a job to do here. Urena, stay with the rest of the troops. Boats, Muldoon—you’re with me. Muldoon, pick a few of the troops to come with us. Everyone else stays put.” Cassidy turned to his RTO. “Inform Wizard we’re rolling up on the fighting positions to try and get some intel. We’ll pass anything hot back.”

“Roger that, LT,” the RTO said.

“So how do you think we’re going to get in there?” Boats asked, looking at the silent fighting positions out across the railroad tracks.

“Like this.” Cassidy removed his face mask and shouted, “Tenth Mountain, coming out! Tenth Mountain, coming out to approach!” He replaced his mask, lifted his rifle over his head, and started walking to the edge of the trees. He motioned for his RTO to follow.

“Well, fuck me,” Muldoon said to himself. “Nutter, Campbell, form up.”

“What about me, Muldoon?” This came from Rawlings.

“You stay here, Jane Wayne,” he said. “Someone has to come out and retrieve our bodies after we get cut down.”

“Hey, that’s really motivational, Duke,” Nutter said.

“Fuck that shit,” Rawlings said. “I’m with you guys.”

Muldoon started to argue, then thought better of it. Rawlings could handle herself, and about four other people at the same time. He gave her a curt nod.

“Roll out,” Muldoon said, then moved to follow Cassidy toward the edge of the trees. He raised his M4 over his head and kept a good five meters separation. Boats moved in behind him, and Muldoon risked one glance over his shoulder to make sure Nutter and Campbell and Rawlings were joining the file. They also carried their rifles over their heads, their faces unreadable behind their masks. Muldoon imagined they felt the same way he did: like an asshole who was marching right into death.

Cassidy emerged from the trees, moving very slowly. He repeated his intentions, shouting through his mask’s voice emitter. There was no response from the fighting positions, which told Muldoon they were either listening to what he said or were just waiting for the rest of the file to emerge before opening up.

“Lieutenant, watch your step,” Muldoon said as the young officer advanced toward the line of corpses strewn about. Several of them were shredded like they’d been hit by a barrage of shot, and that told Muldoon they’d run right into Claymore mines. It would ruin everyone’s day if Cassidy were to blunder into one that hadn’t gone off.

“I’m eyes out, Muldoon,” Cassidy replied. “Make sure the others are in line.”

It was treacherous walking. The bodies stank, and black flies buzzed around the soldiers in a cloud that seemed almost solid. Muldoon was happy for the MOPP gear, though he was still worried about the insects. Could they transfer the bug? He rather suspected they might, but there was nothing he could do about it. So long as they didn’t manage to land on an open cut or abrasion, he figured he was relatively safe, but he did make a mental note to tell the troops to apply insect repellent at the first opportunity.

“Tenth Mountain!” Cassidy yelled again, just as a crackle of gunfire erupted to the south. That was where Fort Stewart proper lay, and Muldoon felt the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He stumbled then, tripping over one of the corpses. It was a still in rigor mortis, which meant it hadn’t been dead all that long. He tried to step around it, but his big boot landed on the bloated belly of another klown which had been dead for a while, and the pressure of his weight forced it to exhale a cloud of foul-smelling gas that erupted from the body’s mouth like one of Satan’s snores.

“God job there, Duke,” Nutter complained. “You’re killing us with klown farts!”

Muldoon was just forming a suitably saucy retort when another corpse in the field of the dead to his right suddenly stirred. With a hitching giggle, it reached toward him as flies erupted from it, their primitive nervous systems startled by the sudden movement. Maggots already crawled over the man; in fact, one ear was essentially overrun by a squirming white mass of larvae that were making a meal of the blood-encrusted appendage. Before Muldoon could do much of anything, the klown snatched a hold of his ankle. Blood oozed from its mouth as it released a gurgling cackle.

Campbell jostled him as she shouldered up to him and fired a single round into the klown’s face, stilling it for all eternity. The grotesquerie shuddered a few times, making a hacking noise before it fell silent.

“Shit, John Wayne, I thought you knew how to do this stuff,” Campbell said.

“Try not to act like I’m not going to kick your ass later, Campbell,” Muldoon shot back.

“Everyone keep your act together,” Cassidy shouted. “Keep your eyes open and cover each other. Muldoon, raise your weapon.” The lieutenant continued advancing toward the fighting position, choosing every step carefully. Muldoon raised his weapon over his head again, even though he thought it was stupid as shit to do that. They were in deep Indian Country, and the klowns were all over the place. Though the truth of the matter was, they’d probably pitch a fit seeing a group of soldiers picking their way across a field of bodies while holding their rifles in the air. That might buy them enough time for the team to say goodbye to each other before they were wiped out.

Cassidy made it to the first line of sandbags and paused. “Tenth Mountain, coming over the barrier!” he said before he began to climb over the obstruction. He had to pause to pull fly- and maggot-ridden corpses out of the way. Not all of them were crazies. Several were defenders who had been cut down. Muldoon figured there had been a company-sized element posted here, guarding an avenue of approach. Most of them had probably died here.

A tarp moved slightly, barely visible through Muldoon’s mask. He turned toward the motion, already bringing his rifle down and into a firing position. He found himself staring down the barrels of two M4s held by absolutely filthy soldiers, guys who had been slugging it out for days, maybe weeks. They wore MOPP gear, so Muldoon couldn’t see their faces, but one was injured—the bandages on his lower arm were rusty with dried blood.

“Don’t fucking move, man,” one of the soldiers said.

Muldoon slowly turned toward Cassidy. He was in the same predicament. Another pair of soldiers had their weapons oriented on him, while another, an absolutely gigantic man who was probably bigger than Muldoon himself, swung a SAW toward the rest of the soldiers still standing in the field of bodies. The man on the SAW had sergeant first class insignia on his torn, stained uniform.

Cassidy began, “We’re from Tenth Mountain—”

“Take off your fucking masks!” the sergeant manning the SAW bellowed. “Take ’em off!” He had a hard urban accent, like a black kid who had grown up on some tough city streets.

“We’re from Tenth Mountain, heading to Florida from Boston!” Cassidy said, as if that made a difference.

The soldier on the machine gun swung it toward Cassidy. “Lieutenant, I heard you the first time. The fucking squirrels know you say you’re from Tenth Mountain, which sounds great and all, ’cept those cats got wiped out in Boston and New York. Now I’m a-tellin’ you one last time, take off your fucking masks!”

Cassidy paused for a long moment, then started to comply. That meant lowering his rifle. The two men holding their weapons on him leaned forward a bit.

“Drop the rifle,” one of them said.

“All’a you drop your rifles,” the sergeant with the SAW said. “Comply, or you will be shot!”

Cassidy dropped his rifle. “Lose them, people,” he said. He slowly reached for his mask. Behind him, Muldoon heard M4s hitting the deck. He held onto his, glaring through the lenses in his mask at the two men pointing their rifles at him.

“Muldoon,” Cassidy snarled. “Put down your fucking rifle!”

“Like hell,” Muldoon said.

The two soldiers facing him looked at each other, shrugged, then turned back to Muldoon. They firmed up their grips on their weapons, then suddenly paused. Muldoon wondered what the hell that was all about, then he heard rapid movement behind him. He pulled in his weapon and started to turn, but he wasn’t fast enough. Boats slammed into him like a freight train, taking him right off his feet. Both men fell against the sandbags, and Boats hit the magazine release on Muldoon’s rifle. The mag slipped right out of the well and tumbled to the blood-stained ground between them. He then put all his body weight on the weapon, pushing the barrel into the dirt.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, you stupid dick-sucking ape,” Boats thundered. “By all means, Sergeant Muldoon, get yourself killed at the earliest possible opportunity, but do not take us with you!”

“Old man, you’d better get the fuck off me,” Muldoon growled. He released his rifle and seized a hold of one of Boats’s wrists and twisted—hard. He saw the older man’s eyes narrow in pain behind his mask’s lenses.

“Sergeant, we shooting them? They look like fucking crazies to me,” one of the soldiers standing over the two wrestling men said.

“No!” Cassidy yelled. “We have an entire battalion just west of here! We can help you guys out!”

“What battalion?” the sergeant on the SAW said. “Talk quick, motherfucker. We’re exposed here!”

“First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Infantry,” Cassidy said. “We made it out of Boston, like I said. Don’t shoot us, you’re going to need every rifle you can get! Boats, Muldoon, get your shit together!”

“I’m going to let you go, old man,” Muldoon told Boats. “You do anything stupid, you’re dead.”

Boats leaned back a bit and brought up his left hand. Light gleamed on the blade of his drawn bayonet. “You’ll go before me, shithead. Like I said—I knew you’d fuck up again.”

“Boats!” Cassidy shouted. “Get off him—now!”

“Saved by a scrawny pencil-neck who isn’t even a captain yet,” Boats muttered, before lowering the blade. “Yes sir, Lieutenant,” he said, louder. But his eyes told Muldoon that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Muldoon wasn’t worried.

EIGHTEEN.

“Word from Eyes, sir!” said one of the communications NCOs manning the TOC radios.

“Let’s hear it,” Lee said.

“Eyes Six has left the rest of the squad and is attempting to contact the commander of a defensive revetment along the railway. Eyes has repelled an attack on this position.”

At first, Lee was surprised by the news. Then he thought it through—if he had been in Cassidy’s position and discovered an opportunity to exploit, he would have taken it himself. That Cassidy, as such a young leader, would break with the mission to try and gain a foothold was quite telling.

“Get me some more information on that,” Lee said. “I need to know what they’re walking into, and where.”

“On it, sir.”

“Walker? Sarmajor?”

“Yes, sir?” Walker said, turning to Lee.

“I’m thinking we should hold Inveigle,” Lee said. “If we have an exploit here, I want some force on-station to back it up.”

“Risky, sir,” Walker said. “They’re already in their movement. We can hold them, but they could be caught out of position at any moment.”

“Agree with that, sir,” Turner added. “Inveigle has some credible firepower, but we have all the support oriented to where they’re supposed to be. If they get caught in midstride, it’s going to take some recalibration to bail them out.”

“What if Eyes comes back with something credible?” Lee asked.

“We start the count over,” Walker said.

“It’s doable, sir,” Turner said. “We can turn on a snap count to catch up to Inveigle inside the plan, but once they get to their final phase line, should commit. We can’t cover them during a deep retreat and provide support for Desperado at the same time. It’s better if we have the time to recalibrate while they’re in movement, as opposed to them having to come out of their fighting position.”

Lee looked at the maps before him, where all the troop positions had been marked. “Right now, Inveigle is in a better position to support Eyes than Desperado,” he said. “Are both of you telling me that pushing Inveigle into pos is a better gamble than holding them back and chopping them over to Eyes in the event they have something more actionable?”

“Yes, sir. We really should stick to the plan,” Walker said. “We still need to pull the klowns out of the area. If Eyes has found a better entry point than the one we’d designated, that’s all well and good—we can uncage Desperado on it. But we can’t hold up Inveigle because of this.”

“Speed is also the element we should be concentrating on here, sir,” Turner added. “The sooner Inveigle gets in position, the better off we’ll all be.”

“Gentlemen? Some advice?”

Lee and the others turned. Tackaberry stood in the doorway near them, looking into the TOC. He was dressed as he had been before, only now he carried an AR-style rifle with a substantial amount of bling attached to it, so much so that Lee could hardly recognize it as a descendant of the M4 leaning against the wall next to where he sat.

“Colonel, what’s on your mind?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard the conversation at hand. Be flexible, boys, but be firm. When something good comes your way, take it. But don’t trust it completely,” Tackaberry said. “That having been said, you have two good options here. Take one.”

“Colonel, did you need something from us?” Walker asked.

“Was just ducking in to tell you we’re set up out here. My troops are in control of the perimeter, and we’re keeping eyes out.”

“Sir, that’s great. But you probably need to stay outside,” Turner said.

Tackaberry looked at the command sergeant major with eyes that were as hard as stone. “Of course, Sergeant Major. Excuse me.” With that, the tall retired colonel turned and stepped out of the TOC.

Lee returned to the map before him. The Merlin was still orbiting high overhead and sending intel to their command and control displays. For the moment, the battalion was safe. The klowns weren’t aware of their presence, though that wouldn’t last. Nor would the Merlin’s coverage; Reynolds would need to have it pulled off station in a few hours. Lee was eager to get the operation underway before that happened. Desperado was already spooling up, and Inveigle was advancing down the rail line. Soon, they’d come up on Eyes’s position.

“Ask Inveigle to kick back a sitrep when they get near Eyes’s pos,” he said. “If they’re good to go there, they should continue on to their engagement area. Accelerate Desperado’s jump out. We want them to be able to move in ahead of schedule, in case Cassidy and the others are really able to give us an in.”

“You want us to shift everything up?” Walker asked. He didn’t look happy about it, and the sudden foot-dragging was beginning to frustrate Lee. Everyone was tired and scared, as the battalion had been running and gunning for weeks straight. But now was no time to develop a sudden aversion to risk. At that moment, Lee understood why Walker hadn’t tried to lead the battalion himself. He just wasn’t fit for that duty, and he had been smart enough to know it.

“Everything, Major,” Lee said. “If Cassidy has a way in, it’s going to alter the entire plan. We have to be ready for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

NINETEEN.

The fighting positions were full of filth, including everything from MRE wrappers to human waste bags that had probably been organized a few times but had since fallen into disarray. Cassidy followed one of the soldiers into a sandbagged revetment that was surrounded by HESCO containers. A narrow, winding passage led up to the fighting position the big sergeant manned, and as Cassidy looked around the revetment’s darkened interior, the sergeant descended down a short ladder. He still carried the SAW and wore his MOPP gear. At his shoulder was the patch of the Third Infantry Division, the major combat unit posted at Stewart. The soldier had to hunch over a bit due to the low ceiling overhead. He regarded Cassidy and Boats for a moment, then looked past them at Muldoon and the others.

“You, big man. What’s your name?” the sergeant first class barked. Even through his face mask, he had the voice of a career-grade NCO.

“Muldoon.”

“You know how to work a SAW, Muldoon? They teach you these things up at Fort Drum in between ski trips?”

“I know how to run a SAW,” Muldoon said.

“Good. Before I give it to you, though, I want the first sergeant here to lay one on you.” The sergeant first class nodded toward Boats. “I figure that shouldn’t be a problem for you, right, First Sergeant? I mean, we all saw how lovey-dovey you two are.” As he asked this, he nodded to the soldier who had led the lightfighters inside the revetment. The soldier nodded in return and dropped back, rifle held at low ready.

Boats watched this go down, then turned to the hulking NCO from Third ID and gave him a thin smile. “Not normally, no. But I get what you’re after, Sergeant.” Boats turned to Muldoon, and his smile grew wider. “Gosh. This is like giving candy to a kid on Christmas Day.” With that, he punched Muldoon right in the side of the head, hard enough to ring Muldoon’s bell. Cassidy let out a long sigh. These two guys were going to kill each other.

Muldoon grunted and stumbled, but didn’t lose his footing. He straightened after a moment and looked back at the sergeant first class. The man held the SAW in a combat stance, and the soldier who had escorted Cassidy and the others had raised his own rifle. The soldiers from Stewart were ready to blow away the lightfighters.

“Good enough for you?” Muldoon asked.

“No laughter, not even a chuckle?” the sergeant first class asked. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Like I said, we’re not infected,” Cassidy snapped.

“Muldoon, return the first sergeant’s favor,” the sergeant first class said.

Boats’s smile evaporated in an instant. “Ah, fuck.”

Muldoon hit Boats so hard the older man was knocked onto his ass with a shout. He lay there for a moment, gasping before he reached up and cupped his jaw with one hand.

“Fucker,” he said. “Guess the time for getting fitted for dentures is closer than I’d thought.”

“Can’t take a little love tap, First Sergeant?” Muldoon said.

“Okay, listen—” Cassidy turned away from Boats and Muldoon, whirling toward the sergeant first class...just in time to receive the butt of the big man’s SAW as he drove it into Cassidy. Cassidy’s wind left him in a rush, and he collapsed to the revetment’s dirt floor. He struggled for a few moments to take a breath, then finally managed to suck in a lungful of air.

“Like I said...we’re not infected, but if you beat the shit out of us, we’re not going to be of much help to you,” Cassidy said.

“Guess the three of you are clear.” The sergeant first class peered at Rawlings, Campbell, and Nutter through the lenses of his mask.

Campbell pointed at Nutter. “You want me to hit him, Sergeant? He might cry if I do.”

The big man seemed to consider it for a long moment, then shook his head. “Naw. I’ve never seen any of the crazies hold their shit together for this long without lettin’ out a titter or two. I believe you, Lieutenant. Sorry for the greeting.”

“We do it, too,” Cassidy said, still gasping.

“Y’all get to your feet, now. Rakowski, did the other guys get their weapons?”

“Uh, yeah. Maybe.”

“Well, round ’em up and return them, okay? These people are gonna need their heaters.”

“On it,” said the soldier who had escorted them into the position. “You want me to send one of the other guys back in?”

“Negative. Just bring back their weapons and get back to your position.”

“Hold on. Rawlings, take Campbell and Nutter and go with that man,” Cassidy said. “I want you guys on the line. Someone’s going to have to bring in the rest of the squad.” He climbed back to his feet as Boats did the same. “You mind if we call in the rest of our team? They’re out there in the trees. I don’t want them exposed for any longer than they have to be.”

“You think they’re going to be safer in here? We had a company and half of soldiers manning this line, and there’s only six of us left. Well, five, now that Ace is dead. He was the dude manning the mark nineteen.” The sergeant first class waved Muldoon forward and held out the SAW. “Muldoon, go up and take a fighting position. They usually hit us a couple of times a day. You’ll find a clacker up there—we still have a line of Claymores that haven’t been fired off. If shit gets deep, let the fuckers mass and turn ’em into Swiss cheese.”

Muldoon looked at Cassidy. Cassidy nodded.

“Do it, Muldoon. And Rawlings, you have orders—go with that man there.”

“Yes, sir,” Rawlings said. She and Muldoon exchanged glances before she turned and followed Rakowski as he started off. Campbell and Nutter followed.

The sergeant first class removed his helmet and his face mask. He was a big black man with broad features and small eyes that dwelled deep in his head. There was a healing cut on his left cheek. Cassidy figured that one would leave a hell of a scar. Cassidy glanced at the man’s nametape across his chest protector. ROGERS.

“Come on, Muldoon. I need you up there now, not in two minutes,” Rogers said.

“Mind if I gear up first?” Muldoon asked.

“Do it now, lightfighter. You’re on my time.”

Muldoon pulled on his mask and hood, and then his helmet. He stepped toward Rogers and took the SAW. Rogers was almost two inches and thirty pounds bigger than Muldoon. Cassidy was frankly impressed. Without a word, Muldoon scaled the ladder and disappeared from view.

“Sergeant Dante Roger, sir. I’m sorry about the welcome.” Roger extended a huge hand toward Cassidy, and he shook it. The man’s grip was as strong as he’d expected it would be.

“First Lieutenant Darrell Cassidy, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Light Infantry. What unit are you with, Rogers?”

“It’s just Roger, sir.” The man pointed to his nametape, and Cassidy looked again. Sure enough, it just said ROGER.

“You must get confused during radio comms,” Cassidy said.

“Used to be a problem, with people saying ‘roger’ all the time, but I don’t respond to it. The guys who know me, they just called me R.”

“Okay. What unit you with, Sergeant R?”

“Post Special Reaction Team. Obviously, I’m just pulling standard eleven bravo duty right now,” Roger said.

“You in command of this emplacement?”

“No, sir. You are, now. You really have a battalion out there?”

“A bit understrength now, but yeah. We have a battalion of lightfighters out there.”

Roger took a knee with a heavy sigh. “How understrength, sir?”

“We have maybe three companies left, but we’ve plussed up with able-bodied civilians and some National Guard, both from Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. Still a credible fighting force, Sergeant. Don’t sweat that.”

Roger snorted. “You think a battalion is going to matter much, LT? Stewart is surrounded by about ten thousand enemy.”

“Yeah well, we’re not here to fight them.”

Roger looked at Cassidy for a long moment, his small eyes narrowed in thought. He nodded slowly after a moment. “You’re here for her. For the girl.”

“The girl?”

Roger nodded. “The lady scientist. She’s young, though. Still pretty much a girl. The one who helped engineer the bug, I heard. You know she’s got an FBI detail guarding her? She’s gettin’ the real VIP treatment.”

Cassidy felt a flush of excitement start to flutter in his chest. “You’re talking about Doctor Moreau. Yeah, she’s who we’re after. Where is she?”

“A lotta people are after that bitch, sir.” Roger jerked a thumb toward the exit, indicating the fighting that continued to sporadically pulse in the distance. “Like thousands of people. You know they think she’s like a, a god or something?”

“Rogers—”

“Just R, sir. I know how confusing it can be.”

“Right, right. Sergeant, I need to know where she is. The Joint Chiefs want her, and we’re the only unit in the area right now that has a chance of delivering her.”

“Well, there were others,” Roger said. “Not all of Third ID was deployed. Some special forces guys dropped in. Even some Navy SEALs. Funny thing, the SF guys got the bug and wiped out the SEALs with air strikes. Pretty interesting. Kinda put a whole new spin on the Army/Navy game.”

Cassidy could see that the big sergeant first class was about to fall off his last rocker. And while he knew how the soldier felt, Cassidy still had a job to do. Something buzzed near his ear. A mosquito. Cassidy swiped at it.

“Sergeant Roger. Where is Doctor Moreau?”

“She was in the officer’s quarters until the crazies started to surround the place. Once they broke through the first line of defenses, we had to move her. Put her in the safest place on post we could think of,” Roger said. “She’s in the DIVARTY ammunition supply point. Ain’t no one gettin’ in there without some serious demolition expertise, not if they want her alive.”

“Well, God damn. Roger, are you in contact with the post command?”

Roger shook his head. He reached down and pulled an MBITR radio set from behind a sandbag. “Batteries are dead. We haven’t gotten replacements in over two weeks. And it feels like I’ve been here for four. What day is it, sir?”

“It’s Tuesday. The tenth of July.”

“Well, happy birthday to me. I’m forty-six today.”

“Roger, give me your command group’s radio frequencies and I’ll personally bake you a cake,” Cassidy said. “And if you know how to get to the DIVARTY ASP, I’ll even get you someplace where you can take a twenty-minute hot shower.”

TWENTY.

“Divisional artillery?” Lee echoed after getting Cassidy’s report.

“Fuckin’ A,” Turner said.

“Sarmajor?”

“It’s a great spot, sir. Stewart used to house nuclear arty rounds. DIVARTY’s ASP is more secure than Fort Knox and the Federal Reserve put together. And the best part is, Eyes is essentially right next to it.” Turner stood over the map of Fort Stewart and pointed at it. “Right here. Cassidy has to cross about six hundred meters of open space to get there.”

“Walker, get us imagery please,” Lee said. “Also, verify with Warfighter the frequencies Cassidy sent, and get additional verification that friendlies are still on those channels. I’m not going to contact Stewart in the blind, I want a warm handoff.”

“On it.” Walker turned back to one of the radio operators who was in contact with Reynolds’s command in Florida. The Merlin was still under Warfighter’s control in Florida, so the request for specific imagery would have to be relayed south down to MacDill or Eglin or wherever the Merlin’s operators were before the system could slew its recce gear onto the point of interest.

“Sarmajor, if they used to store nuclear weapons in this supply point, can we be reasonably assured that it’s the next best thing to impregnable?” Lee asked.

“Yes, sir. It would take a hell of a lot of firepower to gain access. And that much firepower is going to do only one thing—destroy the structure entirely,” Turner said. “If the president wants this woman alive, then the klowns can’t logically attack that site and expect to deliver her.”

“Logic isn’t exactly a klown strong suit, Sarmajor.”

Turner shrugged. “Understood, sir. But they’re not stupid. If they’ve followed President Gray’s orders this far, they can continue to roll out the line. They can’t hammer the shit out of the ASP and expect to get what Gray wants.”

Lee nodded and looked at the map again. He needed real-time graphics, not something that a cartographer had drawn up years ago. He pushed the map toward Turner.

“Any changes here that you might be aware of?”

Turner nodded. “Yes, sir. But nothing that’s of any tactical significance. A DFAC moved here, the AAFES moved there, that kind of stuff. The ASP is still where it’s marked on the map—too much cost to move it. We can roll with what we have in this regard.”

“No,” Lee said. “Not good enough. We can get better data than this.”

“Clock’s running out, Colonel,” Turner said. It didn’t take a lot for Lee to see the old warfighter was starting to rise in the older man. Turner was done running away from the klowns. He wanted to get his pound of flesh.

“Almost there, Doug. Almost there,” he said. “Just a little longer, then the gloves come off.”

Turner nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Colonel, the Merlin is being retasked,” Walker announced. “New imagery in two minutes or so, I’m told.”

“Verification of the freqs and the respondents?” Lee asked.

Walker held up a hand as he listened to the voices coming over his headset. After a moment, he motioned for patience as he continued monitoring the exchange. Lee nodded and checked the transmission notes taken during Cassidy’s report. The overall site commander was the garrison commander, a Colonel Barker, designation Raptor. A colonel was pretty far down the food chain to be the primary point of contact for tactical matters at the installation level, but Lee had seen what the klowns had done to Fort Drum. That Stewart had fared even worse was no surprise. Lee’s plan was to contact Raptor, get the details of their current situation, and arrange for a coordinated movement to transfer Moreau to his control. After that, he planned on having the remaining forces at Stewart fall back and form up on the battalion. They would march as one unit to Florida.

Lee wasn’t going to leave the remains of the Third Infantry to face the meat grinder by themselves. He would do whatever he could to get them out of Stewart and on the road with whatever they could carry. From what little he knew, dependents were still on post; it would take a lot of last-minute action to get them all in a column heading south, but certain death was a powerful motivator. It would happen, and it would happen quickly.

Or it wouldn’t happen at all.

“New imagery coming in,” Walker said. “Triton is scanning the target now.”

Lee looked at the single display that framed the results of the UAV operators’ work. At first, nothing changed. The imagery was being processed aboard the MQ-4 Merlin before being transmitted over the secure link to the TOC, and it took some time. But when the first images arrived, Lee was surprised by what he saw.

The artillery ASP was almost completely unguarded, save for a squad of soldiers in two sandbag revetments positioned on either side of the feeder road leading to it.

“How the fuck could they leave it open like that?” Turner wondered aloud. “I mean, it’s inviting attack—the main door is still open!”

That was true, Lee saw. The gigantic door that led to the ASP’s interior was wide open. There were signs of ongoing activity; a score of tactical trucks were arranged around the structure, which was essentially a bunker buried into a hillside. Lee knew the trucks were transports that would rush artillery ammunition to the field arty batteries that were still functional. In fact, one of those trucks was in the process of being loaded, which told him that the forces in control of Stewart were preparing to shell enemy formations with concentration fire. Stewart had a sizeable artillery presence, and those elements hadn’t been deployed to the cities in their sector of responsibility. He recalled that Drum’s hadn’t either.

And that they hadn’t been enough to hold back the klowns. Artillery, the so-called King of Battle, had its limitations. It could only kill what it hit. And as he watched the troops around the ASP preparing to roll out more stock, he suddenly became worried his own elements could be collateral damage.

“We’re going to need to tell them we’re here, sir,” Turner said, as if reading his mind. “If one of our teams gets caught up in a concentration fire barrage—”

“I know, Sarmajor. I know.” He looked back at the video. “Open doors...it’s almost like they’re trying to convince the klowns there’s nothing to hide other than a bunch of artillery shells. You ever been inside there, Turner?”

“No, sir. I haven’t.” Turner paused for a long moment, considering the scene. “But...I’d imagine they kept the nukes separate from the usual high explosive rounds. Probably not just logically, but physically, as well.”

“A vault inside a vault,” Lee said.

“My guess also, sir. Seems to me that if the klowns were to knock over the place, they wouldn’t be too curious about what’s really inside.”

Lee stroked the bristles that were forming on his chin. The constant movement had certainly eroded the Army’s usual grooming standards, if what he felt was any indication. “Nice ruse, acting like the ASP is just another ammo dump. But a big ass risk.”

“We do need to get in there, sir,” Turner said with a nod. “If Moreau is there, we need to extract her ASAP. But a daylight raid worries me.”

“What, isn’t that what you guys did in Vietnam?”

Turner frowned and gave Lee a scandalized glare. “Sir, how old do you think I am?”

Lee smiled. “Not a day over forty-five thousand years, Sarmajor.”

Turner harrumphed. “Insolent whelp.”

Lee snorted and turned to Walker. “Any day now, Major. Unless you need me to do the talking?”

Walker turned back to him. If he was irritated by the needling, it didn’t show. Lee figured Walker had suffered a lot more under Colonel Prince. “Freqs and POCs are good to go, sir.”

“Then light up the airwaves, lightfighter. Have Florida let the Third Infantry know that Tenth Mountain is about to get into the game, then hand me off to them.”

“Roger that, sir.”

TWENTY-ONE.

The way into Fort Stewart was mostly unguarded. Muldoon was surprised at how open it all was once they had made their way past the sandbagged revetments. Then he remembered the dead battery in Roger’s radio, and he figured the uncontested travel might be a surprise to him as well.

Despite that, the man Roger moved with a sure ease as he led them through the warren of sandbags and HESCOs that surrounded the outer perimeter, but he kept his rifle close and his MOPP gear on. Muldoon and the rest of the lightfighters did as he did, keeping eyes out as well as they were able. The day was becoming oppressively hot, and Muldoon knew the troops would exhaust their CamelBak hydration units before noon if continuous activity was going to be required. They filed past bodies with almost metronomic regularity. Some of them were literally covered beneath piles of writhing maggots, and he couldn’t tell if they had been friend or foe in life. He was thankful the seal on his mask was nice and snug.

Some of the kills were relatively fresh, however. Muldoon had no problem telling who was who, since the attackers were at best semi-dressed and had multiple injuries that appeared to be self-inflicted in addition to those resulting from battle. Intermingled with the dead klowns were uniformed soldiers, many in MOPP gear. Their injuries were grievous, and they had obviously gone down in close-quarters combat. How the klown attacks had been repelled after penetrating this far into the fort was a mystery.

Not that anyone was safe at the moment. All around them came the sounds of combat—small arms, crew-served weapons, the sharp crack of Claymores discharging their loads of pellets. The klowns were continuing to press their attacks, riding right into predesignated funnel points and kill positions. A normal enemy would have changed tactics by now, but Muldoon well knew the klowns had issues with self-control. If they saw an opening, they went for it, even if that opening was in the middle of interlocking machine-gun fire that had already been bracketed. The only things the crazies had going for them were determination and numbers.

He caught glimpses of movement from the edges of his mask’s lenses, but by the time he turned toward them, it was gone. Muldoon had no idea if they were being stalked by klowns or friendly forces, but Roger didn’t seem concerned by it. Maybe he didn’t notice the phantasms stalking between fighting positions that had been overrun, retaken, and overrun again. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Fires burned all across the post. Columns of black smoke generated a smudgy halo that surrounded the sun, but it did nothing to diminish the orb’s heat. Almost everything in Muldoon’s field of view was fortified, and that which was not, was thoroughly destroyed. Crude graffiti adorned the pockmarked wall of a small strip mall, the markings now the color of rust. Blood.

REPENT SINNERS! OUR NAME IS HELL AND WE’RE FOOKING HILARIOUS!

Yeah, a laugh a minute, Muldoon thought.

Roger continued pushing forward, ignoring a sudden volley of gunfire that erupted nearby. A .50 cal opened up from a fighting position only forty meters away, the camouflage netting bouncing with the beat of the gun. Muldoon ducked down, staying low. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rest of his team had adopted the same position. Facing forward, he saw Roger just kept on walking at a fast clip. Totally unbothered by the fact some serious high-caliber rat-a-tat action was playing out virtually right next door. Muldoon turned back and checked out the emplacement. He could only catch a bare glimpse of the M2’s barrel, but it was raised. That meant they were engaging distant targets, nothing that was rolling up on the revetments right this very instant. Farther down the line, another big fifty started pounding away, then another. Muldoon didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad one. That fifties were manned meant the defenses still had teeth. That three of them were lighting up targets at once told him something mean was heading in from uprange.

“Hey, Roger!” he shouted. “Maybe we ought to pick up the pace a bit, man!”

“What, you scared, Muldoon?” the bigger man shot back. “A little fitty action has you feelin’ all fidgety?”

“He’s right, Sergeant,” Cassidy said. “We should move a little faster. We need to get to where we’re going to go, so I can report back and get support lined up.”

“But fuck, sir. I do so hate running,” Roger said.

“We all do, Sergeant. But now’s probably the time,” Cassidy said.

“All right, lightfighter bitches. Pick ’em up and follow if you can.” With that, Roger broke out into a brisk trot, leaning forward as he picked up speed. Cassidy followed, along with his RTO. Muldoon swore in his mask and charged after them. Truth be told, he hated running as much as the next Joe, but shit was getting hot and he wanted to go where people weren’t doing so much shooting. He checked over his shoulder again and saw Rawlings, Nutter, and Campbell following suit. Boats had the rear guard position, and he shook his head and started jogging after them.

Guess the old bull don’t like to run, either.

Something slammed into the ground at Muldoon’s feet. He knew exactly what it was: a bullet.

“Sniper!” he shouted. He jinked left and right, head on a swivel as he canvassed the area while on the move, rifle shouldered. Something cracked as it hurtled past his head at almost twice the speed of sound, missing him by inches. And then a saw it; a twisted, haggard klown atop a line of HESCOs, the butt of a hunting rifle pressed against its crudely tattooed shoulder. The man’s mangy beard was caked with blood, and shards of bone protruded from his cheeks and through his earlobes. His naked body was a total patchwork of cuts. There was a symmetry to the patchwork of slashes that likely made some sense to a deranged mind, but Muldoon saw no logic to it. The klown also sported a full-on woody, which made Muldoon snort despite everything that was going on.

I know I’m a good-looking man, brother, but that’s going way too far.

He slowed his pace now that he had eyes on the threat, and began swinging his rifle around. Three shots rang out, and the klown stiffened as he was tapped twice in the head and one in the chest. Muldoon looked back down the file and saw both Rawlings and Campbell on their weapons.

Campbell turned to Rawlings. “Girl, a single chest shot? Really?”

“Let’s keep moving, ladies,” Muldoon said before resuming his loping run. He yelled up to Roger, “Hey, how did that freak get through the line?”

“They always do, motherfucker. They always do,” Roger shouted back. “What, you think you have it easy now?”

“How far to the ASP?” Cassidy asked.

“Not far. Stay tight, we have to pass through some security. Standard review, and standard warnings: you guys laugh or do anything that looks even remotely hinky, you’re gonna be dead in a heartbeat.”

Roger led the lightfighters past a series of angled revetments. Soldiers manned various fighting positions, and they tracked the file with their weapons. Most were in MOPP gear. There were far fewer dead friendlies here. Clearly, the klowns had perished trying to push their way in several times already, but the Army troops weren’t taking any chances. Muldoon knew infiltration was the big worry now. No one wanted a klown attack from the rear, especially since they were more inclined to infect than outright kill.

Though if they had the chance, they’d do that too.

Roger had been correct. The file was stopped three times and subjected to the same litmus test the battalion had administered out in the field: pain. Anyone who laughed would die. No one did, of course. Least of all First Sergeant Boats, who was getting mighty pissed off with lower-ranking soldiers punching him in the gut. All the same, he didn’t protest too loudly. They were under guns all the time now, and the lightfighters well understood the soldiers of the Third Infantry were going to be pretty stressed out. No one wanted an accident to occur.

Finally, they made it through the defensive lines and found themselves marching down a trench toward the ASP. The defenses were more elaborate here, consisting of mined approaches, kill zones, and funnel points that would channel enemy formations into pre-zeroed engagement areas where they would be chopped to pieces. Muldoon was impressed. There was still a fairly sizeable component of military in the area, and they were angling on remaining just that. He followed Roger, Cassidy, and the RTO as they goose-stepped through a field of tanglefoot wire that seemed to be a mile across.

And then, they were at the ASP.

A trenchline ran right up to the entrance. Trucks were positioned on either side of the cracked concrete loading ramp, as the trench had been cut right through the thick pad. Battle-scarred construction equipment sat at one corner, partially hidden beneath camo netting. Muldoon did a double take as he climbed out of the trench. Backhoes and bulldozers weren’t the only thing hidden beneath the netting. There were also several 155-millimeter medium artillery cannons, in both the towed and mobile variety arranged in the usual artillery firing circle. But that wasn’t what caught Muldoon’s attention. What really got him interested in the lay of the land were the Multiple Launch Rocket Systems and what looked like a battalion of M1A3 Abrams tanks, all camouflaged as best as they could be under the circumstances.

“Looks like Stewart still has some pretty credible firepower, Sergeant,” Cassidy said.

“Yes, sir. A lot of this stuff couldn’t be deployed for peacekeeping,” Roger said. “That’s all peacemaking equipment. You guys need to stay with me, now.” He motioned them to follow as he padded across open concrete toward the open door that led into the ASP.

The Divisional Artillery Ammunition Supply Point was a large structure built right into a tall, broad hillside. There were multiple doors, though they all led into the same overall structure. Most were closed, but two were open as artillerymen and ammo handlers ferried out forklift after forklift of arty ammo and loaded them onto armored tactical trucks. Roger removed his mask and motioned for the others to do the same. Muldoon reached up, removed his helmet, then his mask and hood. He was a sweaty mess underneath, and he took the opportunity to greedily drink from his CamelBak. Cassidy did the same, and the lieutenant’s eyes seemed sunken and glazed.

“LT, you all right?” Muldoon asked.

“Super,” Cassidy replied.

Roger looked over at him. “Gotta watch out for heat stroke, sir. You need to keep drinking. We’ll get your water packs refilled inside.” After a pause to ensure that the rest of the troops had unmasked, he motioned them to follow him again as he led them toward one of the open doors. “Watch out for the loaders,” he called over his shoulder as another forklift emerged from the ASP, speeding along at a fair clip. “This place is still active.”

They were met by another group of soldiers providing security, all of whom were artillerymen. They recognized Roger and gave him cursory nods. One of them, a husky staff sergeant who looked about a billion years old, held up a hand, bringing the lightfighters to a halt at the ASP’s threshold. He regarded them with narrowed eyes, looking each of them in the face.

“What up, Thomaston?” Roger asked.

“Just wanted to see what lightfighters looked like these days,” the staff sergeant said.

Cassidy frowned. “You knew we were coming?”

The soldier nodded. “Yeah. Our bosses have been talking.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get inside, but we’re watching you, LT. No offense, but you’re not immediate family.”

“We’re United States Army, you stupid fuck.” Boats pushed himself forward, his narrow face glistening with sweat. “There is no bigger family on the face of the planet.”

The staff sergeant pointed to the distance, where gunfire raged. Something else throbbed in the void. Drums. The klowns sure did love making noise, Muldoon thought.

“They’re a bit bigger right now,” the staff sergeant said. “But we’re about to make ’em a lot smaller.”

No sooner had the words left his lips, the 155s in the firing circle fired a salvo that made Muldoon crouch. He’d never been this close to the big guns before, and even though they were a good three hundred meters away, they might as well have been right next to him. The thunder was immense, and the waves of sound hit him like a physical blow. He raised his hands to his head and instinctively started looking for cover.

The staff sergeant laughed, the sound completely lost in the racket of the outgoing artillery salvo. The guns fired a volley of five rounds each, then fell silent. Through ringing ears, Muldoon heard the distant reports as the shells impacted their target area.

“Good thing your boss called us up,” the staff sergeant said. “We were about to open up on a zone one of your elements was crossing.”

“What, you redleg pukes don’t issue a firing warning?” Muldoon asked.

The staff sergeant shook his head. “You big baby. Voice comms have been a thing of the past. We only do that when a gun or battery falls off the net. You oughtta know we’re all digital these days.”

“I think we need to talk to whomever’s in charge here, Sergeant,” Cassidy said.

“Yeah, you done jawboning, Thomaston?” Roger asked. Without waiting for an answer, he motioned Cassidy to follow him. “After me, sir.”

Muldoon followed Cassidy and the others inside the ASP. It was a cavernous structure, divided into separate sections. It was also being used as a barracks and dining facility for the troops on station, which made some sense. It would be a tough nut to crack, though it wasn’t impenetrable. There was a field hospital set up in one of the areas where artillery shells had once been stored. That the vault was empty told Muldoon the redleggers had been operating at a brisk operational tempo. The storage racks inside no longer contained shells. They held wounded soldiers instead, and there were a lot of them.

“I take it this is more than just where you’re holding Moreau,” Cassidy said.

Roger nodded. “Yes, sir. This is the last part of the fort we pretty much control.”

“You won’t be holding it for much longer,” Muldoon said.

Roger glanced back at him, but didn’t say anything further.

A group of men advanced toward them. One of them was a blunt-faced man with squared-off shoulders and a legitimate flat-top buzz cut. His stride was long and strong, and his hands seemed much larger than they should have been. The subdued colonel’s eagles on his lapels and cannon insignia on his uniform blouse told Muldoon all he needed to know. This would be the lead gun-cocker.

Well, his hands are certainly big enough to handle arty rounds...

“Hey, First Sergeant,” Nutter said. “Looks like we found your brother.”

“Nutter, are you the progeny of a butt fuck?” Boats asked. “You must be, because you don’t have the common sense to know you shouldn’t talk to a first shirt.”

The colonel stopped before the lightfighters and frowned. He returned Roger’s salute, but his eyes were locked onto Cassidy.

“Sir, these people are from Tenth Mountain,” Roger said. “They helped us wipe out an attack against alpha two—”

“I know who they are, Roger. Who’s manning your position while you’re out?” The officer’s voice was as rough as sandpaper.

“First Sergeant Urena, my company senior NCO is, sir,” Cassidy said. “We left the remains of our squad to reinforce your troops there.”

“Perfect timing, Lieutenant. You’re Cassidy?”

“Yes, sir. From Bravo Company, First Battalion—”

“Fifty-Fifth Infantry, Tenth Mountain Light. I’ve heard the song, son. Who the hell is Harry Lee?”

“He’s...he’s our commanding officer, sir.”

“I knew Prince several years ago. He get taken down?”

Cassidy paused for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir. Colonel Prince is dead. Colonel Lee assumed command of the battalion before we broke station in Boston.”

“Reynolds’s staff gave me the rundown on your unit’s current chain of command. Told me how Lee stepped into the rank. I figure if he got you guys this far, I personally don’t give a damn.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” Cassidy paused. “I’m sorry, Colonel. You are...?”

“Hubert Barker, commander of the Third Infantry Division Artillery, call sign Raptor Six. I’m pretty much all that’s left of the senior staff after some Special Forces guys went over the fence and called in air strikes against the divisional command. How many men are in your battalion, Cassidy?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, an entire battalion couldn’t have survived a road movement all the way from Boston—too much crazy activity between here and there. What would you estimate the strength of the First, as a percentage?”

Cassidy paused, then turned back to Boats. Boats cleared his throat.

“Sixty percent standing, sir. We’ve been augmented with National Guard troops and able-bodied civilians with prior service,” Boats said. “We’re still capable of maneuvering fires.”

Muldoon snorted slightly. Tall tales never went out of fashion.

Barker noticed that. “Issues with the reported facts, soldier?”

Muldoon shook his head. “No, Colonel. Good to go here.”

Cassidy jumped back in. “Sir, we’ve been given a mission from Reynolds. We’re here to—”

“I know why you’re here, son. You want to secure Moreau before the crazies can get to her first. Reynolds wants her taken down to Florida.”

“Yes, sir. That is correct.”

Outside, the big guns boomed again. This time it was a sustained volley of concentration fire, a decent ten or twelve salvos that filled the ASP with thunder. Muldoon didn’t crouch this time, but the confines of the fortification seemed to amplify the noise. He still tucked in his rifle and turned to survey the rest of the troops. Only Boats didn’t react to the explosive fusillade of rounds heading downrange. Nutter, Rawlings, and Campbell all looked uncomfortable. And frightened.

“We’ll take you to her, Lieutenant. Then you can tell your Harry Lee that she’s here, so he can move her out and let the rest of the crazies chase your mangy asses all the way to Florida.”

TWENTY-TWO.

The pine barrens surrounding Fort Stewart didn’t provide a shit ton of concealment for the battalion’s operations, but Tackaberry figured it was about as good as it could get. While the longleaf pines themselves didn’t offer a lot of opportunity for an enemy to mask its advance, the wiregrass was a different matter. Though there was no chance of a vehicle sneaking up on them overland, foot soldiers could do just that if they were careful and thorough. Tackaberry and his men weren’t terribly concerned about that—caution was a lost art to the klowns—but the notion that the battalion headquarters element could be scouted was something of a worry.

Even klowns had leaders, and those leaders would very much like to know where the First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Infantry’s tactical operation center lay. Assembly area security was light, as Lee had no recourse but to commit most of his combat power to the operation at hand. By Tackaberry’s count, there were fourteen uniformed soldiers providing area security. At this point, those lightfighters had a lifetime of experience and knew how to get things done, but their numbers were so minimal they could only sit, wait, and pray to an increasingly less benevolent God that a substantial enemy force didn’t discover the encampment.

So Tackaberry assigned his men to make roving patrols in groups of three and report in anything unusual over the walkie-talkies they had liberated from the Underground Hotel before pulling out. The lightfighters didn’t have enough MBITRs to go around, so Tackaberry’s element—call sign Geezer, due to the element’s cumulative age being in the hundreds of years—used newer civilian gear that was actually smaller and probably more secure than their military counterparts. All the channels were encrypted, just in case the klowns had retained some ability to perform signals intelligence. It was just for communication amongst themselves; the bands used were incompatible with the military SINCGARS radios used by Lee’s people in the TOC. That meant if something went down, Tackaberry would have to flag down one of Lee’s troops to pass the intel back to the TOC. He didn’t like that his men hadn’t been issued MBITRs, nor did he appreciate the inference: that Tackaberry and his band of merry old men weren’t being taken seriously.

Well, fuck him, then.

Tackaberry remained inside the TOC’s security perimeter, cradling his rifle. He had been issued MOPP gear, as had the rest of his team, as a precaution against a biological attack. Everyone who was outside the TOC or a vehicle had them, but Tackaberry hadn’t fully suited up yet. The heat of the day was oppressive enough, and he didn’t want to walk right into full-on heat stroke. Like any soldier who had any sanity, he’d always hated MOPP gear. Even though what he had been issued was newer than what he had been forced to deal with over his career, it was just as cumbersome as it had been in his day and still smelled like old farts that had been filtered through dirty socks. Not very appealing, and he was certain he would don it only grudgingly in the event of an emergency.

Gunfire came from virtually everywhere. Tackaberry didn’t know who was shooting at whom, or if the lightfighters were even in the mix somewhere. He gritted his teeth at being kept in the dark, cut out of the command decision cycle. It wasn’t his role any longer, and hadn’t been for years, but he still felt the keen desire to step in and take charge. There were aspects of the engagement that even a crusty old aviation fuck like himself could shape, and he was frustrated that he and his guys were being shunted aside.

Make do, old dog. Make do.

He busied himself with walking the perimeter around the assembly area with a retired African-American Air Force master sergeant named Linton. While Linton was probably a couple of years older than Tackaberry and his hair was almost snow white, his face wasn’t nearly as lined. Linton had told him the first time Tackaberry had commented on his youthful looks that “Black don’t crack.”

It suddenly reoccurred to Tackaberry that he hadn’t known what that meant, and still didn’t as he and Linton walked through the steamy day, surrounded by combat coming from every radial of the compass. He glanced over at Linton, who was taller than Tackaberry by a few inches but was finally beginning to stoop as the years caught up with him.

“Leon, what the hell does ‘black don’t crack’ mean?”

Linton looked at him quizzically for a moment. “What?” Like himself, Linton carried a civilian AR-style rifle that was substantially more expensive than what the Army handed out. He had a bayonet affixed to it, and an elaborate Trijicon scope attached to the top rail. His fired 7.62-millimeter rounds, though. A real man-killer.

“You mentioned that to me a few years ago. Actually don’t know what it means,” Tackaberry said.

“Sir, you’re curious about that now?” Once they found themselves in a more realistic military setting, Linton had started referring to Tackaberry as “sir” or “colonel” as opposed to his first name, Kief. Old habits died hard, even in a former Air Force puke.

“I might not have the chance to ask ever again,” Tackaberry said.

Linton shook his head. “Sir, it means that us black folk don’t show off wrinkles and such like you white folks do.”

Tackaberry grunted. “That’s it?”

“That’s it, plain and simple. Sorry, no wonders of the world to reveal today, sir.”

“Well. I guess I can cross that one off the bucket list.”

Linton smiled vaguely beneath his thin white mustache. “You might want to think about tossing that list away, sir. Things aren’t ever going to be the same.”

“Leon, why the hell are you calling me sir all of a sudden?”

“You’d prefer cracker?”

“God damn, that hurt.”

Linton tried to smile again. “We’re in military mode, Colonel. You’re my CO, and this is how it’s done.”

“Even in the Air Farce?” Tackaberry said.

Linton snorted, the closest he would dare come to a laugh. “Even in the Air Force, sir.”

“Six, Haynes.” The voice came over the earbud Tackaberry had in his right ear. He reached for the radio clipped to the right side of his vest with his left hand. The fingers of his right hand remained wrapped around his rifle’s pistol grip. There was no way in hell he was going to let go of a firearm at a time like this.

“Haynes, send it.”

“We got movement out here, Six. A whole lot of movement.”

Linton gave Tackaberry a sidelong look as he pulled in his own rifle.

“Haynes, need more clarity on that. Over.”

“I’ll spell it out for you, Six. There’s a klown force coming right down One-Nineteen. Looks like a battalion or regiment-sized element, fully motorized, and they have armor. I say again, they have armor. Advance elements just rolled past us. You need to pass that on. Over.”

“Six. Just how far out did you guys go? You’re well outside the wire!”

“Needed to go deep to put some eyeballs on the road. I’m not close enough to make out the unit, but I think I saw a Five-Seven designation. We’re thinking they’re Seventh Cavalry. If these guys are Cav, then they’re local and they’re coming home. Over.”

“Are they klowns, Haynes? Over.”

“Yes, sir. Unless the US military has started chaining naked, bleeding people to the front of their vehicles, then I’d say these are klowns. Lots of trucks too, sir. And they’re playing music—‘When I See You Smile’ by Bad English, just in case you’re interested. Over.”

“What the fuck is that?” Tackaberry wondered aloud to Linton.

“Gotta love the klowns,” Linton said as he waved over some of the lightfighters manning a fighting position near them. “Twisted motherfuckers, but they do have an operational sense of humor. Shoulda been on Carson.”

TWENTY-THREE.

Lee looked up at Walker when the information was relayed to him. He was surprised the cavalry unit had gotten so close undetected, and then he remembered the Merlin’s sensors were still focused on the DIVARTY ASP. He ordered the asset released to wide-area surveillance; he had people at the ASP now and didn’t necessarily need to worry about keeping eyes on it all the time. As Walker relayed that to Florida, Lee turned back to the maps. The cavalry unit would pass very close to the battalion’s HQ. If they stopped to dismount their troops, there would be some friction.

“If they have armor, they’ll probably be going for the tank trails, sir,” Turner offered. He pointed at a spot on the map. “These actually go right by the ASP. Third ID has substantial defense in depth there, but they’re more organized against an infantry attack, not armor. We need to pass this on pronto.”

“Inform Raptor Six,” Lee ordered Walker. “Also, let’s get eyes on that area, but presume the Cav is operating under SOP. We’ve just seen the advance recon. The main body’s going to be a couple of miles back. Recommend to Raptor neutralization fires all along One-Nineteen, starting at the exchange with One-Four-Four. Launch Inveigle. Pause Desperado in preparation to tasking them to fall back to our position. We’ll need the guns if things get hot in our area.”

“What about Eyes, sir?” Walker asked.

“They need to extract Moreau ASAP and consolidate with Inveigle, then start heading back to us. The sooner the better. Covering fires from artillery would be convenient to have, but let’s presume Thunder is all we’ll get. Send an immediate pulse to Thunder Six.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

Lee turned to Turner. “Doug, get outside. We’re about to get danger close with the klowns. If we need to un-ass, I want you out there calling the shots. Stay plugged in to us here, but otherwise, you’re free to do whatever you see fit to keep the heat off us.”

Turner grunted, shoved himself to his feet, and snatched up his rifle. “About fucking time.”

TWENTY-FOUR.

Inveigle was a two-platoon element numbering almost eighty soldiers led by Captain Hank Caruthers, who was new to the battalion and had just finished his mountaineer training before the unit was rotated into Boston. First Sergeant Weide Zhu had grown to know him during the evolution of that engagement and found him to be generally unflappable and trustworthy. But he was a closed-off sort, not the kind of leader to give inspirational speeches or react to pressure by barking out orders and getting shit done. He was the sort who studied a situation and responded accordingly—essentially the kind of officer the Army liked. In fact, he reminded Zhu of his own father, an immigrant from mainland China who was slow to act and always measured in his response. Zhu was quite certain his father was dead now, or among the laughing throngs sweeping through Alhambra, California. Zhu viewed that philosophically. Yes, his father was possibly a murderous klown, but at least he was finally having a good time.

The problem with serving under Caruthers, filial similarities aside, was that engaging the klowns always resulted in shit flying off the rails. Caruthers would really need to step outside of his comfort zone to get things done and preserve as much of Inveigle as possible. As insurance this happened, Zhu had been detailed to Inveigle by Turner to ensure that when the shit hit the fan, the lightfighters had a steady advocate who had seen his share of shit. While Zhu’s public reputation was that of being a steady hand—he was a favorite of the troops—Turner was well aware the Chinese NCO could turn on the heat when things started to pop at the seams. Zhu and Turner had come up together. As entry-level grunts, they’d faced the heat, sand storms, and camel spiders in Desert Storm, but weren’t finally blooded until Restore Hope in Somalia. Between the two of them, they embodied half a century of military experience. While Turner was chained to Colonel Lee’s side, but he knew full well that an extremely senior NCO could make all the difference during an operation like Inveigle. And it wasn’t like Turner had to beg. Zhu was ready for doing more than checking up on the troops and acting as a chauffeur/bodyguard for the extraordinarily lame Major Walker.

Of course, meeting the klowns head-on wasn’t something he looked forward to. Or did he? Zhu had inherited a great deal of his father’s caution, and while the life of a professional soldier wasn’t without bucket loads of risk from time to time, he had managed those risks fairly adroitly over the course of his career. While he had been exposed to explosive, frenetic combat in the past, it wasn’t something he had courted in some years. But here he was, at what might very well be the end of the world, leaning forward in the foxhole and getting ready to spray hate at his enemies all day long. It wasn’t a hundred percent atypical for him, given his occupation, but that he found himself longing for it made Weide Zhu wonder just how much he had changed since getting the orders to deploy to Boston. The Chinese had a saying: Life is short and bitter. The phrase popped into his mind suddenly as he examined his rifle for the hundredth time. Despite his preparations, he had a sense of dread in the back of his mind. The adage might prove more correct than he had previously thought.

You’re fifty-one years old. For you, life might be bitter, but you cannot complain it was too short.

The plan called for Inveigle to attack a small assembly area at the southern edge of the base and hammer the shit out of it, then fade back and draw in more klowns to pursue them. Using battlefield deception tactics—basically running, hiding, firing, and running again—Inveigle would essentially make a lot of noise and do a token amount of damage, enough to keep the inflowing klown masses interested, but the lightfighters would not close and destroy. They were to avoid becoming decisively engaged, and instead filter to the southwest. Once they’d shaken the klowns, they would push overland back to where Desperado would hit the post, near where Eyes had gone in. The general assumption was the klowns would be easy to pull off target, and while they were combing the pine barrens to the south to search for Inveigle, the unit would instead go to ground and provide covering fires for Desperado’s retreat. Backed by Thunder’s mortar tubes—and, he hoped, some of the bigger guns he’d heard hammering away at the klowns from somewhere inside Fort Stewart proper—Zhu felt that Caruthers’s command might be successful in its mission.

But shit always blew up when the klowns entered the fray. They were fearless, still intelligent despite their disease, and as unpredictable as any foe in the history of combat.

Yes, life might be bitter, indeed.

When he advanced through the pine barrens with Caruthers and the advance team to reconnoiter their intended target—what appeared to be a rear area encampment where the klowns could rest and reconstitute after attacking the defenses around Fort Stewart—Zhu had his first inkling he might have misjudged the twenty-eight-year-old captain he was supporting.

It wasn’t a bivouac they were targeting.

It was a center of torture.

For fifteen minutes, Zhu and the rest of the advance team watched as klowns, decorated with everything from freshly hewn bone adornments, feathery scalps, and tribal tattoos to hundred-thousand-dollar diamonds, bespoke tailor-made suits, and Tag-Heuer watches, slowly turned captured civilians and military officers and soldiers into klowns. They did it in a variety of ways. They did it by pissing in their faces, by stabbing them with infected lances, by hurling offal into open wounds.

And most horrifyingly, they did it by rape.

First Sergeant Weide Zhu considered himself to be a very reasonable, well-ordered senior soldier of the United States Army. And so did everyone who had ever profiled him over the course of his career; one of the adjectives that usually came up was “level-headed.” While he had an emotional range just like any other man, Zhu had been able to tamp it down, secure it, and leave it tied up while he dealt with whatever crises had to be attended to. He would release the emotions later, usually alone or in the company of close friends and colleagues, where they could be reviewed when lives were no longer on the line and decisions had already been made. Four times in his past, Zhu had openly wept in front of men for whom he had nothing but the greatest of respect. And they had wept with him, for some of the things a man had to do in uniformed service was absolutely soul-crushing, and they could not withstand that final report out, where the actual human cost was accounted for.

Every man, woman, and child who was raped was savaged first, so that whatever canal was to receive their unholy seed was already torn and bleeding. Then the klowns would line up and fuck the hell out of their target, delivering payload after payload of infected semen. Some pleaded for their lives, but most fought, even the children. Neither tactic worked. Once the right viral density was arrived at, the laughter would commence. It would start as giggles at first, then outright, uproarious laughter, along with exhortations for the rapists to redouble their efforts and give their best.

I will never survive this, Zhu told himself.

“Mortars.” Caruthers was stone-faced as he watched these goings-on from the hide site the twelve-man advance team had carved out in the pine barrens. “We can use the mortars, neutralize all of them.”

“Fuck that, Captain,” said another soldier. “Call Wizard and have him put arty on target here. Wipe ’em all out. Fucking end this shit, right here, right now.”

“Yeah,” Caruthers said.

“Not...not our mission,” Zhu said. He had to struggle to get the words out.

“What?” Caruthers didn’t look at Zhu, but his tone told the NCO everything he needed to know. The company grade officer was scandalized by the dissent. “How can this not be our mission?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Zhu said, as a screaming preteen girl was brought into the zone and her clothes were ripped from her. Knives glittered in the Georgia sunlight as the klowns below set about their work, flaying, cutting, chipping at her most private of parts. “But it’s not the mission. We wipe them out, we accomplish nothing. We have to enrage them, bait them, bring them out of here to chase us.” He paused then to swallow what little spit was in his mouth. “We have to pull them away from here and give life to the rest of the plan, not try to save those we could never help anyway.”

“Are you fucking telling me we should turn away from this?” Caruthers snapped.

“I’m telling you we have a plan to put in motion, Captain,” Zhu responded. To his ears, his voice was rational, calm, completely controlled. It was in no way a mirror of what he felt. The desire to attack, to kill, to savage was so overwhelming he marveled at how well he was able to hide it. He looked over the klown breeding ground, and he found he was full of a despair so deep and so dark that he feared there was no way back. His sanity had been fractured, and while he might be able to tape it all back together later, there was no chance he would go back to whom he had been only fifteen minutes ago. He was damaged goods now. Section Eight Express all the way.

“The fuck you say,” Caruthers said. Zhu tore his eyes away from the blood-curdling vista below and looked at the officer. Caruthers’s own eyes were wide and full of fury, terror, and madness. He’d gone right off the deep end, and like Zhu, the ticket was one way.

“Captain, you have a mission,” Zhu reminded him, and he called forth the voice of a senior non-commissioned officer of the United States Army, the voice that fully indicated you did not fuck with an institution that had hundreds of years of heritage of service behind it. “If you fail here, you fail the men who depend on you, the men of the battalion, and the nation that expects you to defend it against all enemies.”

Caruthers turned and looked at Zhu then. He glared at him with wild eyes, then barked a short laugh. “Chinamen...always able to serve up lo mien, but never guts.” He reached over to the RTO lying beside him and snatched up the handset to the field radio. “Wizard, Inveigle Six. Fire mission for Thunder, unless you can get us access to bigger guns. Over.”

“Coward.” Zhu spat out the word like a curse. Without waiting for a response, he pushed himself to his knees and shouldered his M4. Before anyone in the advance team could do anything to stop him, his finger worked the trigger. He blasted three rounds into the klown that was currently victimizing the young girl, then lowered the barrel slightly and fired another three into the girl herself. He raised it then and capped off another three into the klown who had been supervising the insemination, blasting off his jaw and hopefully separating his C1 and C2 vertebrae, leaving him at best a paraplegic for life. All three lay motionless on the ground within three seconds, courtesy of 5.56-millimeter ball ammunition delivered from a weapon that had been chosen first for its low production cost, and secondly for its ability to shoot and hit a target reliably over five hundred meters of distance.

“What the fuck are you doing, First Sergeant?” Caruthers bellowed.

“Fulfilling mission requirements...you white piece of shit,” Zhu replied. “You are in charge of a military operation—complete it, Captain, and do it now!”

From the target area, a wave of laughter cascaded like a thundering waterfall. It was followed an instant later by a fusillade of bullets ripping through the pine trees. Zhu ripped off another three rounds and sent two infected to meet their maker.

Inveigle had executed phase one of their tasking. They had the klowns’ attention.

Now, they just had to survive it.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Her eyes were an interesting clear emerald in color. Not hazel, but actually pale green, as if they were actually contact lenses. There was no madness in those eyes, but there was certainly a sense of supreme detachment. No fear, despite the sounds of combat outside, the crackle of small arms, the roar of artillery. Her skin was pale but in a creamy sort of way that spoke of genetics and not a lack of sunlight. Her hair was a deep, dark brown, and she had it pulled back in a ponytail. The straight line of her nose and the fullness of her lips spoke of a link to old European aristocracy, and her brows were perfectly arranged, hovering over those arresting eyes like finely sculpted guardians. Her lips were full and inviting, and her body was trim and muscular while still entirely feminine in its presentation.

For a mass murderer, Cassidy thought, Doctor Courtney Moreau was absolutely hot as hell.

The ASP was indeed sectioned off into different areas where various types of ammunition were contained. In a far corner was a secondary storage area, essentially a bunker inside a bunker. This was where Colonel Barker’s tactical operations center had been set up. Beyond that was a single door guarded by three civilians. These were FBI agents, two men and one woman. They regarded Cassidy and his lightfighters with some caution; after all, new guests weren’t something they had grown accustomed to since commencing their stay at Fort Stewart.

Barker gave Cassidy access to the room, which was a small office consisting of a desk and two chairs. Inside was another female federal agent, who oversaw Doctor Moreau, the room’s second occupant, directly. With the two women, Cassidy, and Barker now standing in the office, space was at a premium. For a moment, Moreau and Cassidy simply regarded each other, and Cassidy knew she was sizing him up the same way he had done her.

“Doctor Moreau?” Cassidy said finally. “Courtney Moreau?”

“You must know who I am,” she said, and her voice was small and kind of breathy, like an affectation of some sort. It reminded him of the singer Jewel’s, from the 1990s.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re going to take you out of here.”

“What?” asked one of the FBI agents from his position at the doorway, an older man in his late forties with a receding hairline and lantern chin. His hair was going silver at the temples.

“Lieutenant Cassidy has orders to remove this woman from this installation,” Barker said.

“Orders from whom?” the agent asked. “I haven’t heard anything—”

“Anyone in your chain of command still alive?” Boats asked. He stood right behind the agent in the doorway. A dark bruise was beginning to form on his face, courtesy of Muldoon’s ministrations during the team’s security check-in.

“Who the fuck are you?” the agent shot back over his shoulder.

“This discussion is over,” Barker snapped. “The order comes from General Reynolds, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Moreau is out of here.” He glared at the senior FBI man. “You can try and fight us on this, of course. But you’ll last about two seconds, and you’ll be the first to die.”

The FBI agent glared at Barker. “You can’t be serious.”

Barker said nothing, just returned the man’s glare.

“Where are you taking me?” Moreau asked Cassidy.

“To my unit commander,” Cassidy said, “and then overland to another destination.” That was about as much as he could tell her. The truth of the matter was, he didn’t know where she would wind up, and he didn’t much care.

A soldier pushed his way past Muldoon and Boats and called into the room. “Colonel, we need you out here!”

“What is it, Tomlin?” Barker asked.

“Getting a pulse from Wizard, sir. Armored unit rolling up near their pos, and Wizard needs to talk to you about putting up some steel rain.”

Barker nodded and looked back at Cassidy. “Lieutenant, you and Moreau get better acquainted for a moment. Looks like we have to hit the pause button right now, but I’ll be back. Any issues with the FBI, let me know—my people will handle them.” With that, Barker shoved his way out of the room, herding the older FBI agent out ahead of him.

“You can’t just remove her,” the man said.

“The hell we can’t,” Barker said. “This is still a military reservation, I can do whatever the fuck I want! Your service is respected, but is now concluded—this woman is Lieutenant Cassidy’s problem now, not yours!”

The FBI agent was outraged. He pointed a bony finger at Cassidy. “This guy is like twenty-three-years old!”

“And he’s a commissioned officer in the United States Army. Discussion ended, Special Agent Travis. Your time is up.”

The two men took it outside, and Cassidy turned to the female agent who apparently served as Moreau’s guard. She was a portly, middle-aged woman in a dirty pant suit and battered leather low-rise shoes. Her face was sallow and lined, devoid of a trace of makeup. Cassidy was frankly less interested in her physical appearance than he was in the Glock 19 in a holster at her side.

“Ma’am, are you going to give me any trouble here?” Cassidy asked her.

She snorted and pointedly looked at his M4. “I think you have me beat in the trouble department, Lieutenant. You want to move her out of here? Be my guest.”

“Lillian doesn’t like me very much,” Moreau said, and there was a smirk in her soft voice.

“I tend to dislike mass murderers,” the FBI agent replied, and there was no shortage of hate in her eyes. “I’m just disappointed I can’t be the one who executes you.”

Cassidy didn’t like that. “Yeah, okay. First Sergeant, remove this lady for me?”

“Out,” Boats told the woman. “Rawlings and Campbell will take over for you, if we have to worry about being politically correct and wring our hands over a female prisoner being alone with a man.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you people do to her,” the FBI woman said. “Just make sure it hurts like hell. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI is done with her.”

“Trust me, I’ll make the bitch scream,” Campbell said.

“Just send in Rawlings,” Cassidy said. He didn’t know Campbell at all well, but she looked ready to go active right then and there. He didn’t need to expend any more energy defusing another confrontation.

“No, I’m good,” Campbell said. Light glinted off the braces on her lower teeth.

“Another time, princess. Another time,” Boats said, glaring at the short Guardsman. “For now, you just stand ready to support the LT...from out here, with the rest of us.” With that he reached over and grabbed the agent’s arm and steered her out of the room. “Muldoon, your post is here in front of the door. No one in, no one out.”

“Got it, First Sergeant,” Muldoon said. As soon as Boats had removed the female agent from the room, Muldoon motioned Rawlings inside and closed the door behind her. Rawlings looked at Cassidy, then at Moreau.

“You good with this duty, Rawlings?” Cassidy asked.

“No problems here, sir.” She looked at Moreau with an emotionless gaze, and Cassidy figured that was about as good as it was going to get. So long as she wasn’t going to open up on full auto, all would be well. He turned back to Moreau, who stood in front of the desk watching him.

“Have a seat, Doctor,” Cassidy told her.

Moreau sat obediently enough behind the desk and folded her hands before her. “So what does your general want with me?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself when you see him.”

“Will he plead with me to help him, I wonder?”

Cassidy sighed. “I don’t know, ma’am. Can you help?”

“Can I? Maybe. Will I? I doubt that.” Moreau gave him a small, shy smile. “I mean, I played a role in all of this, after all. It’d be a shame to try and roll it back now, after we’ve made so much progress.”

“Why did you do it?” Rawlings asked.

Cassidy held up a hand. “Rawlings, no. We don’t need to go there.”

“Why not?” Moreau asked. “You deserve some answers, after all. Don’t you? Aren’t you at all curious, Lieutenant? Or was Einstein right about a soldier only needing a backbone to go about his work?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything you could tell us that we don’t already know,” Cassidy said. “Save it for General Reynolds, ma’am. We’re not interested.”

Moreau turned back to Rawlings. “But you are, aren’t you?”

“You have things to say, go ahead and say them,” Rawlings told her. “We’re not going anywhere for the time being.”

Moreau looked at Cassidy, who just shrugged and sighed again. She seemed pleased to have an audience, and Cassidy had no doubt the agent who’d been babysitting her was even less thrilled to hear the woman talk than Cassidy himself was.

“As a people, as a society, as a species, we’re sick,” Moreau said. “All of us. We’re destroying ourselves. Every day, we kill off more of our own kind than any predator that’s come before us. Governments do it. Police do it. People do it.”

“People lives matter, right?” Cassidy tried hard not to roll his eyes. He didn’t want to hear this shit. He was a millennial too, but the last thing he wanted to die listening to was some over-entitled anarchist going on and on about how sick society was.

“Not anymore,” Moreau said with a smile. “Myself and my colleagues, we decided to take things into our own hands. We were already working on a bug for the government, for people like you to use against an enemy. Who would it have been? The Palestinians, maybe? Iran? Maybe even finally Russia?”

Cassidy shrugged. “Got me.”

“You decided to release something like this that causes infinitely more death than anything we could have done to ourselves?” Rawlings asked.

Moreau nodded. “The planet deserves something better than us, Sergeant. Something that’s more durable but less self-interested. But we didn’t really cause anything to happen, we just removed the roadblocks that stood in the way. At their core, everyone likes to kill. It makes us happy. So we just found a way to combine the two by introducing a microorganism that could remap neural pathways. Bypass the censors thousands of years of breeding and theology and society have put in place, and voila! we’re all ready to go back to the Dark Ages. Problems solved.”

“As if there would be anyone left, you stupid bitch,” Rawlings said, and there was more than a little snarl in her voice.

“Oh, but there would be,” Moreau said, her tone earnest in counterpoint to the hard-edged hostility Rawlings had offered. “People would still carry on. Much, much smaller numbers—a few hundred thousand, at most. Sustainable, and the virus would prevent overbreeding. You see, the people of the future will be able to cull their own. None of that pesky morality and self-involved grandeur like what we have today. No one will be convinced of their own superiority. Because the second they do, they’ll be hacked to pieces.” As she spoke, a smile so lovely it was almost beatific spread across the woman’s face.

This lady’s off her fucking rocker, Cassidy told himself.

“That means you too, asshole,” Rawlings said. “Maybe we should give you the plague, watch you giggle as you shit yourself and carve an old boyfriend’s name into your own forehead.”

“Won’t work,” Moreau said. “I was one of the first people exposed to it.”

Cassidy raised his rifle so fast it was like he was a spring-loaded toy. Rawlings did as well. Moreau smiled again and slowly raised her hands.

“I was the first exposed to the final viral specimen that was released,” Moreau said, “but only after we’d exposed a dozen others, and then developed a vaccine from their blood. After a few trials, I was the one chosen to receive what we felt was the antigen that would have the most potential to counter the virus itself.”

“So you’re not infected?” Cassidy asked. As he held his rifle on her, he began to wonder if he could possibly slip on his mask in time before she did something crazy, like spit in his face. He didn’t doubt for an instant she wasn’t a carrier of some sort, and here he was, duped into close-quarters proximity.

“No. My body produces the antibodies necessary to keep me safe from the primary effects of the virus. Don’t get me wrong—it’s made me freer than I ever was before. It still produces some effects, in that I don’t have to put everything through a bullshit filter. I can kill people without feeling a thing, if I wanted to.” Moreau smiled that lovely smile of hers again. “And I’m not afraid of being killed, either. It’s liberating.”

“Rawlings, mask up,” Cassidy said.

“Not a chance I’m taking a rifle off this nut job,” Rawlings said.

“Then get out of here. Send in Muldoon.”

“Cassidy, what the fuck for?”

“Because I need someone in full MOPP while I tie this murdering whore up like a pig,” Cassidy said. “And just in case she manages to infect me, I’m going to need someone to pop a round into my brain and pick up where I left off.”

Moreau sighed and shrugged. “Didn’t I just tell you I’m not infected? Did you not hear me?”

“Yeah, you mentioned that, right after describing how you and your buddies willingly engineered a virus that’s going to eventually wipe out the human race as we know it. I got it all very, very clearly.” Cassidy glared at her for a long moment. “Rawlings, you in or you out?”

“In,” Rawlings said, and she slowly lowered her rifle and reached for the face mask hanging in its pouch from her belt. “Yeah. Like totally in.”

“Now I know why Reynolds wants you,” Cassidy said as Rawlings went to work.

Moreau shrugged again. “Possibly. Aren’t you curious how he came to know I’ve been vaccinated?”

“A fantastic question I’ll be sure to ask when I see him,” Cassidy said. “Now why don’t you be a good lunatic and put your hands flat on the desk?” Cassidy was thinking he still had zip ties in his ruck, from when they’d been on duty in Boston and had used them to restrain people before they’d fully figured out what was going on. He would be able to hogtie Moreau pretty effectively that way, and then figure out a way to gag her so she couldn’t spit or bite or puke on someone and turn them into a giggling demon thirsty for blood.

“We knew the military would be a problem, even though they’re the ones who started this off,” Moreau continued as she put her hands palm-down on the desk. “So this was only phase one. The first release was in Denver, and the second was in Memphis. Two simultaneous releases that would confuse the federal government while the state and local authorities were left wrestling with something they could never control. Then Boston and New York, then finally DC and Los Angeles. We didn’t need to spread it any farther, because the hosts would wind up as transmission vectors all by themselves.”

“So what’s phase two?” Rawlings asked as she secured her mask. From the corner of his eye, Cassidy saw her take in a deep breath and pull her mask over her head and secure it, establishing an airtight seal. At the same time, he ferreted out a wrist-tie from his ruck and slapped it around her wrists.

“We had a version of the virus that’s smaller,” Moreau said, turning to watch Rawlings suit up. “The original primary is seventeen nanometers in size. The capsids for phase two are only ten capsids in size, but have all the nucleotides of the first. So smaller, just as effective, but takes longer to grow and cultivate. That’s why we used two phases. Ideally, we would have used the second phase entirely, but there just wasn’t enough to go around.”

“What’s the difference in size have to do with anything?” Cassidy asked.

Moreau smiled radiantly. “Ten capsids can get through the filters of your protective gear,” she said. “It’s only ten times larger than a hydrogen molecule, so there’s not a portable filter out there that can hold it back.” She nodded toward Rawlings. “What she’s putting on now is a lot like closing the screen door on a submarine.”

Cassidy’s mouth went dry. “How is it delivered?” he said, his voice a robotic monotone.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Moreau told him. “You’ll definitely see.”

TWENTY-SIX.

“Dismounts in the barrens. Estimated size, sixty to seventy-five. They’re running screens on both sides of the road—have to assume an equal number of combatants on the other side of the approach.” Haynes’s report was delivered calmly and without a hitch. “We’ll give them a speed bump, but these people aren’t going to be bothered much by a few troops sending ordnance downrange. You definitely need to get the TOC and headquarters company relocated, Six.”

For the first time in years, Tackaberry was caught flat-footed. The finality of his friend’s transmission was obvious. If the klowns were coming through the thickets and brambles and wiregrass on foot, then they knew something was up. While the armored cav guys might be infected, laughing lunatics looking to get their kill on, they hadn’t forgotten their basic mission. They were cavalry. They were scouting.

The wiregrass...

“Haynes, lie low,” Tackaberry said. “Lie low and let them pass you by!” As he spoke, he spun around to look for Linton. The old Air Force NCO had heard the report, and he shot Tackaberry a thumbs-up as he relayed the information to the lightfighters in the fighting position he was talking to.

“We can hold them up, Six. Maybe not for long, but we can give them something to think about. Over.”

“Negative—you’ll get yourselves killed. Find a place, lie low, cover up and wait—”

“Six, they’re going to be at your pos in ten minutes. Don’t worry about us. Get yourselves out of the danger close zone. This is a no bullshit situation, Colonel—even an Army rag like yourself has to know that. Over.”

“God damn it, Haynes, I know it!” Tackaberry snapped. “Go to ground, cover up, and hit these fuckers in the ass when I tell you to! That is a direct order! Do what I tell you, and you can fold up their advance! Over!”

There was a brief pause, and then: “Roger that, Six. Just so happens Esposito found a nice hide site. Going for it. Will update as soon as we can. If you hear a bunch of gunfire, it’ll probably be us and they have us. Over.”

“Roger. Break. Seven, you got that?” Tackaberry said, transmitting to Linton.

“Six, this is Seven. Got it all. Relaying now. Over.”

“All Geezers, this is Six. Come back in right now. Fall back inside the wire. Fall back, fall back, fall back!” Tackaberry was surprised to find he was suddenly having difficulty breathing. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath was running short. Now would be a hell of a time to have a heart attack.

You wanted this, now deal with it, he told himself. It’s just a fucking panic attack, you old fool.

“Six, this is Waltrip. We’re not going to leave Haynes and his guys out here alone.” Waltrip was a veteran Navy guy, one of the progenitors of the SEALs, back when they were simply called Underwater Demolitions Teams. “You’re going to need a couple of dimensions to the firefight. I can guarantee you at least two of ’em. Over.”

Tackaberry was beside himself. “Wally, what the fuck? Direct order, come back in!”

“Yeah, negative—in real life, Navy beats the shit out of Army in football, so I’m taking my cues from that. I’ll have my two guys go to ground and cover up, and if we can figure out the pattern of advance we’ll adjust to provide harassment fire. I’ll go high and keep an eye on things. Over.”

Tackaberry was nonplussed. “Go high? What, you’re going to light a joint? Over.”

“Climbing a tree, Six—climbing a tree. Have to get up high to see what’s going on. Even a grunt should know the value of the high ground.”

Tackaberry was taken aback, trying to picture a seventy-year-old man scaling a pine tree just so he could get a birds-eye view of an enemy recon force pushing into the zone. He was at once flabbergasted and swelling with pride. These were men who were considered historical artifacts, relegated to society’s distant memory. An inconvenience to their families, an embarrassing cue to the young of what lay in store for them one day. But here he was, septuagenarian CPO3 John Waltrip, USN Retired, Vietnam veteran and a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club, scaling a tree so he could go eyes-on an enemy advance...at seventy years of age.

What a man, Tackaberry thought. Who knew such courage existed in the Navy.

“Wally, you get caught in a tree, you’re a dead man,” he said. “Japs tried that in World War II. They got killed every time. Over.”

“I’m seventy and Charlie’s Angels went off the air in 1981, Six. What have I got to live for, really?” As he spoke, Tackaberry heard the old Navy NCO grunting with exertion. Was he really climbing a tree? Really?

“Let me know when you’re in position, and make sure your guys are secure,” Tackaberry said. He saw someone emerge from the TOC rig, look around the area, and zero in on Tackaberry. He recognized the slab-sided shape of Command Sergeant Major Turner, and marveled at how fast Turner could move as he ran directly toward him.

Ah, to be young again, he thought, even though Turner had to be around fifty.

“Roger that, Six,” Waltrip replied. “Can tell you now, have eyes on forty-plus bad guys. All in uniform to one degree or another, providing you call extra body parts uniform. It’s going to be a messy party. Over.”

“Roger,” Tackaberry said as Turner pounded up, encased in what looked to be an extra hundred pounds of gear. “Sarmajor, how’s it hanging?”

“The usual, fourteen inches limp,” Turner said, and without being out of breath at that. “Status of your teams, sir?”

“Most are falling back inside the wire, have two hanging tough to provide intel on enemy movements,” Tackaberry said. “As far as we can tell, they don’t know we’re here, but there’s about seventy enemy coming in through the pine barrens. Maybe they’re blind and they’ll miss us, but I doubt it. Can you dial in arty fires?”

“Hooah, sir. But they’re already refocusing on the main element. They’re shifting around some units, but we don’t have a response timeline yet. We can get mortars on line in two minutes, as soon as Colonel Lee coordinates the shift.”

Tackaberry spread his hands. “Meaningless to me, Turner—have no idea what the mortar team’s original tasking is. What does Lee need to know in order to facilitate that? Got seventy klowns inbound and the only thing between them and us are six old men. Maybe you can expedite that shit, huh?”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” Turner said. “How far out are they?”

“Half a mile, tops,” Tackaberry said. “We need to give them a little surprise, Sarmajor. And in a hurry.”

“Already arranged, sir.” And no sooner had the words left Turner’s mouth, Tackaberry heard the shriek of banshees. Artillery rounds zooming past overhead, at less than four hundred meters altitude. That he could hear them told him two things: one, they had already flown past, as they flew faster than the speed of sound. Two, the breech creatures crewing the guns had put quarters in each shell’s fuse housing—a little special something to strike fear in the hearts of those who had advanced beyond the arty fire’s engagement radius. Under normal circumstances, it would have worked. But for the klowns?

It would just make them laugh.

“Those rounds are too fucking high!” Tackaberry said. The explosions came an instant later, great thunder that struck him in the chest like a physical blow. Artillery, doing its job, making things far away blow up.

“That’s because we didn’t want to turn your old guys outside the wire into explody-dopes,” Turner said. “I mean, listen, we took your team’s best interests to heart here, Colonel.”

Tackaberry reached for his radio transceiver. “Haynes, call the BDA!”

“Six, BDA appears to be effective at the longer range,” came the immediate response. “I can see fire and smoke now, looks like the cav’s main body took the strike right on the chin”—more rounds screamed past overhead, and again, they were too high for Tackaberry’s liking but he couldn’t call in to adjust fire—“and yeah, that last salvo probably rang their bells pretty good. But the dismounts are pushing forward. You guys are going to be danger close in about three minutes. Over.”

“All Geezers, fall back right now,” Tackaberry said. “Haynes, that means you too.”

“No can do, Six. Already danger close. Besides, you know the Aerosmith song...‘Haynesie Has a Gun.’”

“Haynes!” Tackaberry fairly shouted, but it was too late. As another salvo of artillery rounds screamed past overhead, he heard an eruption of small arms fire somewhere in the forest. And mixed in with it was the heavy bam-bam-bam of Haynes’s 7.62-millimeter rifle. The gunfire reached a fever pitch before the explosions from the artillery barrage drowned it out. Downrange, several of his men emerged from the forest, their faces long and grim. The hammer was swinging their way, and they knew it.

“You have something to report here, sir?” Turner asked as Linton hurried over.

“Got a ground element heading our way. I have six or seven guys in a stand-up with them now, but they’re not going to last long,” Tackaberry told him. “We’ll never get out of here in time, so you’d better get ready to fight a bit, Sarmajor.”

Turner grinned. “Hell, sir. Fighting is what I’m all about.” He turned away and started speaking into his Peltor headset’s boom microphone, relaying the information to Wizard. As he spoke, the troops manning the fighting positions came alive. A tri-barrelled GAU-19 in a Humvee’s cupola opened up, sending a fusillade of fifty-caliber fire ripping through the trees. At first, Tackaberry was afraid his men were the ones taking fire. Then he saw the shapes struggling against the big machine gun’s fire. They were all in various stages of undress, and were rolling up already mutilated in some tribal fashion that he frankly found horrifying. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and added his own fires to the conflagration, even though they were ridiculously puny compared to what the lightfighter in the Humvee was pumping out. It was stupid, standing out in the open and firing on inbound goblins, but he was too far away from any credible cover, and his only thought was to give Turner some protection while the burly command sergeant major made his report. He dropped a klown as she blundered out of the brush, holding a machete high above her head while releasing an ululating scream, her pale eyes standing out in stark contrast against the dried blood that had been smeared across her entire face. One of his rounds slammed right into her forehead, causing her to drop like a sack of wheat in midstep.

Then a hand clamped onto his shoulder and pulled him away. It was Linton, holding his big man-killer AR in his right hand while pulling Tackaberry away with his left. His dark skin was wet with perspiration, and his eyes were wide as he tried to look everywhere at once, head on a swivel.

“We got to get under some cover, Colonel!” he shouted. “Sarmajor, come with us!”

Turner continued speaking into his microphone as he followed, pausing only to drill six rounds into the pine barrens. Two figures fell, Tackaberry saw. Then bullets began ripping past him, snapping like firecrackers. He heard them slapping into the Humvee where the gunner was still ripping away with the GAU-19. Tackaberry stopped looking and began running along with Linton.

It was going to be a long day.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

“Okay, everyone out!” Lee ordered as he swept up his rifle. “Get your MOPP gear on and get ready for actual fighting!”

“Sir?” Walker looked over from his station, the shock evident on his face.

“Major, I’ll need you to stay with the command and control net, and relay information to Raptor,” Lee said as he pulled on his MOPP overgarment. He already had the trousers on, as all the troops did, so all he needed to do was mount the overgarment over his trunk, slip on the mask, and pull on the hood. “Get to one of the fighting positions and set up there, preferably one that’s farthest away from the klowns. Once I identify the numbers we’re dealing with, I’ll pass on additional instructions. For now, the revised plan remains in place: Inveigle and Desperado link up to provide protection in force for Eyes as they extract the target. Thunder remains in place to cover their retreat. Once that’s done, we’re on the road. Clear?”

“Clear, sir,” Walker said, and Lee saw the fear in his eyes. Even after all this time on the road running and gunning, Walker hadn’t been able to rid himself of the pucker factor. The actual mission of an infantryman terrified him, and Lee found it disgusting.

A bullet ripped through the TOC then, perforating one wall and pancaking against the interior side of the other. One of the NCOs manning the battalion net radios ducked in response, swearing as he fumbled with his own gear.

“Get out, guys,” Lee said. “This truck’s going to become a ballistics magnet once the klowns get on-station, so you need to un-ass ASAP. Walker, take who you need to keep things running on your end.”

“Where are you heading, sir?” Walker asked as he wrestled with his own overgarment.

Lee checked the map outlining their defensive positions. “I’ll be with Murphy and the boys, of course,” he said. “Tell Turner to meet me there after you’re in position.”

“Roger that, Colonel,” Walker said, his voice muffled as he shrugged his way into his MOPP IV overgarment. Lee took a breath and pulled on his mask and tightened the straps. Once it was fully sealed, he tugged the hood over his head and hit the door.

The sky was beginning to cloud over, he saw as he emerged from the tactical operations center. There was firing already underway, though it was sporadic; that told him the leading edge of the klown advance had found them, but the main body wasn’t on station just yet. Good. The battalion still had some time.

He ran across the field where the headquarters company was encamped. Men and women were fully manned up and moving this way and that, carrying rifles. Everyone knew what was about to go down, and they were scrambling to get into their positions. The threat was approaching from due west. That made it easy, but it would have been easier if they’d stuck to the road—that way, the headquarters company could chop them up into pieces. Everyone wore MOPP, even the civilians overseen by Tackaberry. That was encouraging; it minimized the chances of a klown biological attack being successful. The last thing Lee wanted to deal with was his own troops turning against him.

He found the fighting position manned by Murphy, Foster, and Sienkiewicz a moment later. The emplacement commander was Sergeant First Class McAllister, an NCO Lee knew had already been battle-hardened before the emergency that had called the Tenth Mountain to Boston. Dressed in full-on MOPP, it took a moment for the soldiers manning the position to figure out who was dropping in to pay them a visit, but when they did, there was no little amount of shock passing between the men.

“So Colonel, just to set the record straight—are you being a captain now?” McAllister asked. He manned a SAW, and before Lee could answer he ripped off a burst into the trees, slashing away at the figures that ran through the brush, laughing and cavorting as if they were rolling up on a birthday party.

“We need everyone on a rifle, McAllister,” Lee said. He hated how the mask muffled his voice, and how the hood made hearing difficult. “How many are we looking at?”

“Overstrength platoon element so far, and they’re not doing so well,” McAllister said. “Figure there’s more on the back end, though.” As he spoke, another dose of the steel rain roared past overhead. Explosions rocked the near distance a moment later, and Lee saw pillars of black smoke and bright sparks rising into the growing gloom.

“Arty’s driving them off the road and into the trees,” McAllister continued. “Gonna be a bit of a ball-buster in just a bit, sir.”

“Aw hey, Foster! You’re in luck!” Murphy said while manning his M4. “You don’t have balls, so you’ll get a free pass!”

“It’s all right, your sister’s a lesbian and she goes down on me every night,” Foster shot back.

“That was his sister? Man, I know the women in Murphy’s family are ugly, but I coulda sworn that was his dad going down on you, dude,” Sienkiewicz said.

Foster shook his head. “I’m about to die, and to think that’s going to be the last thing I heard.”

“Nah, it’ll be this,” Murphy said. He then ripped off a long, loud fart.

“Well. Thank God for MOPP,” Lee said, “though that’ll probably be the last time I say that.”

The fighting position wasn’t much—a couple of layers of hastily filled sandbags, some razor wire, and tanglefoot wire hurled out ahead of it. There was precious little in the way of natural formations to use to mask the emplacement’s position; it was essentially just a sandbagged revetment in a clearing. Grenade sumps had been dug, which would theoretically allow for any enemy grenades to roll away from the troops manning the position and fall into holes two feet deep. The grenades would still detonate, but at the bottoms of the holes, which while noisy would spare the men. Vehicles were in overwatch positions with mounted weapons, and those could be surged forward to add suppressive or concentration fire as required. Both Murphy and Foster had M203 grenade launchers attached to their rifles, so they could hit the approaching enemy with indirect fires. McAllister had dug out a position for his SAW’s bipod, so he could more easily fire to both the front and oblique positions. Essentially, the fighting position was Army basic, and it would have to do.

More shapes poured through the forest approximately three hundred yards from the fighting position. They didn’t try to hide, didn’t try to execute any particular envelopment procedures—they just charged headlong toward the clearing where the company was set up, firing on the move, cackling and jeering and whooping it up as if they were bursting onto the biggest Mardis Gras party of all time. McAllister’s SAW spat expended cartridges as he opened up, chopping down attackers before they cleared the tree line. The klowns fell, writhing and laughing even as they choked on their own blood. One of them actually exploded as she dropped over a hand grenade she’d been intending to hurl at the fighting position. Body parts flew through the air.

“Damn, McAllister! Great shooting!” Foster said.

“Hell, watch this!” Murphy said. He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger on the M203 mounted below the barrel. The forty-millimeter projectile left the launcher with a sharp clap, arced across the field, and impacted somewhere inside the barrens. The explosion was like a thunderburst, and more klowns went down, screaming with pain-fueled laughter. Just the same, more gunfire rippled from the pine barrens, and soon rounds were slapping into the sandbags encircling the fighting position.

“Wizard Five, this is Six.” Lee pulled in his rifle and pushed himself up, targeting a crazy wearing full body armor. HERE TO MAKE YOU BLEED was written across the front of his armor in blood. He wore a necklace of ears, and a crest of severed fingers had been attached to his helmet. Lee fired a single shot in his face. The klown’s head snapped back and he fell forward onto his face. All his armor hadn’t saved him from a perfectly aimed shot.

“Six, this is Five. Uh, go ahead and, ah, send it. Over,” came the response. Walker’s voice was muffled, and he sounded out of breath.

“Need to know you’re set up and operational, Five,” Lee said. He sighted on another target and brought it down. McAllister’s SAW hurled out another blast, then stopped. Lee liked that. Even now, after seeing and causing so much death himself, he still felt a sense of satisfaction every time a klown went down with a sucking chest wound or a burst of bullets to the face. To Lee, they were irredeemable. Devoid of humanity. There was nothing of the original person left behind, only an animatronic ghoul filled with laughter and a thirst for murder.

McAllister grabbed for one of the magazine boxes lying beside him. He was already surrounded by expended cartridges, and they clinked beneath his body as he moved. He slapped the fresh box into the SAW’s magazine well, hit the rearm switch, and was back on the firing lane in less than three seconds. Lee was impressed. Foster was up and at it again, while Murphy slid a fresh forty-millimeter grenade into the M203’s breech.

“Six, this is Five. I, uh, we need another couple of minutes. We’re close. Over.”

“Five, need you to establish commo with Raptor as soon as possible,” Lee transmitted back. “Advise when that’s been done. Over.”

“Roger, Six.”

Lee got back on his rifle and popped another klown. This one was in full military battle rattle, and on top of that, MOPP. He didn’t hesitate. There was virtually no way one of his own men could be in the middle of that pack of killers, and he knew it was a ruse. The klowns were crazy, but they weren’t stupid. While they’d run right into zeroed machine-gun fire on occasion, tittering away merrily as they were blasted into bloody ribbons, there was no chance the enemy would remain forever convinced of its invulnerability. They were adapting, resorting to the tactics of deception and force protection they had known before they went over the fence and landed in the middle of Crazyville. From his left, heavier-caliber gunfire rang out. Lee risked a glance over his left shoulder and saw a clutch of men in a mixed melange of civilian duds and tactical gear. Tackaberry’s Geezers. They were spraying hate downrange, and a lot of the oldsters slung 7.62-millimeter weapons. They had attached themselves to another fighting position, and they were giving the klowns all the what-for they could. Someone broke away from that position and came pounding over on legs the size of tree stumps. Despite the MOPP gear, Lee had no problem telling who it was. Command Sergeant Major Doug Turner, at long last off the leash and in his environment.

Turner crashed into the emplacement behind Lee and hauled himself forward on knees and elbows. “Colonel?”

“It’s me, Doug. Go ahead,” Lee said as he rose up and resumed firing.

“Listen, sir. Those old guys, they still have troops out past the forward line. They’re reporting seventy-plus klowns rolling up on us, most infected military. I really need you to shift Thunder’s fires our way, at least for one or two volleys.”

“Have Tackaberry’s people relay the grid,” Lee said.

“Tall order, sir. We didn’t issue them comms gear. Has to be relayed.”

Lee continued firing. “Then relay the grid, Sarmajor!” he shouted. “Have Tackaberry contact someone out front and tell us where to put the rounds!”

“Sir, those guys don’t have maps—they’re flying by the seats of their pants. I know they’ve got skills and all, but I kinda doubt they can quarterback indirect fire and not take some hits themselves.”

“They went out there,” Lee said. He kept firing, not pausing in his defense of the engagement area. “They’re going to have to take their lumps with the rest of us. If they can’t do that, have Tackaberry pull them back as fast as he can. Seventy infected is a lot for us to hold back without indirect fires. You get me?”

“I get you, sir. Will see what can be done. I have to know, since I’ll be asked—what if those guys are cut off?”

“Then they can choose to die like men or like laughing klowns,” Lee said without hesitation. “That’s the best I can do, Turner.”

“Roger that, sir. Roger that.”

Over the crackle of small arms fire and the thump of grenades, Lee heard something else stirring in the distance. Splintering wood, rock being crushed, a high-pitched turbine whine. He moved to the front of the fighting position and looked into the pine barrens beyond. The klowns were still coming, but there was something else stirring in the distance. As he watched, a tree shuddered, then fell forward as something monstrous shoved up against it.

An M1A2 Abrams battle tank. And beyond it was another. And another. And yet one more.

“Get the trucks out!” he shouted to Turner. “Move the vehicles to the far edge of the clearing and get them ready to roll! Then get that information from Tackaberry’s guys immediately!”

TWENTY-EIGHT.

The operation was working, First Sergeant Weide Zhu decided. The klowns couldn’t contain themselves; as soon as he’d opened up with his lone rifle, raking the insane creatures below with bursts of fire, they’d immediately stopped doing what they were doing and rallied to attack. That only one weapon had fired was of little importance. The response was almost Pavlovian. Uninfected were in the area, and even if it was just one man, all the klowns had to respond.

They charged in Inveigle’s general direction, a pulsating mass of semi-dressed madness moving like one gigantic organism. Zhu egged them on, firing from a defilade position, dropping two, then three, then four and five klowns leading the advance in rapid succession. As the corpses fell to the ground, the rest of the horde surged forward. They rolled right over their fallen brethren without even thinking to stop and offer aid.

And that was when Inveigle’s mission succeeded.

“Open fire!” Caruthers shouted, almost on the border of panic. “Fucking fire, you damn gorillas!” Obeying his own order, he shouldered his rifle and opened up, tearing into the front of the approaching enemy on full auto, blasting through a magazine in less than three seconds.

Thirty other rifles opened up then, and the thunder of the retorts slashed through the pine barrens. Birds exploded into the air, taking wing at violence’s sudden volume. More klowns fell, kicking, writhing, and laughing explosively as a storm of 5.56-millimeter rounds struck them almost instantaneously. In a matter of seconds, forty enemy had been dropped, and the sheer mass of the bodies caused the remaining force to temporarily bottleneck. Laughing and cackling, the klowns continued surging forward, picking their way over the wounded and the dead. They started firing back now, and in the trees beyond the torture area, Zhu saw more shapes streaming into the engagement area.

Caruthers called for grenade fire before Zhu could, which was a great sign—he was over the initial shock and was leaning forward into battle. From various points around Inveigle’s firing line, the claps of M203 grenade launchers sounded. A moment later, the klowns were treated to a storm of forty-millimeter grenades landing in their midst. Most were concentrated on the enemy’s advancing line, but several went deep, causing some confusion as well as welcome fatalities. That there were uninfected in that zone was something that would cause Zhu concern only after the fighting was over, presuming he survived it. At this point, the civilians and soldiers who were in the process of being turned could only hope for a speedy death, and if Inveigle’s fires provided that, then it would be a good day. There was no chance of rescuing them, and even if Inveigle could somehow conduct such an action, there would be no way of keeping them whole long enough to evacuate them to a safe area. And judging by the continuous din deeper inside the post, death was everywhere.

That was underscored when a battered Humvee decorated with severed heads rolled into the engagement area, sporting a fifty-caliber machine gun in its cupola. Zhu shouted a warning that was mostly lost in the gunfire, then had to duck as big, heavy rounds ripped right across his position. The soldier to his left virtually exploded as he caught two or three bullets that were a half-inch wide and almost three inches long in his upper body. His chest protector did nothing to save him, nor did the layers of MOPP gear. The soldier collapsed into a disjointed mess, his left arm separated at the shoulder.

“Enemy Humvee, two hundred meters in the clear!” Zhu shouted. “Rocket! Rocket!” As he bellowed out the command, hoping his voice could be heard over the crash of combat and through the damned mask he wore, Zhu pushed himself up, pulled his rifle in tight, and started hosing the vehicle. There was little chance his counterattack would amount to anything. The klowns didn’t know fear, and even if he managed to injure the gunner in the cupola, it would just make him laugh.

He was right. The gunner slewed his machine gun back for another pass, shooting right over the heads of the klowns in the advance. More bodies fell to Inveigle, but the presence of the fifty was giving the crazies the pause they needed, and they started eating up the ground. With hoots and hollers and jeers, the stinking infected charged forward. Three of them launched objects, hurling them into the air. Two were balloons filled with liquid, a noxious brew that was rife with the Bug. The third was a grenade, and it went off in an airburst downrange of Zhu. He heard lightfighters scream as the hot fragments slashed through them, tearing open their clothing and protective gear. Then the balloons landed. While their explosions were virtually soundless, the chilling prospect that they might deliver their cargo struck more fear into Zhu’s heart than any grenade.

“Back blast area clear!” he heard a soldier yell, followed almost immediately by, “Rocket!”

Thunder erupted as an AT-4 discharged, sending its projectile streaking toward the Humvee. First the vehicle was there, then it was gone, disintegrating in a clap of fire and expanding dust. The report of the explosion rolled over the troops an instant later, just as loud as the AT-4’s launch. Chunks of metal whirled through the air, and a moment later, black smoke billowed into the sky as the Humvee caught alight. Fifty-cal rounds began cooking off like M80 firecrackers going off.

“Watch for infected in the ranks!” Caruthers shouted. “Pour it on, people, pour it on!”

Zhu did just that, ignoring the blood that covered his left arm. It wasn’t his, and even if it was, there was no time to stop and address it. He sighted on a klown and killed it with one shot. Then another, and another. And a fourth—this was a woman, totally naked, battered and bloody, but still outwardly human in appearance. The lack of cuttings and scars and post-apocalyptic body art told him all he needed to know. She was a fresh convert, taking foot and headed for the lightfighters in the trees and brush. The only weapon she carried was a craggy rock in one hand, but her smile was wide and her eyes were bright. Zhu shot her in the head and she went down, the rock tumbling from her grasp as she twitched and died, puking up a stream of bile before her soul departed.

He fired until he had exhausted his magazine, then pulled a grenade from his harness. “Frag out! Airburst!” he cried as he pulled back and got to his feet. Bullets snapped past him as he pulled the pin. Pull, twist, pull! The safety pin came free in his non-throwing hand. Turning with his upper body, he hurled the explosive high into the air over the approaching enemy. As the safety spoon popped off, he did a graceless face-plant back into his original fighting position, trying to make himself as small as possible. The grenade tumbled as it arced over the enemy’s forward line, and just after four seconds of flight, it detonated. The leading edge of the approaching klowns was pelted with metal fragments from the grenade’s body that slashed and tore.

Laughter rose.

Zhu slapped a fresh mag into his rifle and rose up again, getting back into the fight. Inveigle did occupy nominally higher ground than the klowns did, and the rise in the terrain served to slow them slightly. So did the hail of rifle-fired forty-millimeter and hand-thrown M67 grenades. Already, at least a hundred infected lay dead or dying below. It was a good start.

Then, swimming through the black smoke rising from the burning Humvee, more figures swarmed forward. Cascading forward like water after a damn break, the klowns streamed into the engagement area, screaming hysterical war cries. Zhu figured there were at least eight hundred of them, a force that was sure to overwhelm the lightfighters of Inveigle. Zhu wasn’t frightened. He kept it up, firing round after round, alternately hitting those attackers up close while reaching out and putting some death into those deeper in the zone. Bodies fell.

Something roared behind the oncoming mass of lunatics. Three Strykers plowed through the smoke, driving over those klowns unfortunate enough to be in front of them. People writhed on their slanted armored bows, bleeding from multiple cuts and various mutilations. The crew-served, remote-operated weapons on all three vehicles opened up. Two were machine guns, but the third was the Mobile Gun System, equipped with a 105-millimeter cannon. While the weapon was designed for anti-armor use, high-explosive rounds would definitely put a hurt on the lightfighters.

“Three enemy armor, two hundred meters in the open!” Zhu shouted. “Rockets, rock—”

The big cannon on the third Stryker opened up, and the hillock Zhu was lying behind shifted upward in an explosion of thunder, stone, soil, and fragmented trees. Zhu was lifted a couple of feet into the air, and came down right on the edge of a four-foot wide crater. It was an anti-tank round, which meant most of the destructive force had been discharged into the earth below him, but men around him writhed in agony. They’d taken hot metal fragments. Machine-gun fire began raking the forest then, and twigs and branches snapped as fifty-cal rounds slashed through them. Zhu got back on his weapon. He had only a few rounds left in his magazine, so once it was expended he dropped back.

“Captain, time to bug out!” he yelled to Caruthers. The captain was on the radio, and he turned back to Zhu.

“Take out those Strykers!” he shouted, then went back to his conversation with Wizard.

Zhu was about to shout again for more rockets, but an AT-4 roared. A second later, an explosion tore through the near distance. Not soon enough—a greater detonation occurred to Zhu’s immediate right as the 105 got off another shot. It impacted at the base of a tree, obliterating the outgrowth’s base. A hailstorm of splintered wood, rock, and earth blasted through the air, and Zhu was knocked off his feet as a heavy stone crashed right into his chest. He felt the punch, even through his ballistic armor and the metal plate. Machine-gun fire bellowed once again. Zhu rolled away as the rounds tore past, kicking up small bursts of dirt as they impacted all around him. He caught a glimpse of Caruthers flailing for a moment before collapsing beside his RTO. The soldier grabbed the captain and dragged him off deeper into the brush.

Zhu repeated his call for rockets. The machine-gun fire kept him low, but he wasn’t petrified of it; the remote-controlled weapons on the Strykers were effective but were slower to respond in his experience than those under direct human control. The operators were looking at TV screens that had a much smaller field of view than the human eye. This afforded the gunners greater personal protection, but slowed their ability to identify mounting threats. While impressive, the remote weapons systems displays added a sense of distance and a reduced urgency to encounters. Zhu moved to his left, continuing to call for another AT-4 attack. He found a clump of low-lying rocks that a wounded soldier had been pulled from, so he slid in behind it. Shouldering his rifle, he took aim at the Stryker with the 105-millimeter Mobile Gun System in its Protector cupola. As the weapon traversed from right to left, he waited until he had a clear shot at the compact modular sight array, a collection of sensors that included infrared, daytime television, and a laser rangefinder. Taking it out wouldn’t leave anyone in the vehicle blind; they still had three periscopes which they could use to continue their mission, but removing the CMS from an active role would make using the big gun more of a point and shoot affair as opposed to a precision strike weapon. He had a tense moment when the big 105 was pointing right at his position, but the turreted weapon continued its rotation. It suddenly fired on a target several dozen meters to his left, and for an instant, all Zhu could do was swear behind his mask as debris rained down all around him. Then he pulled in his weapon and went to work.

He hammered the CMS with several rounds and was satisfied to see the main imaging array crack and shatter beneath his attack. The turret reversed its course and slewed around, searching for him. Zhu kept it up, plastering the forward-looking infrared sensor and laser rangefinder with more shots, hammering the CMS as hard and fast as he could. As far as he knew, no one had ever been able to accomplish what he was attempting to do, at least not intentionally.

The big gun stopped when it was oriented on his position.

Crap, was all Zhu had time to think before the gun roared again. He literally felt the heat of the antitank round as it screamed past him, missing his position by mere inches. The round hurtled downrange until it hit something substantial enough to make it detonate. Zhu wasted no time in falling back. It wouldn’t take but a few moments for the loader to recharge the big gun, and he wanted to be as far away from that as he could get.

The Stryker rocked on its suspension as two AT-4 rockets slammed into it, flaying it open as if it were no more than a tuna can. Zhu did another face-plant as shrapnel whirled through the air, caroming off the trees and slicing through tree branches and brush. A hefty piece of plating skipped off a rocky ledge in front of him, shattering stone. But the collision was enough to deflect the debris, and it tumbled past him benignly.

Through the ringing in his ears, Zhu heard laughter.

Shapes appeared in the swirling dust, jeering and firing indiscriminately into the pine barrens and they surged forward. Most wore some degree of military uniform; all had the usual accoutrements of the infected—necklaces of ears and fingers, self-mutilations, crude tattoos, bloody piercings. They would be on Zhu’s position in less than five seconds.

Zhu pulled his last grenade from its pouch and removed the safety pin. He raised his thumb, and the safety spoon popped off with a metallic click. The weapon’s primer ignited, and it started burning the fuse charge. In four to five seconds, it would burn down to the six and a half ounces of composite B explosive. Once that happened, everyone within twelve meters would be dead, and those within twenty-five meters could be grievously injured. That, of course, included First Sergeant Weide Zhu.

One...two...three—fuck it, that’s enough! Zhu hurled the grenade toward the approaching klowns and hit the deck once again, right as one of the crazies at the front of the advancing element saw him.

“Sweet meat to eat!” the man guffawed. He noticed the grenade rolling past his feet and whooped. “Hot potato! Hot, hot pota—”

The grenade went off, and the man and two of his teammates were erased from the moment almost instantly, their disjointed bodies taking flight in different directions. Metal fragments whirled through the air in a violent storm, cutting down several more klowns, tearing through their bodies and clothing, shredding flesh and pulverizing bone. Zhu felt a sharp, hot burning sensation in his left arm, followed almost instantly by searing pain that made him cry out. He’d never felt such abrupt agony, and it took everything he had not to scream and writhe. He grabbed the pain and held it at bay as he got to his knees. Shouldered his rifle. Resumed firing.

There was a war on, and Zhu wasn’t quite ready to leave it just yet.

TWENTY-NINE.

Muldoon stood guard as Cassidy and Rawlings secured Moreau with zip ties after fitting her with ballistic armor complete with chicken plates and a helmet. Someone from the Third had even scared up some facial armor, probably from one of the aviation units that had been on post before it had been rotated out, and they slapped that on her as well. Goggles were added to the ensemble, and by the time they were done, the lunatic-loving scientist looked a lot like Rick Moranis’s character Dark Helmet from that old movie Spaceballs. She just wasn’t as funny.

Lord knows we need a little Mel Brooks humor right about now.

Outside the ASP, artillery continued to roar, blasting ninety-five pounds of high explosive hell onto enemy targets all around the fort. The tempo of combat had increased. That told Muldoon that shit was getting seriously real, seriously fast. Apparently the klowns were starting to come together for the big win, and those troops who still defended Stewart were giving them all the explosive munitions they could handle. The RTO was glued to his radio, listening more than speaking. Boats stalked around him like a shark circling prospective prey, waiting to get an update. The set of the old first sergeant’s jaw told Muldoon everything he needed to know. The wheels were coming off, which meant the battalion was in some seriously deep shit somewhere out there.

Gotta get back to the guys, he told himself. Even though his mission was to deliver Moreau to Lee so the lightfighters could roll out for Florida, all he could think about was the men and women of the One Fifty-Fifth facing down the klowns out there without him. Even though his original company was only a shell of itself, the rest of the battalion was extended family, and they needed him. Problem was, he was on babysitting duty, and that didn’t set well with him.

“Sir!” The RTO turned away from Boats and looked at Cassidy, even though the first sergeant was clearly expecting to be updated directly. Muldoon snorted at that. Yeah, Boats, everyone fucking hates you.

“Send it,” Cassidy said as he finished up trussing up Moreau.

“Battalion’s getting it bad, sir. TOC is under direct attack, and Inveigle is duking it out with klown armor. They’re starting to fall back now, but it looks like the CO is down. Wizard’s pulsing us for an update.”

“Objective secured, getting ready to roll out,” Cassidy said. Both men were practically shouting at each other over the roar of the guns. “Pass that back to Wizard, then make sure our rally point is still secure. I don’t want us to fall back into a shooting gallery!”

“Roger that,” the RTO said. He began speaking into his MBITR’s headset, trying to relay the requests over all the noise and distortion. Muldoon watched as the soldier ducked his head and pressed his earphones tighter against his head in a bid to hear whatever response came back.

“Did I hear that right?” Nutter shouted. “TOC’s under attack?”

“Not the first time that’s gonna happen,” Muldoon said.

“We gotta get back there,” Campbell said.

“What, you think you’re a lightfighter too, Campbell?” Muldoon asked.

She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Fuck off, you prick.”

Muldoon held up a hand. “Sorry, girl. Sorry.”

“Sir, Wizard says the rally point is still good for now, but they need us to hold up for a bit! Coordinating fires with Raptor!” the RTO said to Cassidy.

“What do they need?” Cassidy asked.

“Not sure, sir—colonel and sarmajor are out in the field, and the XO doesn’t really have a lot of time to fill us in.”

Muldoon didn’t like the sound of that. If both Lee and Turner were out doing real man’s work, then shit must be flying fast and furious.

“LT, we might need to get back in the game,” he said to Cassidy.

“Cool your jets, Muldoon,” Cassidy replied. “We’ll get in when we’re told to!” He turned back to the RTO. “Word from Desperado?”

“All I know is they’re in pos, sir.”

“Contact Urena, let me know what’s going down over at the fighting position,” Cassidy said.

“Roger that.”

“Lieutenant, we can’t hang out here for much longer,” Boats said. “We can’t get trapped here. Lee might not have the full picture of what’s going on.”

“What are you suggesting, First Sergeant? That we un-ass and run into a situation we’re not ready for?” Cassidy pointed at Moreau. “She’s the mission here.”

“Got it, sir. But if we don’t work on getting her out of here, we’re all going to be staying put for a long time.” Boats motioned around the ASP. “Don’t know how long this place will hold up without supporting fires. Probably a while, but not long enough. That you can count on.”

Cassidy shook his head in frustration. “First Sergeant—”

“Boats is right, sir,” Muldoon said. “We should at least fall back to the fighting position. It’s a straight shot back to the rally point.”

“Not yet, God damn it. Not yet!” Cassidy looked from Muldoon to Boats. “If you men are having problems following orders, then you need to remember where you are, who you are, and who you fucking work for—Harry Lee. And he says stay put. Is that clear to you?”

“Clear, sir,” Boats said.

Sergeant First Class Roger trotted over to them. “Hey, LT! I just heard your commander calling in a strike. Sounds like it’s kinda fucked up out there right now.”

“Strike where?”

“Right on top of your TOC. They got armor coming up the fire trails, and they’re about to go tits up, if you know what I mean,” Roger said.

“No shit?” Campbell asked.

Roger shrugged. “It’s what I heard.”

Cassidy looked back at Boats. “See what I mean about not running out and getting into the fight, First Sergeant? You think you’re bad ass enough to stand up to a few artillery rounds?”

Boats said nothing. Muldoon kind of liked that.

“Roger, what kind of fire are they calling for?” he asked the bigger man.

“Saturation fire,” Roger asked. “Your colonel wants us to move heaven and earth and whole lotta mud, man.”

THIRTY.

Turner relayed the best information he could get from Tackaberry’s troops deployed forward and Lee consulted the DAGR GPS system strapped to his left wrist. According to the report, the enemy armor was coming up a wide defile that had a bed of rocky ledges. It wasn’t smooth going, but the terrain was hard enough to support their weight and the vegetation wasn’t dense enough to prevent them from advancing. Lee figured that by the time Raptor’s artillery could be reoriented in their firing circle, the M1s would be able to put eyes on target and commence firing. It was a gigantic bag of dicks, being a member of a military without peer, and then having to fight that same military.

Lee figured he would lay down saturation fire extending a hundred meters from his position all the way back to the expected avenues of approach, over a mile away. That wasn’t a huge area, but it was big enough that some armor might get through. For certain, enemy infantry would, but he could handle those. The armor was the game changer, and that had to be neutralized. Not only could they kill his men, they could kill their vehicles, and without those the battalion was going to be effectively immobilized. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Five, this is Six! Relay to Raptor: Fire mission. Grid 734536 to 77895, Direction 2750. Two-company element with armor. Request saturation fire. We are danger close at this time. Over!”

“Six, ah, roger—relay following: danger close fire mission. Grid 734536 to 77895, Direction 2750. Two-company element with armor. Request saturation fire. Over.”

“Five, good copy! We need that immediate, so send it! Out!” With that, Lee got back on his rifle. He heard vehicles moving behind him, so the trucks and Humvees were falling out of the line, rolling back to the far edge of the clearing. It wasn’t a lot of distance, but if it was enough to keep them from being zeroed for a minute or so, it was worth it. He heard the M240s mounted on the Bigfoots chattering away as the five-ton trucks rolled. They might be retreating, but they were retreating under fire. Retreating as Army soldiers, not frightened rabble.

He gunned down several more klowns, all while watching the approaching tanks shoulder their way through the pine barrens, turrets traversing as they sought out targets. Soldiers stood up in their hatches, already on their machine guns, raking lightfighter positions, prepping them for the main guns.

“McAllister!”

“Sir?”

“Kill the exposed tank crews!”

McAllister adjusted and commenced spraying one of the tanks with his SAW. Lee added some aimed fire to the mix and was heartened to see one of the troops in one tank’s turret snap back, then slump forward. The barrel of his M240 raised upward, pointing into the sky. The tank commander followed suit a moment later as McAllister hosed him with several bursts of full-auto fire. The tank continued forward, as its driver apparently had no idea he was suddenly absent a commander and gunner. Without those, the tank was less of an immediate threat.

“Six, this is five—rounds out, rounds out—!”

In the distance came a series of repetitive booms. A moment later, the pine barrens directly in front of Lee’s fighting position disappeared beneath a series of blossoming explosions that cast earth and wood and the remains of tanks high into the sky. The thunder was deafening, and the abrupt violence was overwhelming. Lee was certain he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice as he and the rest of the troops in the fighting position buried their noses in the dirt. Debris rained down on them in a constant stream: rock, pieces of splintered trees, even an M1’s road wheel, its form bent and blackened. Fire sprang up in the pine barrens as the tanks began to burn. More artillery savaged the land, slamming into it like Thor’s hammer, breaking it open and ripping it apart. Lee forced himself to look up and peer into the conflagration, jerking to his left as a bent piece of tank track bounced past him. Dust and smoke filled the air, making visual observation difficult. Klowns stumbled out of the carnage, bleeding, battered, but still hitching with laughter as they tottered along. Eardrums shattered, half-blinded by flying debris, bodies torn by shell casings, flesh burned by raging fires fueled by ignited diesel. Tank rounds cooked off, their detonations tinny and puny in comparison with the vastly more powerful arty rounds that continued to descend from the sky like a virtual steel rain.

It was horrifying.

It was awesome.

“Five, this is Six! Relay raise fifty, fire for effect! Over!”

Walker’s response was muted and almost indecipherable due to the fury of the engagement occurring only a hundred meters away. The attack continued unabated, though the explosions slowly walked away from Lee’s position, moving deeper into the pine barrens. An M1 fired on another fighting position, rocking back on its suspension as its big, smooth-bore 105-millimeter gun spoke, parting the dust with its own shockwave. The shot was straight and true, and lightfighters were flung into the air. Then the tank was flayed open like a fish as two artillery shells landed right on it, cutting through the thinner armor of its turret and its back deck. The tank’s gas-burning turbine engine destroyed itself with a wail as metal debris entered the fans. Hitching to a sudden stop, the M1 began to burn then, emitting a thick column of black smoke. Another round hit it with such force that the tank’s hull burst open. Another tank coming up behind it threw a track suddenly as it was torn right off the road wheels. It rocked on its suspension as an artillery shell grounded right beside it, lifting the vehicle several feet up before it slammed back to the ground. The driver’s hatch opened and the soldier piloting the tank slowly climbed out, sliding down the front of the tank’s sloped bow. He disappeared as another shell landed nearby with enough force to essentially vaporize the infected soldier.

Top quality entertainment, Lee thought to himself.

Just the same, more klowns emerged from the engagement area. Most were injured, and almost none of them were combat effective. They deserved no respite. Lee and rest of the men gunned them down. The fires began to grow in size, consuming trees and brush at a fantastic rate. The flames undulated with the overpressure waves created by the exploding artillery shells. The remaining tanks popped smoke then, trying to mask their presence; it was too late for that. They couldn’t retreat fast enough, and every time it seemed they might slip away, Lee ordered adjusting fires. Soon, there were no more enemy vehicles left. Klowns still emerged from the chaos, but they weren’t a cohesive fighting force any longer, just individuals who happened to be walking in the same direction at the same time of day. The Mountaineers cut them down without mercy.

As was only right.

The intensity of combat began to diminish slightly. Lee called for another fire adjustment, and the red leggers manning the guns at Stewart responded. The fires shifted farther to the west, pounding away at the remaining targets that were—might have been—there. If there was a klown contingent downrange, they were well out of sight. For all Lee knew, he was simply moving mud where there was no enemy, but that was fine and well. As long as the gun-cockers at Stewart could keep the fire up, he was happy to utilize it. After five minutes of intense firing, he called Walker to inform Raptor he could check his fires.

The silence that descended after the artillery barrage stopped was far from absolute. Small-arms fire still crackled all around him, and in other areas surrounding Stewart, more battles were being fought. Lee also heard the cries of wounded and the calls for medics. He rose up to his knees and looked around. The fighting position the Abrams had engaged before it had been destroyed had taken a heavy hit, and many of the men there were wounded. Other lightfighters in the area had been hit by klown fire, and troops were giving them whatever aid they could. And through the smoke-filled day, Lee could finally see the enormity of the force that had threatened to overrun the tactical operations center. At least four to five hundred klowns lay dead or dying in front of the fighting position he knelt in. Some of them still crawled forward, leaving trails of blood as they giggled, foamy froths of red forming around their mouths and nostrils. Lee shouldered his rifle and killed those closest to him.

“You guys stay alert here,” he said to the men around him. His throat felt raw, and having to raise his voice in order to ensure he was heard through his mask hurt. “McAllister, you need anything from me?”

“A foot rub would be awesome, sir,” the sergeant first class said. “But if that’s too much to ask for, then some more five-five-six and forty mil would do the trick.”

“Roger, I’ll see what I can do about the ammo. Maybe Foster can help with the foot rub.”

“Nah, McAllister’s toes smell like Desenex,” Foster said.

Lee pushed out of the fighting position. There was still plenty of activity going on around the area, but for the moment, most of it seemed to be his guys shooting at the remaining crazies stumbling out of the kill zone. The artillery had done its job, and he was impressed. This was his first time sitting in ring seats for an arty barrage, and it hadn’t disappointed him. Of course, the fires that were starting to blaze out of control were concerning, but the battalion TOC and the majority of its vehicles weren’t currently under direct attack. He didn’t expect that to last for long, but at least the flames would serve to prevent assault from that direction.

He hurried over to the fighting position the Abrams had hit. He saw Colonel Tackaberry and his old NCO rendering aid. As he ran up, Lee saw at least two of his men were dead. Their MOPP gear had been removed and the medics had tried to save them, but they were gone. Both looked young in death, and their eyes were closed, as if sleeping.

“Colonel, over here, sir!” said Tackaberry’s NCO, a man whose name Lee didn’t know. He and Tackaberry were crouched over another one of his soldiers. Lee hurried over. He gasped when he saw the stricken soldier was none other than Doug Turner. A large gash had been ripped across one of Turner’s cheeks, and pinpricks of blood welled up through his uniform sleeves and his thighs. His left eye was swollen closed, but his right eye still moved.

Jesus Christ...

“What happened?” Lee asked as he dropped down beside the men.

“Got his bell rung bad when that tank round hit,” the black NCO said. “He saw it coming—was reaching out to those two over there”—the man nodded toward the two dead men—“when the round hit. He got blown about twenty feet away.”

“How bad?” Lee looked around for a medic. There was only one, and he was treating another soldier who had a badly mangled arm. The soldier was writhing in pain and trying to put on a strong face, but he was in obvious agony.

“Fragments in the extremities, looks like some in the face as well,” Tackaberry said. “Thank God he had his mask on, it took most of the punishment.” He pointed at the M24 mask that lay nearby. It was shredded, and its lenses were cracked. Lee noticed Tackaberry was bleeding from a sizeable head wound himself.

“Colonel, you’re hurt,” he said.

“Good to go here, Lee,” Tackaberry said. “Don’t worry about me—I’m one of the old guys you didn’t kill.” The remark was pointed. Tackaberry’s men in the pine barrens were doubtless dead, or at the very least dying. There was no way they could have survived.

“You expected me to do something differently, Colonel?” he asked.

“No,” Tackaberry said, “but you’re still a cocky little motherfucker, you asshole.”

A large-caliber rifle opened up, and Lee looked over to see an older man with a goatee leaning into his weapon. He gunned down two klowns that had stumbled out of the fiery pine barrens. Four shots, two in each target. They went down and didn’t stir. The man kept his rifle tucked in and scanned the area. After a moment, he fired again. Another klown collapsed as it emerged from the smoke, hacking and laughing.

“Turner? Sarmajor, how you holding up?” Lee asked, looking down at his command sergeant major. The black NCO was pressing a piece of kerlix against Turner’s face, trying to stanch the bleeding.

“Feel great,” Turner said. “Is it time...for PT?” Turner’s words were slow and a bit slurred. Lee figured in addition to his injuries, he had a humdinger of a concussion.

Lee patted Turner’s shoulder gently. “Hang in there, old dog. Got a doc coming over to check you out in just a second.”

“Don’t worry...’bout me. The guys...they...”

“Everyone’s good, Sarmajor,” Lee assured him. “Just kick back, Mountaineer. You’ve earned your break.”

“The fuck you say...sir. I know...I’m up the creek. You need Zhu.”

“What?”

“First Sergeant...Zhu, sir. Most experienced NCO. With Inveigle.” Turner paused to swallow. “Zhu can take over...for me.”

“Don’t worry about that, Turner. I’ll get Zhu or Riggs or Boats or someone to sub for you. Don’t worry.”

Turner nodded slightly, then his right eye closed. Lee was afraid the man had died, but he had just passed out. Lee took the opportunity to push back and reach for his mic button.

“Five, this is Six. SITREP. Over.”

“Six, this is Five. We’re still figuring things out. Have some casualties, we’re working on getting them squared away. Over.”

“Five, add Wizard Seven to the casualty list. Does not appear to be critical, but he’s out of action. We’ll need to get him to Nightingale ASAP. Give me the latest on Eyes, Inveigle, and Desperado. Over.”

“Six, roger. Eyes is ready to retrograde. Inveigle is underway, seems like Inveigle Six was taken down by enemy fire—have not been able to process many updates from them. Desperado is prepared to move on orders, but they’re holding pos for now. We may need to advance them toward Inveigle if they’re getting bogged down. Over.”

“Roger all, Five. Anything from Raptor? Over.”

“Arty’s still the king of battle, Six. Raptor has an armored detachment heading out now—looks like he was sitting on a company of M1s the entire time. Those are coming out to fight as there is some enemy armor moving in from the north. Over.”

That’s not cool. That meant the cavalry element Lee had managed to get obliterated wasn’t just a fluke. More dedicated assets were coming in to fight.

“Five, tell Eyes to un-ass and get back here. Inveigle needs to start their deception movement, then have them link with Desperado. Once they’re consolidated, fall back under covering fires from Thunder and get back here so we can start our next road movement. Pass on to Raptor that we have to pull out of here, and his forces are invited to come along for the ride. Over.”

“Roger, Six, good copy on that. Sending medics your way to tend to the sarmajor. Will report back. Over.”

THIRTY-ONE.

“Okay, sir, we’re up!” the RTO said to Cassidy.

“About fucking time,” Boats growled.

Cassidy nodded and turned to Rawlings and Campbell. “I want the two of you on this woman like glue,” he said. “You’re to provide personal protection for her at all times. Is this something you can do?”

“I’m up for it,” Rawlings said.

Cassidy looked at Campbell. “Well?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” Campbell said, a sullen expression on her face.

“Don’t fuck with me here,” Cassidy said. “I know you’ve been through some shit with the klowns—we all have. No one likes this woman a damn bit, but we have our orders. The woman is needed by General Reynolds. We have to deliver her to him, or die trying.”

“I said I’d do it, Lieutenant—all right? What else do you want from me?” Campbell snapped. “You don’t like my attitude, sir? Then let Nutter help Rawlings watch her, he’s a little woman anyway.”

“Colonel, you are being severely disparaged here, sir,” Muldoon said.

Nutter sighed and shook his head. He was pissed, but what was he going to do? Punch Campbell out? If he failed on the first shot, she’d be all over him like Muhammad Ali on the Bayonne Bleeder.

Cassidy wasn’t bothered by Campbell’s insubordinate attitude. In truth, he had to admit he liked Campbell’s fire. “Nutter, back them up,” he said. “I’m going to break this up into little pieces—one, we get back to Urena and the rest of the team. Two, we hump it back to the TOC. Three, we load this bitch in an uparmored Humvee. Four, we secure her until the rest of the elements come back in. Five, we then get the fuck out of here. I realize counting to five is maybe harder than Chinese algebra for a lot of you, but that’s about as simple as I can make it. Questions?”

There were none.

“Muldoon, point with Roger. First Sergeant, you and Nutter play rear guard. We all cool with our roles here?”

“Sir, you need to have a talk with the colonel before you take off,” Roger said.

Cassidy frowned. “What?”

“Colonel Barker needs a word, sir,” Roger said.

“A word? Now?”

Roger shrugged. “Probably not going to take very long, sir.” With that, he pointed toward a secondary storage area, where the tactical operations center had been set up. Cassidy sighed and turned to Boats.

“First Sergeant, hold position until I get back.” He pointed at the bound and trussed Moreau. “Stay eyes on her at all times.”

“You have it, sir,” Boats said. He turned to the rest of the troops. “All right, people. Close ranks. We’re going to literally surround the lady.”

“Me too, sir?” the RTO asked.

Cassidy glared at him. “Yes, Simmonds. You too.”

“Oh. Roger that.”

Cassidy turned back to Roger. “Okay, Sergeant. Let’s go.”

“Follow me, sir.”

Roger led him across the floor to the operations center. The guards there allowed both men to pass. The TOC was nothing Cassidy hadn’t seen before—a little more tech in evidence because of the improved communications with the arty batteries outside, but that was about it. On one big screen, he saw surveillance footage from the Merlin that was still orbiting overhead. Apparently, Reynolds and his staff were sharing that with Barker’s people as well.

“Colonel? Lieutenant Cassidy, sir,” Roger said, bringing Cassidy over to where the artillery commander sat. He was alone for the moment, a mug in one hand sporting the divisional artillery’s crest.

“Thanks, Rog. You can hold up here for a bit.” To Cassidy: “Not going to keep you for long, Lieutenant. I know you have a mission to complete. Here’s the deal—I’d hoped we’d be able to go with you, but that’s not in the cards. We’re going to have to remain here.”

“Sir?” Cassidy was a little flummoxed by this. Why would Barker and his people choose to remain at Stewart? The place was a klown magnet of the maximum order.

Barker reached forward and pushed a mouse around on his desk. A window opened up on the display facing them. Framed within its confines was what was obviously a column of klowns in tractor-trailer rigs. And with them were self-propelled howitzers called Paladins. The klowns were bringing more big guns to the fight.

“We’re about to get into the counter-battery business,” Barker said. “To be honest, it’ll be the first time I’ve ever had to do that—most of the enemies we’ve fought in the past twenty years or so have been a little light on artillery.”

“All the more reason for everyone to get the hell out of Dodge, sir. Let the klowns blow up empty buildings.”

“We’ll never make it. And if I break down the firing circles, we’ll be dead meat. These guys are within maybe two hours of setting up and firing. We won’t be out of range by then, and the last thing we want to do is retreat under bombardment. Trust me on this, Lieutenant. You need to get back to the One Fifty-Fifth and bug out at max speed. These guns here”—Barker tapped the display, his finger making that queer halo effect when he contacted the plasma display—“have an effective range of over eleven miles, depending on their payload. I can’t break down our guns and get them out of here before the crazies start lobbing munitions our way. But I do have a store of ordnance that can reach out and touch them before they can start firing.”

“Okay, I get it, sir. But what about your MLRS? Don’t they have like a hundred-mile range or something?”

“I’ve been ordered to hold them down for the time being. That’s why we haven’t used them yet.” Barker paused for a moment. “This is why I’ve called you over here, Cassidy. I want you to tell your commander that Florida isn’t all wine and roses. They’re fighting a battle down there, too. Thousands of crazies, trying to get in and overrun them at Eglin, MacDill, anywhere they can get to. The MLRS you see outside is a reserve component that’s going to be used to smash open a hole for you guys to drive through.”

Cassidy rubbed his face and motioned to the developments on the screen. “Sir, you communicate this to higher?”

“I have. They see the same things we do. The order remains the same: hold the MLRS in reserve.”

Cassidy didn’t know what to make of that. “Okay. But what about your dependents, sir? We can take them with us?”

“I’ve discussed that with my staff, Lieutenant. We feel that the ASP is a safer place for them. It’s tight quarters, but it’ll have to do. We figure we’ve got three weeks of life in this place once we close the gates and button up. After that, it’s up to you guys to save our bacon. You understand what I’m telling you here, son?”

“Yes, sir. I understand,” Cassidy replied.

Barker nodded then and got to his feet. “Pass on my compliments to your Colonel Lee. We’ll provide covering fires for your retreat, and I thank you and your men for taking some heat on our behalf. But right now, your mission is to get that crazy bitch to Armand Reynolds. Get that done, Cassidy. But don’t forget about us. We’re not going to last, and we’ll need you guys to come back for us.”

Cassidy stood up a bit straighter. “Sir, you can count on us to do that. Really.”

Barker clapped him on the shoulder. “I know, son. I know. The Tenth just doesn’t give up.”

THIRTY-TWO.

Laughter. Always laughter. Even during sleep, the chuckles kept on coming. Only death stopped it.

And maybe not even then?

They set up the mortars with hands that were practiced and steady despite the hitching giggles that never subsided. A mile away from Fort Stewart in the shattered remnants of Hinesville, the entire fort was within their range. And the special payload the eighty-one-millimeter rounds carried.

The M252 mortar systems came together quickly as manic but practiced hands did their work. It was second nature, and even the laughter did little to slow the assembly. Within minutes, tubes were unpacked, bipods attached, and base plates were situated. Even as the sounds of combat continued to pulse all around them, the rest of the infantry company surrounded the mortar team, providing physical protection. All the while guffawing and cutting and slashing themselves as they awaited the moment of deliverance.

Then came the munitions. These were different. Not just eighty-one-millimeter high-explosive projectiles or smokers, these were brand new, brought down only a few days before from an overrun arsenal in the northeast. Others had reloaded the rounds with something new, something special, something that would forever alter the scope of humankind. The mortarmen chuckled at this.

Time to make some new friends.

THIRTY-THREE.

Inveigle pulled back, bringing with it a mass of klown combatants who pursued them with zeal. At first, Inveigle headed due west, then turned on a northerly tack, pulling away from its pursuers as it slipped into the pine barrens surrounding Fort Stewart. It was unlikely the klowns would continue on to the north; once they lost track of Inveigle, they would cast about, searching for their quarry. If they struck out to the south, they would find nothing. If they headed to the north, then they would run right into the guns of Desperado. The remaining bulk of the battalion’s might was organized into a firing line, ready to take down the klowns and tie them up long enough for Inveigle and Eyes to consolidate and fall back to the rally point where Lee and the others waited. Under cover of Thunder’s mortars—and, Captain Beach was pleased to discover, heavier arty fires originating from Stewart—Desperado would fade back as well. The klowns might attempt to pursue, or they might become so disoriented by the artillery that they would find it difficult to give chase. Either one would work.

“Desperado, Inveigle Seven. Over.” Beach recognized First Sergeant Zhu’s voice over the radio. The man sounded out of breath, and given the amount of fire that was being thrown around to Beach’s south and east, he probably had reason for it.

“Inveigle Seven, Desperado Six. Send it.”

“Desperado, Inveigle is coming in. We’ve started our turn, we’ll be passing to your west. We’ve got several wounded. Would like to pass through your line instead of looping past. Over.”

Beach considered that. He looked over at Sommers, who was in direct control of Desperado’s fire teams. Sommers had been wounded during the big fight for High Point, but he was still combat effective. The battalion medical staff hadn’t wanted the officer to return to active duty, but there wasn’t enough senior leadership left for him to spend his days and nights mending in a hospital vehicle. When the decision had been made to staff Desperado, he had volunteered for the duty. While he wasn’t going to lead the fight from the front, he would handle the logistics of combat, leaving Beach free to oversee the full operation.

“What if they’re infected?” Sommers asked.

“They have wounded, guy,” Beach replied.

“Question remains: what if they’re infected?” Sommers repeated.

Beach thought about it for a moment. Dragging wounded all around the pine barrens wasn’t in anyone’s best interest, especially that of the wounded themselves. It made sense to request to send them in the short way.

“Inveigle, send your wounded through the line. The rest of your team continues on the same path. Link up with Eyes at the phase line and continue to the rally point. Over.”

“Desperado, Inveigle. Roger that. Look for six guns guarding ten wounded and six body bearers. Two of the wounded are walking. Over.”

“Roger, Inveigle. We’ll keep eyes out.”

“Pass the word to the fire teams,” Beach told Sommers. Sommers spoke into his MBITR, which was tuned to a different frequency. Through that, he could communicate directly with each fire team. After some chatter, Sommers shot Beach a thumbs-up.

“Okay, the troops know to look for the wounded,” Sommers said. “We might have to detail some of the guys to escort them back to the rally point, depending on how badly they’re hurt.”

Beach grunted. He wasn’t interested in depleting his force right before contact with the enemy, but he’d defer that until the injured made it to the line. If no one was critical, he could pass them off to Eyes.

“Wizard, Desperado Six.”

“Desperado, this is Wizard. Send it.” It was Walker on the other side. Beach filled him in on the change in plan. Walker wasn’t happy that almost half of Inveigle’s combat force was peeling off from the main element, but he understood the wounded needed priority handling, and that the movement was already underway. Inveigle was leading the klowns off on a wild goose chase now, so it really didn’t matter how many guns they had available. Standing up and fighting it out was not their mission.

Ten minutes later, word was passed that Inveigle’s wounded were passing through the line. There was no sign of pursuit, and judging from the firing going on downrange, Inveigle had masked the separation of the wounded and their escort with concentrated fires designed to keep the klowns focused on the main body. None of the wounded were infected, nor were any members of the security team. Beach was not surprised to discover that three of the wounded were actually dead, and among them was Captain Caruthers. That explained why Zhu was handling the radio traffic.

Some minutes later, Zhu came on the radio net and reported that Inveigle was in full retrograde. He estimated it would take about ten to twenty minutes to link up with Eyes. Beach relayed the information to Wizard.

Sommers stirred slightly, cocking his head as he adjusted his mask with one hand. One of his arms was still wrapped in Israeli bandages, and movement was difficult.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

Sommers pointed to the northeast. “Mortars? Maybe it’s just an echo, and Thunder’s opening up on targets?”

Beach listened. It was difficult to discern, but after a moment he could definitely hear the hollow cracking noise of distant mortars in action. Nothing exploded near Desperado’s position, so they weren’t the target.

“Wizard, this is Desperado. Over.”

“Desperado, this is Wizard.”

“Wizard, we hear mortar fire. Is Thunder engaging any enemy elements? Over.”

“Desperado. Wait.” The line went silent save for some background static as Walker apparently sent out his request for information. He came back a few seconds later. “Desperado, I have eyes on Thunder. They are not firing at this time. Are you under attack? Over.”

“Negative, Wizard—we are secure for the time being. Just reporting what we can hear from our side. Must be a mortar team in Stewart giving the klowns something to think about. Over.”

“Roger, Desperado.”

THIRTY-FOUR.

Cassidy followed Muldoon and Roger as they led the rest of the team back to where Urena and the remainder of the Bushmasters were waiting. They still maintained control of the line of defensive positions, and while there had been intermittent contact, there had been no dedicated attacks against them. Urena indicated it was likely as safe as it ever would be to come out and rejoin the battalion. Just a few feet behind him came his RTO then Rawlings and Campbell, who held the trussed and armored Moreau between them. Following in trail were Boats and Nutter. As they left the ASP, the M1 tanks under the camo netting were coming to life, their gas turbine engines spooling up. Artillerymen were reloading the big guns and more shells were being transferred to the armored trucks that kept the cannons and the breech creatures that fed them fat and happy. Colonel Barker wasn’t going to depend on his own artillery to take out the approaching M109 Paladins—he was finally uncaging the heavy armor, as an insurance policy.

All that made Cassidy want to run like a motherfucker all the way back to the rally point. He’d felt fine in the ASP, but now that he and the others were out in the open, they were extremely vulnerable to indirect fires. They weren’t all that far away from Lee and the rally point, exactly, but they would have to spend some more time in the field waiting for the maneuver elements to close up on them so they could continue their retreat. With the objective in hand, Cassidy didn’t want to delay a single thing. But falling back to the rally point without protection in force wasn’t wise; all it would take was for one lucky klown patrol to come across them, and they’d lose everything.

Just the same, standing around acting calm when the steel rain threatened to come down right on their heads was asking a bit much.

“Sir, did Barker give you an idea how long it’ll take for the Paladins to get in range?” Muldoon asked over his shoulder as he followed Roger.

“He said about two hours,” Cassidy said as the unit wended its way around defensive revetments that had fallen, been retaken, fallen again, and retaken once more. They were all in MOPP, so the stink of the dead wasn’t as oppressive as it might have been, but it was still unsettling to traipse among decaying corpses that had been left to rot in the Georgia heat. “They were still in transit when he showed me the intel, but that could have been an hour or so ago.”

“Y’all will be rolling out on rubber wheels in an hour,” Roger said. “Besides, the crazies, they probably don’t even know you’re here. You move fast, they might not even know the girl’s been taken off post.”

“That’s the plan,” Cassidy said. “Roger, you’re free to come with us if you want. I understand that’s desertion, but if there’s a chance you and your guys might get wiped out in whatever’s heading your way, I don’t think anyone’s going to hold anything against you. Suicide isn’t part of the warrior ethic unless it serves its purpose.”

“Appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but no thanks,” Roger said. “Much as I’d love to un-ass, I never really did like Florida all that much.”

“Gotta be better than throwing down with the klowns, my brother,” Muldoon said.

“Ain’t leavin’ my people behind, guys,” Roger said. “If we’re all not leaving, then no one is leaving.”

“I’ll leave the offer on the table, Roger,” Cassidy said. “We can use you, we need troops like yourself.”

“Thank you, sir...but no thank you.”

In the distance, several pops sounded. The hairs on the back of Cassidy’s neck stood up beneath the MOPP overgarment. He knew what mortar fire sounded like, and he was still aware enough to understand that Thunder wasn’t firing—they were in the opposite direction.

Dull explosions thudded all around them. The lightfighters and Roger all ducked, hurling themselves behind a line of HESCO containers as dust and white smoke exploded into the air. Cassidy turned to make sure Rawlings and Campbell did their bit, and nodded to himself when he saw both women had a hold of Moreau and had yanked her down to safety.

“It’s just smokers! They’re marking for fire!” Boats shouted. The white smoke drifted over him and Nutter as they struggled to their feet. “We need to get out of here,” Boats said, and his voice was suddenly calm.

Cassidy motioned Rawlings and Campbell to get Moreau on her feet. “Okay, let’s move! Muldoon, Roger, get them out of here right now!” To Boats and Nutter as they rose up from the smoke: “Guys, form up!”

The white smoke dissipated quickly—far too quickly, he thought. It seemed heavier than it should have been, falling to the ground in curling tendrils where it effectively disappeared. It was more like a mist than smoke—

“I told you you’d get to see it,” Moreau said behind her mask and facial armor as Rawlings and Campbell dragged her past him.

“What?” Cassidy asked. “What did you tell me I’d see?” Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He spun back to face Boats and Nutter. They were shaking a bit as they hunched over, and over the crack of small-arms fire and pop of more mortar rounds being launched, he heard the first waves of laughter strike them.

“Klowns!” he shouted. He raised his rifle as Nutter darted forward then and plunged his bayonet into Cassidy’s gut, right below his chest protector.

THIRTY-FIVE.

Lee took a quick circuit around the assembly area, ensuring the wounded were being tended to and the defenses were manned. Smoke wafted all across the field now, and that was going to be a problem. Klowns could use the obscurant as cover and infiltrate their position, and that was worrisome. The remaining lightfighters had enough on their plate to deal with; adding another attack to the mix would tip them over the edge.

The vehicles were mostly fine and ready to go. Some had taken damage, but they were still operational and could be counted on to at least get them out of the engagement area. Lee ensured every vehicle’s crew-served weapon was manned. The klowns would come after the transportation, if they were smart; Lee intended to deny them as many targets as possible. He conferred with the commander of the mortar team. So far, they had sat out the fight while waiting to cover Desperado’s and Inveigle’s retreats. The lieutenant in charge of the section assured him that they’d be able to pound out rounds up until the order came to break down and move out.

He ordered Walker and the rest of the operations center team to return to the TOC and resume their duty stations. They had to continue to manage the remainder of the operations in the field, and the TOC was the best place to do it. There they could view the imagery from the Merlin before it broke station and either returned to Florida for servicing or was rolled onto another mission. Lee wanted to know what the new lay of the land was, so he had a practical idea of how to plot their final retreat down to Reynolds and his command. He had no doubt there was more combat in the battalion’s future, especially as they tried to transition across the forward lines leading into Florida.

Cassidy and Eyes had the objective in hand. Inveigle had been successful in luring a good portion of the klown occupation force away, providing Eyes with a clear path of retreat. Desperado was lined up in a blocking position, ready to screen the retreat as Inveigle fell back. And they had artillery support from Stewart in addition to their own mortar team. This was where the pause sequence began, as the three units lined up and fell back in a synchronized dance. Lee wished it could happen faster; but if Eyes left before consolidating with Inveigle, both units would be vulnerable if they fell under dedicated attack. Most of the heavy weapons were with Desperado, which included two Humvees with Mk19 grenade launchers and two with GAU-19 fifty-caliber Gatling guns. Without Desperado keeping the back door closed, Eyes and Inveigle were relatively easy pickings for the numerically superior klowns.

Lee finally returned to the TOC. Walker was already situated inside, along with two operators. Lee looked at the station where Turner would have sat, and he found himself suddenly missing the older man’s vast experience. While he knew his instincts were good and he had no shortage of experience in military matters, men like Turner were walking encyclopaedias of knowledge. They’d seen everything, done everything, and felt everything that Lee still had to experience.

“Walker, what’s our status? Have you gotten pulses from Eyes, Inveigle, and Desperado?”

“Yes, sir. Inveigle is still pulling back. Inveigle has passed their phase line and is advancing to meet up with Eyes as they exit Stewart. Desperado is secure, but they do report mortar activity from somewhere south. Probably a klown unit trying to get some payback for all the arty attacks coming from Stewart.”

“Contact Raptor, see if they’re attracting anything unusual.”

“Already did, sir. They have a bit of a situation—klowns are moving Paladins into a fighting position somewhere to the north. Raptor says we should get clear within the hour—otherwise we’ll run the risk of coming under indirect fire attack.”

That surprised Lee. “Are you sure about that?”

Walker pointed to the main display to Lee’s left. It had been set up in a split-screen format, and he could see the footage of the M109s in the klown convoy rolling toward Stewart. “That’s dated footage now, but it was picked up by the Merlin, sir. Paladins are on trucks. They can be fired from the trailers, but they’d be much more stable and mobile if they’re offloaded before beginning their attack. If they stay on the trailers, Raptor would be able to kill them all at once—they’d have to stick with the semis, which means they’d need to stay on the roads. The Paladins can go overland if they’re offloaded, which would increase their survivability. Can’t be guaranteed the klowns are going to be dumb enough to leave them on the trailers, sir.”

“Understood. Reach out to Cassidy and Caruthers—see if they can expedite their timetables. I’d like them to speed up their retreat.”

“Caruthers is dead, sir. First Sergeant Zhu is acting commander of Inveigle at the moment,” Walker said.

Lee sighed and rubbed his forehead. He caught a whiff of his body odor, and for a moment he wished he could slip on his mask once again. He was down another company grade officer, a man who until a short time ago had been his peer and colleague. Caruthers wasn’t the hardest charger, like Hallelujah Hayes had been, or the strongest personality, like Marsh. But he had been competent, and competence was in short supply.

“So we’ve lost Turner for the moment, and Caruthers forever,” he said, more to himself than Walker. “Boy. This is total bag of dicks.”

Walker said nothing.

“Get on the radio, Major. See if we can move things up a bit given these developments.” Lee nodded toward the display. “Then get back with Raptor. Ask about the mortar attacks. If they have a position, we might be able to take the heat off them for a bit while they try and reconfigure their batteries for a real artillery fight.”

THIRTY-SIX.

“Duke!”

Muldoon spun when he heard the shock in Rawlings’s voice. He saw Cassidy and Nutter struggling as a white mist settled across the line of HESCOs, disappearing from view as it touched the ground. The RTO turned and darted back, reaching toward Nutter. Boats stood shaking at the rear of the file, the mist settling past his shoulders. As Muldoon raised his rifle, Boats did the same. He shot the RTO in the face, then fired three rounds past Rawlings toward Muldoon. Muldoon juked to the right and swore as he lost his footing. He went down hard as Campbell shoved Moreau to the ground. Rawlings stepped back, raising her rifle. Boats was on her in a second as he slammed the butt of his weapon into her head before reversing it and firing two shots into Campbell’s chest. She cried out as she was flung back.

Rawlings fired a shot that missed Boats by a mile as she went down. The old NCO leaped over her and thundered toward Muldoon. Muldoon raised his rifle and fired twice right into Boats’s center mass. Boats roared with laughter as the rounds slammed into the metal plating of his chest protector. They didn’t slow him one bit.

He crashed headlong into Muldoon, knocking his rifle away with one hand while tearing at Muldoon’s mask with the other. Muldoon fired again, blasting a hole through one of Boats’s thighs. Boats laughed even harder and began pummeling Muldoon with his fists, slamming them into his mask again and again and again.

“I didn’t think killin’ you would be this much fun, Muldoon!”

Boats’s mask half popped off his face as a bullet tore through the back of his skull and exited just above his nose. Muldoon twisted with a cry and hurled the old NCO off him. Boats crashed to the ground and lay still, a thin drool of blood leaking out from beneath his mask. He fired two more shots into Boats before pushing himself to his feet. Rawlings had iced Boats from behind. Together, he and Rawlings advanced toward Nutter and Cassidy as they grappled with each other. Blood was pouring across the lieutenant’s crotch, and Muldoon saw Nutter had gored him with his bayonet.

“Nutter!” he shouted. “Knock that shit off, Colonel!”

“It’s too much fun!” Nutter tittered. He then pulled the trigger on his weapon, firing several shots into Cassidy. The lieutenant fell away, and Nutter raised his weapon toward Muldoon. Muldoon and Rawlings fired at the same time, and Nutter twitched and danced as seven bullets slashed through him. He collapsed against the HESCO and slowly slid to the ground. His head lolled forward, and he toppled over onto his face. Muldoon walked up to the soldier and kicked him savagely in the side. Nutter did not stir.

Muldoon gave him a crotch salute. “Pass in review, Colonel.”

“Muldoon, get Moreau out of here.” Cassidy’s voice was tight and high pitched. Muldoon turned toward him as Rawlings advanced. She kept her rifle trained on the lieutenant, and she looked at Muldoon quickly.

“Be careful,” she snapped. “He could be infected.”

“Get her out, Muldoon,” Cassidy said again. He was bleeding badly, and as he spoke, Cassidy probed his wounds with one hand. He raised it to his face, and saw it was covered with blood. “Well, fuck me,” he said softly.

“We’ll get you out of here too, sir,” Muldoon said, slinging his rifle. He reached down for Cassidy, but the man slapped his big hands away.

“Finish the mission!” he shouted. “Don’t worry about me, I’m lights out! Get Moreau out of here!”

Campbell stirred slightly. “You guys can take me, too,” she said. “I’m still alive. In case anyone was curious or anything.”

Muldoon wasn’t giving up. “Come on, sir. We got you.” He reached down and grabbed Cassidy under the armpits. The lieutenant’s head lolled, just like Nutter’s had a few moments before. “Sir? Sir?”

“He’s dead, Muldoon,” Rawlings said.

“At least he got to see.” This came from Doctor Moreau. She sat on the ground next to Campbell, hands in her lap, watching everything without any sign of emotion behind her mask and facial armor.

Rawlings walked up and kicked her right in the face. Moreau cried out as she fell backward.

“That’s it, sister,” Campbell said.

“Knock the shit off! Let’s get out of here!” Muldoon left Cassidy’s side and strode over to Moreau. He grabbed one of her arms and pulled her to her feet. He was none too gentle about it. The truth of the matter was, he would be more than happy to stomp the shit out of the prissy little bitch himself.

“Roger’s down,” Rawlings said, looking up for the first time. As Muldoon shoved Moreau against the line of HESCOs and pinned her in place, he looked over. Boats hadn’t been aiming for Muldoon after all. He’d taken down Roger, and each of his shots had wound up in the big black NCO’s face.

Damn. Old son could really shoot.

“Campbell, can you walk?” he asked. He looked down at the small, scrappy National Guardsman.

“Fucker, I can even run,” Campbell said as she groped her way back to her feet. Her metal armor had taken most of the punishment, but Muldoon doubted she was feeling that great. Her movements were slow, a little disorganized, but she still managed to get upright and grab her rifle.

“Rawlings, check the RTO. Get his radio,” he said.

Rawlings bent over the radio operator and checked for any signs of life. She shook her head to herself, then unstrapped the MBITR from his harness. She clipped it onto her own, then pulled off the man’s headset. It took a few moments for her to do this as she had to pull off his MOPP overgarment’s hood, mask, and helmet. The RTO looked to be about nineteen or twenty, with scarcely a beard. His eyes were pale, and they were open and staring.

“Got it all,” Rawlings said. She didn’t bother putting on the headset, just slung it around her neck. She looked past Roger’s and Boats’s bodies suddenly and pulled in her rifle. “Movement!”

Muldoon spun around. More figures in MOPP were approaching, and Muldoon had no trouble seeing the somewhat simian movements of First Sergeant Urena. Accompanying him were Garza, Hackett, and Ivy. Urena had brought half of what was left of the Bushmasters into Stewart.

“Hey, First Sergeant,” Muldoon said. “Fancy seeing you around here.”

“Who do we have here?” Urena looked down at the bodies. “Fuck, is that Boats?”

“He got turned into a klown,” Rawlings said. “They’re using mortars that can deliver the bug, and it gets through our mask filters.” She pointed at Moreau. “She helped design it.”

“Fucking bitch,” Urena growled. “God damn, you are one lucky cunt, girl. Can’t believe some four-star god wants your nasty ass anywhere near him.”

“He must have taste,” Moreau said simply.

“She says she’s immune, First Sergeant,” Rawlings said. “We need to keep her alive.”

“Immune, huh?” Urena peered at Moreau from behind his mask’s lenses. “You’ll have to tell me about that later, Rawlings.”

“What, you understand science stuff, First Sergeant?” Muldoon asked. He didn’t even try to achieve a jocular tone. There was no chance he could pull it off.

“Duke, is that Nutter?” Garza asked. “Holy fuck, really?”

“It is the colonel himself, Garza.” Muldoon turned and regarded the small man’s body for a moment. Before Boston, he’d always thought Nutter was something of a fuckoff. That he died the way he did was tragically unfair, but in a way also heroic. To Urena: “We need to get the fuck out of here right now, First Sergeant. I think we were hit by those mortars by mistake. They don’t give a fuck about us—they want the artillery guys. And if those guys get turned, none of us are getting out of here alive.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Urena turned and fired off a knife-hand back the way he and the other troops had come. “Let’s roll out of here! Secure the prisoner, we’re leaving right now!”

Muldoon grabbed Moreau by the back of the neck, jerking her along after him. “I’ve got her. Consider her secured. Hey, Rawlings?” Muldoon turned toward her, his Jane Wayne. “Help Campbell, okay? I kinda like her, she can be our new mascot.”

THIRTY-SEVEN.

“Colonel, Eyes is out and waiting for Inveigle. They have the package under their control. Lost Eyes Six and several others—there was a mortar attack against them.” Walker listened to the report over his headset, and his eyes grew suddenly wide. “Sir, the mortars weren’t conventional. They were biological. They delivered the bug, and it was able to turn a few men into klowns even through their masks.”

Lee’s blood ran cold. Cassidy had passed back the intel that there was a possible alteration to the bug after his interview with Doctor Moreau, so it wasn’t an unanticipated development. He was just a surprise it had already happened so quickly, and that the bug had been sufficiently miniaturized to the point to where it could be delivered via what he presumed would be an eighty-one-millimeter mortar round.

“So the girl wasn’t lying,” he said. “Hadn’t figured the stuff was out in the wild yet. Notify Raptor—he needs to button up his ASP and get word to his troops. They can’t operate in the open while that mortar unit is still out there. If they can run a trajectory tracking mission for us, we can get Thunder to hit them with counter-battery fire.”

“On it, sir.”

“After that, fold up the tents. We can’t afford to be here if Raptor does get compromised—we’ll be a target. Expedite Inveigle and Desperado.”

“Roger, sir,” Walker said, turning back to the radios.

“Colonel Lee,” came a voice.

Lee turned to find Tackaberry standing in the doorway. He had a bandage on his head, and several cuts that looked to have been merely treated with antiseptic. He looked like hell, but he’d also been through it and came out on the other side still living and not laughing. “Colonel, what can I do for you?”

“It’s the other way around, son. I heard the last bit of that exchange with Walker. Am I to understand the klowns have been able to successfully deliver the agent via artillery?”

“That is correct, sir. Colonel, I’m sorry, but we have a shit ton of work to do—”

“Let my guys take one of your five-tons down the rail line. We can pick up your men and bring them back. No sense in waiting for the rest of your troops to synchronize, they can just come straight in from wherever they are. Sounds like the element inside Stewart needs to be extracted, so let’s get that done ASAP.”

“That’s klown country out there, Colonel. A single five-ton isn’t going to last very long, even if it has an M240 in its gunnery ring.”

“I obviously understand the risks here, Colonel. I’m offering you a way to speed things along. They way I understand it, your forces aren’t aligned in a serial formation, so they’ll have to maneuver on foot to consolidate and move on. Of course, there will be some delays, especially since they’ll have to not only identify themselves to each other but prove they’re not crazy. It’s going to take a while for a couple of hundred Joes to get themselves squared away, even if they’re still operating at peak discipline. Let me and my guys take some of the heat off.” Tackaberry stopped and waited for Lee to respond.

The clock is ticking here, Lee told himself.

“Not so sure it’s a great idea for you guys to go out there by yourselves,” Lee said. “I’d have to detail some lightfighters to go along for security.”

“You already have some lightfighters heading out, Colonel. A different vintage than what you might be used to, but hey...it cuts both ways.” Tackaberry pointed at Lee’s insignia of rank. “Realistically, you should be closer to my age than my son’s, but I’ll let that pass. And if you’re worried about losing your vehicle? The truth of the matter is, we start getting smoked by artillery, you’re not going to miss your five-ton truck all that much.”

“I’m sure of that,” Lee said.

Tackaberry tried to close the deal with, “Turner would go for it.”

“Turner’s not here,” Lee replied.

“Yeah, I’d noticed.” Tackaberry seemed unhappy with the response he’d received. “I’m helping you out here, Lee. My guys gave you advance warning of the attack against this assembly area and managed to coordinate strikes against the enemy even though it meant their own lives. If we haven’t proven our utility to you at this point in time, then you are one stupid son of a bitch.”

Lee and Tackaberry faced off for a long moment while Walker continued working the radios. The truth of the matter was, Lee felt lacking when Tackaberry was around. He was a full colonel, had put in his time, and despite the passing of years still knew his shit. That was when an idea arose in his mind, and for an instant he felt like a kid finishing a complex jigsaw puzzle he’d been working at for a week.

“I’ll cut you a deal, sir. You send your guys out in a five-ton to extract my troops and the package they’re carrying. You probably realize those men aren’t going to come back, but they’ll have the chance to change things up in our favor, and maybe that’s worth more to you than you’re letting on.”

“It’s worth a hell of a lot to a bunch of guys who aren’t present for the conversation, Colonel Lee. Tell me who to talk to in order to get the truck, and I’m gone.”

“That’s just it, sir. You’re not going anywhere.” Lee pointed to the command sergeant major’s workstation. “You’re going to have a seat here and give me full access to your historical knowledge, and you’re going to help us work through not just today, but every day it takes until we cross the forward line of troops around Florida. You’re not an O-6 anymore; you’re now demoted to an E-9. Have what it takes to assume the roles and responsibilities of a command sergeant major?”

“I presume you mean acting E-9, as Turner isn’t dead,” Tackaberry said.

“Indeed, sir. Or at least until one of my senior NCOs who can assume the role returns from the field,” Lee said.

Tackaberry smiled. “You’re one crazy motherfucker, Lee. I like that.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a battered MBITR from his pack and showed it to Lee. “With your permission, I’d like to present this to Chief Master Sergeant Linton. He’s my element senior NCO, and he’ll need commo that can actually talk to people in this TOC.”

“Where did you get that?” Lee asked.

“I pulled it off Turner and have been monitoring your conversations ever since,” Tackaberry said. His smile grew more predatory. “Knowledge is the key to victory in almost every battlefield circumstance, Lee.”

Lee smiled back. “Do that, sir. Then come back here so we can get to work.”

THIRTY-EIGHT.

After passing through the fighting positions and going to ground inside the trees, Urena crawled over to where Muldoon lay with the prisoner. Muldoon watched him approach, moving slowly and carefully through the brush. The old dog still had some soldierly skills.

“Got a message from Wizard,” Urena whispered to him when he was close enough.

“Okay. Is it ‘fuck you’?”

“Nah. That would be from me. We have a truck rolling to our position to pick us up. Lee’s folding up the tents and moving out. We’re to get in and ride back to the assembly area in true style.”

Muldoon snorted behind his mask. “Lee loves me.”

Urena pointed at Moreau. “She’s the one he’s worried about, Muldoon.”

“How long?”

“Five, six minutes. A bunch of civilians are on the op. I guess there aren’t enough of our guys left to go around. Anyway, giving you the heads up. I’ve got to pass it on to some of the other guys. Get your people ready to move.” With that, Urena crawled off, heading for another group of soldiers that were arranged in a firing line.

Muldoon briefed Rawlings and Campbell, all while keeping a hand on Moreau. He wasn’t going to let the bitch go anywhere. Rawlings in turn filled in Garza and Hackett. After she was done, she returned to her previous position, eyes out, rifle ready.

“Campbell, you good?” Muldoon asked quietly. There was a momentary lull in the firing around them, as forces took a quick break to reconsolidate and reload.

“Dreamy,” Campbell said.

“Just asking. Haven’t seen too many people shake off a couple of rifle rounds before.”

“Cuz you haven’t met anyone like me, Muldoon.”

Muldoon chuckled and looked over at Rawlings. “Don’t get all delusional, Campbell. You’re just not that special.”

The mortar position fired off again, a long volley of ten rounds. Muldoon tensed when he heard the weapons cracking away in the distance but nothing impacted in their area, and none of the queer white mist was visible. He also didn’t feel much like laughing at the moment, so that was probably a good thing. He swept his gaze over the troops around him, checking them out. They all acted normal. He looked at Rawlings again. If she turned into a klown, would he really be able to shoot her dead?

You’d better, buddy. Because she’ll do it to you if you don’t.

The fighting started again, somewhere inside Stewart. It started small, then blew up into something big. Muldoon figured the klown mortar attack had finally landed in a big concentration of fights, and now they were turning on each other. He mentally urged whomever was driving the five-ton out to them to put their foot to the metal.

It took more like seven minutes for the five-ton to arrive, and when it did, it was one severely shot up motherfucker. But it still ran, and a man with a white handlebar mustache stood in the gunnery ring, slinging the M240 machine gun there like he knew what the hell he was doing. The rig shuddered to a halt a few dozen yards away, and the old man on the machine gun kept it trained on them as Urena slowly emerged from the pine barrens, hands where the guy could see them.

“Inveigle?” This came from the man sitting in the truck’s cab. Muldoon couldn’t see much of him, as the windshield was scarred from multiple bullet strikes. Still, he had the deep delivery of a noncommissioned officer, and Muldoon figured he was probably a tough SOB to be horsing a five-ton through a combat zone with only an M240 for deterring attack.

“You got it. We’re all good, no infections here. You must be Geezer,” Urena said.

“Roger that. Get in, and make it fucking quick, soldier!”

“How the hell do we know these guys are who they say they are?” Campbell asked.

“Watch and wait,” Muldoon said. “If they’re nutjobs, they aren’t going to be able to stay off the trigger for long.”

The lightfighters ran toward the idling truck and climbed into its bed. Muldoon, Rawlings, and Campbell went as one, each standing close to Moreau. The scientist hadn’t said much of anything for most of the past hour, and Muldoon wondered if she was frightened to be killed by the klowns, or just disappointed they hadn’t killed the soldiers around her. It didn’t matter. So long as she was compliant, Muldoon wouldn’t break her jaw and carry her to the truck over one shoulder.

There was another man in the bed of the truck, also an older civilian man. He was dead. Hackett had already picked up his rifle, a shiny black AR that looked pretty beefy and had a nice glass scope mounted to its top rail. Hackett was busy admiring all the accessories on it, his eyes wide behind the lenses of his mask.

“You’re not going to spooge all over that thing are you, Hackett?” Muldoon asked.

“I just might,” Hackett said.

“Don’t get too attached, it’s not yours. Make yourself useful and point that thing toward klowns as opposed to the bed of the truck—kill the enemy, not the driveshaft. Rawlings, give me a hand with the prisoner.” As Rawlings clambered into the truck’s bed, Muldoon grabbed both of Moreau’s arms. She squirmed slightly in his grasp.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

“Yeah? Tough shit, princess.”

The man on the machine gun shouted something, then opened up toward the fighting positions across the way. In response, bullets slammed into the side of the truck. Muldoon lifted Moreau and half-threw her into the truck, then grabbed onto the tailgate as the big rig took off. It dragged him for a bit, but he was able to pull himself up high enough that the other soldiers in the bed could grab him and haul his ass inside.

Urena bellowed for the rest of the soldiers to get on their guns and start killing goblins. Muldoon shoved Moreau down and started to raise his own weapon, but Urena lurched over and shoved him down.

“Cover that woman like you love her, soldier!” he shouted. He turned back to the truck’s railing and grunted as he caught a round. He stumbled slightly, and Muldoon reached up and steadied him.

“You do it, Urena! You do it!”

Urena shook him off and started firing. “Do as you’re told, Muldoon!” Urena half-knelt, half-fell to the bed of the truck and began taking aimed shots. Muldoon stayed up just long enough to see a gaggle of klowns streak out of the pine barrens after them, shrieking incomprehensible war cries. A significant number of them were children, smeared with blood, feces, and anything else that might serve as a contaminant. That was witty of the klowns—use kids to deliver the virus, kids that even hardened soldiers might stop to help. But that plan was obviously useless to them now, and the children streamed toward the truck, holding knives, bats, guns, even just rocks. They darted amongst the adults, their faces twisted into demonic, festive grins.

Then the old guy on the M240 began chopping everybody to pieces. Muldoon had seen enough. He ducked down and covered Moreau with his body, pressing her to the bottom of the truck’s bed as the big rig took off, its diesel engine roaring. The man behind the wheel brought the truck into a sweeping left turn, and it bounced up and down as it crossed the train tracks that led to Stewart. The troops expressed their discontent at the sudden motion, but it certainly beat staying and getting shot at. Someone collapsed beside Muldoon and lay still. For an instant, he was afraid to look.

What if it’s Rawlings—

He raised his head and turned to his left. It was a man, but he couldn’t tell who it was at first. He’d been shot in the jaw and neck. The man convulsed a few times as he choked on his own blood. Muldoon couldn’t hear any of the retching above the pounding notes of the M240, but he caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes through the lenses in his mask. It was Hackett, silently imploring him to help save his life.

Before Muldoon could do anything, Hackett’s mortality clock hit midnight, and he died.

“Hackett’s down!” he shouted, reaching out and grabbing the soldier. He pulled off his mask and got to his knees, preparing to start chest compressions. He was shoved down an instant later, and he heard Urena’s voice. It was full of whiplashes.

“Stay the fuck down and cover that bitch, Muldoon! Do as I fucking tell you!”

The gunfire continued. Muldoon fell across Moreau again, slamming down onto her with his full weight. She cried out beneath him, but he didn’t care. The more discomfort she felt, the happier he was. The bitch had helped bring all of this about, had a hand in the deaths of Hackett, Nutter, Cassidy, over a dozen other guys, even that old fucker Boats—not to mention the hundreds of thousands if not millions of civilians who had died because of her. That she was supposed to be handled with kid gloves pissed him off to no end. She was a fucking mass murderer.

“I can’t breathe,” she moaned beneath him.

“Fuck you, you stupid whore! You want to bitch to me about how I’m treating you? You fucking entitled little shit, fuck you! Fuck you!”

As he spoke, Muldoon realized he was still holding onto one of Hackett’s hands. He looked over the scientist’s head. Hackett was sprawled right next to them, eyes open but sightless. He’d been a tough one, and it galled Muldoon to think that his end had come just like that.

The gunfire continued as the truck raced away. Bullets slapped against its metal hide, pinging off as the small-caliber rounds were turned by the truck’s heavy tailgate. Other rounds perforated the sides of the bed, and twice Muldoon heard them crack over his head. Red hot cartridges rained down on him from the M240. They rolled around the truck bed, joining the small ones from the rifles as the troops tried to shoot back. The way the truck was pitching as it picked up speed told Muldoon the Joes were just wasting their ammo. There was no way they were going to hit anything, and the klowns weren’t going to pay any mind to anything as ineffective as grazing fire.

Slowly, the firing receded as the truck accelerated away. The rig’s driver didn’t slow down for a damned thing—he just kept the hammer down, pushing the hulking five-ton to its limit. Muldoon certainly understood how he felt. He didn’t want to hang around getting shot at by klowns either.

He figured they were out of immediate danger when they started paying attention to Hackett. Muldoon looked up as Garza pulled off the man’s helmet and mask while Campbell worked on getting his armor off. He saw Hackett’s head lolling, eyes open and sightless, a weal of blood drooling from his open mouth. The guy had survived the horrors of the Underground Hotel, and here he’d had his ticket punched in the middle of a five-ton truck.

Urena appeared then, and the sleeve over his right arm was soaked with blood. He pushed Muldoon’s head back down against Moreau. She struggled against him, so he rapped her in the side with his left fist.

“Stay. The fuck. DOWN!” Urena bellowed in his ear. “Are you fucking deaf as well as stupid, Muldoon? Do not get up until I fucking tell you to do so!”

“For how fucking long?” Muldoon shouted back, and his voice was raw and high pitched. He pushed himself up against Urena despite the first sergeant’s attempts to hold him down. Even with two arms, it would have been an impossible task.

“How fucking long am I supposed to protect someone who’s pretty much licking Hitler’s asshole?” Muldoon screamed. It wasn’t a shout, or a yell. It was scream. Muldoon realized then that he was finally unraveling, finally coming undone. He’d flirted with it in Afghanistan, that set of circumstances where a man had finally hit his limit and just couldn’t function any longer. It was ironic that it would finally manifest itself here and now, in a war where there was no such thing as R&R or sack time or a Hollywood shower. All he had to look forward to was running, shooting, and eventually, dying.

In short, Muldoon was about to lose his shit.

“Andy.” Rawlings dropped down beside him and threw back her hood, then loosened the straps of her mask. She pulled it down so he could see her face, and Muldoon was mesmerized by the sight. She was sweaty and grimy and filthy, and her teeth were still kind of messed up. But to Muldoon, she was the ultimate picture of beauty.

“Rawlings, put on your mask!” Urena thundered.

Rawlings ignored him. “Andy. Do what the first sergeant tells you. Protect Moreau.”

“Babe, I think I’m totally off the rails,” Muldoon said. “Never been here before. It’s too much.”

Rawlings reached out and touched his mask. “Do it for me then, Duke,” she said. “Do it for your Jane Wayne.”

Muldoon looked up at her and laughed then, a crazy but still very much human laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He sensed the tension running through the rest of the soldiers who overhead the exchange, and he realized then that laughing was probably the wrong thing to do.

“He’s all right,” Rawlings said as Urena brought his M4 around. “He’s going to be fine.”

“That so,” Urena said, voice low and predatory.

Muldoon looked up at Urena. “You can pull that trigger any time, First Sergeant. I’d really appreciate it if you did, man.”

Urena regarded Muldoon for a long moment, then lowered his rifle. “Like hell I will, Muldoon. Typical E-5, wants to give orders and not take ’em. You just want to get out of doing work. Cover that woman, and do it until I tell you otherwise. But don’t worry, fuckbag. Rawlings won’t get jealous. And Rawlings—put on your shit right now!”

Muldoon turned back to Rawlings. “He does sound kinda serious. Might’ve missed his laxative this morning, and the bloating is making him uncomfortable.”

“Hey, somebody help me reload this pig,” said the man on the M240. “I took a couple, so I don’t think I can bend down and wrestle an ammo can.”

“Rawlings, put your fucking mask on and help the man,” Urena snapped.

Rawlings smiled at Muldoon for a moment then did what the first sergeant ordered. “Hooah, First Sergeant.” Once she was buttoned up, she moved forward, reaching for the ammunition can beside the older man. Muldoon tracked her movements, and saw the old guy was standing in a puddle of blood. He’d definitely been hit, but didn’t seem much worse for wear.

Urena reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and gently pushed him down. “Shield the prisoner, Sergeant,” he said. “Get it done now, boy.”

Muldoon did as Urena instructed, shielding one of the architects of Mankind’s destruction from harm with his own body as the five-ton truck limped back to the assembly area.

THIRTY-NINE.

Colonel Hubert Barker wasn’t a fearful man, which wasn’t to say he hadn’t known fear—he certainly had, more times than he would care to admit—but he wasn’t terrified by risk. Many of the newer commanders in the Army had adopted an approach to combat that sought to mitigate risk, either by attempting to manage it out of the operations or by planning combat missions so conservatively that comparatively little damage was done to enemy formations. They relied on the psychological component of warfare to shatter their enemy’s spirit as opposed to his body, to play tricks with his mind, to force him to doubt himself and his capabilities. Barker knew all of these were good things to employ, and he fully believed that a military commander needed to show up to a fight carrying a big toolbox. But none of those tactics would ever work against the klowns.

Which was why Hubert Barker wasn’t frightened of risk. If the klowns couldn’t be degraded by more asymmetrical methods, then he would just use every big gun he had under his command to blow them up. By his calculations, he and his troops and the remaining infantry and armor forces under his command had inflicted thousands of casualties upon the enemy. It would not surprise him to discover the artillery and machine guns had killed over ten thousand of them. He believed friendly forces had lost upwards of nine hundred combatants, but all of those fallen had taken scores of enemy with them before they died. The klowns had suffered substantial losses.

But unlike his troops, the klowns could reconstitute. More of them were coming in all the time, and many of his own soldiers had been infected and turned against him and their former comrades in arms. Barker knew the defenders of Fort Stewart had only a short time left to live. The ammunition was starting to run out, and they couldn’t depart until the artillery fell finally silent, otherwise it would be used against them before he, his command, and their dependents could get out of range. That was the real ball-buster. While the ASP was designed to be virtually impenetrable by anything other than real big-ticket munitions, like two-thousand-pound bombs, he wasn’t convinced that it could withstand a biological attack. It had been outfitted with HEPA filtration systems as part of the Cold War load out, but he had no idea if those systems were even operational, or when they’d last been serviced. He had men looking into that right now, of course, but it was a late decision and there was a fair amount of inspections to be done before the reliability of the systems could be adequately assessed. And as this happened, one lone mortar unit was out there dropping death all around the post. If they couldn’t find it and destroy it, then he would be forced to close the ASP’s heavy doors and hunker down and wait, leaving his artillery batteries and their crews exposed to continue the fight. That was why he had dispatched the armor; they were mobile and could put eyes on target, and best of all, they were hardened against biochem attack. Along the way, they could also put some hurting on the enemy armor that was surging into the area. It was a crapshoot, but Barker was at the point where he had to commit. As risky as it was to send the armor out, it was equally so to hold it in reserve under the current circumstances.

Fuck the risk, he told himself. If it doesn’t get used, it’s just gonna get destroyed or captured.

He had his loaders working double-time now, clearing out the ASP and getting the ammunition out to the firing circles. And he had the MLRS unit getting fed as well. He still had the Paladins to worry about, and the tracked rocket launchers would have to be moved several miles to the south in order to preserve them. He didn’t have the manpower to efficiently protect them out in the field, so they would have to shoot and scoot once Florida defined a target for them to annihilate. His last card to play, and Barker would not be surprised if it was going to be a posthumous one.

He walked from the TOC in one vault to the others, checking on the wounded, on the families, watching the loaders heave artillery shells and rockets and guided missiles out to the waiting trucks. Outside, the artillery pieces continued to bang out death. His crews were dog-tired and the pace was grinding them into dust, but there was no way around it. He could spike the guns and call them all inside, but that wasn’t his way. Or their way, either. The men would fight to the very last, with everything from artillery to knives. They had families to protect. Though he hoped it did not show, Barker was deeply affected at the depth and breadth of their sacrifice. He was their leader, and he had tried to play the role as effectively as possible, but they were champions. To a man, the soldiers outside were true-blue heroes, selfless in their actions, relentless even though they must have known they were a forlorn hope.

Outside the open loading door leading to the ASP, men screamed. Gunfire rang out, a sudden volley from rifles. The loaders stopped what they were doing and grabbed their weapons as Barker ran forward, slinging his own rifle into his hands. He didn’t have his face mask pulled on, but he ran toward the commotion anyway. As he sped toward the open door, a white fog started to roll in. It floated lazily, drifting toward the cement floor as it advanced, getting lower and lower. Barker slammed on the brakes and practically skidded to a stop. He knew what it was.

“Close the door!” he shouted. “Seal the ASP, now!”

Two of the loaders were enveloped by the fog. Swimming through the murk, more shapes loomed. Soldiers, crouching as they stumbled inside, shuddering with laughter despite their MOPP gear. They were infected. Barker raised his rifle and began firing. Too slow; one of the infected did the same, opening up on the loaders who were still reacting to the threat. Two of them went down. Barker fired aimed shots from where he stood, not attempting to find cover. The infected soldiers jerked as the bullets slammed into them, but by and large they ignored the attack, concentrating on the loaders.

More weapons roared as a security team opened up with rifles and SAWs. The attackers were chopped up where they stood. More infantrymen ran up, weapons at the ready. They fired outside the still-open ASP door, engaging enemy forces outside that Barker could not see.

“Sir, get back to the TOC!” one of them shouted. “We’ll get the door!”

Barker turned and ran back to the tactical operations center, located at the far end of the ASP. He heard the dependents screaming as the gunfire reached a crescendo, and tears began to well up in his eyes as his heart pounded in his chest. His own family was among them, and he needed to defend them.

But first, he had one last radio transmission to send. He charged for the command and control station. One of the radio operators was away from his post; that didn’t matter. As the other soldiers manning the TOC looked toward Barker for instructions, he pointed at the radio with one hand and put the other on a nineteen-year-old radio specialist’s shoulder.

“Son, send this immediately to all commands: Raptor is broken arrow. Stormbringer is to depart immediately with whatever payloads they have. Repeat that message for as long as you can.”

The operator looked at him with wide eyes. “Sir?”

“God damn it, son! Send that message right now, and keep sending it!”

“Yes, sir!”

“God save you all,” Barker said to the staff in the TOC. He turned away from them and pulled on his mask, then donned his helmet and pulled up his overgarment’s hood. He seized his rifle and ran out of the TOC, bolting to the vault where the dependents were holed up. Other soldiers had already formed up there, rifles ready. The entrance was still open, and the soldiers there were embroiled in a brisk battle.

Outside, the artillery fire slowly petered out. Small-arms fire rang through the air, but the big guns had finally gone silent.

FORTY.

Weide Zhu had the remnants of Inveigle double-time through the pine barrens, skirting any klown elements where they could, annihilating those they couldn’t. He’d heard over the radio that the enemy was lobbing weaponized variants of the bug into Stewart. That meant they didn’t have long to get the hell out of the area before the artillery fell into enemy hands. Zhu had no idea if the artillery commander had enough time to spike the guns, but he rather doubted it. There was a lot of fighting going on inside of Stewart, more than he’d heard before. It was as if every weapon was being committed now, and he had no doubt that a good number of those were former friendlies who had gone over to the other side.

He’d found a second lieutenant to take care of the radio communications and put an officer’s face in front of Wizard, but the young officer had let Zhu know that the unit was his to run for the time being. Zhu understood. While the lieutenant had all the basic skills, this situation was a little more fluid than his training had prepared him for. And the truth of the matter was, Zhu wanted to lead for the moment. He had men and women to get out of danger, and Inveigle had already suffered a fair cost. His goal was to sweat like mad now to try and head off any bleeding they might have to do later.

The unit had only a mile to cover. Even through the pine barrens, it was a twenty-minute jog. But the klowns were starting to emerge now, zeroing in on Inveigle and the bigger force of Desperado behind them. He debated calling in cover fires from Thunder, but he didn’t know where Desperado was exactly, and he didn’t want to stop to figure it out. By his reckoning, a two- or three-minute pause would leave a lot of them dead, as the klowns were being their usual aggressive attackers and hurling themselves headlong at the unit whenever they detected it. Just the same, he’d asked the lieutenant to try and get some basic information from Desperado so fires could be coordinated on the move if required.

Bullets whizzed past him, and he saw a klown element—maybe a squad in size—emerge from the brush to his left, about fifty meters away. They were shooting on the move, so their accuracy was for shit. Zhu stopped and returned fire, ignoring the searing agony in his left arm. He yelled for fires to the left, and he got more than he bargained for; three soldiers stopped and hurled grenades at the klowns, sending bodies whirling through the air. Those that weren’t killed in the attack were so severely degraded that they couldn’t immediately press the assault. Zhu took several aimed shots, dropping more of the apocalyptic ghouls before they could do more than titter in joy at the exquisite agony the grenades had caused. In less than five seconds, the klowns were wiped out.

But the grenades had been loud enough to give the remaining klown forces in the area a good directional slice, and Zhu had no doubt they were moving in as fast as they could. They would be mostly unencumbered by gear, and wore no MOPP equipment, so they could move faster than the lightfighters. Plus the soldiers of the Tenth Mountain still needed to use discretion in their advance; the klowns didn’t have to worry about that. For them, death was an avenue to agony, and agony led to laughter.

And laughter usually led to a lot of lightfighters dying.

“Move out, move out, move out!” Zhu shouted, waving the soldiers on with his rifle. He couldn’t use his left arm very well, so that was the only visual signal he could readily give. He saw the lieutenant and the RTO trotting along. “LT! Pass on to Wizard that we’re inbound, and that Desperado probably needs to pick up the pace!”

“Already done, First Sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “Keep bounding forward, troops! Let’s haul some ass!”

FORTY-ONE.

The truck finally stopped thrashing as it encountered a stretch of smooth terrain. Urena put his hand on Muldoon’s shoulder.

“Okay, GI Joe, you can get up now,” he said. “We’re at the assembly area...I think.”

Muldoon pushed himself off of Moreau and cautiously looked around. The troops were still on their guns, and the old guy manning the M240 slowly sank to the truck’s bed. His face was ashen, and blood covered his abdomen. He’d been gutshot. A pained expression blossomed over his face, and Muldoon had no doubt he was in no small amount of agony.

The assembly area was full of smoke. To the east, the pine barrens were ablaze, and bodies lay strewn about. Most of them looked to be klowns, but over by the medical section lay a row of body bags. Muldoon counted seven. Dead lightfighters, an unfortunately common occurrence these days.

The rest of the vehicles were already being loaded up and readying to move out. Weapons were charged, engines were idling, and fuel was being sucked out of blivets. The battered rig being driven by the retired NCO pulled up into what appeared to be the refueling line, and Urena ordered everybody out. He insisted that Muldoon remain with Moreau, a duty that was starting to rub Muldoon wrong, but he stuck with it anyway. He felt an acute sense of shame as he watched some of the troops haul Hackett’s body away. He had almost lost it in the field, the first time he’d ever experienced anything like that. And worse, Rawlings had seen him do it.

What would Nutter say? he wondered as he pulled Moreau to her feet. He’d probably call me Jane Wayne.

The troops climbed down from the big five-ton while Urena and another man helped the injured civilian. Muldoon spared the wounded man a glance as he climbed down and prepared to receive Moreau. The gunner had been definitely gutshot, and he was losing a shit-ton of blood. From the set of the old codger’s jaw, he was putting on a real iron man show, but he knew he was likely history. Nightingale had received more blood supplies during the small replenishment drop the boys in Florida had provided, but Muldoon doubted there was a lot left. The assembly area had come under direct attack itself, so a lot of those supplies had likely gone to treating the local wounded.

They had to go through the usual routine to ensure they weren’t klowns. It was becoming more abbreviated now, or maybe Muldoon was just getting used to someone slugging him. When they were processed and cleared, he grabbed one of Moreau’s arms and pulled her after him as he set off at a brisk pace toward the tactical operations center truck. She had to half-jog to keep up with him and started dragging her feet in protest, but Campbell formed up on them and prodded her in the back with her rifle.

“March, bitch,” Campbell snarled.

“Easy with the rifle,” Muldoon said.

“Fuck her, she’s got a double helping of chicken plate in that vest,” Campbell said. “She can’t feel shit.”

“I feel everything,” Moreau said behind her facial armor.

“Typical snowflake,” Muldoon snapped. He yanked on her arm. “Listen to Campbell and walk faster, cunt.” Rawlings formed up on them then, and she looked up at Muldoon, eyes steady behind her mask. Muldoon found he couldn’t really look at her.

The door to the tactical operations center flew open and Colonel Lee practically leaped out of the vehicle. He slammed the door closed behind him and ran toward Muldoon and the others. He wasn’t wearing his MOPP gear, and Muldoon had no trouble seeing the hard set of Lee’s features.

“Coming to tear me a new asshole already, sir?” Muldoon asked.

Lee’s eyes only flicked toward Muldoon before returning to Moreau. “Get that armor off her. I want to see her.”

Muldoon and Rawlings exchanged a glance. He held Moreau while Rawlings unpinned the facial armor and pulled the stiff Kevlar shield away. Next came the helmet, then the MOPP mask underneath. Finally, Moreau stood there, blinking against the acrid smoke as she faced Lee.

“Doctor Courtney Moreau?” Lee asked.

“Yes.”

“One of the so-called four horsemen President Gray is looking for?”

Moreau shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

“Where are the others?”

“I don’t know.”

Lee snorted. “So you say you’re immune to the bug? That you were vaccinated against it?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Must be nice. Where is this vaccine?”

Moreau shrugged again. “As far as I know, there isn’t any. We had only trials. But if you’re thinking about using it to cure the infected, you can forget about that. We tried it as well. It kills those who are already carrying the virus.” She smiled at Lee sweetly. “So if you’re thinking I can help reverse what’s happening...sorry. Not happening. This was always a one-way trip, even if we did experiment with a cure.”

“But it would work on those who aren’t already infected?” Lee asked.

“Perhaps. If you can get your hands on one of the trials and engineer it in larger capacity, sure. But you’d have to get the FDA to approve it, and we all know how long their trial process is. Right?”

“I’m kind of thinking we don’t have to worry about a lot of red tape, not where you’re headed. You’re a sick, murderous bitch, Doctor. I hope that when you get to Florida, whatever they do to you hurts like hell, and for a long, long time.”

Moreau smiled again. “So sweet of you.”

Lee glared at her for a long moment, then pointed at a nearby up-armored Humvee. “Muldoon, put her in that Humvee and make sure she’s properly restrained. We can’t lose her now. We’re going to pull out of here as soon as we recover the rest of the troops, but you and a small element will step off right now and head for our first phase line. It’s been surveilled by the drone and it’s secure. Can’t tell how long the route to it will remain clear, though, so you’ll have to leave right away.”

“Roger that, sir. Who’s in command of the column?”

Lee looked at him directly. “You are, Sergeant.”

Muldoon cocked his head. “You’re demoting me from ass-kicker to babysitter?”

“I’m entrusting you with the potential continued survival of the human race, Muldoon. I’d hardly consider that a demotion. The truth of the matter is, there’s no one else to give the mission to. So you’re up. Gather your team. You’ll have three vehicles, the best Humvees we have left. Equipped with GAU-19s and as much ammo as they can carry. You won’t have to wait for long—we’ll be catching up to you in less than half an hour. I’ll surge more protection your way as soon as Inveigle and Desperado get in. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. But what about Turner, sir?”

“Sarmajor Turner is a casualty. I expect First Sergeant Zhu will take over his position, presuming he makes it here alive. Cassidy and Boats are dead, I understand?”

“Yes, sir. They didn’t make it out.”

Lee nodded and looked from Muldoon to Rawlings, then over at Campbell. “You...you’re that pistol from the Guard, right?”

“I’m Campbell, sir.”

“Come here, Campbell. I have something I need you to do.”

Campbell stepped out from around Muldoon and Moreau and planted her small frame in front of Lee. “Sir?”

Lee nodded to Moreau. “Knock this bitch’s teeth out.”

Campbell immediately turned and wound up. Moreau took a step back, eyes wide.

“Wait—”

Her head snapped back as Campbell delivered a full shot right to her face. Both women went down, but Lee grabbed Campbell’s pack and yanked her away. He’d anticipated she’d continue the attack, and he didn’t want the scientist dead, at least not yet. Campbell struggled against him, screaming behind her mask, something about her kids and her husband. Rawlings stepped up and grabbed her, helping Lee get her under control. For his part, Muldoon didn’t move a muscle as Moreau fell to the ground with a cry. Blood gushed from her split lip.

“What the fuck?” she cried.

Lee spun around, taking Campbell with him. “One shot, Campbell! That’s all you get! Now get yourself squared away!” He released the woman, and she glared at him for a moment before nodding and getting herself squared away.

“Thanks for the opportunity, sir,” she said, and her voice quavered behind her mask.

Lee turned back to Muldoon. “You have a mission. Get to it.”

Muldoon silently turned and grabbed Moreau. He hauled her to her feet and motioned for Rawlings to help suit her up again.

“Feel high and mighty now?” Moreau said to Lee. She spat blood at him, but it didn’t get anywhere near him.

“Not yet,” Lee said. “I’m saving it for when I hear the medical guys have cut you into little pieces to harvest every molecule that can be used to grow the vaccine. Then? Yeah, I’ll be real high and mighty.”

Moreau started to shout something in response, but Muldoon clamped a hand over her bloody mouth. “Time to shut up, princess.” Rawlings pulled the mask over her head and secured it, then slipped on the advanced combat helmet. Finally, then came the face armor. They buttoned her up good, and Muldoon dragged her toward the waiting Humvee.

“Your hearse awaits,” he said.

FORTY-TWO.

Lee returned to the TOC just long enough to ensure that it was being buttoned up and ready for transit. He’d heard the transmission from Raptor, so he knew Fort Stewart had fallen. He hoped and prayed that the ASP could be secured and that it could withstand whatever attacks the klowns would hurl against it. But that was Colonel Barker’s problem; the First Fifty-Fifth couldn’t help the red legs now. The battalion was severely understrength, and Lee would be surprised if he could still muster two full companies come tomorrow.

Once Walker indicated that the TOC would be secured and ready for transit in only a few minutes, Lee instructed him to get back to his Humvee. The remaining operators in the vehicle would attend to it from this moment forward; there was no need for the XO to remain. When Lee stepped back outside, he saw Inveigle emerge from the pine barrens. They had wounded and dead which would need to be tended to, but that couldn’t happen here. They needed to get at least twenty miles out before they could pause to refit. Lee hurried toward the emerging soldiers, shouting for First Sergeant Zhu.

“Here, sir!” Zhu replied. He was taller than Lee, but much more slender. Lee figured he had consumed a great deal of beef as a child. “Colonel, you need to go to MOPP, sir!” He pointed at Lee’s exposed face.

“First Sergeant, you’re acting battalion command sergeant major. But I see you’re injured...?”

“Some metal fragments, nothing to worry about, sir. Is Turner KIA?”

“Negative, he’s still with us but he’s not operational for the time being. Listen, we’re moving out right now—Stewart has fallen and the klowns will eventually gain control of the artillery. We need to vacate the area. If you’re well enough, I need you to take command of that vehicle there”—Lee turned and pointed to an up-armored Humvee—“and coordinate the ground movement. Our initial phase line is about six miles away, which will take us out of range of the majority of Stewart’s guns. We’ll link up with Sergeant Muldoon’s element there.”

“Why is Muldoon there, sir?”

“He has the package,” Lee said. “I couldn’t leave her here, so I sent her ahead in the three-vehicle column. Aerial recce tells us the approach and laager area are currently secure, so I needed him to jump out with Moreau. Just in case.”

“We should surge some additional units his way, sir,” Zhu said.

“Agreed. You operational, First Sergeant?” Lee pointed at Zhu’s bloodied arm.

“Hurts like a bitch, sir, but nothing I can’t handle,” Zhu replied. “Boats, Riggs, and McAllister —are they still with us? I’ll need them.”

“Boats is KIA. Riggs is still in the field with Desperado. McAllister is overseeing vehicle refuel and sustainment. If you’re lucky, you’ll get two out of three, Zhu. I hope you don’t need all of them to do your new job?”

“I don’t need any of them, sir. But the experience will help. How many senior NCOs do we have left?”

“Urena is just in, and he’s in good shape,” Lee said. “There’s essentially nothing left of the Bushmasters now, so he’s yours if you want him.”

“Thank you, sir. Urena will do nicely. How long until Turner is able to return to duty?”

“Weeks, I would imagine,” Lee said.

Zhu nodded. “Good—then I have a free hand. I’d like to find someone else to oversee the vehicle ops and dispatch McAllister with a heavy weapons team to Muldoon’s pos. Is Thunder still available?”

“Yes, standing by to cover Desperado on command.”

“Can we get some air support, sir? If Stewart has fallen, it might be best to start taking out their hardware before the enemy can get to them.”

“Call has been made, but there are no assets available. There are a few hundred troops and civilians holed up in the DIVARTY ASP. The last thing we want to do is blow them up, presuming they’re in a position that’s potentially survivable against klown attack.” Lee turned and shot a knife hand toward the refueling queue. “You’ll find McAllister over there. I’ll send Urena to your vehicle and advise him he’s been chopped over to you. Feel free to detail McAllister to assemble a team and roll out to Muldoon’s position; check in with the XO for the coordinates. McAllister can have five lightfighters go with him, and he has his pick of whatever remains in the arsenal. For what it’s worth, Muldoon has GAU-19s on station, so I’d recommend something with a Mark nineteen on it.”

“Roger all, sir. And Colonel, you need to cover up—right now.”

Lee ignored the admonition. “One other thing, Zhu. Raptor dispatched his armor to roll around looking for the mortar unit that’s firing the biochem rounds. He also dispersed his MLRS batteries so they don’t get overrun. Heard from Lieutenant Cassidy before he went under that Raptor had given them a tasking to punch through the lines surrounding Florida. I guess that things aren’t quite as rosy down there as we were led to believe. What’s your opinion on escorting those units?”

“That’s a lot to take in, sir. What biochem weapons? And MLRS launchers are tracked and move at maybe twenty-five to thirty miles an hour. We form up around them, it’s going to be the slow boat to Florida. Fuel would be an issue, we couldn’t sustain them for very long. And sir, it’s not our mission. Would love to have that kind of firepower available, but depending on their ordnance, we would never see what they were shooting at anyway.”

Lee nodded. “I’d figured that much as well. I just wanted your take on it, since you’re my current senior NCO.”

“Your current senior NCO advises you to make tracks for Florida, sir. I hear the coconut shrimp is great this time of year, and Lord knows we could all use a few dozen rounds of piña coladas.”

Lee snorted. “I don’t disagree. All right, Zhu—” He stopped suddenly when he saw more figures emerging from the pine barrens, moving at a dead run. He grabbed his rifle, and Zhu did the same despite his injured arm. The first soldier out slowly waved as he came to a halt. So did the others that emerged from the thickets and tall grass. They kept their weapons low and began lining up for the processing that had to occur.

“All right, Desperado is here,” Lee said, turning back to Zhu. “Go have your talk with McAllister, then collect your man Riggs. Your call sign is Wizard Seven. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Good copy,” Zhu said. “Now please, sir...mask up?”

Lee sighed and shook his head. “What is it about the battalion command sarmajor slot that turns everyone into mother hens?” he asked.

Zhu shrugged. “I guess I’m just not much for playing the father figure, sir.”

FORTY-THREE.

Lee heard over the radio that the last trucks had just departed the assembly area when the steel rain came down, and hard. Everyone stomped on their accelerators and hurtled up the country roads that led to the southeast, putting as much distance between the remains of the battalion and the big guns at Stewart as they could. Sitting in his armored Humvee with Foster driving, Sienkiewicz in the right rear seat behind him, and Murphy on the GAU-19 in the cupola, Lee concentrated on working the radios and getting all the information he needed while recalling the arty engagement that had occurred literally right in front of him. The barrage from Stewart had been intense, but no one had been injured and no vehicles were lost.

Fucking miracle, he told himself. He knew that wasn’t it at all; the artillery batteries at Stewart had been manned by professionals who knew how to get their job done. And now, the lightfighters were bugging out and leaving them to die. Or worse.

And their families.

He raised Reynolds’s command on the satphone and was informed that the battalion no longer had surveillance support. The Merlin had to return for refueling, and then another tasking awaited it. He was warned about enemy buildups to their east, which seemed to be moving along the same route as the battalion. They were fifty miles back, but Lee was assured they would be dealt with before they could get any closer. That left a bitter taste in his mouth. Lee and his men could have used dedicated close air support when they were actually fighting, not when they were retreating. They’d even had to leave many of their dead behind; they just couldn’t be recovered.

The battalion linked up with Muldoon’s element, which was now commanded by SFC McAllister. They fell into the column as it continued hammering down Georgia State Route 119. Abandoned cars and trucks were on the shoulder of the road, and there was no shortage of signs that great violence had wended its way through this part of the state. Bodies hung from poles and trees, and great mounds of corpses lay stacked on top of each other where they had been burned. Lee didn’t know what to make of that. Without stopping to investigate, he couldn’t figure out the rationale behind those great piles.

“They’re klowns,” Foster said as he drove.

“What?”

“They’re klowns, sir. The locals, looks like they gave ’em what-for and burned the corpses. Probably afraid the bug could spread from the decomposing flesh.”

Lee grunted. It made sense. He wondered what had happened to the people who had managed to kill so many infected and then burn them down. Chances were they’d gone over the fence and were now lunatics, though he hoped they’d managed to find some safe haven somewhere. Maybe they’d even made it to Florida.

“Hey, guys! Guys!” Murphy called from the cupola. “Check it out!”

“Check out what?” Sienkiewicz asked.

“Look up in the sky, you freaking retard!”

Lee leaned forward. Overhead—far, far overhead—he saw a series of white contrails streaking across the sky. At first, he thought it was a flight of jets heading to Florida. Then he heard a voice over the radio, distant and distorted by static.

“All commands, Stormbringer is broken arrow. All birds have flown. Stormbringer is broken arrow. All birds have—”

A ripple of laughter cut through the static right then, and the transmission stopped.

“Stormbringer?” Foster asked.

“The MLRS battery from Stewart,” Lee said. “They were dispersed when the klowns started overrunning the post. They had targets on the Florida state line. I guess they were out of time, so they opened fire.”

“Gee, are they sure they were shooting the enemy?”

Lee considered that as he looked out the grimy, chipped windscreen before him. “We’ll find out in about six or seven hours firsthand,” he said. “I’m sure someone in Jacksonville will know.”

“What if there are only klowns there, sir?” Sienkiewicz asked. It was a fair question.

“We’ll do what we’ve been doing, Witch. We’ll kill them all.”

“Tall order, sir,” Foster said.

Lee considered that. “We have Moreau, and her blood can serve as a vaccine if nothing else. We might be turning the corner here, guys. All we have to do is get to Florida, cross the line, and hand her over.” He looked at Foster, then back at Sienkiewicz.

“Bound forward, guys. It’s what we do.”

“Hooah, sir,” both men replied.

The Humvee continued on. Florida awaited, and the First Battalion, Fifty-Fifth Infantry Regiment was still on the road.

WANT MORE?

Thank you for reading The Retreat, Episode Five: Crucible! If you enjoyed the read, please review the book on Amazon. Also be sure to catch the next book in the series coming out in early 2019.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephen Knight is the author of the bestselling zombie apocalypse tale The Gathering Dead and the follow-on works Left with the Dead, The Rising Horde: Volumes 1 and 2, and The Last Town: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse . He also wrote the horror thriller City of the Damned, the post-apocalypse thrillers Earthfall and Charges, and the action-adventure novella Hackett’s War. Together with Derek Paterson, he wrote the erotic thriller White Tiger, and with Scott Wolf has co-written These Dead Lands: Immolation, the first book of a projected five book series. Knight lives in the New York City area, and he can be found at https://knightslanding.wordpress.com/.

OTHER SERIES AUTHORS

Craig DiLouie is an author of popular thriller, apocalyptic/horror, and sci-fi/fantasy fiction.

In hundreds of reviews, Craig’s novels have been praised for their strong characters, action, and gritty realism. Each book promises an exciting experience with people you’ll care about in a world that feels real.

These works have been nominated for major literary awards such as the Bram Stoker Award and Audie Award, translated into multiple languages, and optioned for film. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Imaginative Fiction Writers Association.

Learn more about Craig’s writing at www.CraigDiLouie.com. Sign up for Craig’s mailing list to be the first to learn about his new releases here.

Joe McKinney has his feet in several different worlds. In his day job, he has worked as a patrol officer for the San Antonio Police Department, a DWI Enforcement officer, a disaster mitigation specialist, a homicide detective, the director of the City of San Antonio's 911 Call Center, and a patrol supervisor. He played college baseball for Trinity University, where he graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in American History, and went on to earn a Master's Degree in English Literature from the University of Texas at San Antonio. He was the manager of a Barnes & Noble for a while, where he indulged a lifelong obsession with books.

He published his first novel, Dead City, in 2006, a book that has since been recognized as a seminal work in the zombie genre. Since then, he has gone on to win two Bram Stoker Awards and expanded his oeuvre to cover everything from true crime and writings on police procedure to science fiction to cooking to Texas history. The author of more than twenty books, he is a frequent guest at horror and mystery conventions. Joe and his wife Tina have two lovely daughters and make their home in a little town just outside of San Antonio, where he pursues his passion for cooking and makes what some consider to be the finest batch of chili in Texas. You can keep up with all of Joe's latest releases by friending him on Facebook.