Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

Rawlings was almost unimpressed. She’d seen more than her share of explosions. The soldiers stopped running, even though two more Stinger missiles raced past overhead. Rawlings turned and followed their progress. The second UH-1 that was harassing the rear of the column pivoted and tried to get away, but it was torn asunder by twin explosions that detonated like muted thunder. The flaming wreckage spiraled to the ground, and a moment later, another cloud of smoke leaped into the sky from behind the tree line.

“Huh. Was wondering what happened to the Apaches,” Muldoon said. “Guess they didn’t want to risk a blue-on-blue.”

“Faggot rotorheads, they’re coming back now,” Nutter said. He spit into the weeds. True enough, the gunships were closing back with the column, flying in pairs. “God damn pussies. We need real men in this fight, not aviation wimps!” He then turned and vomited into the weeds, swearing in between heaves.

Muldoon snorted. “Tough it out, Colonel.”

Three soldiers in MOPP gear approached, cautiously moving toward them from the road. It was the crew from the Humvee Rawlings had tried to get to earlier.

“Hey, is that Kung Fu Charlie?” one of Muldoon’s guys asked.

“Yeah,” Muldoon said. “Which means one of those guys is probably the XO.”

“Walker’s out here?” another asked. “Color me impressed.”

The three soldiers stopped short, weapons held at low ready. “Are any of you infected?” one of them shouted.

“We sure are,” Muldoon called in response. “Rawlings gave all of us the clap.”

“We’re not infected!” Rawlings yelled. She turned to Muldoon and glared up at him. “Totally not smart, asshole.”

Muldoon smiled back. “That’s how I roll. Deal with it.”

The three soldiers slowly picked their way toward them, and Rawlings saw that one of them was in fact Major Walker, the battalion XO. Walker looked around the area, taking in the entire tableau. The Bigfoot still burned, emitting foul-smelling clouds of black smoke. In addition, the breeze carried the sickly sweet smell of burning meat as the corpses in the back of the truck were burnt to a crisp. On the road, another Humvee backed down the highway, coming to a halt in front of the first. The vehicle was outfitted with an enclosed cupola that housed an M2 machinegun. Four soldiers stepped out of it, and one of them started jogged forward.

“How many wounded do you have?” Walker shouted through his mask.

Muldoon looked around. Bodies lay everywhere. “Not many, I think.”

A soldier bearing master sergeant stripes on his uniform stepped forward and stared right into Muldoon’s face. “Why don’t you pull your thumb out of your ass and do a count, Muldoon?”

Muldoon stared back, seemingly unaffected by the senior NCO’s demeanor. “Have a good time hiding behind the Humvee, Zhu?”

“What did you say?”

“I said faggots lose their hearing early,” Muldoon said, louder.

“Muldoon!”

A shorter man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest headed straight toward Muldoon. He wasn’t wearing any MOPP gear, and his face was all sharp angles. His eyes were hard as he locked his gaze on Muldoon, and his bearing told Rawlings that the newcomer was a hundred-percent hard core. The other soldiers stepped aside for him, even Major Walker. While everyone else was sweating in the heat and humidity, the man’s face didn’t show even a hint of perspiration, as if the heat was as unlikely to touch him as the rest of the soldiers before him.

“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Major Turner,” Muldoon said. “Stepped out from behind your desk for a walk on the wild side, huh?”

“Master Sergeant Zhu gave you some guidance on what you’re supposed to be doing right now,” Turner said, his voice barely more than a rough growl. He walked right up to Muldoon and stopped inches away. “You aren’t doing it. Why the fuck is that? This isn’t some God damn Commie labor union, this is the United States Army. Start taking care of your troops, or my size-thirteen boot will have a date with your ass!”

“Threatening me, Sergeant Major?” Muldoon asked, sounding completely unintimidated.

Turner leaned in even closer until he was nearly within kissing range. “Boy, the fact that you are not checking for wounded tells me you are a shit excuse for a soldier. You’re chicken shit, Muldoon. Chicken shit .”

Muldoon didn’t like that, and his face clouded with rage. “You just made a mistake, Sergeant Major—”

“Take a swing,” Turner said, not moving a muscle. “I dare you, sweetheart. Take a swing, and make it count—”

“Stop it!” Walker shouted. He stepped forward and put a hand on Muldoon’s thick arm. “Sergeant Muldoon, step back and start checking for wounded! We need to get back on the road. Sergeant Major, do we have transportation coming for the rest of these soldiers?”

Neither Muldoon nor Turner responded for a long moment, choosing instead to glare at each other balefully. The animosity between the two men was almost palpable, and Rawlings wondered why an E-5 like Muldoon was challenging a full-on battalion command sergeant major. She’d never seen such a thing during her time in the Guard. A soldier didn’t step on a senior NCO’s air hose like that and expect to survive the encounter.

“Swing away, Muldoon,” Turner said finally, “or start acting like a soldier. Your call.”

Muldoon held his position for another moment, then suddenly reached up and stroked his chin. Turner didn’t flinch by even a millimeter, despite the fact that Muldoon had actively made it seem as though he was about to strike. Walker reacted by starting to reach for Muldoon’s arm again, but he canceled the move at the last second.

“Let’s get to it,” Muldoon said to the soldiers behind him. “Nutter, you done puking yet?”

“I was just moving on to shitting my pants,” Nutter said, wide-eyed.

“Do it later. Let’s see if we have any live ones.”

“Great idea,” Turner said. He turned to the master sergeant. “Zhu, go with them. The rest of you, secure the area. We need to get back on the road.” He glanced over at Rawlings. “You know how to use that weapon, girl?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” she said. “I most certainly do.”

Worcester, Massachusetts was a college town, home to the Worcester Polytechnic Institute, Clark University, the University of Massachusetts’s Medical School, and Assumption College, among others. With a population of just under two hundred thousand, the city was the second largest in all of New England, second only to Boston. The bucolic area served as the last stop before a traveler entered the western suburbs of the Boston metropolitan area, and it was also known for its legacy of arts, liberal politics, suburban lifestyle, and fairly well-established regional airport.

Like so many other places in New England, Worcester was in the process of being bludgeoned to death. The city’s short skyline was already blackened and battered from fires that had gone unchecked, and the occasional siren could be heard over volleys of gunshots. Surrounding the city center, residential communities still smoldered, belching columns of gray-black smoke into the air. On the far eastern side of the city, the forest surrounding the Worcester State Hospital was on fire, producing a pall of dirty smoke that hung over the airport like a gauzy veil.

The airport was important to the battalion and its attached units. It had been officially shut down for some time, closed to all air traffic, commercial and private. But several dozen people were on the property, either caught in transit when their aircraft had been grounded or simply seeking some measure of safety. A single JetBlue Airbus A319 sat on the ramp outside one of the two active jetports that had, until recently, still been in use. Almost all of the general aviation aircraft were gone, and the only planes left were an old, battered Cessna 172 and a shiny Beechcraft Baron. The two aircraft were parked right next to each other, which left the majority of the general aviation ramp area available for the cav unit to set up around the four UH-60M Black Hawks they supported.