Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“Yes, General?” Turner leaned forward to look down into Salvador’s face.

“Why… you follow… this liar?” Salvador asked. “Why do… you let him… pretend to… be a colonel?”

Turner thought about that for a moment. “Because you’re right. Walker’s a coward and isn’t fit to lead a battalion of lightfighters outside to grab a sundae, much less into combat. Lee, on the other hand, can get things done, sir. He’s proven that to you. And with that, you should probably let the matter rest.”

Salvador grunted. “Huh. Rest. Honor… heritage… code of… conduct… yeah, should… forget about that… right?”

“Deconflict the battlespace, sir. What was important two months ago isn’t really relevant today. We’re here, and we’re going to stay here.”

“You… do that, Sergeant… Major.”

Turner looked at Lee.

Lee bent forward so that Salvador could see him.

“General, where are our dependents? The men need to find their families. Someone told Turner they were sent to Philadelphia. Is this true?”

“Yes. City secure… as of three weeks ago. Lost contact after Drum… overrun. National Guard in… in charge. They were sent there. All… all made it.”

“Tell me about Florida,” Lee said.

Salvador breathed slowly and heavily for a long moment before responding. “Special Operations Command… Central Command… Air Force, Navy… even fucking… Marines… all around Tampa. Forces Command… relocated… too. Bragg’s gone. NCA made… decision… to secure Florida… after lost DC… New York…”

“When did you last communicate with them? Who’s in charge?”

“Last night… SATCOM still up. Merrill,” Salvador said. Lee nodded. General Jackson Merrill was the commanding general of U.S. Army Forces Command, formerly of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He was one of the oldest general officers left in the Army, and his time in grade alone dictated he be in charge in the event of a contingency situation like the one that currently afflicted America. Lee looked at Turner, and the sergeant major sighed.

“Tampa, by way of Philly,” Turner said. “Hell of a road trip.”

“Lee…” Salvador’s voice was barely a whisper now.

Lee leaned forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Liar,” Salvador sighed, then died.

Another truck, another road, another day. Muldoon sagged against the side rail, dog-ass tired but unable to sleep as the truck with twenty-five other troops barreled down yet another back country road, just one vehicle in a convoy of over a hundred. They’d been travelling for two days straight, only calling a halt every four hours or so for chow, latrine duty, and to swap out drivers.

Out in the country, the Klowns were fewer but no less dedicated. Twice, they’d been attacked by “country Klowns” driving giant combines and other farm equipment so big that it had taken TOW missiles to stop them. Fortunately, they had a lot of those to go around at the moment. The cavalry motor pool had been pretty well stocked with anti-tank weapons, since those weren’t the handiest implements to use against ground attackers. The battalion had scarfed them up, along with pretty much everything else that wasn’t nailed down, as long as it could fit on a HEMT cargo truck.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip. There was still plenty of action to be seen, but they’d only lost two troops and a car full of civilians. The Klowns weren’t very discriminate when it came to attacking, so unarmed women and kids were fair game for them. That kind of pissed off Muldoon. He thought—hoped—that if he ever became a killer clown, he’d at least still be a man about it and go after the guys with the guns.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget about it. He needed sleep, and most of the soldiers in the truck with him were eyes shut, mouths open. Four of them were still manned up in MOPP gear, weapons out, watching the countryside roll by at forty miles per hour as the convoy wound its way down yet another rural road. They were in Pennsylvania, Muldoon’s home state. His parents had left long ago, for Georgia of all places. They’d grown tired of the winters, but Muldoon still loved them. That was one reason he’d joined the Army, so he could get into a unit like the 10 thMountain. Winter was what they lived for, even if it had been in places like Afghanistan as opposed to, say, Aspen, Colorado.

Just the same, in an odd way, it felt good to be closer to where he’d grown up.

“Muldoon… go to sleep, man.”

Rawlings looked at him blearily with bloodshot eyes. She was sitting across from him, her M4 between her legs. She’d been asleep when he’d last looked over at her and had been for a good hour. There was grime all across her face and her uniform, and she didn’t smell very good at the moment. None of them did. The Army wasn’t for body spray addicts—that was why God had created the Air Force. But Muldoon thought that if Rawlings ever had the opportunity to get cleaned up and get those busted teeth taken care of, she might rate a seven or so on the hotness scale.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m good to go,” Muldoon said, even though his eyes felt as if sandpaper was being dragged across them every time he blinked. He attributed that to the fact his sunglasses had wound up a combat casualty, and as such, the only shades left available to him were his goggles. And since they weren’t tinted, what was the point?

“Not worried about you, man. Just telling you to get some sleep,” Rawlings said.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

Rawlings shrugged. “Hey, whatever.” She closed her eyes again and slumped back against the side rail.

“You handled yourself pretty well, Rawlings,” Muldoon said, after a long moment. “You sure busted some heads out there.”

Rawlings didn’t reply. Muldoon realized that she’d already fallen asleep.

“So, like, are you guys dating now?” Nutter asked. He was leaning against the front of the truck bed, eyes closed.

“What, you jealous or something, Colonel Nutter?”

“Hell no, Duke. I don’t fancy you one bit.”

Muldoon snorted and looked back at Rawlings. He really wondered what kind of woman she was, when she wasn’t trying to be a man and kill every Klown she saw.

He didn’t wonder for long. Sleep finally laid its claim, and deep blackness enveloped him like a mother coddling a favored child.

L iar.

Lee snapped awake. He was strapped into the front passenger seat of his Humvee. Beside him, no worse for wear, Murphy drove with his eyes glued to the rear end of the Humvee in front of them.

Lee blinked and looked into the back seat. Foster, smelling faintly of burn cream, slept in the left rear seat. He wore a fresh combat uniform because a good deal of his old one had been burned up during the holding mission against the Klown reinforcements at Drum. The young soldier hadn’t been badly hurt, but he hadn’t come through it without paying a price. No one knew how it had happened, but despite his MOPP mask, his right eyebrow had been singed off. So he always seemed to have a quizzical expression. Behind Lee’s seat sat a dour-faced first sergeant who went by Boats. He packed an interesting weapon, a pump-action shotgun backed up with an enormous kit of various ammunition and accessories. Lee and Boats hadn’t talked much since Turner had pulled Sienkiewicz and assigned Boats to the command Humvee, but Lee knew the man was disappointed not to have run into his ex at Fort Drum. Apparently, he had some special ammunition for her.

“Silver shot,” Boats had told him. “Supposed to be able to kill vampires.”