Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

B eantown burned.

Dark clouds hovered over the city as thunder boomed with irregular pulses, like the faltering, erratic beat of a titanic heart moments before it finally failed. But the clouds were made of smoke, and the inconsistent rumblings were not that of thunder, but explosions. Artillery, the King of Battle, was firing its final salvos before the curtain finally fell on the stage of murder, death, and madness. Boston was took its final bow, and the crowd went wild.

A wildness born from laughing insanity.

The Infected pranced and darted through the smoke-filled gloom, sticking out their tongues, trying to catch the falling ashes as if they were snowflakes. They carried grisly trophies—severed hands, heads, breasts, penises. They came from all walks of life. Postal workers. Firemen. Doctors. Winos. Actors. Carpenters. Criminals. Priests. Housewives. Dotcom executives. Insurance salesmen. All laughing, cackling in uncontrollable glee as they chased down the ones who cried, who tried to fight, who tried to flee. The adults were easy to catch. The children were tougher, but they earned a special place among the Klowns.

The Infected impaled the young and carried them past Faneuil Hall, writhing and shrieking, living effigies of the prey they hunted.

The Klowns did what the British had only dreamed of centuries earlier. In less than two months, the city of Boston had been murdered, dying a death of a thousand cuts, courtesy of rusty, salt-encrusted blades.

“Wizard Six, this is Tomcat Six. Over.”

Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee could barely hear the lead Apache pilot over the roar of twin turboshaft engines and the pounding beat of rotor blades. Through his Humvee’s windscreen, he could see attack helicopters swarming a mile downrange, twenty AH-64D Apache Longbows flanked by four smaller OH-58D Kiowa Warriors. The convoy hadn’t even passed the gate yet, and already, the helicopters were orbiting over North Great Road.

Lee picked up the AN/VRC-89 Single Channel Ground Air Radio System’s handset and put it to his ear. “Tomcat Six, Wizard Six. Over.”

“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. Some light enemy formations on Route Two-Alpha just past phase line alpha, oriented east to west. Looks like a blocking force. They’ve got fire trucks and heavy construction equipment moving toward the intersection of, ah, Two-Alpha and Hanscom Drive. We’d like to go to guns on them, right now. Over.”

Lee grimaced. Phase line alpha was the convoy’s first waypoint, an intersection less than half a mile away, where Hanscom Drive terminated at Route 2A, a two lane route that traveled east to west. The gunships had made a pass five minutes ago and reported that the route was clear. Several columns of black smoke were rising into the air, testament to the fact the Apaches had already had a brief workout. But the Klowns were coming again, and this time with different apparatuses. Lee had to think fast.

The Apaches and their lighter-armed scouts were the unit’s mailed fist, capable of delivering ordnance onto targets miles away. They could decimate an entire skyscraper, if necessary, and had even been used to level hospitals that housed the Infected. But the gunships were a finite resource, and they were needed for the long haul, so he couldn’t have them blast everything on the street and expect them to be ready for the next fight without touching down and rearming. With Hanscom Air Force Base fading in the Humvee’s side view mirrors, Lee didn’t know where the next secure landing zone would be. In the air, the helicopters were death incarnate. On the ground, they were soft targets, like fat old men wearing wife-beater T-shirts that rose up over their bellies, flabby midsections exposed for all to see.

Lee keyed the microphone. “Tomcat, Wizard. One pass. Make a hole for us and then secure phase line bravo. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. We’ll make a fast run and report results. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat. Break. Bushmaster, this is Wizard. Over.”

“Go for Bushmaster. Over.”

“Marsh, you and your guys are up. Whatever the aviators leave for us, your team has to push through. Keep going to phase line bravo and hold the line for Chaos to hop past, just like the plan. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Bushmaster’s on the move. Over.”

“Glad we’re not up front, sir.” Staff Sergeant Michael Murphy said. He kept both hands on the wheel of the Humvee, and for once, a customary wad of chew tucked wasn’t tucked into his mouth.

That suited Lee just fine. He’d always thought the habit was disgusting.

“That’ll change soon enough,” Lee told him.

At every phase line, a couple of squads would fall out of formation, secure the objective, and maintain that security until the rest of the convoy rolled past. The time would come when part of Lee’s headquarters element would need to stop and take their turn. Lee had already decided that he would participate in the operation. Even though it made little tactical sense for him to do so, the subdued lieutenant colonel insignia on his Army Combat Uniform weren’t actually his. He’d taken them from the battalion’s former commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Prince, something that was both irregular and illegal. Without formal promotion, Lee had no right to the rank, but the world had changed. Boston had fallen to the Infected, and he was pretty certain Fort Drum had gone down as well. Lee had assumed command of the remains of First Battalion because the only remaining ranking officer, Major Walker, had declared himself unfit to lead. Not that Lee was thought of himself as particularly suited to it, either. After less than fifteen years in the service, his official rank was captain, and he hadn’t even been designated as promotable to major. To make the transition from company grade to field grade command was one hell of a big step, and Lee knew more than a few officers and enlisted men weren’t just confused by the sudden reorganization, but also resented him for it. Prince—God rest his soul—had been vetted by the Army before being given command of the One Fifty-Five. Lee hadn’t, and even though he was senior in his grade, he still had some things to prove to the rest of the battalion.

One of the first things he had tried to do after assuming command was reach out to the commanding officer of the attack helicopter battalion, a lieutenant colonel named Jacoby. Lee didn’t know the man personally, though he had certainly seen him during ops meetings. But Jacoby had died earlier that day, when his AH-64D went down in a ball of flame. The unit XO, Major Fleischer, hadn’t been interested in Lee’s problems.

“You want to be a lieutenant colonel, you go right ahead,” Fleischer had told him. “I’ve got my own unit to run. We’ll provide all the close air support we can, but if you’re going to put on another man’s rank, then that’s on you. You’re in control of everything below an altitude of fifteen feet.”

“Will you take direction from me?” Lee asked.

Fleischer didn’t even bat an eye. “As far as I know, Wizard Six is still the same guy we were talking to yesterday. So long as you don’t throw us to the wolves, we’ll be there.” Fleischer pointedly didn’t use the word sir , but that didn’t matter to Lee. All he needed was to ensure the aviation units would honor the improvisational org chart.

And that had been it. Harry Lee had become the commanding officer of the 1 stBattalion, 55 thInfantry Regiment, one of the subordinate units of the 10 thMountain Division (Light Infantry). And because of the irregular chain of command he and Walker had established, Lee felt honor bound to personify the battalion’s motto of Bounding Forward . He had to pull his own weight during the movement back to Drum, and if that meant exposing himself to danger, then that was what he would do.