Craig DiLouie: Pandemic

He and Lee had history in Afghanistan. They held no special love for each other. But Lee needed his help.

Lee found the sergeant sitting on a crate with his back against a palette of bottled water, whittling a piece of wood into what looked like a chess piece. Lee once again found himself impressed with the man’s colossal size; he was a virtual giant. His squad loitered around him with their shirts off, trading desserts from MRE pouches, lifting weights and sharpening their big knives. A boom box pounded out Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills.”

“Sergeant Muldoon, a word.”

The big sergeant squinted up at him. “Captain Lee. Or is it Colonel Lee now?”

Lee crouched next to him. “Your men are fit? Ready to move?”

Muldoon grinned. “Always. You tracked me down just to check up on me?”

“They don’t look like they’re in a state of readiness.”

“They’re ready.”

“There’s a mission.”

“There always is, Colonel. The second I laid eyes on you, I knew you needed my help.”

“Believe me,” Lee said, “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“Then it must be a real choice mission, one you wouldn’t do yourself.”

“I’d do it if ordered, and you wouldn’t see me bitch.”

“You really think you’re better than me, don’t you? Now that you’re in command, you need somebody to do your dirty work for you, so you don’t get dirty yourself.”

Lee sighed. It was like Afghanistan all over again. The mission that went wrong in every way possible. The kid. The long hours spent under the hammer. What happened between them there had turned into a never-ending pissing match that had no respect for decorum or rank. But Muldoon was the best man for the job he had in mind, and as always, the mission came first.

“No, Sergeant. We’re all just different tools for the job. And when did you start caring what I think of you? You might be surprised to know I came here for your skills, not your morality.” He paused then added, “And definitely not for your personality, in case you were wondering.”

“All right, Colonel. Fair enough. Give it to me. Straight, if you don’t mind.”

Lee took a deep breath. “Major General Brock knows we’ve pulled out of the city. He says we work for him now. And he’s pissed about us blowing up the hospitals. Real pissed. He wants us to fall in line, go back to our original positions, and hold whatever ground we can.”

“Yeah, well, he’s nuts. So?”

“So he said he’ll prevent us from leaving Massachusetts by whatever means necessary.”

“Which means what, exactly? Talk is cheap.”

“Our drones identified two companies of infantry moving west out of Newton along Route 90.”

Muldoon grunted. “That’s only like ten, twelve clicks from here.”

“Most are on foot. Fuel must be a problem for them. But they have some vehicles. Humvees. A few five-tons.”

“Armor?”

“Negative.”

The sergeant snorted. “Doesn’t sound like a fair fight to me. Let them come.”

“It’s an opening move. Brock wouldn’t have sent them if he weren’t committed. More are probably on the way. He’s got four thousand men in the Greater Boston area. Armor, airpower, arty. We can’t watch them all. In any case, it’s a fight we don’t want even if we can win it.”

“You know, there’s another way out of this.”

“What’s that?”

Muldoon grinned. “We hand you over and join the Guard.”

Lee stared the man in the eye. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Nope. Just throwing it out there. Because it sounds like what you want is for me and my boys to go down that road and risk our lives slowing them down.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Fighting our own guys.”

“Like I said, I’m hoping there won’t be any fighting.”

“You want the road blocked.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s six lanes of highway.”

“I’m sending the engineers with you. They’ll handle the demolitions.”

“You’ll be blocking the route to Drum,” Muldoon noted, “if we’re going that way.”

“We’re not,” Lee told him. “Change of plans. We’ll be going west along other routes. Try to bypass some of the major cities. Fewer people, fewer problems. No National Guard.”

“Smaller roads. They’ll be blocked in places. Slow going.”

“The alternative is a pitched battle with Brock.”

“Sold. So let’s leave then.”

“We’re not ready. We’ve got stragglers coming in, and we’re still packing equipment. We can’t leave anything for the crazies. If they hoof it, the Guard may get here sooner than we’re ready to egress. We need time.”

“And you want me to buy it for you.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s doable.”

“There’s more. The drones are picking up big movement among the infected. A lot of them are coming this way. So you might have company out there.”

Lee didn’t tell him about Radio Scream. Radio Scream , the voice on the FM dial rasped, where we pay to play. An infected engineer had figured out a way to take back control of the broadcast from Mount Weather’s override. The infected DJ preached his sadist gospel between “songs” that consisted of grating laughter and the screams of tortured innocents.

Last night, the DJ told his listeners that Tenth Mountain was leaving the playpen without permission and that they should go and say bon voyage to the brave boys in uniform and personally thank them for their service to this great nation. He kept at it all night. By morning, the westward migration out of the burning Boston core began to shift. Toward Hanscom.

He also didn’t tell Muldoon that he suspected Brock had put the word out. If First Battalion wouldn’t stay in Boston, Brock would use them while he had them. He’d flush the infected out and send them all into Tenth Mountain’s guns. If true, the man was utterly ruthless. Desperate. Smart. Either way, they weren’t getting out of here without a fight.

“Great.” The sergeant leaned back and put his hands behind his head, revealing massive biceps. Lee knew Muldoon sometimes fired an M240 machine gun with one hand as a party trick at the firing range. “It’s a choice mission. All right. Convince me.”

Lee frowned. “Most real soldiers find a direct order convincing.”

The man laughed. “I’m about as much a real soldier as you are a real colonel. Sir. Times have changed. My boys and I could walk out of here anytime I say so.”

The man was right. There was no use trying to argue otherwise. “Then why don’t you?”

Muldoon leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes blazed. “Because I am a real soldier. Sir.”

Lee grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

“And we’re coming back. Don’t think we’re a bunch of Dixie cups.”

Dixie cups. Disposable. “I don’t dislike you that much, Sergeant.”

“Tell me something, Colonel. How far would you go for a mission? Where do you draw the line?”

Lee said nothing. The meeting was over. Both had gotten what they wanted. Lee had the best man he could find to screen their withdrawal, and Muldoon had a mission and his pound of flesh.

The convoy of military vehicles roared down a barren stretch of I-95—Humvees and a couple of five-tons filled with engineers and hastily packed explosives.

Sergeant Andy Muldoon rode in the point vehicle. He listened to the bang of the rig’s iron suspension, the V8 diesel engine’s grind, the hum of the big tires gripping the road. The Humvee was a perfect example of what he liked about Army life: nothing comfortable about it, no frills, everything utilitarian, designed to last and built to survive. There was a kind of Zen in it.