Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“Who’s that chasing Joel?”

“Are we shooting or what? What’s going on?”

“God, what’s that smell?”

“What the hell is that?”

“Out of the way!”

The LT pushes through them, unholstering his nine-millimeter handgun and flicking off the safety.

“Halt!” Bowman calls out.

The Mad Dogs ignore him.

“Halt or we will fire on you!”

He is almost pleading now.

“Please. . . .”

His panic evaporates as he realizes he has no choice.

“Get down!” he shouts, waving at Mooney and Wyatt. “Now!”

Mooney, his lungs and legs burning, makes a last dash at Wyatt and tackles him to the floor.

“LT—” Kemper says behind him.

Bowman takes careful aim and shoots the lead Mad Dog in the face.

The other Mad Dogs do not even notice. They keep running at the soldiers, howling.

“Fire!” he says, squeezing off another shot. “Fire!”

The soldiers form a firing line and start shooting with their carbines at almost point-blank range. The effect is devastating. The rain of hot metal rips through flesh and muscle, cracks bone. A fine mist of blood and smoke fills the hall. Some of the boys close their eyes while they shoot, unable to watch the slaughter.

In less than a minute, it’s over and Kemper is calling, cease fire, cease fire.

“What the hell just happened?” one of the boys is shouting. “What’s happening?”

Bowman blinks and sees the corridor carpeted with broken, bloody bodies, some moaning and thrashing in puddles of blood. The battle was a blur to him. Despite the incredible firepower delivered into the narrow kill zone, the Mad Dogs almost made it to the firing line. His ears ring and his teeth are still vibrating from the deafening rifle reports. He feels oddly exultant, then fights off an urge to vomit.

He turns and sees a few of the boys crouched against the wall, puking and retching and bawling. A flash goes off as one of the soldiers takes a picture with a digital camera, then resumes staring at the carnage in disbelief.

Third Squad is probably crapping itself in front of the hospital as well, Bowman tells himself. They had their own firing incident, reported moments before this crazy horde showed up, and they’ve got a man AWOL.

We will all be like that within a few minutes, puking and paralyzed with guilt and shame, unless we can stop thinking and keep moving.

The LT still has doubts that he made the right call to order his men to fire, but he has a job to do and he must keep his unit combat effective.

What he wants to know is: Where are all these Mad Dogs coming from?

“Sergeant McGraw!” he barks. “Pull your men out of there and get them cleaned up and disinfected. I expect a full report on how exactly they brought these civilians down here. Sergeant Ruiz!”

“Sir?”

“Check on your squad,” the LT orders. “Not with your handheld. Go in person. I expect a full report on their firing incident. And go easy on them. Sergeant Lewis!”

“Sir!”

“Stay close to me, Grant.”

The discord of their meeting in the basement office is gone. Bowman is pleased to see the NCOs pulling together as a team. These men are professionals.

Wyatt and Mooney are already trying to stand, pushing bodies off of them, moaning at the mauling they received as the Mad Dogs trampled over them.

Wyatt gets to his feet unsteadily and starts laughing. “That was so freaking cool!”

Mooney, covered in blood and swaying drunkenly, takes a wild swing at him and by sheer luck manages to connect with the side of his head, knocking Wyatt against the far wall and sending his glasses flying. Then the boys pull them apart.

“Sergeant Kemper!” Bowman calls.

“Sir,” says the platoon sergeant.

“Get these people sorted,” he says. “Separate the dead and wounded and find a place to put each.”

“Morgue’s full, sir.”

“Find something, Mike. I want them out of here.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Sergeant Lewis will lead a squad to round up any stray Mad Dogs and then re-establish contact with Winslow and the hospital staff. If you’re not helping here, I want you helping him. I want everybody doing something.” Bowman notices two soldiers waiting for a chance to speak to him. “Well, what is it? What do you men need?”

“Just what the hell is this plague, Lieutenant?” asks Finnegan.

“We just shot all these people,” Martin chimes in. “What are we going to do, sir?”

“Sergeant Lewis, see to these men.”

“All right, morons! You heard the Lieutenant! Get your dicks out of your ears and un-ass this hallway!”

The effect is electrifying on the boys, who snap out of their funk and spring into action.

“Hey!” a voice calls from the stairwell. “You all right?”

“Come forward slowly and show yourself,” Lewis orders, raising his rifle.

Winslow steps into the corridor holding his pistol at his side, breathing heavily, looking at the dead and dying with wide-eyed horror. Stepping carefully through the bodies, he approaches Bowman.

“Are you infected?” Winslow asks him.

“We were attacked,” Bowman explains. “We fired in self defense.”

“Are you infected?”

“We’re trying to see to the wounded, but we could use some of the hospital people down here. Some of these people are still dangerous. They have to be sedated before they can be treated.”

“Hospital people?” Winslow says, looking confused.

Bowman steps forward. “Sir, are you all right?”

The cop’s voice cracks. “These monsters killed half the night shift. They tore my men to shreds. Like tissue paper.”

A wounded middle-aged woman moans at their feet, wide-eyed and panting, holding a bleeding hole in her ribs.

He adds, “Stand back, Lieutenant.”

And shoots her through the forehead.

Chapter 3

I’m Security, not Facilities

After the mob swarmed into the lobby, the Bradley Institute of Graduate Microbiology and Virology Studies went into lockdown. The scientists couldn’t get out, and the mob couldn’t get upstairs and into the laboratories.

Most of the staff went home last night, leaving only a few diehards in the labs working on a vaccine for Hong Kong Lyssa. They are now trapped for the duration of the siege.

Bleary from lack of sleep and his large belly growling with hunger, Dr. Joe Hardy, director of research, watches the tall, beautiful blonde on the security screens and wonders where he has seen her before.

“There she goes again,” Stringer Jackson, the security guard, says next to him. “Check it out. She’s writing another message.”

The mob easily overwhelmed the two National Guardsmen posted in the lobby and took them hostage. The blonde, apparently the leader of the group, has been communicating their demands by holding up signs to the security cameras and miming shooting the soldiers in the head.

“She a tough bitch, that one,” Hardy says with respect, his hands buried in the pockets of his labcoat. “Like my ex-wife.”

Jackson grins appreciatively.

The blonde triumphantly holds up a sign. It says: give us vaccine or freeze.

Hardy snorts derisively, then blinks. “Uh, can they do that?”

Jackson says, “I’m Security, not Facilities.”

But air conditioning is blasting through the air vents and the temperature in the Security Command Center, already maintained at a chilly sixty-five degrees to keep the guards awake, is already dropping.

“Lovely. Is there anything we can do to shut it off, chief?”

“Not that I can think of, Dr. Hardy,” Jackson shrugs.

The Center is about twice the size of the scientists’ private offices, with a desk in the center of the room where Jackson is now sitting in an ergonomic chair, reeking of nervous sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The operator’s workstation contains a control console and PC with a graphical user interface, telephone, randomly scattered office supplies, and storage. A digital projector mounted on the ceiling displays the security camera images on large screens on the wall facing the workstation.