Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“What’s that, Mike?”

“Maybe we are in a Twilight Zone episode.”

Behind them, Mooney and Wyatt hustle up in full kit, followed by McGraw.

“Sir, Private Mooney reports!” says Mooney, standing at attention.

Wyatt repeats the ritual.

Bowman turns and regards them. “So you’re the guys who like recon missions.”

Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance, fidgeting.

Wouldn’t it be cool if you could kill everybody you hate?

The endless lines of abandoned vehicles stretch into the gloom, surrounded by piles of luggage, clothing, junk and dead bodies. The soldiers weave slowly through the wreckage, carbines at the ready, heading north. Mooney fights the urge to vomit as he notices that the driver of one car has been mostly decapitated with the exception of his jaw, which sprouts a red beard. Wyatt excitedly points out another car that plowed into a McDonald’s restaurant and now stands riddled with bullet holes, blood splattered across the windshield, the driver nowhere to be seen.

Shock and awe, Mooney thinks.

“Some kind of war happened here, cuzin!” Wyatt says. “Hey, lookit!” He rushes forward, leans his carbine against a car, and starts stuffing his pockets with something he found on the ground. “I’m rich! Too bad all the stores are closed.”

Mooney coughs on the toxic haze. The unending horror of this patrol is sucking the life out of him. Every step feels sluggish, like swimming through air, like running from his worst fears in a dream.

“This lady is naked!” Wyatt crows. “Oh, gross, I can see her brains! Hey Mooney, you want some of this money? It’s everywhere.”

“Joel, put that back. We’re already in enough trouble without you looting. And you’re going to get sick if you keep picking stuff up off the ground.”

The stress is causing an incredible headache to bloom in the front of his skull. He can feel the veins in his forehead begin to throb. He squats, leans forward and retches over a pile of clothing soaked in black oil. Baby shoes, a bra, a couple of pairs of gym pants.

Wyatt appears in front of him and says, “You don’t look so good, dude. Maybe you’re the one who’s got the bug.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Oh, you got vertigo. Just pretend we’re back in Iraq. Then it’s all good.” His eyes widen and he does a double take. “Wow, that cop car is upside down!”

“Shut up, Joel,” Mooney says, spitting. “Please shut the hell up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up when I’m just trying to help!”

“Just keep your voice down. You’re going to bring those things down on us again.”

“Oh my God, wouldn’t it be cool if we woke them all up and they came at us again in a human wave, like a million of them?” Wyatt laughs his shrill laugh. “No sweat, boss. I’ve got a gun this time. There are many like it, but this one is mine! If the crazy people show up, I will terminate them with extreme prejudice. It’s like Christmas came early this year. It’s legal to kill people!”

Mooney stands, ready to resume their expedition, but immediately sees a dead young girl with vacant eyes seemingly staring back at him from the rear window of a Volkswagen Jetta. He closes his eyes.

Shock. And. Awe.

Wyatt says, “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if you could kill everybody you hate?”

“No, Joel, I don’t want to kill anybody.”

“More for me.” Wyatt swaggers away, puffing his chest out. Exhaustion has only made him more manic. “Back to work then, dude. The Lieutenant said to haul ass.”

“In fact, I swear to God I’m not going to kill anybody if I can help it.”

Wyatt checks his watch. “It’s almost time to report in on these cool Icom radios they gave us. You coming or what?”

Mooney sets his jaw and hurries to catch up, his boots crunching on broken glass. He dulls his sense of vision until he has “fly eyes,” not focused on anything in particular but able to take in subtle movements everywhere across his entire field of view. He used this technique during patrols in Baghdad.

As he passes a truck in the next block, he hears a rustling.

And beneath that sound, a bestial growl from deep in the throat.

He whistles at Wyatt to halt.

Wyatt immediately crouches, looks around, then turns back and signs, What?

Mooney shakes his head. He’s not sure what the sound was or where it was coming from. It could have been a plastic bag caught in the wind. Except there is no wind.

Wyatt motions for Mooney to join him.

Mooney stands and out of the corner of this eye sees the leering face in the truck.

The creature lunges, snapping its foaming jaws and slapping its hands against the window, leaving bloody smears on the glass.

Yelling, Mooney staggers backward and fires a burst point blank into the face, which disappears in an explosion of smoke, glass and blood.

“Holy sheepshit, killah!” says Wyatt, appearing at his side. “You smoked that chick. Give her a chance to surrender next time, why don’t you?”

Mooney turns away from the wreckage, holding his hand over his face, and groans.

Romeo Five Tango, this is War Dogs Two actual, over.

“Uh oh, War Dogs Two-Six wants to know who you murdered for scaring you,” Wyatt says, then keys his handset. “Standing by to copy, over.”

We heard shots fired in your vicinity. Give me a sit-rep. Over.

“Private Mooney got surprised by a cat and accidentally discharged his weapon. Break.” Wyatt grins at Mooney and pumps his fist to produce the universal sign language for masturbation. “Be advised that we are within a block of our designated turnoff and about to head west. Over.”

Your mission is to observe. Do not attract any unwanted attention. How copy, over?

“Roger that loud and clear, sir. Solid copy, out.”

Out.

“LT’s cranky.” Wyatt winks at Mooney. “Let’s move out, killah.”

They’ve gone about half a mile. The soldiers step over scattered open luggage strewn across First Avenue, then turn onto Forty-Second Street.

Halfway up the block west of their position, they see a soldier standing guard outside an office building. Beyond, far down the street, they can see cop cars parked at roadblocks set up to keep sections of Forty-Second clear for official traffic. Figures are moving around the cars, barely visible through the smoky haze hanging in the air.

“Hey!” Wyatt says, giving a big wave.

The soldier turns but does not react to them.

“Does he see us?”

From the east, across the river, they hear intermittent bursts from a heavy machine gun, the sound distant and booming and angry, like a primitive war drum.

“Hang on,” Mooney says. He raises a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

The soldier is PFC Richard Boyd.

“It’s Rick Boyd,” he says, his eyes stinging.

Wyatt grabs the binoculars, takes a look, and gasps.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

“I’d better report this to the LT.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt repeats. “They bit his nose off.”

“War Dogs Two-Six, this is Romeo Five Tango, over,” Mooney says into his handheld, sounding calmer than he feels.

“There are goddamn flies in the wound,” Wyatt says, gritting his teeth.

This is War Dogs Two actual. Standing by to copy, over.

“We found Richard Boyd, over.”

Good work. What’s his status? Over.

“He’s, ah, wounded, over.”

Can you provide medical attention and get him moving, or should we send you the doc? Over.

“Negative. There’s more to it than that.”

Wyatt snorts and whispers, “You could say that again.”

Mooney waves at him to zip it.