Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

Speak clearly, over.

“He’s one of them, sir. He’s been bitten and he is . . . one of them now. Over.”

Explain “one of them,” over.

“He’s showing symptoms of being a. . . .” He suddenly can’t remember the politically correct term the soldiers have been told to use. Finally, he sighs and finishes, “A Mad Dog, sir. He’s a Mad Dog, over.”

A long pause.

“Negative contact. How copy, over?” says Mooney.

Are you absolutely sure of these facts, over?

“Affirmative. One hundred percent, sir. Over.”

Roger that. Wait, out.

The soldiers crouch and keep an eye on Boyd, who wanders aimlessly around, then stops and stands still, his jaws moving.

“There are flies in the hole, laying babies,” Wyatt says, lowering the binoculars and glaring at Mooney, “where his nose used to be.”

“We can’t do anything about that right now,” Mooney says. “Keep an eye out behind us, will you? We don’t want anybody sneaking up.”

“Okay,” Wyatt says, sounding strangely tamed.

They wait like this for several minutes. Mooney sighs loudly. “Come on, already. Let’s get on with it.”

As if on command, his handheld comes to life.

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

Mooney keys his handset and says, “Send message, over.”

You will mark Private Boyd’s position but take no further action related to him. Break. Abort mission and return to base immediately. Avoid detection by civilians. Break. Follow the new ROE strictly if you are threatened. How copy, over?

Mooney and Wyatt exchange a glance.

“Um, roger that, sir. You want us to avoid detection and abort mission. Wilco, out.”

Out.

Mooney stands. “You heard the man. Time to go home, Joel. Joel?”

“We can’t leave him out here like this, Mooney.”

The skinny soldier raises his M4 and takes careful aim down its barrel using its iron sights.

Mooney says, “He’s one of us, man.”

Tears are streaming down Wyatt’s face. His eyes are wild.

“I’m just going to put him out of his misery. I knew him, too.”

“Stand down and secure your weapon, Joel.”

“I just want to help him.”

“Put the goddamn gun down.”

Wyatt says, “But he’s already dead.”

He pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

His M4 jammed on a double feed. He has two rounds stuck in the firing chamber.

“It’s not fair,” Wyatt says, racking the bolt back.

Down the street, a car alarm blares. Boyd’s head jerks towards the sound. He runs off.

“I guess it’s Rick’s lucky day,” Wyatt adds bitterly.

“Let’s just get back to base,” Mooney tells him, utterly exhausted. “Before you give me a heart attack.”

He starts thinking about what the Lieutenant said. It was strange: The LT explicitly ordered them to leave behind a member of their unit who is sick and wounded. This offends him but he knows better than to refuse orders or even question their wisdom. Besides, as a grunt, he’s used to receiving orders he thinks don’t make a lick of sense. Something to do with his limited situational awareness, or the incompetence of his superiors, take your pick. This is not what is bothering him. What’s bothering him is the way the LT’s tone got under his skin. The LT sounded worried.

No, scratch that.

The LT actually sounded terrified.

There is some major shit going down here and we are

walking into the middle of it and that’s wacked

At oh-six-forty-five hours, with the return of daylight, the invisible war slowly resumes, filling the air with scattered booms and popping of gunfire from all directions. In another time, one might mistake the sounds for fireworks. The boys of War Dogs Two-Three huddle around Sergeant Ruiz. Toting an M4 Super 90 shotgun and wearing rows of red shotgun shells across the front of his outer tactical vest, the Sergeant tells Third Squad that they will be leading the platoon to rejoin Charlie Company, and that they are authorized to shoot civilian targets, even those who do not have a weapon.

PFC McLeod considers Ruiz a gung ho mo fo when it comes to God, guns and the Army. It’s not just the man’s freaky black eyes, his intense stare. The man is something of a legend in the Army as a natural born killer. Without his shirt on, the Sergeant’s thickly muscled torso is emblazoned with a large, ornate black cross tattooed on his chest and abdomen. Once, in Iraq, he surprised an RPG team and when his weapon jammed, he killed the men, by himself, in a struggle lasting fifteen minutes, with his knife.

McLeod often tells people that it is because of psychos like Ruiz that pussies like him can sleep at night no matter how bad things get in the field.

But now the world is turning upside down. In the middle of America’s biggest city, Sergeant Ruiz’s voice shakes with something like fear as he tells them they are authorized to shoot any civilian who makes a threatening gesture towards the unit.

“What if it’s some guy giving me the finger—should I light him up, Sergeant?” McLeod grates. “Hell, this being New York, the whole city is now a free-fire zone.”

“Shut up,” Ruiz says absently, then tells them to deep six any personal effects, which will be stored in the hospital, and otherwise drop anything that is nonessential.

“And dump your Kevlar,” he adds. “It’s staying here, too. We’ll be wearing the caps. Otherwise, bring as much ammo as you can carry. Let’s go, ladies. We’re on the move in ten minutes.”

After Ruiz leaves them, Williams nudges McLeod with his elbow and jerks his head towards the NCOs huddled in an intense pow wow with the LT. “Look at them hashing their shit out over there. No more Kevlar, dawg? Something is definitely up.”

As his fireteam’s grenadier, Williams carries an M4 carbine fitted with an M203A1 grenade launcher under the barrel, which fires forty-millimeter grenades.

“Magilla didn’t even react to my joke,” says McLeod, completely stunned.

“You know all those people we lit up last night? I’m thinking there’s a lot more of them than they’re telling us.”

“By all rights, I should be smoked with push-ups, nailed with extra fatigue or getting my ass chunked, as you so quaintly put it yesterday. But all he did was tell me to shut up. That just ain’t right. My God, man. I think the Sergeant is scared.”

“You’re not listening, Ace,” Williams says. “Let me break it down for you. There is some major shit going down here and we are walking into the middle of it and that’s wacked. You feel me?”

“What I feel is terrified right now,” McLeod tells him, nodding rapidly. “And we thought the suck was back in Iraq where all you had to worry about was getting your nuts shot off in hundred and thirty degree heat. Gentlemen, welcome to the real suck.”

The remainder of McLeod’s and Williams’ fire team, Corporal Hicks and Hawkeye, join them. Hawkeye begins gathering up their helmets while Hicks calls out to Corporal Wheeler, who leads the squad’s second fireteam, and asks if there is any news about Boyd. Wheeler shakes his head, looking glum.

Wheeler already lost one man back in Iraq to the Lyssa virus, and then Boyd disappeared into thin air on his watch. Still shaking his head, he returns to his pre-combat inspection of Private Johnston, the sole surviving member of his fireteam, who everybody calls “The Newb” because he is only two months out of boot camp.

“What am I going to play drums on without my Kevlar?” says McLeod, but nobody gives him a reaction, making him feel even more agitated.

Ruiz jogs up and tells the squad that he got the OpOrder, and to gather around.