Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

The school is a sprawling, three-story building consisting of a central trunk and two wings, accessible via a main entrance and numerous emergency exits. In the early days of the Lyssa epidemic, the City government closed all of the schools to prevent the rapid spread of infection among children, who were then taking the disease home to their parents. As the epidemic continued growing and began overwhelming the hospitals, the government tried to alleviate the pressure by opening Lyssa clinics at sites such as schools, the larger dance clubs and even the subway and train stations.

This school, turned into a Lyssa clinic, was where Quarantine placed the headquarters of Charlie Company, First Battalion, and its First Platoon. Yesterday, it was teeming with patients, medical volunteers and nearly forty soldiers, MPs, engineers and specialists, including at least one squad constantly manning a checkpoint behind a sandbag position constructed around the front doors.

Today, the entrance appears deserted. The street in front of the building is also empty of vehicles, restricted to official traffic only. Nobody comes out to welcome the boys of Second Platoon.

There are bodies everywhere lying on the street among fluttering papers and loose garbage, already starting to stink in the brisk air of this late September morning. The air is thick with flies.

They died from gunfire.

Second Squad is on point. Sergeant Lewis calls a halt. The LT hustles up, takes out his binoculars and scans the small, neat sandbag fort.

No soldiers are visible.

Bowman turns to Lewis and signals him to move.

The Sergeant whistles softly and Second Squad’s fireteams rush across the open space to the sandbags, carbines held in the firing position.

Behind him, the civilians are getting nervous and asking why the platoon is stopped and they are not entering the refuge. Kemper explains that they must check out the area to make sure it is not dangerous. He tells them to stay out of the way for their own safety.

Second Squad disappears into the building. The scene is quiet except for the intermittent clatter of a machine gun somewhere far to the northeast.

“Every time we stay out of the way, we get slaughtered,” one of the civilians complains.

Moments later, Lewis reappears at the sandbags and whistles, waving his hand in front of face to give the signal for all-clear.

“Now we can move,” Kemper says to the civilian. “See how this works?”

“I thought how it worked is I pay taxes and you protect me,” a woman in the crowd says, just loud enough for him to hear.

Kemper sighs, sorry that he tried.

The platoon moves forward, the civilians following closely.

“What the hell happened here?” Sherman wonders. The area in front of the school’s doors is carpeted with bloody brass shell casings, the product of hundreds, possibly even thousands, of rounds being fired. The smell of cordite hangs in the air.

“Some kind of war,” says Boomer.

“No sign of blue forces, sir,” Sergeant Lewis reports to the LT.

The boys shuck their rucksacks in the hallway and take long pulls on their canteens. The civilians file past them, looking shell-shocked.

“Rest up,” Bowman says. “We’re on the move in five.”

How a rifle platoon seizes control of a building

Sergeant Ruiz extends his arm over his head and gives a slight wave. Williams and Hicks get into position on each side of the door and give him a thumbs up.

Ruiz opens the door to the classroom and flicks the light switch. Inside, the rows of institutional fluorescent lights blink to life instantly.

He steps over the threshold, holding his carbine at shoulder level, ready to fire. Williams follows on his heels and turns left, while Hicks turns right. Behind them, Wheeler and McLeod pull security in the hallway, watching their backs.

The fireteam then loops around until they return to the doorway.

“Clear,” Williams says.

“Clear,” Hicks says.

“Clear,” says Ruiz.

They have done this eight times already, and they are exhausted.

This is how a rifle platoon seizes control of a building, one room at a time. Once they entered the school, the LT placed his gun team and HQ, along with the wounded and civilians, near the primary doors, plugging the main entrance. This base became their foothold for action inside the building, while denying access to outsiders who might reinforce enemy forces.

This accomplished, the next step is to systematically clear the building. The three squads each entered a separate wing of the building, with the fireteams in each squad alternating as assault and support forces.

“All right, here’s the stairwell leading up to the second floor,” the Sergeant says, mopping sweat from his forehead. “Down there is the admin wing, which we got to clear before we can go up. McLeod, I am placing you here with your SAW.”

“You’re leaving me alone?” says McLeod.

Ruiz sighs loudly through his nose. “The rooms behind you have been cleared. We will be on your left, down that hallway. You lie here and point your weapon at the stairwell until we get back. Think you can manage that?”

“Since you put it like that—”

“Listen to me, dipshit.”

“Okay, Sergeant.”

“You got our backs. Do not screw up or nod off or rub one out or read a good book or whatever it is you do instead of soldiering. If you do, I will not assign you KP or smoke you with exercise. I will frag you. You will die. Okay? Do we understand each other?”

McLeod nods darkly. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“All right, let’s do this, ladies. Sooner we clear this building, the sooner we can kick up our feet.”

“Roger that, Sarge,” says Hicks.

“Take point, Private Williams.”

“All right, Sergeant.”

Williams turns the corner toward the admin offices and almost walks into the man standing there smiling down at him. A tall, skinny giant of a man, almost six foot five, wearing a neat suit and tie.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Williams says.

He glances up at the face and his bowels turn to water. The man’s swollen, bruised throat bulges over the shirt collar, which is soaked with drool and mucus.

“Shoot him, Private!” roars Ruiz.

The man opens his mouth, making a bubbling, percolating sound deep in his throat, and reaches out with his long arms to embrace Williams.

The rifle pops and the man staggers backward, wincing in pain, his dress shirt now soaked red.

Williams blinks in surprise, then fires again as he was trained, putting the second bullet into the man’s face, blowing off his jaw and ear. The man spins like a top and eventually falls to the ground with a meaty sound, his hair smoking.

The soldier laughs hysterically.

“Who shot him? Was that me?”

“Give me your weapon, Private.”

Ruiz takes the M4 out of his hands, shoulders it and fires rapidly, bang bang bang , dropping three more figures at the end of the hallway.

“I’m going to make a soldier out of you yet, Private Williams,” he says, handing him back his carbine and then retrieving his shotgun.

“Roger that, Sergeant,” Williams says, blowing air out his cheeks. “Roger that.”

A familiar voice from around the corner: “You guys all right?”

“Shut up and stay in position, Private McLeod,” Ruiz yells back.

“Sergeant, look, it’s a rifle,” says Hicks, stepping forward and picking the weapon off the floor. “It’s an M4.” He wrestles with the bolt and snorts. “Jammed.”

The Sergeant nods. He was afraid that at some point they were going to begin finding the shreds of First Platoon.

“And there’s a blood trail. See it?”

The trail of blood droplets leads under a door to an administrative office. The fireteams quickly get into position, ready to take it down. Ruiz peers through the window set in the upper half of the door, which is similarly spotted and streaked with blood. The inside of the office is clean and brightly lit but otherwise appears empty.