Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

He counts down with his fingers, Three, two, one—

The doorknob gives, but the door barely moves. Something’s blocking it.

He pushes hard until the obstruction clears.

The soldiers step into the room, clear it, and then converge on its sole occupant.

The corpse lies tangled up in his own limbs. They recognize him as Charlie Company’s RTO. He wears a crude tourniquet tied tightly around his leg, which has been mauled savagely below the knee. The top of his skull and brains are splattered up the scorched and splintered door, which he was blocking with his body.

Blocking, apparently, to keep the Mad Dogs out.

“This shit is cold,” says Williams.

“He didn’t want to become one of them,” Ruiz says.

“Sergeant?” says Hicks, puzzled.

“Nothing,” says Ruiz. “Just thinking out loud.”

The man still clutches the pistol that he used to blow his brains out. As RTOs are not issued sidearms, the pistol is not his, although the soldiers recognize it as an Army-issue nine-millimeter.

The Sergeant crouches down and tears off one of the corpse’s oval dog tags, then contacts the LT using his handheld.

“War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-Three, over.”

War Dogs Two-Three, this is War Dogs Two actual standing by to copy, over.

“We have cleared most of the first floor of hostiles and have located a member of Charlie Company’s headquarters staff in the admin area of the left wing, over.”

What’s his status, over?

“He’s dead, over.”

Any sign of War Dogs Six or other elements of his command, over?

“Negative. We have something positive to report, though. The man we found is the company RTO, and he has a working combat net radio. Over.”

The boys glance at each other and grin. The man’s death is horrible, the more so because this particular death, among so many, is closer to home for them as soldiers. But finding an intact SINCGAR is a stroke of luck. Communications can be as valuable as water and ammunition in the field. With a working field radio, the platoon can easily talk to Battalion. They can get things they need to live and continue functioning as a military unit in the field. Specifically, through direct communication with the chain of command, they can ask for news, orders, reinforcements, evacuation, rescue, air support, food, water, ammunition, equipment and medevac.

Outstanding, Sergeant , says the LT. Can you send it back with a runner? Over.

“Wilco, sir. Sending Private Williams now with the radio, over.”

Solid copy, out.

“Collect these weapons and any ammo you can find,” Ruiz tells the squad. “As for Doug Price here, we’ll pick him up on the way back so he can be buried with respect.”

A greater obligation

Lieutenant Bowman established his headquarters in the wide entry hallway of the school, surrounding a sprawling refugee camp of more than a hundred panicked civilians located directly adjacent to public lavatories and a water fountain.

At the end facing the main doors of the school, he placed his gun team, and at the other, facing the main stairs leading to the second floor of the trunk of the building, a SAW gunner detached from Second Squad.

This simple setup provides protection for the civilians while enabling them to access water and toilets, which he hopes will keep them calm, but not the soldiers’ rucksacks, which are stacked near the front door under the watchful eyes of his gun team.

Sherman, holding an M4 carbine, scans the crowd for signs of trouble, shrugging at their requests for food, medicine, diapers, beer and cigarettes, plastic cups, blankets, rubbing alcohol, chocolate bars, more toilet paper and paper towels and soap, and a toilet plunger. He frequently glances at Hawkeye, lying groaning and sweating on a blanket under the care of Doc Waters, the platoon’s combat medic.

Hawkeye is starting to stink.

“He’s got Lyssa bad,” the medic tells Sherman, dumbfounded. “He got bit by a Mad Dog and now he’s turning into one. In hours. Something is definitely not right here.”

“You think?” somebody mutters under his breath.

Bowman struck a deal with the civilians, allowing them to enter the platoon’s defensive perimeter, and thereby become his problem, on two conditions. First, that they would not interfere with the operations of the men under his command. Second, that they would report any of them showing Lyssa symptoms, especially Mad Dog symptoms, so that they could be removed from the security zone and banished from the building.

So far, they have ignored the first promise and kept the second.

Beyond this, he is not sure what to do with them. He has orders to link up with First Platoon and Company HQ, and he will try to complete that mission for as long as he can. These civilians are only tying him down. And yet they are American citizens, and he has a greater obligation to protect them from harm.

His highest priority at this moment, however, is securing this building and giving his boys a well-deserved rest. They simply cannot keep up this pace. Already they are exhausted and using up their supplies at an alarming rate.

And the worst, he knows, is yet to come. Days of it. Even weeks of it. It may take a superhuman effort for his boys to stay alive just during the next twenty-four hours.

Doc Waters marches up to Bowman and says, “The men need to change their masks. They’re getting caked with sweat and soot, and the men are forgetting to change them.”

Bowman blinks in surprise. The platoon has bigger issues to deal with than Lyssa prevention. But of course the combat medic is right. Bowman nods and says he’ll get on it.

“And sir,” Doc Waters adds, “some of the men aren’t wearing their masks at all anymore. This is majorly stupid, sir. We’ve had a rare morning, but the chance of infection is just as high now as it was yesterday.” He glances at the civilians. “In fact, it’s higher.”

“All right, Doc,” the LT says. “I’ll see to it.”

“Sir, we got incoming!” cries Bailey, the SAW gunner from Second Squad. He is lying on the floor, sighting down the barrel, which now rests on a bipod. “I got seven, no, eight hostiles on the main stairs.”

The LT kneels next to Bailey and studies the Mad Dogs through his close-combat optic. They are Mad Dogs, seven of them sorry-looking specimens wearing paper gowns, and one wearing hospital scrubs. Three of them grin like clowns, their mouths and gowns stained red.

He wishes he could understand what motivates them. Don’t they recognize their own friends and family? Why do they want to kill us? Why don’t they attack each other?

The Mad Dogs pause and stand motionless, fists clenching and unclenching at their sides. They are still thirty meters away.

“What are you waiting for?” one of the civilians says. “Shoot them, for Chrissakes!”

Other civilians begin clamoring for them to open fire. A baby in the crowd starts screaming.

“Shall I light ’em up, sir?” says Bailey, gently placing his finger on the trigger.

“You know the ROE, Private Bailey,” Bowman tells him. “We fire only if they threaten us. Right now they’re not hostile.”

The gunner glances up at him. “ROE, sir?”

“We’re still operating under the rules of engagement issued by Quarantine last night.”

“Well, they smell pretty threatening if you ask me, sir,” Bailey says.

Bowman smiles despite himself.

Two of the Mad Dogs leap forward, snarling. The others quickly follow, sprinting with their characteristic loping gait.

They think like animals, Bowman thinks. They hunt in packs. Look at them go. They even run like animals. Why?