Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

He fires again and again, draining the magazine.

Save one bullet for her, he tells himself.

No, she can make it.

No, she’s already dead.

His rifle clicks empty.

The cop swings her truncheon once before disappearing into the throng, which swallows her whole, instantly, as if she never existed.

“God damn you bastards!” Lewis roars in a sudden blind rage, standing and shaking his fist. “I’ll kill every one of you!”

His radio crackles in his ear.

Who are you shouting at, Sergeant?

He turns and sees the officers and senior NCOs clustered on the other side of the roof, staring at him.

Lewis wipes his eyes and keys his handset.

“You’d better come see this, LT,” he says. “You’d better come right now.”

Job security

McLeod flips the girl onto her stomach so he does not have to look at her face, particularly her eyes, which are wide open and glassy and staring. He bends down, grabs her ankles using latex gloves, and begins pulling her across the street, followed by a dense cloud of flies. Her dress hikes up, exposing her bare legs, and her face drags along the ground, leaving a thick smear of coagulated blood from the bullet hole in her throat.

“Oh, God,” he says, repulsed, trying not to look, humming loudly to shut out the sound of her face rasping against the asphalt.

“Hold up, Private,” a voice says behind him.

“Roger that,” McLeod says, flinging the girl’s legs down and staggering away from the corpse.

“Here. Take this.” It’s Doc Waters, holding out a Q-Tip.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s Vicks vapor rub. Rub some under your nose and it’ll cut out the stink.”

McLeod smiles, waving flies away from his face. “Thanks, Doctor. You’re the best.”

“Not in your nose, Private. Under it. There you go. Technically, you should not even be putting it under your nose. But it should help against the smell of the dead.”

“I don’t care what it does to me, as long as it works.” McLeod begins sniffing dramatically. “How about that. It does work.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t stack corpses like that. You should have used body bags. If you need to move them again, you’ll have to use a shovel.”

“Not enough bags, I guess. Shovelers, we got lots of.”

“I see.” Doc Waters gestures at the three other soldiers dragging corpses into the fly-covered pile near the front of the building. “So you’re not the only one in the shitter, Private. Who are these guys?”

McLeod grins. “They’re the misfits from First Platoon who started fighting after the LT’s speech telling us how everybody we know is dying back home.”

Doc Waters eyes him. “When was the last time you got some shuteye?”

“What is this wondrous thing you call ‘shuteye’?”

The combat medic sighs. “Sergeant Ruiz doesn’t have the authority to give you an Article 15 punishment. I’ll put in a word with him about how hard he’s riding you.”

“Why? Look at me, Doctor. I’m working outside. Exercise, sunlight, fresh air.”

The truth is he has not been this tired since Basic. He remembers sleeping on his feet all the way to some range in the middle of nowhere, stuffed into a cattle car with the rest of his training company. That was nothing compared to this. One thing he can thank the Army for: a deep appreciation for the simple things in life that are absent during combat, like a hot shower, air-conditioning, greasy burgers and fries, time for yourself, driving a car going nowhere in particular, privacy, a girlfriend. And decent sleep.

They flinch at the high-pitched crack of carbines down the street. First Platoon boys providing security for the cleanup detail, dropping Mad Dogs at the perimeter.

“And my own bodyguards,” McLeod adds, then turns and shouts, “Keep ’em coming! Get some!” He grins. “They keep killing Mad Dogs over there, and me and my new friends keep stacking them nice and neat over here so we can burn them later for public health. Do you know what I call that, Doctor? Do you?”

“No, what do you call that, Private?” Doc Waters asks, his patience suddenly exhausted.

“Job security!”

The medic chuckles despite himself, shaking his head.

A soldier calls from the front doors of the school. “We got more people coming in, Doc. You want to check them out?”

“You’re a piece of work, Private,” Doc Waters tells McLeod, and returns to the front doors of the school, where four civilians are being held at gunpoint.

“I try my best, Doctor,” McLeod mutters, bending over and grabbing the girl’s ankles. “I try my best.”

First Platoon’s Sergeant Hooper tells the detail to stop work for the day and come get some chow.

“Roger that,” says McLeod, dropping the corpse’s legs again, stripping off his gloves and walking over to the curb, where the boys from First Platoon are already washing their hands and tearing the plastic wrapping off their MREs.

The MRE provides twelve hundred calories and contains a main entrée, side dish, plastic spoon, bread or crackers and spread, sports drink or dairy shake or some other beverage, seasonings, pack of gum, candy such as Tootsie Rolls or a pastry, flameless ration heater, matches, napkins and moist toilette.

Tonight, McLeod has scored chicken and dumplings. Excellent, he tells himself. He pockets the moist toilette. He’s been saving them up and intends to take a quick whore’s bath after his work here is over.

“What’d you get?” one of the other soldiers says.

“Beef brisket,” another answers him.

“I’ll trade you chili and macaroni.”

“All right.”

“My mom used to make this incredible chili. She’d get the beef from Costco—”

“How can I eat this shit while I’m listening to you talk about your mom’s home cooking?”

“Who has Tabasco sauce?”

“Who’s got C4? Let’s make a fire and heat this shit up and eat it right.”

“No fires, boys,” Sergeant Hooper says, standing nearby with his thumbs hooked in his load-carrying vest. “Chow down that supper fast.”

Small arms fire erupts to the south.

“Stop making more work for us!” one of the grunts calls out. “We’re taking five over here.”

“That’s not our guys,” McLeod says. “It’s farther south. It’s Alpha. Or Bravo.”

“Listen to General Patton here.”

McLeod says, “The curfew is on. The new ROE says anybody they see walking the street after curfew is hostile and they are cleared hot.”

“Finally taking the gloves off,” one of the grunts says, nodding. “Second Platoon’s LT is full of crap. We take the gloves off and put these mutants down, we’ll have this city cleaned up in no time.” He glares and his face turns red. “There ain’t no world ending. My mom and sister are doing just fine.”

“Okay, peace, brother,” says one of his comrades. “I don’t feel like fighting with you about it again.”

“Next time, I won’t try to break it up,” says the third. “You dicks got me in trouble.”

“And what about you, McLeod?” the first grunt says in a menacing tone. “Is the world ending? What do you think?”

“Oh, I think whatever you think,” McLeod says cheerfully.

The soldier blinks, then says, “Well, okay, then.”

McLeod goes back to eating, tuning out the soldiers and listening to the sound of gunfire all around the city as Warlord’s companies slowly grind their way through the wreckage to consolidate. It is a disturbing sound. It is the sound of a lot of people dying.

Is the world ending? You betcha, he thinks.

He remembers feeling a perverse thrill at the LT’s speech. The end of the world. Yes, sir! No more taxes, credit card debt, dance clubs, snooty cheerleaders, asshole jocks, careers, bank accounts, retirement worries, gym class, bad TV shows, plastic surgery, stupid politicians, megachurches or the constant feeling that you are in a hole and can’t get out. No more stupid rules that hem you in from every side.