Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“What’s done is done,” Bowman says. He calls out into the gloom, “If we are forced to return, you will be accepted back into the Battalion with no questions asked. If we don’t come back, take good care of the civilians. I am intending to tell the General that you volunteered to stay behind. There will be no dishonor for you, as long as you stay true to yourself and the people in your charge. While they remain alive and well, you are still in the United States Army.”

After a few moments of silence, Bowman adds, “Well. God be with you men.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boys whisper in the dark.

Moments later, Captain Bowman returns, his glow stick almost glaring in Mooney’s eyes. The light is trembling, and it takes Mooney a moment to realize it is the Captain who is shaking. The man just shot down a fellow officer while a dozen, two dozen—it could have been scores—of deserters aimed a variety of automatic weapons at him.

“We can’t use them if they’re broken,” Bowman says. “We have truly become a volunteer army tonight.” He looks dazed and exhausted. “Bishop was a traitor, though. That I did to fulfill my duty to the Army. Things may be falling apart, but we still are the U.S. Army.”

Kemper and McGraw nod somberly. There is no need to explain.

Bowman sees Mooney and Wyatt, takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Thanks for the backup, men.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Mooney rasps, his mouth dry.

“Now let’s see if we can get the hell off this island tonight.”

Thrust and hold, move.

Withdraw and hold, move.

Attack position, move

The boys file out of the school’s front doors two by two, a long tan line that snakes through the dark, bristling with bayonets. The first squad in the column fans out to form a wedge, making the formation look like an arrow. The NCOs walk alongside the column, keeping a tight grip on their squads. While they will be moving in company strength, each squad will be acting independently, since there is no talking and no talking means no communication up and down the chain of command.

They all know where to go, how to get there, and what the rules of engagement are. No shooting unless it is a matter of life and death. Safeties on. They will push through with the bayonet. Speed, surprise and night vision will be their allies on this mission.

Near the front of the column, Mooney marches along in his NVGs, a pair of goggles that look into an amplified electronic image of the outside world on a green phosphor screen. This allows the soldiers to see even in starlight, which is all that is available tonight, by amplifying ambient light thirty thousand times and then creating an image rendered in green. The soldiers can see Maddy, but Maddy can’t see them back.

Maddy can, however, hear them making an awful racket. The column rattles along, boots crunching glass and kicking cans and bottles, coughing on waves of stink circulating through the otherwise silent city. But despite the noise, the Mad Dogs do not attack. They appear to be dormant.

Mooney hears a scuffle on his left, followed by a hideous thunk sound and a sharp yelp. He turns just in time to see his sergeant pull his shovel out of a woman’s head and shove her corpse to the asphalt. McGraw signals to them: Don’t stop, keep moving.

The Sergeant whispers in the dark, “Sorry, Ma’am.”

Mooney cannot stop himself from wondering who she was before she crossed over and became one of them. An important movie producer? A magazine editor? A meter maid? A substitute teacher? Did she have a husband or was she single? Did she have kids? Was she planning a vacation in Mexico over the winter?

Was she a terrorist who was going to blow up New York?

Was she a scientist about to discover the cure for cancer?

We’ll never know.

Many of the infected are walking barefoot across broken glass, leaving trails of blood behind them. Others have gaping flesh wounds that are leaking pus from scores of infections, not just from the germs transmitted by bites, but because New York has become an open sewer over the past several days. Their stench is horrific, slowly winning its war against the vapor rub the soldiers have slathered under their noses. These people are scarcely human anymore.

But Mooney does not hate them. He just can’t see them as monsters. Several days ago, they were regular people. It is hard to hate slaves. They have no choice.

Ahead, he sees more infected. There are clusters of them standing listless in the dark, apparently sleeping on their feet, their shoulders rising and falling as they pant with rapid, shallow breaths. Others sob and cry out as if from deep sadness.

The stench grows in strength, making his stomach waver at the edge of a convulsion. He tells himself not to cough, not to make a sound.

He passes a Mad Dog who has sensed their presence and is trying to find them blindly, his eyes blinking in the dark. The man suddenly moves into the blind spot of Mooney’s peripheral vision. NVGs offer the advantage of night vision even in near total darkness, but have three big disadvantages that are unnerving and even dangerous.

Soldiers used to 20/20 eyesight during the day must quickly adapt to a reduction in visual acuity to 20/25 to 20/40 at best. In other words, the NVGs produce a fuzzy image. While the fact there is no moon tonight is probably saving their lives, it is also giving their NVGs very little ambient illumination to work with.

While the NVG visor is binocular, the actual lens is monocular, robbing its wearer of depth perception. The boys stumble along, adapting the way they walk so they can maintain balance. Some occasionally flinch when they see Maddies wandering around, because they are not sure how far away they are.

Meanwhile, soldiers used to having a greater than one hundred eighty-degree field of view must adapt to forty-degree tunnel vision. The soldiers must wag their heads constantly to see if Maddy is coming up on their sides, where they are virtually blind.

Mooney hears the Mad Dog sniffing the air and growling on his left. He wags his head in time to see his squad leader bash in the man’s skull with his shovel.

McGraw does not apologize.

Mooney’s mind races: Investment banker? Famous actor? Father of three?

He is trying not to think about his turn on the front line stabbing these people in the dark and pushing them to the ground. He has shot lots of people over the past few days, and even bayoneted the sniveling thing on the floor in the science classroom back at the school. But he did that without thinking. Shooting somebody is one thing. Intentionally putting a knife into a person’s body is another. Most soldiers hate the weapon.

Second Squad steps out of line and squats, exhausted by the fighting, waiting for the rest of the column to pass so that they rejoin it as its last section. It is now First Squad’s turn to be on point.

Mooney takes a deep breath, constantly moving and analyzing the objects swimming in a dozen shades of green in his limited view.

Ahead, floating in the gloom, the pale bodies of Mad Dogs sleep in their strange huddles and wander among the ruins of an abandoned traffic jam, stumbling over torn luggage and dead bodies.

The air is suddenly pierced by wailing, one of the infected crying out in sadness and pain.

The column is not supposed to deviate from a straight line until the first turn four blocks ahead. If Maddy blocks the column, bayonet him, push him to the side, and keep moving. Those are his orders. If he disobeys, he might get everybody killed.

The Mad Dog directly in front of him appears to be vibrating on his green phosphor screen, his large body undefined and fuzzy and his long matted beard writhing like a sizzling nest of worms. His left eye is swollen shut and leaking black fluid from an infection. His mouth yawns open. He appears to be grinning.