Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“You said you had two questions for me, Captain.”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Bowman says, grinning. You’ll probably find the question a little strange, possibly even improper. Aw, hell, I guess I’ll just ask flat out. If we survive this, can I take you to dinner, Dr. Petrova?”

Petrova smiles and displays the gold wedding band on her left hand.

“Captain Bowman, that is a flattering invitation,” she answers, “but as you will observe, I am a happily married woman.”

Bowman smiles and nods.

“That also figures,” he says dryly.

Time to kick my ass?

McLeod finds Sergeant Ruiz alone in the elevator lobby, leaning against the wall with his hands deep in the pockets of his BDUs, seemingly lost in thought. The CO has authorized the company to take off the N95 masks until the march, and it is strange to see Ruiz’s face again. Most of the soldiers took advantage of the fact they had to wear masks 24/7 and grew scraggly beards, but not Ruiz; he is clean shaven. A gung ho mo fo, as they say in the ranks.

McLeod says: “You, uh, wanted to see me privately, Sergeant Ruiz?”

The NCO steps away from the wall, the muscles of his bulldog torso straining against his uniform, his eyes intense and staring. As he approaches, McLeod flinches, but holds his ground. This is it, he thinks. The hour of reckoning.

Magilla is finally going to kick my ass.

Ruiz continues until he stands directly in front of McLeod, looking him up and down while the soldier stands at attention.

“Private McLeod, you are one sorry sack of shit,” he says.

“Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod answers, meaning it.

“A big greasy shit stain on my otherwise spotless record of training the world’s finest combat infantry.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I got one question for you.”

Do you want to get punched in the face or stomach?

“The question is: Are you ready to man up, son?”

“Sergeant?”

“McLeod, this unit has been in constant danger for the past four days. Our battalion has lost about two-thirds of its strength during that time. A good number of our casualties were sustained by mobs of people who tore our guys apart with their bare hands. While all this was going on, have you fired your weapon even once?”

“Um,” says McLeod.

“Speak up, son.”

“No, Sergeant,” he says clearly.

“It’s not a test,” Ruiz tells him. “At ease.”

Just tell me when you’re going to do it. Don’t sucker punch me. That’s all I ask.

“I said relax, Private. Relax and listen good. I’m trying to teach you something.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod says, swallowing hard.

“Do you know what time it is, son?”

Time to kick my ass?

He answers, “It’s about oh-five-forty-five, Sergeant.”

“That is affirmative. Outstanding, Private. Do you know when the sun rises? I’ll tell you when. Today, the sun will rise around zero-six-twenty. Do you know what that means?”

McLeod chews his lip, sweating.

The Sergeant says, “Don’t hurt yourself, Private. It’s not a trick question. I’ll tell you what it means. It means that even if Immunity were to put birds in the air right now and we left this facility right now to meet them up in Central Park, we still wouldn’t have enough time under darkness to conceal our movements. That means we will be taking some, most or all of this trip in daylight exposed to Maddy. What would you do if you were in command?”

“Me? I guess I’d ask the General to wait until tomorrow night.”

“Outstanding, Private! But the General just told you it’s now or never, do or die. Division is pulling stakes and trucking south. In twenty-four hours, all their birds are going to be far gone, committed to other missions. There’ll be empty sky around here as far as the eye can see. So it looks like we have no choice. We’re moving out, and we’ll be walking in Maddy’s shadow.” Ruiz puts on a sad face. “How does that make you feel, Private?”

“Feel, Sergeant?” McLeod clears his throat. “Well, honestly, it makes me—”

“Do not answer that question, Private.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Get your shit together, son!”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“What’s holding you back from kicking Maddy’s ass? Are you scared?”

I just want

“Yes, Sergeant. I’m scared.”

Ruiz shakes his head, circling McLeod like a shark studying its prey.

“You got to man up, son. Fear is your bitch. Do you understand?”

to go to school

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“When Maddy hits you, you got to hit him back tenfold. Hooah?”

and read books

“Hooah, Sergeant.”

“If you survive the next one or two hours, you can survive anything. You are really and truly the baddest motherfucker in the world. Really and truly the best. Am I right?”

and be left alone.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Remember son, pain is temporary, but honor is forever. This is about how you see yourself in your old age. What you tell your grandkids about what you were doing during the plague. So are you a warrior? Or are you chickenshit?”

McLeod relaxes his stance and looks his squad leader in the eyes.

Time to be honest with this guy for once.

“Sergeant,” he says, “I never was a warrior and I doubt I’ll ever be one. You know it and I know it. But I’ll do right by you. You’ve always done right by me. You may not think I think that, but I do. So I’ll do right by you. I’ll kick ass today for the squad.”

Ruiz blinks.

“All right, then,” he says finally. “Just be aggressive with that SAW.”

“Hooah, Sergeant,” McLeod says, coming to attention and saluting.

The NCO shakes his head, regarding McLeod with his intense stare. “You really are a piece of work, Private. Anybody ever tell you that?”

McLeod grins and tells him, “Every day, Sergeant.”

“Be aggressive on this march, McLeod,” Ruiz says darkly. “I’ll be watching. Now get your shit-eating grin out of my sight before I kick your ass all over this building.”

Brave or stupid, take your pick

First Squad sprawls on the floor in full battle rattle, wolfing down MREs and catching last-minute smokes but otherwise ready to move. Mooney and Wyatt share the last pack of cupcakes from the rich kids’ lockers. Ratliff is hunched over a boot, finishing his repair of a broken lace. Carrillo pulls the plates out of his body armor, as the boys have been ordered to ditch the extra weight so they can move as fast as possible. Finnegan reloads the last bullets he just cleaned into a magazine, which will improve the odds that his carbine will not jam. Like Sergeant McGraw, who was spotted earlier playing pocket pool with his lucky talismans, the boys have their superstitions: Finnegan kisses the magazine before loading it into his carbine. Rollins runs off to find the chaplain after being told the man is leading a group of soldiers in prayer in another room.

Mooney sits against a wall, his carbine between his knees and his mouth blissfully full of stale cupcake, and listens to the sounds of the boys sharing stories and seeking each other out in fellowship. He is intensely aware of everything around him and his own place among them. Like the other soldiers, he has an innate knowledge that every passing minute is bringing them closer to a confrontation with Maddy in daylight. In just a half an hour, he might be dead, his body torn to shreds by a homicidal mob. Life is particularly precious to the doomed. Every moment that passes, he experiences like a snapshot. And he is filled with intense fraternal love for all of the other soldiers because they might die, too.