Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“Reloading,” somebody calls out.

“Bring it!”

“Get some!”

One of the soldiers raises an AT4, a lightweight recoilless antitank rocket launcher good for area fire up to five hundred meters, and disengages its two safeties before cocking the mechanical firing pin. Estimating the range, he adjusts the tube-shaped weapon’s plastic sights and takes aim.

“Fire in the hole!” he screams.

He pulls the trigger and fires, producing a mushrooming, fiery back blast from the rear of the tube. The finned missile ejects and closes the distance between the soldiers and the Mad Dogs in a half-second, skimming the top of the crowd before disappearing into the building beyond. A moment later, it detonates with a blinding flash, rocking the building, which belches its flaming guts onto the street.

A wave of smoke and dust descend upon the Mad Dogs, shrouding them from view.

Knight is laughing, draining a magazine at a cyclic rate of fire, shooting randomly into the dark veil.

They must all die to wipe out his sin and pay his debt to the dead.

“Fall back!” Vaughan is shouting, waving his handgun. “Back of the line!”

As the boys stream toward the rear, the former sergeant grips Knight’s arm and shouts into his ear, “LT! Do you have a plan for getting us back to the main column?”

“Of course!” Knight grins, his eyes gleaming with their own pale light. “It’s simple. We kill them all!”

“Wrong answer, sir,” Vaughan says.

The handgun discharges in his other hand, putting a bullet through Knight’s calf. Knight screams and collapses, clawing at his leg.

Moments later, it’s raining body parts

McLeod runs across the open intersection, firing his SAW from the hip, hitting almost nothing and screaming his head off. The other boys of Third Squad run alongside, their faces red and sweaty, huffing as they lay down their own wild suppressing fire. The bullets shatter windows, punch holes and blow out tires in vehicles, rattle off walls, snap through the bodies of the Mad Dogs.

Everybody is doing more running than shooting right now. The column is still retreating north after Knight’s defection, and it is turning into a rout. The XO’s ploy helped them escape the first horde of Maddies, but thousands more are pouring into the area from the east and west, and the column is being flanked on every street.

As the rear guard, Third Squad’s only hope is to outrun Maddy before the column is broken and they are cut off.

Behind them, a soldier from Third Platoon pauses to lift a Javelin launcher to his shoulder, his aim wobbly as he gasps for air.

“Fire in the hole!”

The missile instantly strikes an SUV standing like an island in the middle of a flowing river of infected, crumpling its door like aluminum foil just before it detonates with a boom the soldiers can feel in their feet. The fireball sends half of the vehicle ripping through the crowd like a giant bowling ball before crashing through a nearby plate glass storefront, while the other half flies spinning into the air.

The soldier leans back and howls in triumph, then shouts after his fleeing comrades, “Don’t tell me you guys didn’t see that!”

He is instantly tackled to the ground by a mob of the infected coming up behind him. He shrugs them off, struggling to flee, and topples under the weight of an endless stream of Maddies. Behind them, a score of infected stagger by, on fire from head to tie and flailing blindly, screaming in agony. A moment later, the soldier is permanently obscured from view by a wave of black, oily smoke. A living flood of Maddies pours out of the smoke racing headlong after the column. They are scarcely recognizable as human anymore, filthy, hair greasy and matted, covered in bruises and open sores, gaunt and dressed in bloody rags.

They are the living dead.

“Contact left!”

Ruiz is ahead of the squad, swinging his arm like a baseball coach on third base waving his runners home for the big win, screaming, “Go, go, go!”

The boys stop firing and pour their last energy into a flat out run to get across the next intersection before they are cut off and slaughtered.

They pass Ruiz, who yells “Frag out!” and throws a grenade down the street at their pursuers. Moments later, it’s raining body parts.

Then they’re running across the next intersection as a column of Maddies bears down on them fifty meters away from the west.

“Captain says we’re clear up ahead,” Ruiz shouts when they’re halfway up the next block. “We’re walking to the next intersection.”

“Roger that!” the boys shout back, panting.

“Now give me fire while we take five, and make it hot!”

The boys yell exultantly, pouring a storm of hot metal into the approaching Mad Dogs, who disappear in a cloud of red mist. The fire immediately eases as the soldiers marvel at their incredible firepower.

“Keep firing!” Ruiz roars at them. He’s obviously tired of withdrawing under pressure, and wants to make some breathing room.

A grenade explodes near the burned-out wreck of a car in the middle of the street, flipping it. McLeod steadies his SAW against the hood of a Toyota Corolla and begins firing in controlled bursts. He will not switch to cyclic fire unless he has to do so to stay alive; he does not want to risk overheating his weapon. Once it jams, it is out of action and that’s it, he will be out of the game.

He notices an inviting door leading into an apartment building. A few minutes running up the stairs until he gets to the roof, and he can wait this whole thing out.

But he does not move.

Every time I fire my weapon, he tells himself, I consent to this freakshow.

He spares a glance at Sergeant Ruiz, then fires a burst that cuts a skinny woman in half. He is not going anywhere as long as that son of a bitch is still alive. He promised Magilla that he would do his part, and he intends to keep the promise, unsure why it is so important that he do so.

He is vaguely aware there is also a moral dilemma involved. The only way he can successfully escape into one of the buildings is if the rest of his squad—including Williams, who has put up with his crap longer than most would—stays in the street fighting while needing every gun, especially his SAW, on line.

“Hey, they’re popping smoke behind us,” somebody says.

At the next intersection, their comrades in Second Platoon, the column’s advance guard, disappear behind a wall of smoke heading north, while the remains of First and Third Platoons are moving east. It is Lieutenant Knight’s crazy plan all over again.

“Prepare to withdraw on my command!” Ruiz calls out.

Fire slackens as the boys get set to break off contact and haul ass.

Time to retrograde.

I’m not afraid

Knight slowly pulls himself onto his feet, grimacing with pain at the bleeding hole in his torn and bruised calf muscle, and sees the first Mad Dogs racing toward him from only twenty meters away.

“Vaughan!” he screams. “Vaughan, help me!”

Leaning back against a car, he reaches for his carbine, but it is gone. All he has is his nine-millimeter. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he quickly unholsters it and squeezes off several shots into the approaching horde, dropping bodies onto the street.

The Mad Dogs bear down on him, their slavering jaws champing.

Knight laughs suddenly, his eyes shining, feeling lightheaded and weak from the loss of blood.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says, and empties the rest of the clip into their snarling faces.

The infected do not know what fear is.

They rip him into pieces, ignoring his screams, and fight over what is left. They gnaw and bite even at the morsels, trying to infect his dead flesh with living virus.