Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers Eyes, over.

That’s Arnold calling in from the observation post. Rod places his meal on the ground between his feet and keys the push-to-talk button on his headset, chewing. “Hellraisers 3 here. Go ahead, Eyes, over.”

Contact to the west. A uniform victor, moving fast, over.

An unidentified vehicle , Rod understands. “You got eyes on it, over?”

Not yet, over.

“Let me know when you get eyes on it. Hellraisers 3, out.”

Roger, Three. Out.

The others wolf down their meals, knowing what is coming, but waiting until he gives the order.

“We’ve got a vehicle inbound,” he says. “You know what to do. Let’s get to it.”

The soldiers take final bites of food and slugs of juice and scramble to their feet, pocketing their energy bars and candy for later. They snatch up their weapons and run off. Lynch stays behind to help Sosa pull on his flamethrower harness.

“Corporal, when you’re done there, go tell spooky and the doc we’re expecting company,” Rod says.

“Aieeyah, Sergeant.”

“Hart, I need you on the fifty,” he shouts, banging his fist against the Stryker’s armor. The gunner appears in the cupola, gives him a thumbs up, and grabs hold of the mounted heavy machine gun, locking and loading it.

Checking his shotgun, Rod walks to the checkpoint they built using sawhorses and STOP signs, placed in layers running every twenty meters along the road up to the gas station. The theory is Typhoid Jody will either stop, or try to bypass or drive through the roadblock.

If he tries to bypass or drive through, he will slow down, and the Stryker’s fifty will make quick work of him. If he fails to cooperate, he is a dead man.

Rod’s body rebels, his heart racing and his breath becoming fast and shallow, but not from fear. No, he is simply excited. Can this really be it? Can this guy really offer a cure? If not a cure, maybe a vaccine, or even a weapon?

Is this the operation that ends the war and allows us to retake the country?

He whistles to get Davis’s attention. “Corporal, change of plans for you. I want you to find a safe spot fifty meters behind us, watching our rear. Same plan if something happens to me, though. You’re to take command.”

“Got it, Sergeant,” Davis says, jogging away.

Rod blows air out his cheeks, raises the hood on his MOPP suit, and pulls on his gas mask.

“It’s time to earn our money,” he says.

Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers Eyes, over.

“Go ahead, Eyes, over.”

I have eyes on the uniform victor. Range, about three kilometers. Break. It’s a military vehicle, Sergeant. An APC. Over.

“Shift to overwatch, Eyes. Hellraisers 3, out.”

Rod frowns at the waves of heat rising off the warmed road and wonders about the odds of this being a coincidence. What’s an armored personnel carrier doing in this exact place at this exact point in time? Could this be our guy?

He had the impression Typhoid Jody is a civilian, but he might be military, and he might know how to drive an APC. Alarms flash through Rod’s mind.

How are we going to stop him if he’s driving an amored vehicle?

Fielding and Price approach in their bright yellow spacesuits, carrying what appear to be suitcases made of yellow plastic emblazoned with ominous biohazard symbols.

“Stay behind me,” he tells them.

The vehicle appears in the distance, approaching with a metallic scream, and crushes the first line of sawhorses before rolling to a sudden stop in front of the second.

Rod waves, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The turret turns rapidly, aligning the cannon barrel with the Stryker. Five shooters in a motley collection of military uniforms fan out from behind, taking cover and aiming their weapons at his men.

“Hold fire, Hellraisers,” Rod says into his headset.

“Any idea who they are?” Dr. Price says.

“I believe we’re about to find that out.”

The hatch opens and a large man appears. “Who’s in charge here?” his deep voice booms across the roadblocks.

Rod takes off his mask and pulls his hood down.

“I’m Sergeant Hector Rodriguez, Fifth Stryker Cavalry Regiment. And you would be?”

“Sergeant Toby Wilson, Eighth Infantry Division, Fifth Brigade—the Iron Horse.”

Rod grunts with respect. From what he heard, elements of Fifth Brigade fought hard all over Pennsylvania in the first days of the Wildfire epidemic, and were destroyed piecemeal. If Wilson is from that unit, he and his crew are among its few survivors.

This guy must have one hell of a story to tell.

“Where’s your original dismounts?” he asks, referring to Wilson’s infantry squad.

“Dead just like all the rest. We’re militia now.”

“Well, Sergeant Wilson, it’s an honor, but I’m going to have to ask that you exit my area of operations. If you want to pass through, you’ve got my blessing.”

“No can do, Sergeant. This is important. I need you to tell me about your operation.”

“What the hell?” Rod mutters, then calls back, “Go fuck yourself, Sergeant! Is that enough information for you?”

He hears his boys laughing at their positions. Wilson’s shooters continue to scurry to new cover, fanning out further on his flanks. Preparing for a fight. Soon, they will have him flanked on the left, where he’s weak. He doubts they know about Arnold looking down on them with his machine gun.

The situation is deteriorating fast.

“I ain’t playing with you, Sergeant,” Wilson says. “This is important. I’m going to ask one more time. What are you doing here?”

“I’m telling you for the last time: It’s none of your goddamn business, Sergeant.”

The next few seconds appear to stretch as nobody speaks or moves. Rod has a sense of everyone lining up iron sights on a human target, settling in for the order to fire.

“Sergeant,” Dr. Price says.

“If I were you, I’d get down, Doc,” Fielding says, kneeling behind cover.

“He’s right,” Rod says. “Get your ass down.”

“We’re looking for a man!” the scientist cries, rushing forward.

“Jesus,” Rod groans. “Get down before you get shot!”

Price ignores him, running toward the distant Bradley and shouting: “We’re looking for the man who brought the Wildfire Agent into Camp Defiance! We believe he is coming this way! We want to bring him to a special facility because we believe his blood may hold a cure to Wildfire! Come on, we’re all on the same side!”

Wilson whistles and Rod tenses, raising his shotgun and aiming it center mass at the figure sitting in the open hatch of the armored personnel carrier.

Go ahead, Wilson. I’m taking you with me.

Wilson has some connection to the camp, and has been tracking Typhoid Jody in the hopes of killing him. Simple justice.

To his surprise, Wilson’s shooters pop up from their concealed positions, weapons lowered.

“Good call, Doc,” Rod says absently, blowing air out his cheeks and lowering his shotgun. He watches Wilson jump down from the Bradley and march toward him unarmed. A woman exits the back of the Bradley and joins him. Rod gives the order to stand down.

“I want you back to observing the road, Eyes. Out.”

Roger that, Three. Out.

Rod steps out from behind the row of sawhorses, and jogs to meet Wilson and the woman.

“Looks like we’re on the same side, Sergeant Wilson,” he says, extending his hand.

“Sorry to step on your op,” the large man says, taking it.

“Hate to see what would have happened if we weren’t on the same side.”