Part 17 (1/2)
”Freeze,” Eckhardt says.
The boys stop in place.
”I hear something,” he adds. ”Listen.”
A wheezing sound among the cots and chemistry tables.
”I think there's somebody in here with us.”
”One of those crazy people,” Finnegan says, glowering with rage. ”I'm going to kill him slow.”
”Why would you say that?” says Mooney, spitting into the sink.
”They're not people anymore. They're like animals. They don't even know what they're doing.”
”Shut up, Mooney.”
”He's a Mad Dog lover,” says Wyatt, but n.o.body laughs.
”It might be one of our guys lying on the floor wounded,” says Eckhardt. ”Or a non-combatant. Think before you act, Finnegan. Now go get the Sergeant.”
Finnegan signals to Sergeant McGraw that they have a possible contact, and the Sergeant enters the lab, toting his shotgun.
”All right now, let's clear this room,” he says. ”On your toes. Nice and slow.”
The boys continue weaving their way through the cots and tables. The wheezing stops, then starts again.
Mooney's heart is no longer in this. If McGraw were to suggest that they simply eat a bullet now and cop out on all this unreal horror, he would seriously consider it. He has not slept in more than twenty-six hours. During the last ten, he almost died after being chased by a horde of homicidal maniacs, hunted and shot down Mad Dogs during the cleanup at the hospital, reconnoitered the smoky horror show of First Avenue, marched a mile in full battle rattle, shot his way through a civilian riot, and cleared almost an entire floor of an abandoned middle school. He's bone tired and his morale, frankly, sucks.
Mostly, he is sick of the killing.
Soldiers get sloppy when they are this tired.
He feels a hand clutch his ankle. He staggers back, almost fainting.
An old man in hospital scrubs, dragging his gnarled legs behind him, leers up at him, sn.i.g.g.e.ring and drooling. The hand reaches out and grips his ankle again. The b.l.o.o.d.y mouth opens in satisfaction: Ah.
Mooney screams and bayonets the man in the forehead, then promptly drops his rifle, falls on his a.s.s and p.i.s.ses himself.
The other boys gather around.
”Hardcore, Mooney,” says Finnegan, excited. ”Good on ya.”
Wyatt says, ”Another notch in the belt for the killah.”
McGraw helps Mooney back onto his feet. ”You okay, Private?”
”I think so, Sergeant.”
”All right. Retrieve your weapon.”
Wyatt laughs hysterically. Mooney glares at him. The noise returns. The boys instantly form a circle facing outward, establis.h.i.+ng a defensive perimeter. Mooney pulls the bayonet out of the skull of the Mad Dog he killed, fighting back another urge to vomit and trying to ignore the unsettling sensation of wetness running down his pant leg.
McGraw signals at them to follow him across the room. Pausing at a secondary door leading into another hallway, he places his ear against it and listens.
Wheezing.
The sound electrifies them.
Mooney feels a hand on his ankle.
He looks down, his heart racing, but sees nothing there. He shakes his leg a little to free himself of the lingering feeling.
The sergeant makes a fist and punches the air several times in the direction of the door. Prepare for action. Mooney and the other boys raise their weapons, ready to fire.
McGraw opens the door.
The hall beyond is packed with Mad Dogs, many wearing paper gowns, others filthy and naked, waste running down their legs, shoving and drooling with their breath rattling in their chests. A wave of stink a.s.sails the soldiers, making them wince and their eyes fill with water. PFC Chen lowers his carbine and turns away, gagging.
The Mad Dogs begin growling.
Before either side makes a move, Mooney steps forward and kicks the door closed. Instantly, a score of hands begin clawing and banging on the door, which vibrates on its hinges.
”I didn't get to shoot my weapon!” Wyatt complains.
”That was quick thinking,” McGraw says. ”Private Mooney just saved our a.s.ses.”
”What do you mean, Sergeant?”
”I think we just stumbled on an army of them,” he explains. ”The mother lode.”
Payback time
The boys of First Squad exit the cla.s.sroom out the other door and enter the hallway. McGraw points at his eyes with his index and middle fingers of his left hand, telling the security team to come forward. He holds his rifle over his head and points in the direction of the corner. He extends his flattened palm towards them.
The boys give him the thumbs up. They understand that the enemy has been sighted and is around the corner, and that they are to stay where they are.
The Sergeant quietly approaches the corner, peers around it, and instantly pulls his head back, holding up a finger to indicate that he guesses there are as many as a hundred hostiles occupying the hallway. He flashes several number signs and then bangs his fists together, telling them the enemy is about fifteen meters down the corridor.
Time to report this discovery to the LT.
He signals the squad to stay put in a defensive posture, and returns to the cla.s.sroom. The Mad Dogs are still focused on the door, sc.r.a.ping at it with their nails. He gives the door the finger, and then keys his handset.
”War Dogs Two-Six, War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-One, how copy, over?”
War Dogs Two-One, this is War Dogs Two actual, standing by to copy, over.