There was an old saying among warriors: Make pain your friend.
He hadn’t really wanted to kill Gray, but the organism in his body demanded everything. It didn’t appreciate divided loyalties. It wanted it all.
It wanted to see the whole world burn.
That would be so very freaking hilarious.
He heard a splash of gunfire. Below him, his brothers and sisters charged into First Battalion’s guns. He wanted to join the party.
Then he remembered Ramos’s family. They still needed attention. The sergeant would have wanted it that way.
The laughing virus in his skull thought that was a very awesome idea.
“Aw, Wade,” Rawlings said.
He wheeled. At the sight of her, he burst into long, breathless peals of insane laughter.
HAAAWWWW
HAAAAAWWWWWWW
HAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW
He knew why the infected sought out those they loved. The pain was so exquisite. It hurt soooo good.
“Sorry,” he managed. “Rawlings.”
She leveled her carbine. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Shoot me.”
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t think I can, Private Wade.”
“Shoot me now.”
“Tell me where Ramos’s family lives.”
He doubled over laughing.
She said, “I’ll take care of them. I’ll do that for you.”
He grinned and held up his knife. “Gonna make a hole. Make it—”
He lunged.
She fired.
FORTY-TWO.
Sergeant Sandra Rawlings watched Boston burn.
The big fires had radiated out of South Boston and were consuming everything in sight. The South End was gone. The skyscrapers of the Financial District pumped tons of smoke and ash into the already blackened sky. Chinatown had been burned to a cinder. Back Bay-Beacon Hill was gone, as was Fenway-Kenmore. The fires were eating Dorcester and Roxbury.
Across the Charles River, Charlestown was a black, smoldering ruin, and the conflagration was spreading across Cambridge and Somerville.
The firefighters were all dead, the police department overrun. The hospitals, considered centers of infection, had been destroyed from the air. The Governor held East Boston and little else. From Newton to Quincy, Major General Brock and his struggling battalions were steadily being pushed back toward Cape Cod.
Boston, drained of life, its soul already departed, was being cremated and with it everything that had defined Rawlings as a person. It was a city no more; it was becoming an idea. A symbol. For Rawlings, a memory. She remembered growing up in Dorcester. Living in one apartment after another around the city as an adult. Jobs in various offices in the Financial District before she became a paramedic working out of Christ Hospital. Proud service in the Massachusetts Army National Guard. A tour in Iraq. Then fighting hard, one day at a time, trying to save the city from plague, a plague that had devoured the city long before fire took its turn.
All of it was gone. Nothing left to fight for. Only the plague lived on.
Still, she turned toward the sound of the guns. Tenth Mountain was revving up its vehicles, getting ready to move. She wondered where they were going. Was anywhere safe?
Rawlings admired that they were still willing to fight at all. Those Tenth Mountain boys didn’t know when to quit. Maybe they could use a girl like her. She had a handful of dog tags to deliver. That, and their story. As the sole survivor of the group, she was the sole witness to their end.
Once more into the breach?
Hell, no. She wanted to find a house somewhere and take off her boots. Then, she’d get some water and soak in it for a while. After that, she’d sleep the sleep of the dead.
Nonetheless, Sergeant Rawlings found herself walking down the hill toward the sounds of the gunfire, searching for something that was still worth fighting for, living for. Maybe she’d find it outside Boston. Maybe she’d become a mountaineer after all.
FORTY-THREE.
The forward operating base at Hanscom was stripped down, packed up and ready to roll at Lt. Colonel Harry Lee’s command. Fighting vehicles and their endless train of logistical vehicles, carrying everything from water to fuel to ammunition, lay coiled like a giant metal snake at rest. The big engines idled. Apaches sat spooled up on the runway. A crowd of civilian vehicles, refugees led by a group of police officers and firefighters, waited their turn at the rear.
A small column of Humvees and five-tons rolled into the compound.
“I believe that would be the prodigal son returning, sir,” Walker said.
The lead vehicle pulled up in front of Lee. Sergeant Andy Muldoon stepped out and grinned. “Miss me, Colonel?”
“Not at all,” Lee said. “But I’m glad you’re back. Outstanding results on that mission.”
“Not that outstanding. I lost Burke and Zeller.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And there’s still a mortar team back there. I requested air support.”
“That’s a no go, Sergeant. We’re about to move out here.”
“Or I could go back and do it myself. Sir.”
Muldoon wasn’t bluffing. Lee and Walker exchanged a glance. Lee nodded, and Walker went off to give the orders.
“Anything else, Muldoon?” Lee taunted. “How about a foot rub and a nice hot bath?”
Muldoon surprised him by saluting. “No thanks, sir. I hear you suck at giving foot rubs.”
Lee shook his head. “Dismissed. Get the hell out of my sight.”
As always, Lee got what he wanted, and Muldoon got his pound of flesh.
Sergeant Major Turner approached with a woman in uniform.
“We picked her up outside the wire, sir. Dead on her feet. She gave us these.” He showed Lee a handful of dog tags—Tenth Mountain. Turner added, “She and a group of our guys fought their way here all the way from Harvard Stadium. She’s the only one who made it.”
The woman saluted. “Sergeant Sandra Rawlings. Alpha Company, 164th Transportation Battalion. The Muleskinners. Massachusetts Guard.”
“Well, Sergeant Rawlings, it sounds like you got a hell of a story to tell.”
The woman blinked at him. She was obviously trying hard not to lose it.
Lee said, “I’ll bet you kicked some major Klown ass out on that road, soldier.”
Rawlings stiffened. “You got that right, sir.”
“Hooah. Here’s the deal, Sergeant. We’re moving out. You have a choice. You can stay here, or you can come with us. We’re leaving Massachusetts.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll tag along. There’s nothing for me here anymore.”
Turner escorted her to the medic platoon.
Walker turned to Lee. “I saw her first, sir.”
Lee shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, Major.”
Walker smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
It was time to move out. The battalion had lost a few good men. Otherwise, it was a good day. They’d won a few small victories, they’d crawled out from under the hammer, and they had a new mission. They hadn’t saved Boston, but they were still in the game. They could still do some good. Somewhere. Maybe Florida. Maybe they’d go there after all and save America from this horrific, unending nightmare.
First, they had to get to Fort Drum.
Lee climbed into his Humvee and gave the signal.
FORTY-FOUR.
America. Boston.
The city was burning, its residents fled. The once proud metropolis had been turned into a charnel house overrun by infection.