The civilian nets are even more ominous.
National Guard units defending City Hall have abandoned their positions and moved north, and protestors have occupied the building and are busy turning it into a fortress. The commander of the Guard unit was found dead at his post. The Mayor is missing. Right now, there is nobody running the government of New York City.
Meanwhile, operators are still calling first responder units, but units are not reporting back. The nets are going silent one by one, populated only by panicked operators asking over and over if anybody can hear them.
A cop gets on the net, says he has eyes on a group of vigilantes lynching five Lyssa victims from streetlight poles, and requests backup, but there is no help to give. Frustrated, the cop breaks protocol by asking the operator if there is a fucking plan.
Sherman senses that the government and the military are holding something back from the people who live here, but the people already know about it, and have begun to take matters into their own hands.
It is interesting, but ultimately not his concern.
He switches to Charlie Company’s net and resumes his search for Fourth Platoon, which had been on Third Platoon’s heels during the march to the school but suddenly disappeared and is now considered lost.
All of this makes for discouraging work for a radio/telephone operator, but a good RTO must have the patience of a saint, and Sherman is good at his job. He is not complaining. Even though he is not getting through to anybody, the traffic is more entertaining than he has ever heard it.
Things are bad, but like all crises, this too shall pass, he believes. He tells himself the government and the Army will fix it when those in charge finally get their heads out of their collective asses and do what needs doing. The United States survived the First and Second World Wars, Cold War, Spanish Flu Pandemic, Presidents Nixon through Obama, the Great Depression and the September Eleventh attacks. It can survive this lousy Lyssa Pandemic. Someday, he will tell his kids about how scary and exciting it all was, and he and his comrades will be called the Greatest Generation by their grandchildren.
He likes working alone so that he can take off his mask and smoke without any hassles. Lighting one up, he realizes that he is down to four packs now and after that, with all the supply problems he has been hearing about, there might not be any more cigarettes for a while. The thought fills him with panic. A lot of the boys smoke for fun, but he is an addict. He tries to put this unsettling train of thought out of his mind by throwing himself back into his work.
When he switches back to Brigade traffic, a strong, gravelly voice cuts through the babble:
This is Quarantine actual. Clear the net. Break.
The voice is calm, almost dry, but the effect is electrifying. Within moments, the chatter is reduced by more than half.
I say again: This is Quarantine actual. Clear the net. Break.
Sherman takes out his notepad and pencil, excited. He has only rarely heard Colonel Winters, the commander of the Brigade, get on the net in person.
All elements of Quarantine, this is Quarantine actual. Message follows, break.
You don’t see that every day
McLeod paces just inside the doors to the school. About ten meters down the hallway, Martin and Boomer pass a cigarette back and forth, leaning on the sandbags of their MG emplacement. McLeod strolls over, cradling his SAW.
“Salaam ’Alaykum, boys,” he says.
The gunners nod. McLeod watches in amusement as they turn away and pull down their masks to take a drag.
He adds: “You guys do realize that if one of you has Lyssa, the other now has it.”
“Go to hell, McLeod,” Boomer says.
“What do you mean?” Martin says.
“You’re sharing a smoke,” McLeod explains. Seeing their blank expressions, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“This is not a good time to go around scaring people,” Boomer warns him.
“What a crappy post,” McLeod says darkly. “A freaking school. Look at this poster some kid made with a bunch of crummy markers: ‘Welcome back’ in a hundred languages. Christ, I’d rather be in goddamn Baghdad getting shot at.”
“I’ll bet you were one of the most popular guys in high school,” Martin deadpans, making the AG snort with laughter. “Because you’re such a comedian.”
“Sleep deprivation makes me hilarious.” McLeod yells at the ceiling, “I need sleep!”
“Why aren’t you bunking with your squad, McLeod?” Martin says, winking at Boomer, who grins back.
“Magilla’s got it in for me. Everybody else gets to sleep a few hours, while I’m stuck doing guard duty with—no offense—you guys.”
Boomer bursts into laughter while Martin says, “You’re lucky that’s all you got.”
“Are you kidding? What’d I ever do to anybody?”
“Have you ever tried seeing what would happen if you maybe shut your big mouth, McLeod?” Boomer says.
McLeod smiles and says nothing.
Boomer adds, “Looks like you’re as popular in the Army as you were in high school, McLeod. Count yourself lucky you’re not shoveling body parts into the basement furnace with the Hajjis—I mean, the civilians.”
“Instead, you got guard duty,” Martin says, gesturing toward the front doors of the school. “Hmm. Aren’t you supposed to be like, you know, guarding?”
“Nobody’s going to come here,” McLeod tells him.
“It’s a Lyssa hospital in the middle of a Lyssa plague,” Martin says, taking off his cap and making a show of scratching his closely shorn head. “Hmm.”
“Yeah, I wonder if anybody’s coming,” the AG says, cracking up now.
“Shush, I’m thinking,” Martin says, still in character.
“Quiet for a sec,” says McLeod. “Listen.”
In the distance, they hear the roar of a diesel engine.
A large vehicle is approaching the school.
He adds, “Oh thank God, they’re starting to pick up the trash again.”
The MGR rolls his eyes and says, “Boomer, stay here, I’m going to go with McFly and check it out.”
“Roger that.”
“Lead the way, McDuff.”
“You’re a very funny guy,” McLeod says. “It must run in the family. Just the other night, your mom—hey, that sounds military, doesn’t it?”
The sound grows louder as they approach the doors and open them cautiously, peering out at the corpse-strewn street.
“Lookit, it’s an LAV,” Martin says, raising his fist. “Go, Marines! Get some!”
The armored personnel carrier, shaped like a large green boat on eight wheels, turns onto their street from several blocks away, its engine grinding.
“I want one of those,” says McLeod.
“It’s the LAV-R,” Martin says. “See the boom crane on the back? It’s got a winch so it can recover other LAVs that break down. The recovery model doesn’t have much for defense, just the single M240 and some smoke grenades.” He adds admiringly, “You should see the fighting version. It’s got an M242 Bushmaster chain gun and two M240s. I saw one once. In action, too. It was freaking cool. The Iraqis call these babies the Great Destroyers.”
“I hear she’s single, tiger,” McLeod says.
“They can go sixty miles an hour and drive underwater, man.”
“Uh oh, they got company. Check it out.”
The LAV-R has completed its turn and guns its engine to pick up speed. The vehicle is surrounded by a crowd of about twenty Mad Dogs running alongside it. A few somehow clawed their way on top and are beating on the armor with their fists.
The vehicle accelerates on the open street and the Mad Dogs begin to lag behind.