Slaughterhouse

THIRTY-FOUR.

“They’re here! First of the Fifty-fifth, they’re actually here!”

Brigadier General Ernesto Salvador had been aware the battalion was on post, but he’d had doubts that it was a friendly unit. He’d bottled up what little optimism he had left and waited for a full battalion of infected lightfighters to descend upon the defensive elements surrounding Hays Hall. Once that happened, it wouldn’t be long before the last remaining vestige of the 10^th Mountain Division was eradicated. There was just no way his collection of defenders could repel an entire battalion. He’d been encouraged when the first elements to come in contact with the Klowns began attacking them, and that feeling eventually blossomed into a pale sense of hope when indirect fire rained down on the infected hordes. All of that had been dutifully reported to him by the senior NCOs manning the rooftop defenses and the officers commanding the platoons defending the walls. But full-on joy hadn’t materialized until he’d heard the reports that the hundreds of troops amassed to the north were advancing—and engaging the Killer Clowns.

It appeared that the 1^st Battalion, 55^th Infantry Regiment (Light) appeared to be full of a bunch of joes who were still good guys. Salvador knew Lieutenant Colonel Prince well, and he wasn’t surprised that the cocky son of a bitch had not just survived the situation in Boston, but made it all the way back to Drum.

Salvador looked around. Only three other soldiers were with him in the basement, which served as the division’s final tactical operations center. The upper floors of Hays Hall had been riddled with bullets, and the brick-faced structure hadn’t been designed with the thought of withstanding direct enemy contact. The basement was the only place that was still secure, and Salvador had ordered the operations personnel to head underground while the rest of the troops—a collection of military policemen, cavalry, and the remains of the post’s garrison—tried their best to defend Hays Hall from the Klown onslaught. Those professionals had been backed by cooks, orderlies, medics, even two chaplains. A week ago, when Salvador’s boss Major General Lew McLaren had still been alive, they’d had a force three hundred strong. Since then, the numbers had been severely diminished, and with the last head count, Salvador had been told that only ninety or so troops remained combat effective. And a good percentage of those were wounded.

“Okay, get me Wizard Six Actual,” Salvador ordered his radio telephone operator. “We need to seriously consider unassing, and we’re going to need Prince’s troops to do the heavy lifting.”