Pandemic

TWENTY-SIX.

Wade hoped a passing unit would bring in more wounded so he could hit them up for news, but nobody came. They had no radio. They were cut off.

He kept to himself all morning. He nursed his banged-up ankle, his face. Something was in there, deep in his wound, tickling. Moving. Searching. He inventoried his emotions as a matter of routine. He didn’t want to hurt himself or anybody else. The truth was he felt numb.

Maybe he wasn’t infected after all. Maybe he was immune. Or maybe he was about to become a murderer in five, four, three, two—

Outside, Boston burned and smoldered. Black smoke filled the sky.

There were around thirty soldiers in the building, and only nine appeared able to function for an extended period of time. Late in the morning, those men got up off the floor and walked down the hall. Wade found himself alone with three soldiers who lay with their backs to him—in other words, totally alone. These men were gone, empty husks. The things they’d seen and done had destroyed their ability to cope.

He stood and dusted himself off. After some wandering, he found the others in one of the offices. They’d pushed the furniture against the walls and sat on the dusty carpet in a semicircle around Rawlings. She talked while she cleaned her disassembled carbine with a rod and patch.

“You’ve all been in the shit,” she said. “You know that, in combat, nobody cares who you voted for, what god you worship, the color of your skin, or where your ancestors came from. All that matters is whether your friends are going to watch your six while you watch theirs. It’s true there are no atheists in foxholes, but the soldier’s religion is his platoon. He depends on his platoon more than he does God.” She smiled. “Welcome, Private Wade.”

Wade nodded and sat with the others. “What’s this all about?”

“Boot camp for lost souls. We’re planning on how we’re going to get out of here and back to civilization. Did you get the sergeant’s carbine?”

“He said he’d cut off my balls if I took his weapon.”

Rawlings looked impressed. “You got more out of him than we did. Did he say anything else? Is he going to get back into the game?”

“I didn’t stick around to find out. I like my balls.”

The men chuckled lightly.

“All right.” Rawlings looked at Fisher and tilted her head toward Wade.

Fisher stood and gave Wade his M4. “My hands keep shaking. I can’t shoot for shit. You should have it.”

“Thanks,” Wade said, taking the weapon. He found the familiar weight of the carbine comforting. “I’ll take good care of it for you.”

“You do that, bro.”

Rawlings continued. “The problem is we’re not with our platoons. They’re dead, or they’re not here. It’s every man for himself at this post. All of us have lost friends, but we’re still here. Why? It doesn’t matter why. It just is. It hurts like hell, but that’s a good thing. The pain of losing everything, the guilt of having made it while other men, better men, didn’t. Embrace that pain. Make that guilt your friend.”

Wade thought of Ramos, Williams, Ford and Eraserhead, and the faces of other men he’d once called brother. All of them gone forever.

Rawlings put aside the cleaning rod and patch and began to reassemble her carbine. “You fought for those men, and now they’re gone. So why are you here? Why are you still fighting? What are you fighting for? We need a reason to fight. Think about that reason and hold onto it. I don’t care if it’s your mom back home or America or beer and tits, hold onto it.”

The man chuckled again.

“Whatever it is, it’s all you got right now. And once you got a hold of it, once it’s yours, you’ll be ready to fight. The people in this room, we’re going to be a new unit. You don’t need me to tell you that we have to be, or we won’t make it.”

Wade looked at the others. Gray scowled back at him. Brown wore a dreamy, vacant expression. Fisher looked pale and shaky, as always. Wade didn’t feel encouraged. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t need inspiration from a National Guard reservist to keep going. They were all damaged goods, not least of all him. Somehow, this group of shattered men was going to have to learn to work together and trust each other with their very lives.

“The Klowns are out there,” Rawlings went on, “and they know we’re in here. Some heavy shit is coming, and we’re going to be in it neck deep. Because mark my words, gentlemen, it’s only a matter of time before the Klowns get in or the civilians get pissed off enough to take a shot at us. If we want to survive, we’re going to have to work together.”

She slapped a magazine into the carbine’s well and propped the weapon against the wall next to her. “All right, then. Enough of this kumbaya shit. Let’s talk about how we’re going to get out of here alive.”