“Squad One, under Staff Sergeant Barnard, and Alpha Team, Squad Two, under Sergeant Hocieniec, shall break down into three-man teams. They shall use local vehicles to drive slowly around and about the island, each team having a designated zone, with the lights on and honking the horn, until they observe approaching infected. They shall then engage such infected with small arms fire and convince them to lie down and be good.
“We shall continue that exercise until zero one hundred hours at which point you shall turn your happy asses around and head back to rendezvous at the Quarter. We are to be off the island by zero two hundred.
“When, not if, you get your silly asses lost you shall continue to drive on, on foot if needs be, to make it back to the Quarter or this location, whichever is directed, based upon time and location. We will use the usual frequencies but we have increasing numbers of subs moving into the area and they have frequency scanners. If you lose contact, just start calling on the emergency frequency for the subs. Each of you Marines should be carrying a radio and backup batteries. Team leaders shall ensure that such is the case. If one don’t work, use the others.
“If you get into close contact with the infected, don’t you worry none. You’re in this gear for a reason, not just ’cause I like it hot. Just scrum ’em. If you hit a big pocket of infected and get stuck somewhere, like up a tree, just git on the radio and call for your fearless leader and I shall come and pull you out of the dunny. The reason I’m staying back ain’t that I want to miss the party, it’s ’cause I’m figurin’ the reaction team’s gonna get called on at least once and I want the opportunity of glorious battle upon this glorious tropical night. My kukri ain’t et in weeks and we’re hungry! I am offering a nice bottle of hooch for whichever team finds a really good pocket of infected so I can get in the scrum.
“Do not take off one single item of gear! Do not fail to make it back here by zero two hundred! Run the whole damned way if you must. You do not, trust me, want to be left on this island. Do not shoot each other! If the infected surprise you, let them come to you and go to hand-to-hand. That’s the fun way to kill them! Do hydrate! Do kill infected! Do find my rugged Nepalese beauty something to eat! Go be my fine and beautiful devil dogs! Oorah?”
“OORAH!” the platoon boomed, grinning. Miss Faith was back.
“Right, team leaders, gather round for your assigned sectors…”
“Nothin’ can be finer than clearin’ out a liner in the, mooornin’,” Lance Corporal Richard “Dutch” Van Dijk sang softly as the Zodiac neared the beach. “Nothing can be sweeter than sendin’ Zs to Peter in the, mooornin’…”
“At ease, Lance Corporal,” Sergeant Weisskopf snapped. “We are aware that you have a “senior boarder’s badge,” whatever that is. But this is a tactical landing.”
“Aye, aye, Sergeant,” Dutch said. “Just happy to be able to take my shades off.”
“Don’t tell me you can see in this?” Weisskopf said sharply. The approach to the beach was being done on Zodiacs and the orders were do not fire until landing and “tactical” approach—basically they were sneaking in. The point being that they were going to need to be on the land to effectively engage the enemy. Firing from a Zodiac, especially at night, was a fairly precision skill.
“Not like day, Sergeant,” Dutch said. “But some, yes. And we have company on the beach. Infected feeding at two o’clock.”
Ignoring his whole “tactical landing” speech, Weisskopf switched on his weapon’s light and shone it to the right. Sure enough, there was an infected gnawing one of the bloating corpses on the beach.
“Ow,” Dutch said, shielding his eyes.
The infected looked up at the light and snarled, then went back to feeding.
“Engaging,” Weisskopf shouted. He fired twice to no effect as the boat was rocking on the light waves. “Damnit.”
There were two rapid shots and the infected dropped.
“What was it about ‘tactical landing’ that you did not understand, Sergeant Weisskopf?” Faith radioed. “All teams. White light now that we are definitely not tactical. Boats, screw the noise, get us on land, fast.”
The line of Zodiacs powered up, heading into the beach at nearly fifteen miles an hour. Not their top speed but they were within fifty meters of the beach when they got the order.
“Brace, brace, brace,” Faith called just as the Zodiacs slid up onto the white sand of the beach. Then: “HIT THE BEACH MARINES!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
There were customers. There had been leakers all day but apparently there were some that only came out at night. And they were feeding in singles and doubles all along the strand on the bodies left by the morning’s serenade.
Faith cleared the bow of the Zodiac in a hurdle and fired as soon as she hit the ground, dropping the only infected in her sector. There were more closing and some of the Marines were, clearly, panic firing. Her ear was attuned to the rapid and uneven bangbang—bangbang—bang and she could tell by the way the gun-lights were jerking around everywhere.
“Calm it down, folks,” Faith radioed on the command frequency. There were two frequencies the radios could pick up, one was the local “team” frequency and one was the “command” frequency. When the command frequency was running, it stepped on the local. She was also careful to use her best “golf announcer” impression. “Shooo, soooft, soooft. Squad leaders, team leaders, let’s get this fire under control. We’re Marines. Marines don’t panic. We aim. Div One, could we get some support fire on the flanks, if you please. Careful support fire.”
“Freeman, Twitchell,” Sergeant Smith snapped. “Check fire! Check fire!”
“They’re all around us, Sergeant!” Twitchell yelled. He was pulling on an empty trigger.
“I said Check Fire, Marine!” Smith shouted. “What is it about ‘check fire’ you do not understand?”
“That I’m in charge, Sergeant!” Sergeant Hoag said, firing repeatedly at an infected in among the trees. It just wouldn’t fall. She fumbled her reload and started clawing for another magazine until her hand fell on a grenade…
“That’s a BUSH!” Smith screamed. “You can’t kill a BUSH, Sergeant! Check fire! There are no moving infected in our sector!”
“You are not the team leader, Sergeant Smith!” Hoag shouted, then took a deep breath as the firing died down. “Fuck. That looks just like a guy. That looks just like a fucking guy.”
“A guy with clothes,” Smith said. “It’s trash bags on a bush. Even if it was a guy, it would be a survivor. Has clothes. Check fire, okay?”