Ahead lay the traffic rotary. Two feeder roads allowed traffic to approach the circle, but a battered fire truck lay on its side, blocking direct access to the rotary. Its red hide was pockmarked with bullet strikes. Surrounding it was a ring of corpses, all dressed in what Marsh thought of as “tribal chic,” the mode of attire so many of the Infected had adopted. Nearby, a passenger car had come to a halt with its windshield shattered, possibly collateral damage from one of the attacking Apaches. A family of four cowered behind it, and the husband was frantically waving at the approaching convoy. The mother knelt beside the car, clutching a toddler to her chest, while an older child crouched behind her. Injured Infected crawled toward them, leaving trails of gore in their wake as they dragged their shattered bodies across the ground. The Infected were still laughing, coils of intestine trailing after them. One was so close the man had to stop trying to flag down the convoy and bash its head in with a baseball bat.
“McNeely, you ready up there?” Marsh shouted as Renner slowed the Humvee and drifted into the left lane. Marsh noticed that the sergeant only glanced at the carcass of the small sedan as they passed it.
“Weapon up!” McNeely responded.
Marsh tensed again, pulling his M4 closer once more, then made sure the safety was on. “Okay, Renner…pull around this fucking fire truck.”
“Hooah.”
Marsh spoke into his radio. “Bushmaster Four, you see that family just ahead of you? Over.”
“Bushmaster Four. Roger. Over.”
“Take care of the Klowns that are trying to roll up on them then continue on to your position. Over.”
“Roger, Two-Six.”
The Humvee slid past the family. Marsh saw the man shouting at them to stop, but he couldn’t hear him over the Humvee’s engine. Renner pulled the vehicle around the dead fire truck, bumping over some of the corpses that surrounded it. He accelerated across the grassy median and around an overturned UPS truck that had an open rear door exposing dozens of packages that would go undelivered for quite some time. The scout pilot had been right, there was more than enough room to get around the impromptu road block, and the median was dry and firm, providing adequate traction for the Humvee. In a matter of moments, the vehicle was back on concrete. Renner accelerated again. Marsh saw that the eastbound lanes were mostly clear—hell, who would want to drive toward Boston?—but the westbound lanes were pretty busy, full of heavily-laden vehicles speeding west. Marsh looked at the Gulf service station to their right. Lots of people were still there, staying with their cars. They looked at his Humvee with a mixture of hope and dread.
“Okay, Renner, take us to the right a bit and set up just past this street, here. Keep us to the right a bit; leave enough room for the convoy.”
“Roger that,” the sergeant first class said, cutting the wheel to the right. The Humvee left the concrete again and bounced over the grassy median once more.
“McNeely! Try to look threatening with your Mark Nineteen,” Marsh shouted. “You see anyone making a move on us, you are cleared to fire. You understand that?”
“Cleared to fire. Roger!”
When the Humvee ground to a halt, Marsh threw open his heavy door. Behind him, Weir did the same, and Kragen, the silent black soldier sitting beside him, did as well. Clad in full armor and MOPP gear, they would look like invading aliens from another planet, which would doubtless serve to further terrorize the uninfected people in the passing cars, not to mention those waiting at the gas station.
The M925 rolled up and positioned itself squarely in the middle of the street leading into the rotary—Elm Street, the sign said—and began disgorging a full two squads of troops. The traffic heading their way suddenly came to a halt. The fact that almost thirty soldiers were pointing their weapons at the civilian traffic wasn’t lost on the motorists. Some of the soldiers squared off with the vehicles, rifles at low ready.
Helicopters pounded overhead, and Marsh looked for Second Lieutenant Erskine, the officer in charge of the dismounted troops. He was easy to find. As the newest officer to join the battalion, he carried a pair of Army-issued skis strapped to his rucksack wherever he went. As the 10th Mountain’s ancestral mission was mountaineer combat, the skis were a symbol of the division’s special position in the combat arms, and the duty to preserve that heritage fell to the battalion’s most junior officer. The skis certainly made Erskine stand out, since only an idiot would be lugging around a pair of skis during a Massachusetts summer.
“Erskine!” Marsh called.
“Yes, sir?” Erskine’s eyes somehow managed to look big behind his mask.
“Listen, if things get fucked up, you and your soldiers are to do whatever it takes to protect yourselves and keep this area secure. If it means putting people in the line of fire, you do that. You get me?” When Erskine didn’t reply immediately, Marsh slapped his shoulder. “Erskine, you hear me?”
“Hooah, Captain. I hear you,” Erskine said. “I’m not shooting defenseless people.”
“No one’s asking you to. Just keep them back, and keep your men safe. All right?”
“Hooah.”
Marsh turned away and shouted into his radio while examining the bottled-up traffic. “Wizard, this is Bushmaster. We are in position. Traffic circle is secure, inbound lanes are blocked. Over.”
There could be dozens of Infected out there, and he’d never know it until they tried something. Could they hold it together long enough to not try and slaughter everyone in a bid to get at the soldiers of the 10th Mountain?
“Roger that, Bushmaster. We’re making our way toward you now. Over.”
“Recommend you move your ass, Wizard. Lots of people trying to get out of here. Over.”
“Roger, Bushmaster.”
Marsh squinted at the service station a hundred feet away, separated from him by only a grassy median. There were several abandoned vehicles in its parking lot, including one SUV that had been hauling a boat. More sat around the station’s presumably empty gas pumps. The people over there turned toward the troops. They weren’t acting in an aggressive fashion, which probably meant they were just stranded motorists looking for some help. A man in a dirty baseball cap started walking across the parking lot, heading toward Marsh. Marsh waved him back, then raised his rifle to his shoulder. The man in the cap got the message, and he faded back, hands in the air.
The few vehicles behind the blocking force had stopped a good distance away. No one wanted to get close to the men with the guns, especially when they looked as menacing as the troops in their MOPP gear.
A voice crackled over Marsh’s headset. “Bushmaster Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Over.”
“Three-Six, this is Two-Six. Go ahead. Over.”
“Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Western approach to the traffic circle secured, expect the column to start heading your way. Over.”
“Roger that, Three-Six. Keep your troops on their toes. Over.”
“Three-Six, roger.”
The Sky 5 news helicopter was back, circling a couple of thousand feet overhead, well above the Apaches and scout helicopters. Marsh ignored it. If it came into conflict with the Army aviators, they would make it go away, one way or the other.