“Davis is dead,” he tells Arnold. “Back that way.”
“I’ll get him, Sergeant,” the soldier says, sounding strangely subdued. They are all humbled by what they have endured and accomplished this day.
“Bury him deep,” Rod tells him. “Find Sergeant Wilson and ask him if he minds our boys sharing the hole he’s digging for his people.”
“Will do, Sergeant.”
He wonders how the dead will ever find peace. He grew up in a small town near Dallas with his parents and grandmother. Sitting in her rocker, his granny often told ghost stories from Mexico, Rod’s favorite being the little boy who haunted one of the oldest restaurants in Mexico City. The little boy was often spotted running through the kitchen walls, and would call the restaurant on the phone repeatedly, asking the staff to play with him. The boy choked to death at one of the tables in the forties, she explained, and that is why he cannot leave this world for the next. He died in violence, and is confused; he thinks he is still alive.
The world will be filled with ghosts by the time Wildfire is done. Angry ghosts of both the normal and the Infected, wondering why they died, demanding justice.
The bodies of the dead hoppers, which in life exuded a smell best described as sour milk cologne, are already starting to stink like rot. He wonders if they will leave ghosts as well.
Christ, I’m tired. The sooner we can be rid of this cursed place, the better. I want to go home.
Sosa ignites the flamethrower, sending an arc of fire across Ray Young’s remains, the bodies of his guards and Fielding, and the truck. Anything his spores might have come into contact with. The scientist tosses a garbage bag filled with clothes into the flames, and steps away.
Ray Young is gone now. All that is left is a few vials of blood and chunks of flesh in a cooler, one of them still eerily pulsing and alive, looking for its host.
These tissue samples, packed in ice, might hold the key to beating Wildfire. The organism, Dr. Price explained, hides in plain sight, disguised as something else, something common. Using the tissue samples he collected, he hopes to unmask it once and for all. And once unmasked, it can be defeated. He can make no guarantees, however. It might be another dead end, another trick.
It’s out of Rod’s hands in any case. The mission is almost over; another will begin upon his return. The war goes on. His next step is to report the action up the chain of command, and receive orders. Either he will be told to drive the samples to Fort Detrick, or more likely, given the possibility the specimens might decay, they will send a helicopter.
Then Rod can go back to the fighting. The idea of getting up tomorrow morning and doing this all over again, day in and day out, makes him want to lie down and quit. His boys deserve better. Unfortunately, there is nothing else.
He watches Dr. Price sitting on the ground, holding his head in his hands, and thinks: It’s your war now too, Doc. You against the thing in the cooler. Have courage, man. We are all counting on you.
It’s time to bring this mission to an end.
♦
Rod finds the designated channel and initiates contact. The radio/telephone operators recognize his call sign but pass him around, unsure what to do with him. Finally, he finds himself talking to Corporal Carlson, who hands him over to Major Duncan.
“Message follows, over,” Rod reports.
Send message, over, the Major answers.
“I send ‘Typhoid Mary,’ over.”
Code for mission accomplished.
Next he will say, “Immunity failed,” which means the subject is dead.
Then he will say, “Frankenstein found,” which means they obtained viable tissue samples.
Finally, he will provide map coordinates and say, “Antidote rising,” a request for air units to come and extract Dr. Price and the samples, and take them to Fort Detrick.
Rod glances at the twilight sky, hoping the day has enough light left for an air extraction. The birds will have to leave soon, or Rod and his people will be driving to Fort Detrick.
The radio dips into white noise, over which Rod can hear shouting in the background.
I don’t have the codebook for that mission, over.
Rod blinks, stunned by this information. “Say again, over.”
That mission was scrapped. Your unit was recalled, over.
“Negative on that,” Rod says. “We are in the field executing the original operation order, over.”
Did you not receive new OPORD, over?
“Negative. “ He cannot think of what else to say at this point. “Over.”
Target was ordered terminated by Higher, and was killed in an air strike, over.
Rod feels the old rage returning, bit by bit. It is as if the dead are here, with him, lending him their anger in the hopes he will give that anger a voice.
Report your location, over.
Rod no longer cares that it’s an open channel. “We accomplished the mission. Subject was killed during recovery, but we were able to obtain biological samples for Fort Detrick. Will provide map coordinates for extraction. Repeat request for air extraction, how copy?”
Another long pause. Duncan starts to say something, but the words become garbled. Rod can hear more shouting in the background.
“Negative contact,” he says in frustration. “Say again, over.”
Negative on that air extraction. Subject was terminated by air strike—wait one. Rod hears someone scream. Wait one, out.
“What’s your status, over?” he asks.
He waits for nearly a minute, wondering if headquarters is under attack. If the Infected penetrated the Green Zone, the war is over, at least in this part of the world. America would be lost. And there would be nothing for Rod and his men to come back to. Nowhere to go.
Hard to hear you, Hellraisers 3. There’s a bit of a celebration going on here, over.
“What?” Rod shakes his head in disbelief. “Say again, over.”
The power’s on, Hellraisers 3. The whole town is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Wish you were here to see it, over.
“Holy sh—” Rod says before catching himself. “We won, sir?”
We sure did, Hellraisers 3. Washington is ours. We took it back. Over.
A grin flashes across Rod’s face. “Outstanding.”
The credit is yours, Hellraisers 3. It belongs to you and every other service member we have in combat. Now let’s finish up our business so you can get back here. Your mission was scrapped, and a new OPORD issued. We need to get your unit back to the operating base for rest and refit. Comanche has been given two weeks’ leave. You can go home, Hellraisers 3. Over.
A memory flashes of Gabriela and his children running toward him at the airport after one of his tours in the Sandbox. Their happy faces.
He pushes the memory from his mind with an almost physical effort.
How copy?
“Major, please listen to me. We have identified Typhoid Jody and secured viable biological samples from his remains. They must be delivered to Fort Detrick immediately—”
Negative, over.
Rod’s rage boils over. “No, not fucking ‘negative,’ sir—”