“Did they bite you, Private?” the LT asks Hawkeye.
“You saw what they were doing, sir,” Hawkeye says, barely concealing his irritation while he rubs his left arm. “They tried to pull my arms off. Hurt like hell, too.”
“I’m not making fun of you, Private. Did any of them bite you?”
“No, sir. Nobody did.”
Bowman nods to Ruiz, then says, “All right, back to your squads. Let’s move while we still have the freedom to do so.”
“Hooah,” they shout.
The soldiers deploy as fast as they can through the wreckage of the abandoned vehicles choking Second Avenue, then Bowman gives them the order to step off.
Speed is a type of security. If they can move fast enough, they can punch their way through with minimal loss of life and ammunition.
People come running past them, screaming for their lives, hugging or dropping their food parcels. Some begin clinging to the soldiers, who shrug them off and keep moving while their sergeants howl at them to Go go go, cursing a blue streak.
“Stay close to me, boys,” Bowman tells Martin and Boomer.
Nearby, a man has jumped into one of the abandoned cars and is trying to close the door while a Mad Dog slowly forces it open. One of the soldiers drops the Mad Dog with a single shot. Bowman shoulders his carbine and unholsters his nine-millimeter sidearm. A woman flies by on rollerblades, shouting, “Heads up! Coming through!”
The platoon wades into chaos.
Exactly what you were trying to avoid
Third Squad moves fast among the cars and approaches the intersection, which is a scene of chaos. There are people everywhere, many of them infected. Mad Dogs are fighting uninfected people, uninfected people are fighting each other around the food trucks. Nearby, incredibly, two New York City police officers have wrestled a Mad Dog to the ground and are trying to cuff him, while five feet away a man is beating a woman to death in a frenzy with a broken hairdryer. One of the officers is bleeding from bites on his arm. The police cars’ lights strobe red and blue, sparkling in the soldiers’ eyes.
Mounted above the chaos, the intersection’s traffic signal mundanely turns from red to green as it is programmed to do.
The air crackles with small arms fire and several people collapse to the ground. Second Squad has entered the intersection and is plowing ahead, shooting anything that looks hostile. First Squad is bogged down by civilians clinging to them for protection, their formation broken, while McGraw lays about him with the butt of his shotgun, trying to untangle his unit. The screaming is grating and endless, shredding their nerves.
“Get off me!” McLeod shouts, shoving his way through the civilians.
The infected appear to focus on whoever fired last, which is unnerving.
Hicks is crying as he bayonets a Mad Dog.
“Keep going!” he shouts.
“Don’t make me shoot you!” McLeod is pleading, pushing against a woman’s back with the butt of his SAW. She screams and drops a television set she’s been carrying, which falls to the street with a crash.
People are running everywhere, but the soldiers are moving into the current, forming a dam, and then it’s hand to hand.
Bowman fires his pistol into a snarling face, which disappears.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid, he tells himself.
“Reform!” he cries, but there are too many civilians in the way, drawn to the soldiers’ uniforms like metal to magnets. The civilians hold onto the soldiers’ rucksacks, which are already heavy, and slow them to a crawl.
Williams fires a series of warning shots into the air, without effect.
A taxi and a delivery truck are lurching along with the flow of people in fits and starts, the drivers leaning on their horns. A woman climbs onto the roof of the cab and lies down, hugging her child close. Across the street, a man is defending his family with a baseball bat. Behind him, the plate glass front of a convenience store shatters and people begin looting. Its owner comes stumbling out, his head split open and pouring blood. The police cars’ strobing lights bathe the scene in a surreal glow.
The stink is incredible, the dense sour-milk stench of the infected.
Then a wave of heat and thick, oily smoke descends upon them from a burning city bus down the street, choking them as it billows through the crowd until it suddenly lifts as fast as it had come.
“Go, go, go!”
Third Squad passes a group of people, drunk and staggering along through the melee, laughing and shouting, “Fuck it!” while working on popping the cork on a champagne bottle.
One of the revelers is shorn away and mauled to the asphalt.
The Lieutenant is panicking now, breathing hard, his vision shrinking to a box. He can’t keep track of the blurred shapes around him anymore. The smoke falls upon them again like a wave, choking and blinding.
The last reveler throws the champagne bottle into the air, screaming, “I don’t care!”
“Why aren’t we moving?” Hicks is saying.
SPC Martin is wrestling with an uninfected man and teenage boy for possession of his machine gun. Next to him, the RTO is trading punches with a man twice his size. People are screaming and a civilian, his shirt off and leaking blood from his eyes and ears, begins shooting people randomly with a pistol.
Ruiz roars as a stray bullet takes off the top of the skull of a man who is running by, spraying him with blood and brains.
Two bullets rip into Sherman’s radio pack, spinning him like a top.
The Newb grunts and falls to his knees.
“Sir, we can get through this,” Kemper is shouting.
Bowman’s field of view unfolds. His stress suddenly takes an entirely different and beneficial direction. Time dilates and he calmly, almost serenely, watches the horror unravel in slow motion, able to take in every detail.
His squad is still intact and they can get through this if they do whatever it takes. But if he chooses to live, life after today may not be worth living.
For some reason, at this instant, he remembers Winslow telling him, “Somebody has to survive, Lieutenant.”
As Bowman did in the hospital, again, he makes his choice.
Loading a fresh clip, he quickly identifies the people bogging down his squad and shoots them one by one.
“Watch out, Mike,” he says, and puts a round in a teenager’s throat.
Slowly, the knot unravels and the squad is able to begin moving again.
The people he shot were not infected.
“Coming through, sir,” Kemper says.
He racks a round in his shotgun and blasts the crowd in front of the squad.
A hole is instantly created as people moan and fall in a tangled heap of limbs.
“All right, move out,” Bowman roars.
A block past the intersection, they stop, reload and set up a defensive line, panting. A woman is shrieking at them to go back and HELP THESE PEOPLE, HELP THEM.
“Sergeant, keep those civilians back or consider them hostile,” the LT says.
But Ruiz isn’t listening. “Where’s Johnston?” he demands.
Two of the boys hurry over, huffing, carrying The Newb on a makeshift stretcher.
“He’s dead,” Corporal Wheeler tells him, sounding dazed. “Got hit by a stray bullet. It looked like friendly fire to me, Sergeant. One of our own guys shot him.”
Ruiz spits on the ground, purple with rage.
“Second Squad, probably,” the Sergeant says. “They were shooting everything that moved back there. Goddamnit. He was a good kid.”
“Civilians, Sergeant,” Bowman says quietly.
“I’m on it, sir,” Ruiz tells him, glaring. “Wheeler, get his tags.”
“Here comes McGraw and First Squad, LT,” Kemper says.