Free Tooth and Nail by Craig DiLouie Page A

furniture. The boys check their rucksacks and top up their ammo, coughing into their fists. They’re getting ready to move.
    Second Platoon is exhausted. They spent hours clearing out the hospital and cleaning up the mess. Small groups of infected attacked the wire through the night and had to be shot down, their bodies left out in the open until dawn among the ruins of the cars.
    The scuttlebutt about the platoon moving to rejoin the company is they might be lined up and shot for what they’ve done, the LT included. The boys fought in Iraq and they know their duty but they signed up to shoot bad guys, not Americans, and what they are doing doesn’t feel like real service anymore. Instead, they feel like war criminals, regardless of what the new ROE lets them do. Some have had it and are ready to quit and go home. Others want somebody to blame. This is a dangerous mood. The NCOs sense it, and kick ass to keep the boys hopping while keeping an eye peeled for symptoms of post-traumatic stress.
    In the lobby, the LT says his goodbyes to the hospital chief and the cop. “Sorry we can’t stay and continue to support you,” Bowman tells Dr. Linton, who appears to have aged another ten years overnight. “What are you going to do?”
    “We’re staying right here, Lieutenant,” Winslow cuts in, answering for Linton. “The doc and I are going to try to keep the place running and convert it into a recovery clinic.”
    “We’ve got plenty of food and water, gas and a generator,” Linton adds. He clears his throat politely. “We could use a gun, though.”
    “Are you sure, sir?”
    “I’m certain.”
    Bowman hands Winslow back his Glock 19 handgun.
    “I’ll arrange for the sidearms and ammunition to be returned to you that we recovered, um, from your men, sir,” he says.
    “Thank you, Lieutenant,” the cop says, grimacing.
    “Well. Good luck to you both, then. You’re very brave.”
    Brave and doomed, he thinks.
    One psycho cop with a couple of handguns won’t be able to protect an entire hospital against people who will certainly use force to break in and demand medical care for their families. That, or junkies looking for drugs, will finish them.
    If only his platoon could stay in place, they could remain secure and finish what they started here. But orders are orders.
    “Somebody has to survive, Lieutenant,” Winslow tells him.
    Bowman frowns in response to this odd statement. He puts on his patrol cap and salutes, then leaves Trinity Hospital without looking back.
    Outside, the boys are sitting on the ground with their gear, cleaning their weapons and chowing down on MREs. They look at the LT expectantly, with scared eyes, but say nothing. The silence, in fact, is the first thing Bowman notices upon walking out of the hospital. The boys are all business. None of the usual sparring and grab-ass this morning. They are still trying to wrap their heads around what they have done.
    Today, Bowman will lead them northwest to a middle school that has been turned into a Lyssa clinic and is the current area of operations for First Platoon and Charlie Company HQ. The distance is over a mile. They have no transport, so they will hoof it.
    Bowman nods to Sergeant McGraw and says quietly, “All right?”
    “Managing, sir,” replies the leader of First Squad.
    “Find Private Mooney and Private Wyatt and bring them to me, Sergeant.”
    “Right away, sir.”
    Kemper approaches and salutes. Bowman returns it.
    “Good morning, sir.”
    “All right, Mike?”
    “All present except for Private Boyd. He’s still MIA.”
    “Well, we combed the hospital good last night. We’ll have to assume he slipped out past the wire and went AWOL. Let’s take a walk and see what we can see.”
    They move out past the wire and climb onto the roof of an abandoned car to get a good view down First Avenue. Bowman uses the close combat optic on his rifle, Kemper a pair of Vortex Viper binoculars. The road is choked with abandoned vehicles