Free Plague of the Dead by Z. A. Recht

them. Even our own. Then we piled them up, doused them in kerosene, and torched ’em.”
        For a moment, the new arrivals were silent. Finally, General Sherman spoke up.
        “Where’d you get that arm wound, son?” he asked.
        Decker flexed his right arm. His bicep was sliced, and blood coated the arm of his BDU top. The wound was superficial, and someone had tied a bandage around it.
        “Can’t rightly remember, sir. I believe it was shrapnel, friendly fire. Accidental,” Decker said.
        “You weren’t bitten, scratched, anything like that?” Sherman asked.
        “No, sir. None of them got near me. I made sure of that,” Decker replied.
        “Good enough for me,” Sherman said. “Now I need you to assemble your men, sergeant. I’ve got bad news for them. The fight’s just started.”
        
    1911 hrs _
        
        The battle lines were drawn.
        The soldiers had spent the past two hours reinforcing their foxholes and dragging the broken remnants of razor wire to the edge of the canal to bolster the fence line.
        The Satcom operators had set up their mobile transmitting station and were working on downloading updated images of the desert east of Suez. Ammunition and grenades were re-distributed. Wounded soldiers were given a painkiller and told to walk it off-every rifleman available would be needed on the banks of the Suez Canal.
        Brewster grunted as he heaved another sandbag onto the rim of his newly-dug foxhole, pausing for a moment to wipe sweat from his forehead. Denton crouched nearby, taking the opportunity to snap a photo of the soldier.
        “Picture this,” Brewster said, flipping the finger to Denton.
        Denton snapped a second picture in response.
        “You could be helping instead of taking Polaroids,” said Corporal Darin, another soldier from Brewster’s unit.
        “I don’t get paid to fill sandbags,” Denton said. “You guys do.”
        “You won’t be getting paid to shoot the carriers of Morningstar, either, Denton,” said Colonel Dewen, surprising all three men as he loomed up behind them. “But you’ll be doing it anyway.”
        Dewen tossed a rifle to the photographer, who caught it deftly with one hand.
        “I haven’t fired one of these in years,” Denton said, working the bolt of the M-16 and checking the chamber before slinging it over his shoulder in one swift motion. His familiarity with the weapon startled Dewen, Brewster, and Darin. All three had assumed him to be entirely civilian. “I’m not sure if I’ll do any good.”
        “Try,” said Dewen. “If you only hit one of those shamblers, it might be enough to win the day.”
        “Can’t argue with that,” Denton said. “I’ll do what I can.”
        “How’s it coming, soldiers?” Dewen asked, switching the focus of his attention from the photographer to the two enlisted men shoulder-deep in the sand.
        “Slow, sir,” Darin replied. “Ground’s a little sandy.”
        Brewster smirked, but cut himself off when he noticed Dewen glaring at him.
        “Dig in good. The carriers might not be shooting at you, but you’ll be glad you’ve got a stable firing position when they come over those dunes,” Dewen said, glancing across the canal at the seemingly infinite sandy expanse beyond.
        “Yes, sir,” replied the two men.
        “I’ll be back in ten. Denton, come with me,” Dewen said, turning on his heel and heading toward Suez HQ. Denton rose from his crouch and followed the Colonel, struggling a little to keep up. The man was a fast walker.
        “What’s up, Colonel?” Denton asked.
        “Let the General explain.”
        Denton couldn’t get anything else out of the recalcitrant officer, and gave up trying after a few more futile attempts. The pair reached the base headquarters-nothing more than a ripped and battered tent