Free Plague of the Dead by Z. A. Recht Page B

Francis,” Denton snapped, “But I’m no dirt-digging stereotypical journalist. I’ve watched just as many soldiers bleed and die as you have over the years. The only difference between you and me, Frankie, is that you make the wounds. I show the world the wounds you’ve made.”
        That seemed to hit the mark. Instead of taking the bait, however, General Sherman let a smile spread across his features.
        “That’s what I wanted to hear, son,” he said. “You can stay for the shitstorm if you want to. You have my blessing.”
        Denton was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this after the general’s other comments.
        “Thanks, General,” he managed.
        “No problem,” replied Sherman, puffing on his cigar. “And just one more thing before you go back to the line.”
        “Yes?”
        “I’d like to clarify something. There will always be folks who will be willing to go out of their way to ‘ make wounds ’ on the souls and bodies of their fellow people. I’m not one of them. I’m here to wound the sinners, not the innocents.”
        Denton managed a grim smile and said, “The people coming at us tonight aren’t all sinners, though.”
        “It’s a unique situation, son,” Sherman said. “It can’t be helped.”
        “No moral quandaries?”
        “No,” Sherman said. “They’ve been drafted by the enemy. There’s only one real course of action-kill them, or be killed.”
        “Then we’ll kill them,” Denton said. “And we’ll let God sort them out.”
        
    2102 hrs _
        
        With the loud humming of controlled voltage, the floodlights on the west bank of the Suez Canal came online, illuminating the battle lines in a kind of ghostly, flickering white light.
        Beneath the floods were the soldiers, hunkered in their foxholes. Their rifles were aimed at the bank beyond, shifting barrels nervously in the diffuse light. Their line stretched off into the darkness in both directions. No one spoke out loud, but here and there came a whispered query.
        “Where are they?”
        “They’re coming soon.”
        “Keep your eyes open.”
        “Anyone got a smoke?”
        “Those things’ll kill you, man.”
        A new sound grew above the hum of electricity-the sound of distant chopper blades cutting through the night air. They grew closer. Some of the soldiers craned their necks back, squinting beyond the brightness of the floodlights, trying to fix the aircrafts’ position.
        With a shuddering roar, two helicopters flew over the defensive line towards the eastern desert. They stayed within view, and pulled about, circling. One of the choppers was large and bulky, slower than its companion, but deadly in its own right. The UH-1 flicked on its own spotlights, trying to pinpoint something on the ground out of view of the soldiers on the bank of the canal.
        “What’re they doing?” asked one trooper.
        “Quiet! Just watch,” said another.
        The second helicopter was painted as black as the night it flew in. Narrow and vicious in silhouette, it stabilized and dropped closer to the ground, facing away from the defensive line.
        “What’s the Apache doing? Are they landing?”
        The sound of a magnified voice loomed out through the darkness. The Apache pilot was speaking to someone on the ground.
        “Civilian! You are entering a containment zone! You must submit to decontamination before proceeding! Stop your vehicle and dismount!”
        The Huey had fixed its spotlights on something behind one of the sand dunes. The soldiers on the line were shifting now, curious as to what was going on.
        The Apache backpedaled in the air, keeping its weapons trained. Whatever it was that they were focused on was moving.
        “Civilian, halt! You are entering a containment zone! Stand down now! This is your final