The Infection

He estimates the range to target at two hundred meters using the rule of thumb method of picturing a distance of a hundred meters and ranging to the target in hundred-meter increments. He adjusts the RANGE-SELECT knob.

“Two,” he says absently.

He presses a switch on the weapons box, illuminating the AP LO annunciator light, indicating selection of the twenty-five millimeter gun with armor-piercing rounds firing at a low rate of fire, about a hundred rounds per minute.

“Line up the shot, Private Babe,” Sarge says.

Wendy presses the palm switch on her joystick with her fingers, activating the turret drive and releasing the turret brakes, then puts pressure on the stick. The turret responds immediately, beginning its rotation. The reticle centers on the monster’s legs.

“Now give me elevation to center mass on the thing’s hideous goddamn head.”

She feathers the stick until the reticle is centered between the monster’s eyes.

“Got it.”

“You’re drifting.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry; stabilize.”

She pushes the drift button, stabilizing the turret.

“Good job.”

“Sarge, if something should happen—”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he says, his eyes glued to optical display. He presses the arming switch for the cannon. “But if you really want to know, I love you.”

“So we’ll be together no matter what.”

“No matter what, if you want me,” he grins, adding: “On the way.

”

He depresses the trigger switch and the Bradley’s main gun begins firing.

“Tell me what you see,” he says.

The rounds arc up the highway, the path illuminated by tracers. The thing is moving again.

“Um, lost?” she says, meaning she thinks the rounds are passing over the target.

“Correction,” he murmurs. “I’m taking over the turret.”

He corrects the elevation and starts shooting again, leading the lethal fire into the beast using the tracers. Giant cigar-puffs drift lazily away from the rig. The rounds, designed to penetrate Soviet tanks and concrete bunkers, enter the monster’s skull and burst in flashes of light, sending geysers of blood and brain rocketing high into the air.

The Towering Thing screams shrilly and stumbles, weeping and groaning, until it topples to the ground trailing black smoke, the remains of its head splashing across the lanes and into the median. One of the legs twitches briefly, and then it is still.

Despite the noise of the Bradley’s engine and systems, they can hear the soldiers in the buses cheering. Sarge’s heart pounds in his chest. These things die just like anything else.

“Target destroyed,” he says, turning his head to smile at Wendy, who beams back at him.

“Holy crap, that was exciting,” she says. “I think I’m addicted. And I think I love you, too.”

“We’re going to get through this,” he tells her, smiling. “We’re going to win.”

His smile suddenly fades. The truth is a part of him hopes that they never win. The truth is he wants the war to go on and on and on, because he can never return to peace.

♦

The Bradley hums, idling after the shooting stops. Sarge gets on the intercom and tells them they just destroyed one big, ugly monster. Ray glances across the smiling faces and wants to scream at them for being complete morons. They are driving to a place where the big, ugly monsters will be thick as fleas. They are going there by choice; they are idiots.

The idea of driving onto that bridge and being greeted by the entire Infected population of Pittsburgh fills him with pure, bowel-evacuating terror. America has become a killing floor and there are things out there that want to eat you. They will eat you while you are still alive and then you will be dead and you will never see the sun again or kiss a girl or laugh at a joke or drink a beer. Ever again. Forever.

And nobody will give a shit about your famous last words. These days, if you’re lucky, your friends will burn you in a pit. If not, then you’re food.

Only a crazy lunatic would want to put himself into that situation.

These motherfuckers are crazy.

No, he tells himself. You’re the looney. You’re here because you made a promise, which you actually did not literally make, to a lot of dead people, who are, well, dead, to make things normal again, which means asshole cops back being asshole cops, and if it’s one thing you hated from the Time Before almost as much as credit card debt, it’s asshole cops.

These maniacs don’t know any better, apparently; you do. Which makes you an even bigger fool.

He swallows hard, fighting the urge to retch.

Todd leans towards him and says charitably, “It’s going to be okay, man.”

“Shut up, kid,” he says.

Just because you’re suicidal does not make you any braver than me, he thinks. In my time, I started fights over anything from noble causes to petty grievances, and more often than not I ended them. I fight to win and I fight dirty. Bravery has nothing to do with this. This is about living and dying. There is nothing in between. You make a choice and that is your choice.