The War After Armageddon

Almost as good as a shower. Or maybe not quite.

“This is Bayonet Six,” he said into his helmet mike. “Perfect ambush site as we get up into that saddle. Make sure everybody stays alert.”

But no rounds challenged them as they growled up the highway. Crazy war. Last night, they were fighting to the death. Now it’s won’t-you-please-come-in. Cavanaugh didn’t trust it one bit.

There was no sign of life from the building as they approached. Either deserted, or the locals were down in the basements holding their breath. Cavanaugh’s first sight of the city of Christ’s youth was of grubby sprawl speckled with litter.

He listened while Jake Walker ordered the lead platoon to slow down as the building density increased. Heads and weapons popped up through the hatches of the Bradleys, scanning upper-story windows and rooflines.

As the column approached a small plateau beyond the crest of the saddle, Jake ordered the tanks to go into overwatch. The infantry tracks would lead into the city. Maximum risk, all right.

Cavanaugh let Walker run his company. The captain was making the right calls. So far. Pedal-to-the-metal was fine out in the great wide-open, but you had to throttle back when the road started turning through a maze of high-rises, shops, and residential compounds.

Cavanaugh’s track was the fifth vehicle in column now. The Bradleys nosed down the far slope, torturing their brakes.

The lead track stopped. Lurching heavily. The ramp dropped, and the squad scrambled out. Cavanaugh didn’t hear any firing. He could just see a break in the line of buildings. Beyond a row of worse-for-wear apartment houses.

Jake Walker came up on the battalion net. He skipped the call signs. “Sir, you need to get up here. Double-quick.”

The company commander’s voice trembled.

Cavanaugh got on the intercom. “Ryder. Move us out. Forward. Get around those tracks.”

The driver released the brakes, and the Bradley groaned down the road, biting into curbs that looked like they’d been bitten by bigger dogs in the past.

The sight that waited was the worst of his life.

* * *

Standing in the road and staring, Cavanaugh knew he needed to get on the net and call in his unit’s discovery. But he couldn’t quite tear himself away. Beside him, Jake Walker fidgeted. The captain’s confidence had deserted him.

When Cavanaugh believed he had his voice under control, he told the company commander, “Push out a security perimeter.”

“Shall I start getting them down, sir? The bodies?”

Yes. Get them down. Get them down as fast as you can. And get those goddamned flies off them.

“No,” Cavanaugh said. “This has to be documented. Find out if any of your men packed their cameras. Start taking pictures. As many as you can.” He turned to go back to his vehicle and make his report. Hoping he could keep his voice steady. “And keep everybody off the net. No comms beyond this company. Tell the cannon-cockers and the medics what I said. And wipe your face. It’s all right, Jake. But it doesn’t help for the troops to see you like that.”

“Yes, sir. Got it.”

As Cavanaugh walked back toward his track, he saw an infantryman break loose and stride toward a beggar huddled into a ball on the far side of the road, the only sign of local life in evidence. The pathetic creature in Arab rags hadn’t said a word, hadn’t looked up.

Rocking himself faintly and trembling, the beggar looked to be just about the filthiest human being Cavanaugh had ever seen.

The soldier raised his weapon as he walked. Cavanaugh saw a thumb click off the safety.

“Freeze, soldier,” Cavanaugh said. “You pull that trigger and I’ll drop you myself.” He found himself holding his pistol out at arm’s length.

The soldier stopped. And looked at Cavanaugh. In disgust. His expression warned that he just might shoot anyway.

Cavanaugh understood. But he couldn’t tell them that. He would’ve been glad to go back to the track, get his own carbine, and empty a magazine into the beggar himself.

Just for the satisfaction of hurting something, anything, from their world.

But he wasn’t going to do it. And the soldier wasn’t going to do it.

Cavanaugh remembered the soldier’s name. DeSantis.

“PFC DeSantis. Lower that weapon. Put it on safe.”

Addressed by his rank and name, the soldier obeyed. But he continued to stare at the battalion commander. As if he hated him as much as he now hated the Jihadis. And every Arab.

The soldier’s squad leader walked up, spoke to DeSantis, and shooed him away. Cavanaugh sensed that the NCO had let the scene play out before he intervened.

It was going to be hard to keep them under control. Maybe impossible.

Even with his back turned to the field of crosses, Cavanaugh saw them. And the goddamned flies on their faces.

No. It wouldn’t be impossible to control the troops. Because he wasn’t going to let it be impossible. That was why he drew his 0–5 pay.

Cavanaugh walked over to the beggar hunched on the curb. Up close, the man looked badly beaten, damaged. Infirm.

The Arab stank. He was bloody. And he reeked of urine.