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Imura accepted his ID case back. “How are you doing out here, Sergeant?”
“All quiet and secure, sir.”
An answer that meant nothing.
The young man gave the “officers” a crisp salute, which was returned in the casual manner used by career officers. Nice theater.
Imura said, “This should be a four-man post, Sergeant. Where are your other men?”
The young sergeant took a moment on that. “Sir, we’re pretty thin on the ground. As far as I know there are two men on every road.” He paused as if uncertain he should have said that. “They have four-man teams on some of the bigger roads.”
That last part sounded like a lie to Imura. He figured there were only two men on every road. Maybe fewer on some. Between main road, side roads, farm roads, fire access roads, and walking paths, there were ninety-seven ways to leave the town of Stebbins by wheeled vehicle. That was a minimum of one hundred and ninety-four men per shift. Figure twelve-hour shifts and that’s roughly four hundred men just working roadblocks. That didn’t cover supervisory personnel, reconnaissance, the men needed for reinforcing the levees, the men guarding the survivors at the Little School, and patrols hunting down stray infected.
It also didn’t really address all of the ways out of Stebbins on foot.
And the infected don’t drive, he thought.
There was no point in discussing this further with someone at the sergeant’s pay grade.
“Stay sharp, Sergeant,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
The white boy picked up the sawhorse and walked it to the side of the road. The Humvee began rolling through the mud into the town of Stebbins.
Imura caught the driver looking in the rearview mirror. “What?” he asked.
When alone, there was always a speak-up and speak-plain policy with Imura’s team.
The driver, whose name was Alex Foster but who was known on the job as Boxer, said, “You realize that if anything really comes out of the woods those two kids are a late-night snack.” It wasn’t a question.
“Can’t all be that bad,” said Rachel Bloom, combat call sign Gypsy. She was second in command of the Boy Scouts. A tough woman with five full tours under her belt, running special operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, and many more since signing with Sam.
The man seated behind Boxer, DeNeille Shoopman, known as Shortstop, said what they were all thinking. He was a pragmatic man who preferred maintaining a big-picture view of everything. “It only takes one hole.”
“These infected sonsabitches aren’t armed,” said Bud Hollister—Moonshiner, the rowdy former biker-turned-soldier. “You see the footage from the school? They walked right into the bullets and didn’t give much of a wet shit.”
“Headshots put ’em down,” observed Shortstop.
“Yeah?” Moonshiner snorted. “And how many soldiers do you know who can reliably get a headshot in a combat situation? In the dark? In the rain? In a running firefight? Please.”
No one answered. Everyone cursed quietly. Gypsy and Shortstop turned to look back at the small glow of lantern light that was quickly being consumed by darkness and distance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Scott Blair put down the phone and sat there staring at it. Wanting to smash it. Wanting to burn his office down just so the damn thing wouldn’t ring again.
Dr. Herman Volker was dead.
God almighty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BORDENTOWN STARBUCKS ON ROUTE 653
BORDENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
