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now.”
    Gabe wiped the back of his neck. “Good to hear. How many casualties do you think?”
    “Forty-eight, I believe.”
    “Jesus. Including Fuller?”
    “Yeah. Two other troops from Second Platoon as well.”
    Harlow finally lowered the binoculars. “Are you sure of that?”
    “I was the one who found the bodies.”
    His face fell and he cursed softly. The radioman said, “Should I notify Lieutenant Chapman, sir?”
    “No, Private. I’ll do it myself, later. For now, I want Chapman focused on fighting the infected.”
    “Yes sir.”
    I said to Harlow, “You have a plan, or are we playing by ear?”
    “Oh sure, I have a plan,” he said. “You see those infected out there? I’m going to have my men shoot every one they see. Infantry will hold the middle ground while tanks and Bradleys cover their flanks. The Apache is grounded for now, so the Chinook’s going to fly back and forth making ammo drops and searching for hordes. When the crews in town get the gate patched up, we’ll retreat to Fort McCray and regroup. And come up with a better plan.”
    I tried to think of something to add, but under the circumstances, there was not much else to be done. So I said, “What can I do to help?”
    “I need marksmen on the line. Recon team is still out in the woods.”
    “Sure. Where’s First Platoon?”
    “Not with them. Over there.” Harlow pointed to a bucket lift being offloaded from a HEMTT.
    I said, “Are we sure there aren’t any more snipers within striking distance?”
    “No.”
    “Great. Sounds like fun. What about you, Gabe? You staying here?”
    “For now,” Gabe said. “Probably be in a bucket on the other flank pretty soon.”
    “At least I won’t be the only one with my ass dangling in the wind.”
    I climbed down from the Humvee and went toward the bucket lift. I did not run. My legs were too tired from dragging dead bodies and carrying wounded toward the clinic. Besides, it was not as if the infected would be leaving any time soon.
     
    *****
     
    The repair crews bulldozed the broken concrete and twisted reinforcement bar from the north gate, moved shipping containers into place with forklifts, and poured dirt into them through holes pre-cut through the top for the purpose. The dirt came from piles placed near the gate months ago. Two long human chains passed buckets from the piles to the gate and back again. The whole operation took forty-four minutes, six minutes faster than projected.
    When Harlow ordered the retreat, I was on the ground taking a bandolier of loaded thirty-round magazines from a runner. The projectiles from all but a small amount of my personal loadout currently resided in the skulls of permanently dead ghouls. My rifle’s barrel was hot enough to give me a third-degree burn, my stomach grumbled angrily, and if I did not piss soon, I was going to need a new pair of pants.
    As I was stuffing mags into my vest pouches, the crackling of gunfire ceased. Squad leaders shouted instructions to their men, one of them close enough for me to understand.
    “The gate is secure,” he said. “We’re to fall back to Fort McCray, double-time.”
    “Aren’t there ghouls between here and there?” one of his men asked.
    “Yes. Armored cavalry is going ahead to clear the way. Don’t engage a revenant unless you have to. Just outrun ‘em. Everybody clear?”
    I held the bandolier out to the runner. “Guess I won’t be needing this.”
    He pushed it back in my direction. “Keep it. You never know.”
    “True enough. Thanks.”
    I fell in with the nearest squad and ran with them back to Fort McCray. They gave me a few looks, but said nothing. I was well known in Echo Company: Eric Riordan, the civilian with no prior military service who infiltrated a rogue militant group calling themselves the Free Legion. Even the vaunted Green Berets had trouble tracking them down. He was held prisoner and beaten daily for months, I sometimes heard them say. When I did, I corrected them