The Kingmakers(89)

Stoddard grimaced and fell back, exhausted. His head was splitting, and there was a sharp buzzing in his ears. He smelled a nauseating stench.

Apparently he made a face at the stink because Dr. Lo said, “We tried to move the hospital far enough out, but you can still smell it.”

“What is it?”

“They’re burning the herds. Or burying them as fast as we can. Thank goodness it’s still cold or I’d be a lot more worried about cholera. I don’t look forward to spring and summer assaults.”

Stoddard asked groggily, “How many did we kill?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you. The vampires fought for a few hours, then took off to the north.”

“No. How many humans?”

“Last figure I saw, across the fleet, we lost six hundred and fifty killed in battle. Over five thousand wounded, and nearly twenty-five hundred seriously. And a thousand of those will die soon enough from infection.”

“How many of the locals? The local humans. How many did we kill?”

“All of them. All of them in Wilmington anyway. Thousands? Who knows? Who counts? They just stood there and died like animals in the gas.”

Stoddard tried to block out the smell of burnt flesh by covering his nose with the crook of his elbow before rolling to retch over the side of the cot.





Major Stoddard left the medical tent the next day. The makeshift hospital was a collection of large tents set amidst a vast forest of tall straight pine trees. The medical camp was surrounded by a barbed wire fence and machine-gun emplacements, and it was patrolled by soldiers with pikes. Troopers saluted the major as he limped toward a gate, or gap in the wire enclosure. A crude wagon waited with a single thin horse. The private on the buckboard gave Stoddard a hand up.

“Where’d this wagon come from?” the major asked.

“Here in town. Found the horse not far away from some herds who lived outside town.” The soldier laughed. “Pretending to be real people. Funny, huh?”

Stoddard didn’t reply as the wagon lurched forward. They rolled between countless crackling cadaver bonfires that sent black greasy plumes into the sky. More wagons lumbered the rutted path. They were loaded with twisted limbs of the dead.

As they rolled out of the pine forest, Wilmington appeared squat and brick. It was dwarfed by the bulk of Bolivar floating above it, its shadow like a pall over the city. The smell of burning mixed with the faint sweetness of poison gas. The poison lost its potency after twenty-four hours or so, but enough of the green residue clung to surfaces to give the town a sugary stench. The wagon jostled over cobblestones, aggravating Stoddard’s injuries, but he refused to show it.

Gangs of soldiers moved through town, carrying tools rather than weapons—shovels, axes, and crowbars. They wore gas masks or kerchiefs over their faces. Stoddard saw them lugging bodies out of buildings. Then he noticed a group squatting and lounging on a long porch of what had once been a fine home surrounded by great oaks now just beginning to show budding leaves. The windows of the house were boarded up, so one trooper was busy hacking at the front door with an axe.

“Hold up,” Stoddard said, and as the wagon slowed, he stumbled to the ground. He approached the house, and all the soldiers stood and straightened themselves. They saluted and greeted him; everyone knew Senator Clark’s right hand. He addressed the private with the axe. “What are you doing, trooper?”

“Checking the house for bodies, sir,” the private said in a monotone. There were dark circles under his eyes.

“How long have you been at it?”

“Our squad? Two days, sir. Pretty much since we came in on the Juarez.

“Are you finding people inside these homes?”

“Yes, sir. Pretty much every time.” Several of the other men nodded or gave exhausted moans in agreement.

“Carry on. I want to see inside.”

The private returned to chopping at the door. Fortunately the wood was old and nearly rotten. It splintered easily, opening large gaps. The soldier began to kick it with his boot. Others joined in and pulled wood away with their hands. Finally, when the door was largely gone, the private stood aside. “You want to go first, Major?”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

“Just a second, sir.” The trooper pulled a cloth from his pocket and soaked it with liquid from a small flask. He handed it to Stoddard and pulled a kerchief up around his own face. “I’d wear that, if I was you, sir. It stinks something awful sometimes.”

Stoddard tied the cloth around his head and positioned it over his nose. It smelled of citrus. Lemonade. He pulled his sidearm and stepped into the entryway.