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monitor the badlands. It
was understood by all that if badlanders approached the Wall
seeking asylum, they could be taken in. But if they refused to
undergo the standard quarantine procedure, they were assumed to be
infected and would be shot.
    There were two or more men for each guard
post, and more at the gates that appeared every few miles; but
there was one section where only one man kept watch. Neville Dalton
preferred his solitude and made no secret of it. He had lobbied the
brass for weeks to allow him to work with his dogs instead of other
soldiers.
    Rottweilers, the dogs had been trained
privately, by Dalton, for months prior to his Wall assignment. They
could sniff out a single rotter hiding in the night. At least that
was what he told the brass. All he knew was that the dogs were
simple, straightforward companions who knew their place and didn’t
complicate everything the way people did. They would walk the Wall
inside the dead zone from dawn to dusk while he sat perched atop
it, sniper rifle in his lap.
    Most of the other troops were scared of his
Rotties. Even Major Briggs had refused the opportunity to meet
them, although they fell into rank at the sight of him. So Dalton
had finally gotten his way, and the arrangement was quite
comfortable until the afternoon when he heard a Jeep pull up, and
the nagging cough that could only mean Tuck Logan.
    “How’re you doing all by your lonesome?”
Logan asked with a filthy grin as he ascended the ladder. “They
just wanted me to come out and check on ya. Don’t worry, I won’t
tell ‘em anything. But you should know that Senator Gillies might
be coming out to see the dogs.”
    Dalton arched an eyebrow. “That might be
interesting.” He tried to ignore the flies buzzing around
Logan.
    They both had been part of an elite unit
known as Hand of God. Led by Ian Gregory, a stalwart Christian, the
unit had exclusive membership requirements that would’ve raised a
shitstorm if any limp-wristed civilians had known about it. Yes,
even Logan was a God-fearing Christian, though he behaved like an
apostate these days. Ever since the withdrawal he’d become more and
more... unusual. The flies were evidence of that. He was on one of
the burn teams that were called in to put down rotters, once they’d
been marked and paralyzed by a sniper’s bullet; and he seemed to
enjoy most the responsibility of carrying the charred remains off
to be buried. Dalton suspected that Logan spent a little extra time
with those remains. His greasy, unwashed hair and darting eyes were
overlooked by his supervisors, but Dalton had a keen eye, a
sniper’s eye, and he saw into Logan and knew that he was fucking them, wasn’t he, rutting in a pile of ash and rotten
meat like some sort of animal. Worse than an animal. Logan meant
trouble.
    “So,” Dalton muttered, “they sent you to
check up on me.”
    “For the Senator,” Logan said. “They want to
know that your dogs are as well-trained as you say.”
    “Well, climb down.”
    “What?”
    “Climb down and I’ll call them in.”
    Dalton plucked a whistle from his shirt
pocket. Logan started down.
    Dalton watched him standing there at the
bottom, staring dully; he almost wished he had the guts to sic the
Rotties on him. He blew soundlessly into the whistle
    They came running from either direction,
keeping a tight formation alongside the Wall. They saw Logan and
quickened their pace. The man fidgeted, glanced up at Dalton. “Are
they—?”
    They surrounded Logan and stood frozen,
staring up at him. He saw their legs trembling, saw them fighting
to restrain themselves. They smelled the dead on him. He was
terrified.
    “Break!” Dalton called.
    The dogs settled on their haunches and let
their tongues hang from their jaws. Logan was still too scared to
move.
    “Let him go, boys,” Dalton said as he came
down. The dogs sat about him and waited patiently while he checked
each for injury. Satisfied, he sent them off to play.
    “The Senator