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See you around, Lieutenant.”
    Before I started down the stairs, Ramirez called out, “Hey, Riordan’s the name, right?”
    “Last I checked.”
    “That was good shooting. I heard you were a sniper, but I didn’t believe it.”
    “And now?”
    “You got the goods, that’s for sure. Thanks for the help.”
    I made my way slowly back to ground level. The rail was made of galvanized steel and held my weight without complaint as I leaned heavily on it. At the bottom, I stood and stared at the bustling, agitated men going about the small forward operating base. I needed to use the latrine badly, and after that, I would figure out what to do next.

 
FIVE
     
     
    I spotted Caleb Hicks and Derrick Holland on the way to the headquarters building. They heard me call out to them and waited as I approached.
    “What did you find?” I asked.
    “Bunch of dead ROC troops,” Holland answered. “Looks like they realized we had ‘em surrounded and took pills. I’m guessing cyanide.”
    “Take any prisoners?”
    They both shook their heads. “We found the sniper that took out Fuller, I think,” Hicks said.
    “Dead?”
    “In several pieces. Infected got ahold of him. What was left was tore up pretty bad. But we found his rifle. Three-hundred Win-mag, just like you said.”
    “Is that it?” I pointed to a barrel protruding above Hicks’ right shoulder.
    “Yep,” he said. “Not sure what to do with it. I know it was used to kill a friend of mine, but it seemed wasteful to leave it. I don’t think Fuller would mind.”
    “No, he wouldn’t. Especially if you use it to take out some ROC types.”
    Hicks nodded in silence, eyes looking past me.
    I said, “Seen Gabe around?”
    “He’s at headquarters. Heard it over radio chatter.”
    “I need to talk to him. Catch up with you two later.”
    The headquarters building looked like all the other buildings at Fort McCray. Cinder blocks painted a hideous dull brown, no windows on the ground floor, reinforced steel door that only opened outward and could be secured with heavy bars from the inside, narrow windows on the second floor, and a three-foot cement battlement surrounding the roof. I saw several soldiers with field glasses patrolling above me, eyes scanning the inner part of the base for any sign of infected. Their carbines had heavy barrels and were chambered in hard-hitting 7.62 NATO. The Nightforce scopes were not merely for show, nor were the spare magazines on the troops’ MOLLE vests.
    One of them peered at me through his field glasses and said something into his radio. When I reached the door and knocked, a sergeant with a Mossberg shotgun and a pistol on his chest opened a small panel and asked me to identify myself.
    “Name’s Eric Riordan. Same as last time, Wally.”
    “Sorry. Protocol.”
    “Sure.”
    Wally opened the door. His name was Wallace, but he went by Wally. He did not look like a Wally. Well over six feet tall, black hair shaved down to a nub, steely black eyes over a nose that had been broken at least three times. When he smiled, there were a few teeth missing. His voice spoke of New England origins—Massachusetts, if I had to guess. His hands were large and brutal looking and the knuckles were covered in scars. There was scar tissue in his eyebrows and forehead, and his ears had the cauliflower swelling of a prizefighter.
    I had asked him once, months ago, while waiting to see Captain Harlow, what he did for a living before the Outbreak. He smiled his gap-toothed smile and said, “A little of this, a little of that.”
    His manner had been pleasant, but the smile did not reach his eyes. I did not ask again.
    “Captain’s expecting you,” Wally said. “You know the way.”
    “Sure, thanks. Always a pleasure, Wally.”
    He sat down in a chair facing the door and said nothing. I went up the stairs and around the corner. The lower part of the building was mostly dark, but there were a few lights on upstairs. I did not hear the low