Sergeant Chris Ward leads the Special Forward Intelligence Unit. The infected are coming north this year as the spring weather warms. The government has an idea of how to stop their minds from slipping. The line between right and wrong is blurring. But these are dark days, where survival is superseding orders. Things are about to get messy. 

Prologue

There will be no happy ending here, Chris thought. He stood in front of the mirror in the gray stone bathroom. He stared at himself without really seeing himself, naked, still wet from the tub. He had lost weight. Still muscular, now. Short-cropped black hair and full of the tattoos of his youth. Thirty-six going on 85, he thought. He had done more damage to his body than most men in five lifetimes. 

The women screaming outside would not stop. He had been hearing the succession of claymores exploding outside for the last hour. An old familiar sound, like an old friend still talking to him. Chris looked at the tub, still half-full, with hazy eyes. Half-drunk, half-high, he lit another cigarette. The tub was dirty with a mix of mud and blood. 

He had prepared for this day for a year. There was no need to panic; it was in place. Everything was taken care of. The women screaming outside were starting to give him a headache, though. KERR would have to replace the claymores tomorrow. Then he remembered KERR was dead. How could he fucking forget? 

Chris threw his cigarette into the toilet and pulled up his jeans, not bothering with underwear. He slid his Glock into the back of his pants and grabbed his M4. As he walked, the pistol felt cold - it was hot tonight, and the city was on fire. Dark had rolled in a long time ago, and there was no wind, just the screams of the city. Chris walked outside the compound and slowly climbed the watchtower with the M4 on his bare back. As he climbed, he wondered if he would kill the woman to put her out of her misery or stop his headache. Today it did not matter. He didn’t care.