just the icy wind racing through the open hatch of the black hawk, but that's what it sounds like.

the world is screaming. the world is being burned alive.

through the chopper windows, you can see the fires dotting the dark landscape, amber blotches against the inky backdrop, multiplying as you near the outskirts of the city. these aren't funeral pyres. lightning from summer storms started them, and the autumn winds carried the smoldering embers to new feeding grounds, because there was so much to eat, the pantry was stuffed. the world will burn for years.

we're skimming ten feet above treetop level, the rotors muffled by some kind of stealth technology, approaching downtown dayton from the north. a light snow is falling; it shimmers around the fires below like golden halos, shedding light, illuminating nothing.

i turn from the window and see ringer across the aisle, staring at zombie. she holds up two fingers. he nods. two minutes to the drop. he pulls the headband down to position the lens of the eyepiece over his left eye and adjust the strap.

i look over at teacup, who's in the chair next to me, i tap zombie on the shoulder. his eyes look at me in my own. i point to teacup. he nods. her eyepiece keeps slipping. he tightens the strap; she gives him a thumbs-up, and something sour rises in my throat. seven years old. he leans over and shouts in her ear, "you stay right next to me, understand?"

teacup smiles, shakes her head, points at me. "i'm staying with her!" he laughs. teacups no dummy.

over the river now, the black hawks skimming only a few feet above the water. ringer is checking her weapon for the thousandth time. beside her, flintstone is tapping his foot nervously, staring forward, looking at nothing.

there's dumbo inventorying his med kit, and oompa bending his head in an attempt to keep us from seeing him stuff one last candy bar into his mouth.

tobi on my side.

finally, poundcake with his head down, hands folded in his lap. reznik named him poundcake because he said he was soft and sweet. he doesn't strike me as either, especially on the firing range. ringers a better marksman overall, but i've seen poundcake take out six targets in six seconds.

unbelievable. we're the vanguard. eight kids who just six months ago were, well, just kids; we're the counterpunch to attacks that left seven billion dead.

there's ringer, staring at zombie again. as the chopper begins to descend, she unbuckles her harness and steps across the aisle. places her hands on his shoulders and shouts in zombies face, "remember he circle! we're not going to die!"

we dive into the drop zone fast and steep. the chopper doesn't land; it hovers a few inches above the frozen turf while the squad hops out. from the open hatchway, i look over and see teacup struggling with her harness. then she's loose and jumps out ahead of zombie. zombies the last to go. he looks at me before i jump out, "stay by me." he shouts over the loud noise. i nod before jumping down zombie following close behind.

the black hawk rockets into the night sky, turning hard north, its black hull blending quickly into the dark clouds until they swallow it, and it's gone.

the air in the little park by the river has been blasted clear of snow by the rotors. after the chopper leaves, the snow returns, spinning angrily around us. the sudden quiet that follows the screaming wind is deafening. Straight ahead a huge human shadow looms: the statue of a korean war veteran. to the statue's left is the bridge. across the bridge and ten blocks southwest is the old courthouse where several infesteds have amassed a small arsenal of automatic weapons and grenade launchers, as well as fim-92 stinger missiles, according to the wonderland profile of one infested captured in operation li'l bo peep. it's the stingers that brought us here. our air capability has been devastated by the attacks; it's imperative we protect the few resources we have left.

our mission is twofold: destroy or capture all enemy ordnance and terminate all infested personnel.

terminate with extreme prejudice.

ringers on the point; she has the best eyes. we follow her past the stern-faced statue onto the bridge; flint, dumbo, oompa, poundcake, teacup, and i, tobi in my grip, with zombie covering our rear. weaving  through the stalled cars that seem to pop through a white curtain, covered in three seasons' worth of debris. some have had their windows smashed, decorated with graffiti, looted for any valuables, but what's valuable anymore? teacup scurrying along in front of me on baby feet—she's valuable. there's my big takeaway from the arrival. by killing us, they showed us the idiocy of stuff. the guy who owned this bmw? he's in the same place as the woman who owned that kia.

we pull up just shy of patterson bpulevard, at the southern end of the bridge. hunker down beside the smashed front bumper of an suv and survey the road ahead. the snow cuts down our visibility to about half a block. this might take a while. zombie looks at his watch. four hours till pickup back at the park.

a tanker truck has stalled out in the middle of the intersection twenty yards away, blocking our view of the left-hand side of the street. i can't see it, but i know from the mission briefing there's a four-story building on that side, a prime sentry point if they wanted to keep an eye on the bridge. zombie motions for ringer to keep to the right as we leave the bridge, putting the truck between us and the building.

she pulls up sharply at the truck's front bumper and drops to the ground. the squad follows her lead, and zombie belly-scoots forward to join her.

"what do you see?" he whispers.

"three of them, two o'clock."

i squint through my eyepiece toward the building on the other side of the street. through the cottony fuzz of the snow, i see three green blobs of light bobbing along the sidewalk, growing larger as they approach the intersection. my first thought is, holy crap, these lenses actually work. my second thought: holy crap, teds, and they're coming straight at us.

"patrol?" i ask Ringer.

she shrugs. "probably marked the chopper and they're coming to check it out." shes lying on her belly, holding them in her sights, waiting for the order to fire. the green blobs grow larger; they've reached the opposite corner. i can barely make out their bodies beneath the green beacons on top of their shoulders. it's a weird, jarring effect, as if their heads are engulfed in a spinning, iridescent green fire.

beside zombie, ringer takes a deep breath, holds it, waits for his order patiently, like she could wait for a thousand years. what if there's more than three? if we announce our presence, it could bring a hundred of them down on us from a dozen different hiding places.

"i've got them," she says, misreading zombies hesitation.

across the street, the green blobs of light are stationary, clustered together as if locked in conversation.

she glances over at zombie and whispers, "zombie? what's the call?"

a heartbeat before our ears register the high-powered rifle's report, the pavement two feet in front of us disintegrates in a spray of dirty snow and pulverized concrete. "take them." zombie states through the icy air.

ringers bullet smashes into one of the bobbing green lights, and the light winks out. one light takes off to our right. ringer swings the barrel toward zombies face. he ducks as she fires again, and the second light winks out. the third seems to shrink as he tears up the street, heading back the way he came.

zombie jumps to his feet. Can't let him get away to sound the alarm. i grabs his wrists and yank hard to bring him back down.

"damn it, dove, what are you do—"

"it's a trap." i point at the six-inch scar in the concrete. "didn't you hear it? it didn't come from them. it came from over there." i jerk my head toward the building on the opposite side of the street. "from our left. and judging by the angle, from high up, maybe the roof."

zombie shakes his head. a fourth infested on the roof? how did he know we were here—and why didn't he warn the others? we're hidden behind the truck, which means he must have spotted us on the bridge—spotted us and held his fire until we were blocked from view and there was no way he could hit us. it didn't make sense.

and ringer goes, like she's read my mind, "i guess this is what they meant by 'the fog of war.'"

i nod. things are getting way too complicated way too fast.

"how'd he see us cross?" zombie asks.

i shake my head. "night vision, has to be."

"then we're screwed." pinned down. beside several thousands of gallons of gasoline. "he'll take out the truck."

ringer shrugs. "not with a bullet, he won't. that only works in the movies, zombie." she looks at him. waiting for his call.

soon with the rest of the squad. he glances back. our eyes look back at him, big and bug-eyed in the snowy dark. we're all thinking; "trapped. we abort now, right?"

run = die. stay = die.

"speaking of night vision," ringer growls, "they might have thought of that before dropping us on a night mission. we're totally blind out here."

zombie orders the squad to close ranks around him and whisper, "next block, right-hand side, attached to the back side of the office building, there's a parking garage." or at least there should be, according to the map. "get up to the third floor. buddy system: flint with ringer, poundcake with oompa, dumbo with teacup, dove with me."

here comes the smile. wait for it.