Day 175. 20:00 hours.
Ortigas.
The northern perimeter.
Captain Elena Vasquez lay prone on the rooftop of a collapsed convenience store. Three hundred meters from the crater rim. Her pale brown eyes on the frozen street below. Her rifle shouldered.
Her breath crystallized in the minus-seventy air. White plumes that hung in the still air like ghosts. The ghosts of a city that had died and was not finished dying.
Behind her, Corporal Reyes. Twenty-six. Signal Corps. Her earpiece in. Her rifle across her chest. A comms officer who had become a scout because there were not enough scouts left.
Behind Reyes, Corporal De Dios. Early thirties. The scar from her left ear to her jaw catching the gray light. Her rifle up. Her eyes on the left flank.
Behind De Dios, Private Agbayani. Mid-twenties. Wide-eyed. The wide-eyed of a young soldier who had not yet learned to narrow them. His rifle up. His eyes on the right flank.
Four soldiers. Vasquez. Reyes. De Dios. Agbayani. Vanguard Six. The last four of twelve.
The street below was not empty.
Seven figures. Moving south. Through the snow. Slow. The slow of people who were cold and hungry and desperate. People who had heard there was food at the crater and were coming for it.
Scavengers.
"Seven contacts." Vasquez offered, her pale brown eyes on the street, her voice steady. "Three hundred meters. Moving south. Armed. Improvised. Pipes. Machetes. One has a rifle."
[Reyes]: "Crater rim copies. Seven contacts north. Vanguard Six intercepting." Reyes confirmed, her hand on her earpiece.
Vasquez looked at her soldiers. The last four of a unit that had been twelve. Four women and one man. A unit that had been sent to hold the north and had been holding for weeks. Holding and dying. One by one. Two to the cold. Six to the snakes.
Now four. In minus-seventy. On a rooftop. Watching seven scavengers walk through the snow toward a crater that held a war.
"Vanguard Six." Vasquez offered, her rifle up. "Move. Down. Street level. We intercept at two hundred meters. Non-lethal if possible. Lethal if necessary. We do not let them reach the crater."
"Copy." the three echoed.
They moved. Down the fire escape. The metal groaning under their boots. The cold so intense that the railing burned through their gloves. The particular burning of skin meeting metal at minus-seventy.
Into the street. Into the snow. The snow crunching under their boots. Every step a negotiation with the cold. Every breath a knife in the throat.
Vasquez on point. Reyes behind. De Dios left. Agbayani right. Four soldiers moving south through a frozen city to intercept seven scavengers moving north.
The city around them was a graveyard. The buildings dark. Frozen. The windows opaque with frost. The cars buried under ten meters of snow. The streetlights gone. The signs gone. The people gone.
Except the scavengers.
Two hundred meters. The scavengers saw them. People who were not expecting soldiers and were, for one moment, stopped.
The scavengers were in worse shape than Vasquez expected. Thin. Gaunt. Their cheeks hollow. Their eyes sunken. Their clothes mismatched, layered, anything to keep the cold out. The particular anything of people who had torn curtains into strips and wrapped them around their bodies because fabric was warmth and warmth was life.
One of them, the one with the rifle, was shaking. Not from cold. From hunger. The shaking of a body that had run out of everything. Food. Water. Fat. Muscle. The body consuming itself. Arms thinner than the rifle.
"Stop." Vasquez offered, her rifle up, her voice steady. "Philippine Army. Vanguard Six. Drop your weapons. You will not be harmed."
The scavengers did not drop their weapons.
The man with the rifle raised it. The barrel shaking. Arms thinner than the rifle. A man who was going to shoot.
Vasquez fired.
One round. Center mass.
The round hit the man's chest. The sternum shattered. The bullet punched through the breastplate and exited the back in a spray of bone fragments and lung tissue. Ribs splintered outward, each fragment a projectile, each projectile tearing through muscle and skin.
The lungs collapsed. The heart severed at the aortic root. Blood erupted from the exit wound. Arterial. Bright red. Spraying two meters behind him in a fan that painted the snow crimson.
The man dropped. Dead before he hit the ground. His body folding. His rifle falling into the snow beside him. His chest open. The ribs splintered outward. The lungs visible. Deflating. The heart visible. Still. Stopped.
The other six charged. People who had seen one of their own drop and were not retreating. Desperate. Pipes and machetes. Coming.
"Fire." Vasquez pressed.
Vanguard Six fired. Four rifles.
The first scavenger took a round through the throat. The bullet severed the carotid artery and the jugular vein simultaneously. Blood erupted. Bright red from the artery, dark from the vein. The spray hit the snow in a pattern that was almost beautiful.
The man's head lolled sideways, connected to his body by the spine and nothing else. He dropped. Drowning in his own blood. Face down in the snow. The snow around his neck turning red.
The second scavenger took a round through the abdomen. The bullet entered below the navel and exited through the lower back. The intestines severed. Loops of bowel slid through the exit wound. Steaming in the minus-seventy air. Coiling on the snow like wet rope.
The man screamed. His hands went to his stomach. His fingers found the intestines. He screamed again. Then dropped. His body curling around the wound. The intestines still outside. Steaming. In the snow.
The third and fourth dropped together. Two rounds. Two heads.
The first round entered through the left eye socket and exited through the back of the skull. The exit wound was the size of a fist. Brain matter sprayed across the snow. Gray. Pink. Wet. The skull split. The face gone. The man dropped. Dead.
The fourth was a woman. The round entered through the mouth and exited through the base of the skull. The jaw shattered. The tongue severed. Teeth scattered across the snow like white pebbles. The woman's head snapped back. Her body folded. She dropped. Dead.
The fifth and sixth ran. Back north. Two rounds. Two backs.
The first round entered the man's spine between the T4 and T5 vertebrae. The spinal cord severed. The man's body went limp below the chest. His legs stopped. His arms stopped. He fell forward. Face first. Into the snow.
Paralyzed. Alive from the chest up. Face down in the snow. Drowning. Slowly.
The sixth round entered the back of the head. Exit through the forehead. The face gone. The man dropped. Dead.
Vasquez walked to the paralyzed man. His body motionless from the chest down. His face in the snow. His breath crystallizing. His eyes open. Looking at her. The looking of a man who was paralyzed and drowning in snow and was asking.
Vasquez fired. One round. Back of the head. The man stopped breathing.
Seven scavengers. Dead. In the snow. The blood already freezing. Bright red turning dark. Then crystallizing. Then solid. The blood becoming ice. The bodies becoming ice. People who had been alive and were now not.
Vasquez looked at the bodies and did not see people. Saw threats. Neutralized. The particular neutralized of a captain who had been a soldier for fifteen years and had learned, in the first year, that seeing people made you hesitate. And hesitating made you dead.
So she did not see people. Saw targets.
"Move." Vasquez offered. "Back to overwatch. They will send more."
"Copy." the three echoed.
Vanguard Six moved. Back to the rooftop. Back to overwatch. The watching of a unit that knew more would come.
— • • • —
Day 175. 22:00 hours.
The crater rim.
Commander Reyes stood at the north edge of the crater rim. His notebook in his coat pocket. His dark eyes on the cavity entrance.
The minions came at 22:00.
Not random. Not escapees. Directed. Sent. A Snake Woman who was probing. A woman who wanted to know how many. How fast. How killable.
Twenty. Not one type. Three.
The first type was standard. Ten of them. Six to ten feet. Dark. Titanium scales. Acid venom. Hydrochloric. pH approaching zero. A substance that did not numb or paralyze. It ate. Ate flesh. Ate muscle. Ate bone. Ate everything.
The second type was larger. Five of them. Fifteen feet. Thick as a man's thigh. Constrictors. Things that did not bite. They crushed. Bodies that wrapped and squeezed and compressed and broke. Ribs that cracked. Lungs that collapsed. Skulls that popped.
The third type was different. Five of them. Smaller. Three feet. Fast. Their mouths were not fangs. They were orifices. Things that did not bite. They spat. Acid. From range. Fifteen meters. Things that blinded. That dissolved faces. That left screaming soldiers who could not see and could not fight and could only scream.
[Reyes]: "Contact. Minions. Twenty. Three types. Standard. Constrictors. Spitters. Exiting the cavity. Weapons free." Reyes commanded.
The ridge group fired. Two hundred and twelve soldiers. M4s. Glocks. The standard snakes dropped. One. Two. Five. Ten. Efficient.
But the spitters spat. Before the rifles could track them. Small. Fast. Spraying acid from fifteen meters.
Private Santos was first.
The acid spray hit his face. Both eyes. Nose. Lips. The acid began to dissolve on contact.
The corneas blistered first. The clear tissue turning white. Then opaque. Then liquid. Running down his cheeks like tears. The irises melted. The colored rings running like paint. The sclera turned red. Then dark. Then dissolved. The eyeballs collapsed. The sockets empty. Wet. Bleeding.
The nose followed. The cartilage melted. The nostrils merged into a single hole. The bridge collapsed. The nose was gone. A flat space where a nose had been.
The lips bubbled. The skin peeled. The tissue beneath was raw. Red. Dissolving. The lips fell away in strips. The strips dropping into the snow. Steaming. The teeth bare. Exposed. A skull emerging through a dissolving face.
Santos screamed. His rifle falling. His hands going to his face. His fingers finding not a face. Not what had been there. Wet. Warm. Dissolving. Tissue between his fingers. His face was soup. Flesh that had been structured and was now not. Running. Dripping. Between his fingers. Down his wrists. Into his sleeves.
He screamed. The screaming of a man who had no face and was alive. Alive and screaming and not dying fast enough. His airway swelling. The acid reaching the throat. The soft palate blistering. The uvula swelling. The throat closing.
A soldier beside Santos fired at the spitter. The spitter dropped. But Santos was on the ground. Faceless. Screaming.
The acid reached the orbital bones. The eye sockets already empty. The bone around them dissolving. Calcium under hydrochloric acid. The bone softening. Then liquid. Running. The skull not a skull anymore. A shape. Dissolving.
The brain became visible. Through the dissolving bone. Then dissolving. The meninges blistering. The cerebrospinal fluid boiling. The brain softening. Then stopping.
Santos stopped screaming at 22:30. Faceless. Brainless. Dead.
The constrictors reached the perimeter. Five. Fifteen feet each. Thick as a man's thigh.
Private Reyes, not Corporal Reyes, a private who shared a name with a corporal. A constrictor wrapped around his torso. Both arms pinned. His rifle useless. His Glock unreachable.
The constrictor squeezed.
The ribs bent. The ribs cracked. The ribs broke. The sound was sharp. Wet. Bone breaking through intercostal muscle. The rib fragments driven inward. Into the lungs. Into the liver. Into the spleen.
The lungs punctured. Reyes coughed blood. Dark. Venous. The blood of a lung that was punctured and filling.
The constrictor squeezed again. More ribs cracking. Snapping. The ribcage collapsing. The chest compressing. The torso half its original width.
The organs ruptured. The liver split. The spleen burst. The stomach ruptured. Its contents spilling into the abdominal cavity. Stomach acid and half-digested food burning the peritoneum.
The intestines ruptured. The loops of bowel filling with blood. Then spilling. Through the anus. The particular through-the-anus of a body being compressed and the contents having nowhere to go but out.
Reyes screamed. The screaming of a man whose ribcage was collapsing and whose organs were rupturing and whose intestines were spilling. The screaming lasted four seconds.
Then the spine bent. The lumbar vertebrae snapping. The body folding in half. The chest touching the hips. The head pressed against the knees. A body that was half its original size.
The spine severed. The spinal cord crushed. The body paralyzed. Then dead. The heart stopped. A heart that had been crushed. A heart that was, for one moment, beating and was now not.
Reyes died at 22:20. A man whose ribcage had collapsed and whose organs had ruptured and whose spine had bent and whose body was not a body. Was a thing. A compressed thing. In the snow.
Two more soldiers were down.
One was bitten. A standard snake. The acid venom in the thigh. The thigh dissolving. The skin blistered first. Blisters large, filled with fluid. Clear. Then yellow. Then the blisters burst. The skin peeling away.
The fat beneath was melting. Yellow. Steaming. Liquefying. Running into the snow.
The muscle dissolved. The fibers separating. The tissue turning to liquid. The quadriceps gone. The hamstrings gone. The femur exposed. White. Bare. In the open air. A bone that had been inside a leg and was now exposed.
The femoral artery dissolved. The blood pumped out. Through the soup. Into the snow. Bright red. Then dark. Then stopped. The heart empty. The man dead at 22:35.
The fourth soldier was a spitter hit. The face. The same as Santos. The eyes gone. The nose gone. The lips gone. The face soup. The skull emerging. The screaming of a man who was dissolving and could not stop it.
The airway swelled shut. The throat closing. The man suffocated on his own dissolving tissue. Dead at 22:40.
[Reyes]: "Medic. Four down. Santos face. Reyes crushed. Two more acid. Get them to the field hospital. Now." Reyes pressed, his voice flat.
Alessia worked on all four at the same time. One pair of hands. Four patients. Not enough.
Saline. Flush. Debride. Cut away the dead tissue. The tissue that had been a face and was now waste. Into a basin. The basin filling with dissolving flesh.
But the venom was fast. Faster than the doctor could cut. The acid dissolving faster than the scalpel could remove. The acid winning.
Santos dead. Faceless. Brainless. 22:30.
The bitten soldier dead. Femoral artery dissolved. 22:35.
The spitter victim dead. Airway closed. Suffocated. 22:40.
Reyes already dead. Crushed. 22:20.
Four soldiers. Dead. From a probe. A Snake Woman who had tested and learned and would send more.
[Reyes]: "Four down. Private Santos. Private Reyes. Private De Leon. Private Bautista. KIA. Acid venom and constrictor. Two hundred and eight remaining." Reyes reported, his voice flat.
Two hundred and eight. A ridge group that had been two hundred and twelve and was now four less.
Reyes stood at the crater rim. His dark eyes on the bodies. Four. In the snow. The blood freezing. The bodies freezing. The faces gone. The chests collapsed. The legs dissolved. The bodies not bodies anymore. Things. In the snow.
He opened his notebook. He wrote: Santos. Reyes. De Leon. Bautista. Four names. Four soldiers. Gone.
He closed the notebook.
— • • • —
Day 176. 04:00 hours.
The crater rim.
The cold hours.
The cold killed three more.
Not the snakes. Not the scavengers. The cold. Minus-seventy. Taking soldiers one by one in the night. In the foxholes.
Private De Vera. Twenty-two. Found in his foxhole at 04:00.
His body still. His skin blue. The blue of a body that had frozen. The frost on his eyelashes. The frost on his lips. The frost on his fingertips, black. The black of tissue that had died before the heart stopped. Frostbite.
His fingers were curled. Rigid. The curling of a hand that had been reaching for warmth and had found nothing. The body rigid. The jaw locked. The eyes open. Frozen open. Eyes that had been looking at the sky and had frozen in the looking.
The body was curled in the fetal position. The position the body takes when it is losing heat and is trying to conserve. The position that did not work.
De Vera was twenty-two. From Ilocos Sur. He had joined the Army because his father had been Army. And his grandfather. A family that had been serving since before his grandfather was born. A family that had lost a son to the cold. In a foxhole. In a crater. In a war that was not just the Snake Woman.
Private Cruz. Twenty-five. Found in her foxhole at 04:15. Her body still. Her skin blue. The same blue. The same frost. The same curling. The same frozen eyes. The same rigid jaw.
Cruz had been a nurse. Before the freeze. A woman who had been healing people and was now frozen in a foxhole. A woman who had spent her life keeping people warm and was now cold. A nurse who had died in minus-seventy because the thermal blankets were not enough and the foxhole was not enough and the cold was winning.
Private Lim. Twenty-eight. Found at 04:30. The same. The same blue. The same frost. The same frozen eyes. The same rigid jaw. The same curled body.
Lim had been a teacher. Before the freeze. A man who had been teaching children to survive and was now not surviving. Dead in a foxhole. In the snow. In minus-seventy.
Three soldiers. Dead. From the cold. A war that was killing in ways that were not the Snake Woman. The weather. Minus-seventy. Taking soldiers one by one in the night.
[Reyes]: "Three more down. Private De Vera. Private Cruz. Private Lim. Hypothermia. KIA. Two hundred and five remaining." Reyes reported, his voice flatter.
Two hundred and five. A ridge group that had been two hundred and twelve and was now seven less. In six hours.
Reyes opened his notebook. He wrote: 205. And under it: Santos. Reyes. De Leon. Bautista. De Vera. Cruz. Lim. Seven names. Seven soldiers. Seven gone. In six hours.
He closed the notebook.
The crater rim was quiet. The minus-seventy pressing down. The soldiers in their foxholes. Two hundred and five. Trying to stay warm. Trying to stay alive. Trying to hold.
The cold was taking them. One by one. In the night. In the foxholes. The cold that did not discriminate. The cold that did not probe. The cold that did not test. The cold that simply took.
Reyes stood at the crater rim. His dark eyes on the foxholes. Two hundred and five soldiers in the snow. In the minus-seventy. A temperature that was killing them. Slowly. One by one.
He opened his notebook again. He wrote: The cold is taking us. The snakes are taking us. The scavengers are taking us. Every day. Every night. The number goes down.
He closed the notebook.
— • • • —
Day 176. 06:00 hours.
The northern perimeter.
Vasquez had not slept. The not-slept of a captain who had killed seven people and was watching. Watching because more would come.
At 06:00, they came.
Twelve this time. Not the same scavengers. Different. More. Organized. People who had talked and decided and come together. Twelve people. Armed. Pipes. Machetes. Two with rifles.
The group was different from the last. The particular different of scavengers who had organized. People who had been individuals and were now a group. A group with a plan. Come to the crater. Take the food. Kill anyone who stops us.
The two with rifles were new. M16s. Military-grade weapons in the hands of civilians. People who had been starving and had found rifles and had decided the rifles were the answer.
"Twelve contacts." Vasquez offered, her pale brown eyes on the street. "Two armed with rifles. M16s. Moving south. Three hundred meters."
[Reyes]: "Copy. Vanguard Six intercepting. Ridge group holds the crater rim." Reyes confirmed, his voice flat.
Vasquez looked at her soldiers. The last four. Reyes. De Dios. Agbayani. A unit that had fought last night and was fighting again. Tired. Not slept.
"Vanguard Six." Vasquez offered, her rifle up. "Move. Street level. Intercept at two hundred meters. Lethal force authorized. The scavengers are armed with M16s. We do not take chances. We drop them. We hold the perimeter."
"Copy." the three echoed.
They moved. Down the fire escape. Into the street. Into the snow. Four soldiers moving south.
Two hundred meters. The scavengers saw them. Not stopping. Desperate. Armed. Coming.
The two with rifles fired.
De Dios dropped.
The round hit her side. Through the vest. The bullet entering below the ribcage. The gap where the ballistic plate did not cover. The round punched through the lateral abdominal wall. The peritoneum tore. The bowel was nicked. A loop of intestine perforated.
The bullet tumbled through the abdominal cavity. The spinning tore through everything it touched. The omentum shredded. The left kidney clipped. The capsule torn. Blood filling the abdominal cavity. Internal. Dark. Venous.
The bullet lodged in the psoas muscle. A bullet that had run out of energy and was now inside De Dios. In the muscle that controlled her left leg.
"I am hit." De Dios offered, her voice strained. "Side. Through the vest. I am bleeding."
"Reyes. De Dios. Now." Vasquez pressed, her rifle up, firing at the scavengers. Covering.
Corporal Reyes moved to De Dios. Her hands on the wound. Pressing. The pressing of a comms officer who had become a medic.
Agbayani fired. His rifle up. The narrowed eyes of a young soldier who had learned.
One scavenger dropped. The round hit the chest. The sternum shattered. The man folded. His chest a hole where a chest had been.
Two. Three. The young soldier who had been wide-eyed and was now efficient. Finding targets. Hitting targets.
The first round hit the scavenger's abdomen. The entry wound small. The exit wound not. The bullet tumbling through the abdominal cavity. The intestines severed. Loops of bowel spilling through the exit wound. Into the snow. Steaming.
The second round hit the throat. The carotid artery severed. Blood spraying. Bright red. The spray hitting the snow. The snow turning red. Then dark. Then frozen.
The third round hit the head. The entry wound above the left ear. The exit wound through the right eye. The eye gone. The socket gone. The brain visible through the exit wound. Gray. Pink. Wet. Then gone. The man dropped. Dead.
Vasquez fired. Two more scavengers dropped.
The first took the round through the throat. The carotid artery severed. Blood bright red spraying. The man dropping. Drowning. The blood filling his mouth. His nose. His throat. Drowning in his own blood on dry land. In the snow.
The second took the round through the chest. The heart. The heart severed. The aorta split. The blood pumping once. Twice. Then stopped. Dead before he hit the snow.
The remaining scavengers broke. Ran. Back north. Into the frozen city. Six dead. Six running. The running of people who had decided the crater was not worth it. That dying in the snow for a chance at rice and salted egg was not worth it.
But De Dios was down. Bleeding. The blood not stopping. Coming through the wound. Through the vest. Into the snow. The snow turning red. Then dark. Then frozen.
"De Dios." Vasquez offered, kneeling beside her, her hands on the wound. "Stay with me. Stay with me. Reyes. Get her to the field hospital. Now."
"Copy." Reyes confirmed, lifting De Dios. Carrying her. South. To the crater rim. To the field hospital. To Alessia.
De Dios was conscious. Barely. The barely of a woman who had a bullet in her side and was holding on. Not giving up.
Reyes carried her through the snow. The snow crunching under their combined weight. De Dios's head on Reyes's shoulder. De Dios's blood on Reyes's vest. A soldier carrying another soldier. To the doctor.
Vasquez watched them go. Her pale brown eyes on De Dios. On the blood. On the soldier being carried to the doctor. Three soldiers left. Three. A unit that had been four and was now three.
Vasquez did not think about it. The not-thinking of a captain who was not feeling. Holding the perimeter. And the perimeter held.
— • • • —
Day 176. 08:00 hours.
The crater rim.
Reyes and Vasquez stood at the north edge of the crater rim. Side by side. Two commanders. A war fought on two fronts. The Snake Woman below. The scavengers above. Both taking.
Reyes held a cup of coffee. Hua's coffee. From a thermos container that had arrived at 06:00 from the compound. A pregnant chef who was cooking and sending hot food to two hundred and five soldiers.
Vasquez held a cup of the same coffee. A captain who had been fighting all night and was, for one moment, warm.
"Seven." Reyes offered, his dark eyes on the crater, his voice flat. "Seven last night. Santos. Reyes. De Leon. Bautista. The minions. De Vera. Cruz. Lim. The cold. Four from the minions. Three from the cold."
"De Dios." Vasquez offered, her pale brown eyes on the same crater. "Bullet. Through the vest. She is in surgery. Alessia is working on her."
"Will she make it?" Reyes pressed, his voice low.
"I do not know." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. A captain who had a soldier in surgery and did not know. A captain who was afraid and did not show it. Because showing it was not helping.
Reyes looked at her. A fellow commander. A woman who was holding. A captain who had lost a soldier to a bullet and was standing. Not breaking. The perimeter held.
"They keep coming." Reyes offered, his dark eyes on the frozen city. "Every night. More. Last night seven. This morning twelve. Tomorrow more. They smell the food. They smell the activity. They come."
"And the snakes." Vasquez offered. "Every time the strike team fights the Snake Woman, snakes escape. Last night twenty. Tonight more. The ridge group shoots them. But the snakes are fast. And the venom is acid. And the soldiers die."
"And the cold." Reyes offered, his voice low. "Minus-seventy. The foxholes are not enough. The thermal blankets are not enough. The soldiers are tired. And cold. And the cold takes them. One by one. In the night. In the foxholes."
Vasquez looked at him. A fellow commander who was losing soldiers. Every night. Every day. A war that was not stopping.
"How many will be left." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. "When this is over. How many will be left."
Reyes did not answer. Not immediately. A commander who had 205 soldiers and was counting. A man who understood the snakes would take more. The scavengers would take more. The cold would take more. Every day. Every night. Until.
"I do not know." Reyes offered, his voice low. "But fewer. Every day. Fewer."
"Fewer." Vasquez echoed. A captain who knew her unit was also fewer. A unit that had been four and was now three. And De Dios in surgery.
"Corporal Reyes." Vasquez offered. "She is good. She is holding. The comms officer who became a scout who became a medic. She will make it."
"And Agbayani." Reyes offered. "The young one. He narrowed his eyes. Today. For the first time. He is becoming. A soldier."
"He is becoming." Vasquez confirmed. A captain who was proud. A woman who had a soldier who was learning. A young man who had found his target. And hit it.
The two commanders stood. Side by side. At the crater rim. Their coffee cooling. The cooling of coffee in minus-seventy. A temperature that was taking. A war that was not stopping.
"The strike team." Reyes offered, his voice low. "The captain is down. The doctor is operating. The woman in white is standing guard. The strike team is broken. But the Snake Woman is down. The anti-tank rifle pierced the scales. For the first time. The Snake Woman can be hurt. The war can be won."
"Can be won." Vasquez echoed. "But at what cost. The soldiers are dying. The cold is killing them. The snakes are killing them. The scavengers are killing them. Every day. Every night. The war can be won. But how many will be left. When it is over. How many will be left."
"Fewer." Reyes offered. "Fewer than we started with. Fewer than we hoped. But enough. Enough to win. Enough to hold. Enough to see it through."
"Enough." Vasquez echoed. A captain who was hoping. A woman who did not hope because hoping was not helping. But hoping. For one moment. A captain who had three soldiers. And De Dios in surgery. And a war that was winnable. And she hoped.
The two commanders stood. Side by side. At the crater rim. The war was on. The soldiers were dying. The cold was killing. The snakes were killing. The scavengers were killing. But the Snake Woman was down. The scales could be pierced. The war could be won.
At a cost.
— • • • —
Day 176. 09:00 hours.
The crater rim.
The field hospital.
Alessia was operating.
De Dios was on the table. Her abdomen open. The peritoneum reflected. The bowel visible. Intestines that were inside and were now outside. In the light. In the air. In the hands of a doctor.
Alessia's hands were in De Dios's abdomen. Looking for a bullet. Feeling through tissue. Through blood. Through the particular through of a doctor whose fingers were inside another person.
The bowel was perforated. Two holes. An intestine that had been intact and was now not. The contents leaking. Intestinal contents into an abdominal cavity that was not designed to hold them. Peritonitis starting.
Alessia sutured the perforations. Closing holes in an intestine with thread. The suture holding the intestine closed. Holding the contents in.
The kidney was clipped. The capsule torn. Leaking blood from the kidney into the abdominal cavity. Blood filling a cavity that was not empty.
Alessia packed the kidney. Pressing gauze against a kidney that was bleeding. Blood coming through the gauze. Through the packing. Not stopping.
"More gauze." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical. Her hand out. Waiting.
Yue was beside her. The marble eyes steady. The hands handing gauze. A woman who had been a warrior and was now a nurse. A woman whose hands had held a jian and were now holding gauze. A wife whose husband was sleeping in a cot three meters away and who was not holding his hand. Holding gauze. For the doctor. For De Dios.
Yue handed the gauze. Alessia packed. The kidney slowing. Blood not stopping but slowing. Responding to the packing. To the pressure.
The bullet was in the psoas muscle. Lodged. Inside. Alessia could feel it with her fingers. Touching a bullet inside a muscle inside a person.
Alessia extracted the bullet. Forceps. Pulling a bullet out of a muscle out of a person. A bullet that had been inside and was now in a metal basin. A thing that had been inside a person and was now waste.
"Bullet out." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "Perforations closed. Kidney packed. Abdominal cavity irrigated. Closing."
She closed. Sewing the peritoneum. Sewing the fascia. Sewing the skin. A body that had been open and was now closed. Not whole. But closed. Holding together.
"She will live." Alessia offered, her blue eyes on De Dios's face. "The perforations were clean. The kidney will heal. The bullet was in the muscle. No vascular damage. She will live."
"Live." Vasquez breathed. A captain who had been afraid and was now not. A captain whose soldier was alive. "She will live."
"She will live." Alessia confirmed. "But she is out of the fight. For weeks. The abdominal surgery. The perforations. The kidney. She needs rest. She is out."
"Out." Vasquez echoed. A captain who had three soldiers and was now two. A unit that had been four and was now two. Vasquez. Reyes. Agbayani. And De Dios. Out. In a cot. In the field hospital. Not fighting.
Vasquez looked at De Dios. The scar from her left ear to her jaw. The scar that had been there before the bullet. The scar that would be there after. The scar of a soldier who had been fighting and was now sleeping. On a table. In a field hospital. At a crater rim. In minus-seventy. In a war.
"Thank you." Vasquez offered, her pale brown eyes on Alessia.
"You are welcome." Alessia offered, her blue eyes on De Dios. Her hands bloody. The bloody hands of a doctor who had been inside a person and was now not.
She washed her hands. Clean. Steady. A doctor who had been the doctor. And was now the wife. A wife who looked at the cot three meters away. Where her husband was sleeping. A captain who had fought with everything and was now resting. Alive.
The field hospital held. The doctor held. The soldier slept. The wife was the wife.
— • • • —
Day 176. 10:00 hours.
The crater rim.
The war was on. The cost was rising. The soldiers were dying. The cold was killing. The snakes were killing. The scavengers were killing. But the Snake Woman was down. The scales could be pierced. The war could be won.
At a cost.
Reyes stood at the crater rim. His notebook in his hand. The notebook that was filling with names. With numbers. With the cost.
He wrote: 205. De Dios WIA. Out of the fight. Vanguard Six 3 remaining. Vasquez. Reyes. Agbayani.
He looked at the numbers. The numbers that were going down. The numbers that were the cost. A commander who had stopped seeing people and had started seeing numbers. Because numbers were easier than people.
He closed the notebook. A notebook that was filling with names. With numbers. With the cost.
The war was on. The cost was rising.
Two hundred and five soldiers. Three Vanguard Six. One in surgery. One captain sleeping. One doctor operating. One woman in white standing guard.
The war was on.