Rolling Hunger (The Yard Gnome Action Team Book 2)

by RW Krpoun

  “Better safe than sorry. I’m betting that’s the cabin the survivalists were using.” The Georgian pointed to the south-most cabin in the west line. “The door is open, there’s quite a few dead zeds in front, and it looks like they left a vehicle behind.” A black Jeep Cherokee with a tarp-covered roof rack, front and back brush guards, and a heavy-duty winch unit was parked thirty feet from the cabin. “I bet FASA hit at night.”

  “I wonder why they stayed off the grid? At least some got away.”

  “Maybe they didn’t get all that far away.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, that’s not the issue.” Marv studied the situation. “That Cherokee is in plain view of every zombie down there, and it could be locked.”

  “I bet the keys are in it. These guys plan on bug out situations. Its at least partially loaded; we grab it, we don’t leave empty handed.”

  “If you get spotted and there’s no keys-what then? I can’t cover you, not from those numbers.”

  “I run. The best they manage is a trot, and not many do that. Once in the trees I can break their line of sight, and they usually get confused and wander off after that.”

  The Ranger studied the vehicle. “I don’t like risking lives for loot.”

  “What are we doing right now? Everything’s a risk.”

  “OK,” Marv slid below the crest. “We’ll go together. I’ll go into the cabin through the back door and grab what I can. When I’m done you go for the vehicle, and if you get spotted I’ll open fire from the front door, splitting their interest. I can close the door and bug out the back if I need to. We’ll meet up at the trucks.”

  “Now who is taking a risk?” Dyson grinned.

  The Ranger shrugged. “If we’re going to go for loot, we better get all we can.”

  Dyson peeked around the corner of the last cabin. “They haven’t budged.”

  “We’re going to starting carrying cameras,” Marv whispered as he screwed the red lens onto the tactical light mounted on his Colt M-4. The assault carbine had been a semi-auto-only weapon when he had salvaged it, but he had scrounged the parts to convert it to selective fire just before this operation. He didn’t plan to use full auto much, but he preferred to have every option possible.

  “Too bad there aren’t any other vehicles left on this side,” Dyson eyed the distance.

  “Eighteen hundred,” Marv checked his watch. “Sun sets in an hour. Lets get this done. Ready?”

  “Born ready.”

  The cabins were tied to a septic system, so there was a washroom and toilets on the north end of the cabin, while the central area had a few simple chairs and tables, and double-decker bunks lined the south end. Marv swept the room fast, then swung the light back slower, nodding to himself: clear.

  Leaning through the nearest swinging door into the restroom he swept the light at floor level to see under the toilet stalls: clear. “Six to three, interior secure,” he muttered into his mike and moved into the central room.

  A sudden motion to his right brought him around fast, the selector switch clicking to fire and the glowing neon red doughnut of the M-4’s ACOG sight seeking a target. Looking through the ACOG, which looked like a stubby scope, it took a moment to realize that what he had seen was the screen saver on a laptop computer sending a symbol summersaulted across its screen. Letting his breath sigh out, he flipped the selector back and stepped over to tap the laptop’s space bar.

  The screen was dull and the battery indicator was red, but the unit powered up. He nodded: the desktop image was the logo Addison had showed him: a stylized black ‘ZSC’ over an electric gold ‘031’. Closing the unit he slipped it into his empty patrol pack, along with its power cord and wireless mouse.

  Dyson’s theory looked right: the bunks were unmade and bedding was strewn everywhere, along with items of clothing and personal gear. The south window on the east side was smashed, and shell casings of several calibers littered the floor around it and the doorway.

  Marv eased through the bunk area, grabbing a bandolier of shotgun shells from the floor and a gun belt with a holstered revolver from a bedpost as he went.

  As to be expected, the survivalists hadn’t unpacked much and had bailed with efficiency, so not much gear had been left behind. He found a good pair of binoculars on a table and a first aid kit near the door that had probably fallen out of a pack, but other than a box of canned goods that was too bulky to bother with under his current situation, there wasn’t much worth taking.

  Cutting off his light, he moved a couple chairs out of the path to the back door, and took a good look at the front door’s latch before taking a quick look to check on the zombie. “Six to three, five count and its your show.”

  Flipping the selector switch, he inserted his tactical ear plugs and shouldered the M-4, leaning out just enough for one eye to take in the herd of zeds. He heard Dyson starting moving, the footsteps on gravel just barely audible over the sound of the rain. The footsteps faded under the sizzling noise of rain hitting the ground and he waited, feeling each heartbeat, nerve endings tingling, the light taking on the surreal quality it did in the eternal seconds spent hanging in anticipation of action.

  Then the engine turned over and a ripple of reaction went through the mass of zombies; heads turned and the wailing moan rattled from fifty or more throats. Leaning out, Marv brought up his M-4 and opened fire, bursting skulls as he panned left to right, gaining precious seconds as the zeds hesitated, torn between a visible shooter and the starter cranking.

  Then the hissing moans sounded and the herd started to split apart, some lurching towards the Cherokee as its engine caught and roared, and others struggling over the inert bodies of Marv’s victims to get to the shooter in the doorway.

  Staying glued to the ACOG’s modest sight aperture, Marv guessed the lead rank’s distance by the size of the head in the four-power scope. They had been a hundred feet away when he opened fire, and when the heads he was acquiring were twice the size of the first shot he lowered his weapon and slammed the door. Shooting the cast-iron bolt home he trotted across the cabin’s central area and out the back door, heading for the trees as he pulled and stowed his ear plugs.

  He could hear an engine racing off and figured Dyson was clear, but the operation had reached the point where the Georgian, like himself, was on his own.

  In amongst the trees Marv zigged and zagged at a brisk walk, paying more attention to his front and flanks than the rear, confident he could stay ahead of the main force of zombies but concerned that he might encounter a straggler wandering the wood lots.

  His earpiece clicked. “Three to six, I’m clear.”

  “Six to three, same. Be there in ten, be ready to move.”

  “Three to six, affirmative.”

  Their radio traffic procedure wasn’t really what the Army would consider passing quality but it worked, and there were more pressing training issues that worried Marv. His Gnomes were well on their way to being veterans against zombies, but if they went up against FASA terrorists or even just the criminals who were running wild everywhere he wasn’t very confident how well they would hold up. It was one thing to put down a zed and another entirely to drop an uninfected Human. Of the entire group only Brick could be counted on unilaterally in a firefight. He had given them a few days of basic infantry training and they were pretty motivated, but he was keenly aware how little that amounted to when the shooting started. His mania for appearance and uniforms stemmed from these concerns: lacking the time to train, he was hoping that by making the Gnomes think of themselves as soldiers he might instill a mindset that would help a bit when things got real.

  “Deb, I’m gonna get some people killed if I’m not careful,” he muttered. As his custom he talked to his late wife when alone and burdened with concerns. “Maybe I should have stayed in and let somebody else worry about the big picture and the logistics.”

  He grinned at that. “Nah, no way. You remember the awards ceremony? A Lieutenant General pinning the second-highe
st award for valor on me? The guy didn’t have a single Purple Heart, no combat awards, never heard a shot fired in anger. Just some staff clerk who never fired a military weapon except on a range. He couldn’t have gotten out of Florida or led a team to get pizza. Two minutes after the ceremony I put the medal back in its case and there it sits, completely meaningless. A token awarded by clerks and managers who got paid three times what they pay the guys who are doing the bleeding. I’m done being managed, done taking orders for chump change by phonies who pretend they are leaders.”

  He walked in silence for a while. “At least the other guys liked their medals. They sure as hell deserved them. I’m not out of the fight, just out of the Army.” He trudged along, cold, wet, and tired. “I know you were always big on fixing things, on causes and all that stuff, but that’s not me. I’m going to build something out of this corporation and make some money while I’m at it.”

  “The zombies aren’t so tough, Chief,” Associate Burt Morales said quietly; known as ‘Bugsy’ to his nickname loving fellow Gnomes, Burt was a solemn young man from Carrizozo, New Mexico, where he had worked days for an extermination company (hence his moniker) and attended community college at night.

  “Sure, provided you spent time training with your weapon, your buddies hold the line, and they come at you one at a time, dude,” Chip agreed from the driver’s seat of the bus. “Don’t ever be afraid of them, but don’t get cocky around them, either. They can mob you, or catch you by surprise. The trick is to fix it so they have to come at you on your terms.”

  The two were standing watch from the church bus, now twenty yards back from the entrance to the encampment. The rain was easing and the pair had dried off while on guard.

  “Sure, Chief. What do you think our next job is going to be?”

  Chip sighed inwardly; he wasn’t used to people looking to him for advice and leadership. Just because he had three black circles on his collar and had been in a couple more actions with zeds, the Associates thought he was some sort of boss. Chip Wilson was not, in his own opinion, boss material. “Same as always. The military establishes the safe zones, the Patriot Homesteads, and they set up perimeter patrols and reaction forces from the support people in the military, all the clerks, Air Force, Navy, and such. The real soldiers, the combat arms guys from the Army and the Marines, they go out and kill zeds and hunt down the criminal bands and FASA. Meanwhile security contractors like us guard key installations like oil refineries or pipelines that are outside secure zones, or we salvage goods and food to keep the Patriot Homesteads going. Director Burleson has set us up to run salvage operations because the pay is better and its probably safer in the long run.”

  “How is it safer, Chief? We’ve fought zombies twice today.”

  “Because something worth guarding but assigned to contractors is going to be isolated, just the sort of thing FASA or some other bunch would like to hit. The Director says that a unit that sits in one place decays. Look at you and me: twenty minutes on sentry and we’re doing more talking than watching.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, as both Gnomes were facing out, but Bugsy took the point. “Yeah, I get it, Chief. Stationary means sloppy. You start getting comfortable.”

  “There it is, dude. We stay mobile, agile, focused. Besides, the bonus money is going to make a big difference in the long run.”

  Chip’s radio, on speaker, crackled. “Five to all units, bring it in, Six has returned.”

  The large Gnome switched his radio back to the ear piece. “Time to get going.”

  Franklin Hodges had planned to spend two nights at the safe house before undertaking the non-stop drive north, but things weren’t going to work out.

  The safe house was a double-wide trailer tucked into the lee of an Oklahoma hillside, a scenic place a good distance from other houses but not so far into the countryside as to suggest a need for isolation. The couple that lived there, Jorje and Rita Gonzales, were thought of by their neighbors as quiet people who kept to themselves. Jorje was a mechanic at the local John Deere dealership and Rita did medical record transcription from home.

  In reality the pair had come to the USA in their late teens as part of the Mariel Boatlift in 1980; both had been recruited and trained by the Dirección General de Inteligencia, Cuba’s intelligence agency, prior to their departure. They had functioned as low-level assets until the demise of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War resulted in a drastic curtailment of Cuban operations. Declining to return to Cuba, the pair had remained in the USA, working with various leftist groups until they were caught up into the loose network of radical organizations that became FASA.

  They had welcomed him and made him comfortable, remaining friendly but maintaining a professional detachment suitable to this sort of operation. It wasn’t long, however, until Franklin had sensed a shift in mood. He had been on alert in any case: these two had come to a strange land as hardcore old-school Communists and had seen their political creed destroyed by the USSR’s fall, China’s compromises, and Vietnam’s steady advance into the capitalist camp. This made for people adrift on an ideological sea, people who were trained to betray from behind a façade and whose loyalties were set with shallow roots.

  Franklin wasn’t a man with a creed or loyalties to groups; rather, he was a man who believed in a cause the way other people had religion: as a direct connection for which intermediaries were unnecessary. It was and always had been his devoted view that Mankind as a whole was not necessary. Each person should be evaluated for their merits and potential, and those found to be lacking should either be employed as menials or disposed of entirely. In his more modest moments Franklin gave credit to Nietzsche for the core concept.

  A slender, short man of Armenian descent in his late forties, balding and wearing plain bifocal glasses, Franklin gave the appearance of an accountant or administrator, an image heightened by his habit of button-down shirts, clip-on bow ties, and dress slacks. It wasn’t a wholly inaccurate image as Franklin had spent nearly two decades as the accounts manager of a major biological research facility. Few of his co-workers had been aware that he held two doctorates, including one in virology.

  Sitting in the bedroom they had given him, a pleasant room done in a southwestern style, with his new road atlas open on his lap, Franklin pondered, absently tracing the line of a river with a fingertip.

  Nodding decisively, he set the atlas on the nightstand and rose, striding purposefully from the room.

  The Gonzales were in the kitchen, Rita at the stove stirring a large pot, Jorge at the table repairing the hinge on a beige plastic stand for a tablet or e-reader, the sort that folded up into a compact unit not much larger than a pocket knife.

  “Lunch in about five minutes,” Rita said over her shoulder, a short, stocky woman whose smile could light up her entire face. “I thought stew would go with the cool weather. There’s beer or lemonade in the fridge.”

  “Stew sounds nice,” Franklin admitted. As Jorje looked up from the screwdriver Franklin shot him twice in the forehead, the .22 Magnum rounds firing in the enclosed area making his head ring and his ears go numb.

  Rita shrieked at the gunshots and pawed at the door of a cabinet as Franklin took a step closer and shot her twice in the back of the head. He caught a quick glimpse of the butt of a pistol lying on a floral dish towel as the cabinet door swung closed again.

  Unlatching the warm stainless steel of the compact four-barreled COP derringer he dumped the expended cases into his hand and reloaded the tiny weapon before tucking it back into the leather folder that appeared to be nothing more than a billfold. The ejected casings he pocketed.

  Adjusting his bow tie, Franklin worked his jaw in a fruitless attempt to give his ears some relief, and stepped over Rita’s twitching body to turn off the burner. Having established that Rita was the thinker of the pair, he checked the kitchen junk drawer and then the recipe drawer. In the latter he found a playing card and a hinge-lift print card with a smudged but legib
le thumbprint.

  He sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. The playing card had the Department of Defense insignia and CATL on one side, and the Queen of Spades on the four corners of the other side. In the center of that same side were his photo, right thumbprint, and vital statistics, with ‘$500,000’ at the very bottom.

  The Counter-Asset Target List, CATL, commonly pronounced ‘cattle’, was nothing more than a glorified Wild West poster in Franklin’s opinion, a small action by small men. Non-citizens could be placed on CATL status by order of the President, while US citizens’ cases were tried in absentia before a panel of Federal judges, and the judges’ verdict reviewed by a panel of Congressmen before being forwarded to the President. Once on the CATL a subject was worth the indicated bounty, no questions asked. Both the Department of Defense and the DSR distributed playing cards with the wanted subjects listed, and an on-line site gave more detailed and updated information. Obviously the Gonzales’ had checked his official fingerprint against one they had lifted from a glass or similar surface.

  Tucking the cards into his shirt pocket he went to the bathroom he had used and wiped down the fixtures, repeating the process in the bedroom. Grabbing up his bag, which he had never unpacked, he banged his hip against the nightstand and cursed, limping a bit as he returned to the kitchen, pausing along the way to collect the couple’s laptop.

  He wiped down a few places he had touched before donning surgical gloves and locating a green cloth shopping bag in the pantry. Working with precision he assembled a half-dozen sandwiches from the contents of the refrigerator, adding a few cold bottles of water to the shopping bag as well.

  He considered burning the double-wide trailer but dismissed it as too likely to draw attention. He removed two ERF pamphlets from his suitcase and dropped one on each body before turning off the lights and departing, confident that very little investigation was being done on murders these days, even less when the proof of terror action were found on the scene.