by R W Krpoun
Safe entry into the Homestead was by one of three Liberty Stations, which also served as processing points for dislocated subjects (the word ‘refugee’ was never used) who arrived on their own, rescued individuals, or intakes from Relocation Centers.
The Gnomes parked their trucks and waited while Marv and JD, unarmed, advanced into the checkpoint to obtain clearance to enter, bringing Margie and her son with them.
Bear sat on the shoulder of the road in a green camp chair with black ballistic support rods that was a legacy of their mission across the south, idly shuffling his deck of cards. Chip sat nearby on an overturned orange Home Depot bucket wiping dust from his M-1 carbine and whistling.
“That’s ‘Solsbury Hill’, right?” the biker guessed.
“Yeah.”
“Not bad.”
A young blond woman in a faded blue sun dress and light blue flip-flops came from the direction of the Liberty Station, walking carefully on the shoulder of the road, a denim shoulder bag hanging off one shoulder decorated with peace symbols and Greenpeace patches. As she approached Bear looked up. “Gotta cross the road, honey,” he grinned. “Decent folks should avoid the blue bumpers.”
“Can I pass out my flyers?” she asked the biker, smiling sweetly as she lifted a stack of canary yellow paper from her bag.”
“Sorry.”
“Can I give you one?”
“Sure. I’ll even read it to my friend.”
“Thank you.” She handed Bear a sheet and moved across the road.
“So what are they selling?” Chip asked without interest, scratching away a patch of mud from the OD green nylon strap of his carbine’s three-point sling.
“You won’t believe this,” Bear growled, sitting bolt upright in the chair.
“Try me.”
“ ‘People For The Ethical Treatment of the Infected’,” the biker read in a hard tone. “ ‘Please Read This’ with a bunch of exclamation marks. ‘Genocide is not the answer! Infected Humans are still Human Beings! The US Government has suspended all civil rights to persons infected with the 618 virus. Think about this! This Order essentially strips them of their very humanity. It is a crime, often a felony, to kill an animal, yet an infected person may be gunned down in front of her children by any gun-toting throwback and there will be no consequences whatsoever. Is this America, or Nazi Germany?’ ”
“ ‘This cannot continue. We cannot condone or permit such wanton slaughter of our fellow citizens! Infection does not mean non-entity! Non-lethal capture and confinement are the only legal and moral responses to this outbreak. Not arming criminals and empowering rogue gun-lovers! Please, help us stop this tragedy before more lives are lost. Please contact your Congressman and urge them restore civil rights to all Americans, including those who may be affected by disease.’ ”
“ ‘Do it now! Perhaps the next disease that makes Humans fair game will be diabetes, or alcoholism, or obesity! If we work together, we all can come through this, infected and non-infected alike! Genocide is not the answer! Be part of the solution! Speak out now! Pass this to others! Share the Truth!’ ”
Chip stared at Bear, who had crumpled the yellow paper, then thought better and smoothed it against his thigh. “Dude…you’re shitting me.”
“Not a bit.”
“They don’t want the zombies to die?”
“That’s what it says.” Bear folded the sheet and tucked it away.
“So we’re throwbacks for rescuing Margie and her kid? And that family at the rest stop?”
“Yup.”
“Dude, we lost people getting to Texas…people are getting killed all over the place. Remember I-75?”
“Yeah.”
Chip sighed and looked at the carbine in his lap. “Dude, this is so wrong…it’s like those protesters during Vietnam. We’re trying to hold things together and they’re calling us Nazis.”
“Screw ‘em.”
“Yeah,” Chip stroked the stock of the M-1 sadly.
After a couple minutes Bear looked over. “Buck up, Chip. Remember the faces on the geezers we rescued in Oklahoma when we first hit the state. They didn’t have any problem with us. No matter what you do or who you are, somebody hates you for it, that’s just a fact.”
“PETI,” Marv snarled and started to crumple the battered yellow sheet, then stopped and passed it to JD. “Brief the guys, it will have less impact if they hear it from us.”
“What about adjusting the attitudes of a couple of these assholes, take their mind off the zeds?” Bear suggested.
“Not so it comes back to us,” Marv nodded grimly. “Nothing rash, nothing unplanned. But yeah, I think we’ll adjust an attitude or two should the opportunity arise. For now let’s go home.”
Home for the Yard Gnomes was a building that had housed an unsuccessful furniture store on the outskirts of Wagonbow, Texas, population 5300, the county seat and now the command center for Patriot Homestead Texas Two. It wasn’t a perfect setup, but there was some floor display furniture left and it had enough restrooms that they didn’t have to deal with porta johns. Brick and Bear had rigged up showers and the Gnomes were laboriously building partitions to make the place more livable, but it was definitely a work in progress, and the early stages of progress at that.
The Associates were happy to be back as it meant an opportunity to strut through town in their best uniforms to impress the local and displaced girls, and partying in the cluster of bars that had sprung up as the town tripled in population overnight.
“Tomorrow I’ll see what the DSR wants, and then see about swapping our intel for a plane ticket for Dyson’s girl,” Marv advised the senior Gnomes. “JD, Dyson, Chip, get ready to dispose of our salvage, but wait until I come back in case I pick up something specific for us to do. Addison, put together what we have on Hodges into a neat, professional package. Brick, tomorrow get after the CBs and the truck seats. Bear, tomorrow take who you need and pull maintenance on the trucks and get the Cherokee pimped up for sale. Anyone have anything to add? All right, enjoy your evening.”
The Patriot Homestead was the heart of the USA’s war with the 618 virus. Areas where the virus had not reached or where its intrusions had perished swiftly were made into safe zones secured by military and paramilitary forces, and made destinations for displaced persons from the areas where the virus was rampant. While the military, aided by State Guards and less formal groups, was capable of securing the Homesteads the next biggest challenge was feeding the expanding populations.
Salvage and security was where the expanding crop of private military contractors came into play: they mounted forays outside the Homesteads, gathering food, medicine, household goods, building materials, and the thousand and one different items needed to support the population in the safe zones. The fact that they killed zombies and frequently clashed with criminal elements was simply a benefit to the government’s way of thinking. To prevent inflation and hoarding the salvage operators were required to hand over their proceeds to Homestead banks at fixed rates.
To keep their actions profitable the salvage companies were able to sell certain items and quantities of salvage so long as they brought back a corresponding ratio of goods for the food banks. The accounting was more complex on paper than it was in practice and the flow of food and essential goods into the Homesteads was enough to keep the populations fed and supplied.
The DSR’s operations supporting Texas Two were run out of an old storefront not far off the town square; Marv took George Sanchez with him, and left the Associate outside the storefront with his weapons, as all visitors were required to sign in and be disarmed.
He waited in a tiny, undecorated room that had been created with partitions of unpainted wood. A dozen petitioners in civilian clothing and two uniformed security operators were waiting with him, sitting on mismatched chairs that smelled faintly of greasy meat.
He sat on the wobbly chrome and bronze-colored plastic chair for half an hour, studying his notes and plans on a t
ablet, elbows propped on the leather briefcase containing Addison’s report on Hodges lying across his knees. Six more civilians came in during that time and one contractor had been called back when Hugh Redman stuck his head out the door-less entry in the partition and called Marv’s name.
Redman was the Gnome’s contact officer, a heavy-set, balding black man with bifocals and a perpetually queasy look on his face wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tired pair of khaki slacks. He was good to work with, fair and friendly in a harried, overworked manner. Predictably he addressed the issue even as they wove their way through the desks to his cubicle. “Marv, you’re being tapped for a special project. It looks like you could make some money doing it, but that’s just me guessing. They sent a VIP to present the deal, so I’m just going to drop you with him and get back to my rat-killin’. How was your operation?”
“Short but profitable. Say, you heard anything about zombies acting strange?”
“Marv, they’re zombies: strange is all they do.” He led the Ranger up the narrow stairs and waved him into a tiny break room. “Anton Grase, Marvin Burleson.”
Grase stood and offered his hand, a slender man with gray hair worn short, elegant features, and the polished manner of a born bureaucrat. He was dressed in a blue blazer with brass buttons that Marv guessed was not cheap, a pale blue shirt, subdued tie, and gray slacks pressed to a knife’s edge, and conveyed an air of a nobleman granting a peasant a very privileged opportunity. “I’m pleased to meet you, Director Burleson. Please have a seat; I must apologize for the surroundings, but as you well know the Homestead is still in a very improvised state.”
“Call me Marvin.” Marv took a chair at the card table. “What can the Yard Gnomes do for the DSR?”
“Set an example.” Grase removed a contract from his briefcase and set it before the Gnome leader. “Simply put, the DSR is mounting a new program to increase the efficiency of salvage operations while at the same time improving citizen appreciation for the private security forces and the DSR. And providing a bit of welcome diversion as a side-effect. Frankly, it is a plan that seems to have no downside.”
“Hard to imagine a program with no downside,” Marv grinned. Grase flashed a micro smile in response.
“In a nutshell, Operation Rolling Hunger will mount security contactors and their vehicles on trains. The trains will operate much like aircraft carriers: the train will roll into the vicinity of an area in which salvage may be encountered and discharge the contractors. Once the contractors have completed their operation they will return to the train, off-load their proceeds into boxcars for immediate DSR credit, and be whisked off to the next area. I expect that the savings in fuel and wear on your vehicles will be considerable, while a train can move salvage far more efficiently than any sort of truck.”
Marv considered that. “Getting our vehicles on and off the train would be an issue.”
“Ramps are being fitted; I understand the military has plans on file for rail system egress.”
“What about security for the train while the contactors are away?”
“Security contactors without vehicles working on straight salary, or paramilitary operatives.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Marv admitted.
“Rolling Hunger is more than just a transport and salvage tactic; while it is a test bed for operations of its sort, it is also a showcase opportunity. With each of the first Rolling Hunger units will be a camera crew and a celebrity who will create a reality TV program episode about the operation. As I said, it will be uplifting for the public to see the efforts the DSR are making, the role security contractors play, and in general the fact that while the United States is wounded, it is far from slain.”
“So Rolling Hunger is going to be on reality TV?” Marv couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Yes. Not live, of course, but as a PR opportunity it would be excellent. Which brings us to your company: we need to ensure that the corporate forces on these publicized first efforts of Rolling Hunger are drawn from the most reliable units available. The YGAT Corporation was one of the first candidates selected.”
Marv stared at the contract to give himself time to think. “It sounds sort of…crazy.”
“The very nature of reality TV tests one’s concepts of sanity,” Grase observed drily. “However, its place in popular culture is a very established, if inexplicable, fact.”
“That’s true.” The contract was brief, and pleasant to read: in addition to salvage the Gnomes would be paid by the day. Not a lot, but enough to grab his attention. “My guys aren’t actors.”
“I am not overly familiar with the genre, but my recent research suggests that talent and training in the performing arts are not required in this field; in fact one might argue they are a liability. Tell your men to be themselves; after all, neither the zombies nor FASA elements will be impressed by the presence of a camera.”
“True.”
“Can we count on your participation?”
The Ranger hesitated. “Look, we have urgent business up north; in Grand Forks, North Dakota to be precise, and in western Minnesota. Picking up family members.”
Grase pulled an iPad from his briefcase and tapped the screen several times. “We have an operation running from Fort Hood to the Canadian border and back, one of several being done to demonstrate that regardless of the disorder we can still move the width and breadth of the nation at will. The train will pass through Grand Forks. It has an assigned contractor who has not yet committed; I can substitute your Corporation but that will require a fast turn-around on your part. You must be ready to deploy by noon on the fourteenth of October, and today is the twelfth.”
Marv gave it some thought, tapping his fingers on the briefcase. “OK, we’re in.”
“Excellent. As it happens, I will be representing the DSR on that train.”
“…and we get paid,” Marv concluded the briefing. The senior Gnomes were gathered on their home base’s loading dock, Bear sitting on his green camp chair while the others perched on stacks of pallets.
“So we take part of a publicity stunt just to get Dyson’s squeeze?” Bear shook his head. “There’s plenty of equally desperate chicks right here in town.”
The Georgian shot the biker the finger. “It’s a straight-up deal?”
“Yeah, a combined publicity event and test bed program,” the Ranger held up a stack of documents. “Grase printed me up the qualifications and standards. Its legit salvage and rescue work while testing a new deployment system. And good publicity for everyone involved.”
“Hey, who’s the celebrity, dude?” Chip asked. “Lee Emory would be cool, or Ollie North.”
“Emory is leading a bunch of ex-Marines pulling rescue ops on the East Coast and North is reporting for the Armed Forces Network,” JD shook his head.
“How about Gordon Liddy?” Bear asked.
“Dead: he bought it in a rear guard action during an evacuation in Pittsburg. Went down shooting.”
“Damn,” Bear sighed. “Too bad.”
“You can quit with the wish lists: we got Dirk Chambers.”
“DO IT LIKE DIRK!” Brick roared, startling everyone but Addison. “YES!”
“Who is he?” Marv asked. “He sounds like a porn star.”
“Ex-Marine Force Recon, shock jock and reality TV hero,” JD shrugged. “Hosts shows where he tests weapons, visits old battlefields, goes overseas and looks for MIAs. He got his start doing articles for Soldier of Fortune, boots on the ground stuff.”
“Awesome magazine,” Bear commented.
“Never read it,” Dyson shrugged.
“They tell the stories nobody else does.”
“Sometimes it’s the pro wrestling of the print media,” JD commented. “Lots of flash. But they do come up with some developments well ahead of mainstream media. Mainly because the deranged bastards they use as field reporters go places that Delta Force would think was too hairy.”
“Do it like Dirk!” Brick clapped his hands, face radiant with child-like glee. “Good news.”
“I guess that’s his slogan?” Marv asked the Pole.
“Yes! Very great man, very great patriot. He hates Russians, muslims, all those.”
“It could be worse, we could have gotten what’s-her-name from New Jersey. Snooki or Spooky or whatever,” JD said thoughtfully. “Or Jesse Ventura.”
“I liked those guys on Duck Dynasty,” Dyson admitted.
“At least they can shoot,” Bear conceded. “Our luck, we would have gotten that nimrod who makes cakes.”
“Which one? There’s like five cake shows, dude.” Chip pointed out.
“Seriously? How much can you say about cakes?”
“All right, enough on the celebrity status and options,” Marv got the meeting back on track. “The train picks us up on noon the fourteenth, that’s the day after tomorrow, and we have to be locked and loaded. No trailers, just the trucks, and I figure we better take both girls along, so we will need to work out some way to secure our place and the trailers. There’s going to be another contract outfit, Hard Eight Rescues, and some Texas State Guardsmen as non-dismounting security for the train. We need a good, in-depth briefing for our guys on dealing with the camera crews, and on getting along with the State Guard and the other contractors. That train will be tight quarters and I don’t want trouble.”
“You expect trouble?” JD cocked an eyebrow.
“Hard Eight is led by James Walters, formerly an Army SpecOps Colonel, now retired. He was a legend in the Army, a complete and utter moron of the highest degree. When he was first in-country in Afghanistan, this was back in the early days of the War on Terror, he took his team in civvies out to look around. They get stopped by armed Afghanis, probably tribal security forces, and the Americans don’t have a single loaded weapon. The Afghanis helped themselves to the weapons and gear loaded in the vehicle and sent them on their way. Something like two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of weapons and gear, some of it classified, lost while sight-seeing.”