Rolling Hunger

by R W Krpoun

  “Yeah. All that stuff,” Marv grinned.

  “Anyway, that shop we hit after plumbing place was a jewelry and clothes shop,” Chip dug into the bag.

  “You get your girl a ring?” JD asked.

  “A necklace, dude. Anyway,” he handed each a small white box. “We had been talking about the sort of things we wanted to be recognized, and I think this fits the bill.”

  The box contained a gunmetal gray pewter pin about two inches across. The center was a yawning skull wearing a beret, with wings sweeping out horizontally to each side like pilot’s wings

  “Nicely made,” JD admitted.

  “We want to call it the Combat Operator’s Badge. You need twenty days on active operations, at least one building clearing with resistance, one successful rescue operation, and zeds personally downed by both melee and gunfire.”

  Marv was impressed. “Pretty stringent standards.”

  “They gotta be to mean anything, dude. Only the seven of us qualify right now, but the associates are only lacking in field time. We figure the rule will be you only wear it when not in the field.”

  “It would impress the girls back at base,” JD admitted.

  “OK, write up a detailed order for the standards and a policy on display,” Marv said. “Nice work.”

  “There’s more,” the husky Gnome produced another pair of boxes, each containing a pewter pin the size of quarter depicting a skull in profile. “We figure this is the Close Combat Award; to get it you have to take out a zed in body-to-body combat, full contact. Like Dyson and Bugsy had to do.”

  “Sort of a consolation prize,” Marv nodded. “One thing: these awards only work if you have enough to go around. They’ll trash morale if two months from now a newbie earns one and goes without.”

  “You can only get the COB once, and I’ve got sixty-five of them. We found over two hundred of the CCA pins.”

  “I really hope we don’t need that many,” JD said with feeling. “I thought Dyson was a goner. I never felt so helpless in my life.”

  “OK, it’s a go,” Marv handed the boxes back. “You are the official keeper of the medals, and the records; get something written up for each before we get back home, and we’ll pin them on. What else are you guys going after?”

  “Medals and dress uniforms.”

  “We can’t wear anything used by the US Military as a dress uniform, now or in the past, and no awards, decorations, or badges to include ROTC and CAP awards. We’re lucky the regs didn’t specify the ROTC rank brass,” Marv warned him. “And that they didn’t extend it to discontinued tactical uniforms.”

  “We’re working on it, dude,” Chip assured him. “We have a line on both, staying perfectly legal. We’re looking at blazers and slacks like some veterans’ organizations use, and there are companies that make medals for police, costumes, and civic organizations. Addison’s doing a Net search for possible outlets, specifically for ones on the rail routes we’re taking. These pins aren’t unique, either, so we’re checking for more sources.”

  “Just keep the standards high, and the requirement plausible; I don’t want our guys looking like Somalian war lords. Or those Russians in World War Two who could use their decorations as body armor.”

  “We’re not trying to look like a joke,” Chip assured him. “But it’s bragging rights and….it’s kinda cool, dude. A little something to show you’ve been there, you know? We’re thinking maybe a badge after you’ve cleared a certain number of buildings.”

  “In World War Two the Germans gave their troops this cloth stripe that they sewed to their sleeve,” Marv tapped his bicep. “One for each tank destroyed without using an anti-tank gun. It was so successful they had to create a stripe that counted as five tanks.”

  “Prefect, dude,” Chip grinned. “We could have one for clearing buildings against zeds, and another for rescuing people, wear ‘em on opposing sleeves. I’ll get Sylvia looking at designs.”

  “Lotta enthusiasm in that guy,” JD observed as Chip hurried off.

  “It’s good for morale. Napoleon said he could capture the Moon if he had enough medals to hand out. Even the Romans had a system of medals.”

  “You notice that his patrol was cutting up while they were getting ready, but they all fell in when the fat man stepped off?” JD asked. “It takes more than a piece of pot metal on your collar to make that happen. I didn’t expect much from Chip, but he has really stepped up in a short time.”

  “War does that,” Marv observed. “Chip never had anything to measure up to before.”

  As the train jerked into motion car by car the Gnomes turned to housekeeping chores, primarily the business of erecting a shelter from the cold air flow from the train’s passage and future precipitation. Brick and Bear sketched out a design and the PVC structure quickly took shape at the head of the second-to-last flatbed. When the PVC bonds had matured they covered the structure with rolls of light canvas taken from the clothing and jewelry store and industrial plastic they took from the warehouse.

  Anchoring the assembly required immediate a re-design as the shelter showed a distinct inclination to take flight, and more struts were required once they had it affixed in place, but they had plenty of materials and manpower. The end result was not attractive, but it did block the wind and showed potential for shedding moisture.

  The warehouse had yielded up enough blankets to issue three per Gnome, and while they were thick, wooly, and king-size they were also a very vivid yellow. The Gnomes promptly dubbed them ‘canary covers’.

  Bear made three long narrow barricades from the leftover materials; by wedging them against the trucks’ front wheels they protected anyone underneath the trucks from the wind.

  Later, under the rearmost truck with their sleeping bags zipped together and three canary covers under and over them, Bear and Bambi settled in for the night.

  “Don’t even think about getting rowdy,” she warned him. “It’s too damned cold, there’s too many people around, and I’m not doing it under a truck.”

  “Its forty without the wind chill,” the biker stretched out and then settled himself. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really in the mood. We’re a bit too exposed, security-wise; I ain’t one of those guys who digs sex in dangerous places.”

  “Not that you have that option in any case. Only people who have never been in danger think that its sexy, kind of like the only people who think getting tied up is cool are people who never have been tied up for real.”

  “The trailer still wearing on you?”

  Bambi hesitated. “Yeah…not so much my part, but hearing that girl. Yeah, I was scared for me, but the way she screamed…that was horrible. You know, I’ve used the words horrible, horrifying, horror, all those my whole life and it wasn’t until that trailer that I learned what they meant.”

  “Marv said it was pretty bad.”

  “Sometimes I wonder how she is dealing with it; we just bundled them into a van, gave them guns and food and sent them on their way.”

  “Staying with us would have been more risky for them, what with FASA hot on our heels. A lot of people died on that run, on both sides.”

  “I know it was the right thing, the only real option, but it sucks when the best option isn’t…good, you know? Kind of like when they cut off your foot to save your leg. For the rest of her life she’s going to be wondering what the hell was going on, why she got caught up in someone else’s war.”

  “Well, at least she has a life to have the rest of,” Bear pointed out. “We did that.”

  “Yeah,” Bambi snuggled a little closer. “I just get…stressed sometimes.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Bear was silent for a minute. “Back before the outbreak, you know, I really felt like a hard SOB all the time. Didn’t play by the rules, kicked many an ass in a parking lot, went into county jails and inmates walked wide of me. Now…that’s like stuff you do when you a little kid playing make-believe. The zombies come at you and they coul
d care less about your jacket or your patches or the scars on your knuckles, they just come at you like a shark and its root, hog, or die. You have to be tough and fast and smart and be thinking all the time because there’s no real rules ‘cept the lines you draw for yourself…its rugged. It was in Sharpsburg that it kinda came together for me. I was in this stairwell trying to get a bunch of geezers out, and there’s the door to the roof standing ajar. I run up there, pop a couple zombies and lock it, then run back down. It’s secure, you know? It’s not like it was heroic or anything, but we’re under pressure, fighting room to room, and I saw it, did it, and went back to the mission. It felt good, it felt right in a way…really right. Like all my life I been acting the way I thought tough was, and then this stuff happened and I find out that tough is something completely different.”

  “Well, you’re definitely tough by anyone’s standards.”

  “Maybe. I think I’m like semi-tough right now, but I’m getting tougher. In Sharpsburg I saw these old guys, some could barely walk, but they’re keeping the women calm, got a good word for those that’re scared. Keeping everyone on track and moving. That’s tough. It ain’t bench pressing and bare knuckles, its functioning when the world is turning to shit all around you. It’s being useful when things need doing.”

  “Well, you guys were definitely both useful and heroic when you got me and Sylvia out,” Bambi hugged him.

  “I was never useful before,” Bear said thoughtfully. “I made good money, a lot of it illegal, but I wasn’t useful. I was just a small timer livin’ large.”

  She smiled into the darkness. “You’re starting to sound like a crusader or something.”

  “Nah.” After a moment he scratched his cheek. “Maybe. The looks on peoples’ faces when you pull ‘em out of the fire. Most of ‘em, anyway,” he amended. “Man, it’s like…something good,” he finished awkwardly.

  “Fulfilling.”

  “Fulfilling,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Yeah. Fulfilling.”

  “You’re getting to be all kinds of respectable,” she giggled. “Pretty soon you’ll be too saintly to hang around with unemployed ex-strippers.”

  “Not hardly.”

  Marv sat and watched the darkness, the train rattling along at around thirty miles an hour. “First mission of three down, Deb,” he said softly. “We did good, they’re looking pretty sharp. They can hang with zombies, but sooner or later we’re going to go up against shooters, and then things will get well and truly bad, I think. Most of the senior guys will stand up, but the new guys will be so-so. Nobody really rocks in their first firefight. If I can just get more time to train them, for them to think like soldiers, for them to get used to putting down zombies…I just need time, babe.” He sighed. “Big question is, will I get it?”

  He stroked the cold metal of the M-4’s receiver, thinking hard, digging back to Ranger School, to every block of training the Army had given him. Some ‘training’ had still been sanitized politically correct nonsense, but enough of the old truths that never go out of date had survived, and Afghanistan had taught him the difference between the two and a lot more besides.

  Opening a pouch on his MOLLE vest, he pulled out the water-tight case that held the pocket New Testament he had been carrying since Basic. It was too dark to read, but he held the worn book, its cover mended with green hundred-mile-an-hour tape, and wondered. Wondered if the Lord had set his life into motion for these days, and if so how many other men and women’s lives had been groomed to face this crisis. Not for the first time did he wonder if Mankind was a chessboard between Good and Evil, with the pieces on both sides shaped for the tasks at the hand, Light facing Darkness across a glassy expanse of board, played for stakes he could not even imagine.

  Or perhaps this was just a test whose outcome was less important than how those caught in it bore their tribulations. A test to determine whose faith withstood the shock, whose foundations had been built upon solid ground, and whose house would be swept away.

  Bowing his head, he prayed for his soul and his men’s lives, for the strength to command well and to die well when his time came.

  Replacing the Bible in its pouch he watched the security light of a lonely ranch or country house slide by, mind busy with the problems that could come on the morrow.

  Doctor Davenport studied the screens, looking for the telltales that would let him crack the truth. He had been badly shaken by what he had discovered, but a lifetime of opposition to modern society had trained him to deal with crisis and setbacks, and he had reached deep and found a focus.

  The key issues he was addressing were: what faction had been behind the separate bioweapon, how much influence did they have within the current FASA structure, and what were their goals?

  The three tied back to the simple question of how much danger was he, himself facing, but while hardly altruistic Cyrus was in his heart of hearts a company man, and he wanted FASA to win, to pull down the rotten structure that was the modern world and to reduce the population to a manageable level. He would not abandon this great and necessary work unless there was absolutely no other way to survive.

  He was reasonably certain that the ERF was behind the effort. The three other survivors of Static Overview had ended up defecting with the ERF when that organization bolted hours after the outbreak went live.

  Keenly aware that there might be turncoats on his staff, the Doctor pulled the electronic files, dossiers, and updates on five splinter factions including the ERF so that anyone watching his data access would not be tipped to his interest.

  Like every other group associated with FASA, past or present, the ERF was seeking the overthrow of the social and cultural order, but their solution was more drastic: they believed that Mankind had abused their role as the head of the food chain, and so sought to overthrow the Human race from that pinnacle and cause a reversion to Stone Age technological levels, and to ensure that in the future Mankind remained at that level. Their exact plan for that process was unclear, although the 618 virus would seem to be a highly useful tool for that ultimate goal.

  Whatever they had planned, the defection of three of the survivors to the ERF and a core objective that went further than any other group Cyrus could think of made the ERF the most likely candidate. The fact that they were extremely militant for their size supported the theory; in the early stages of the outbreak a number of organizations who had been dedicated to the violent overthrow of society had faltered and collapsed under the strain when rhetoric became action. The Doctor had seen it countless times at every level of the struggle: it was one thing to commend, admire, and support terror operations, especially when holding a drink at a party, but it was another matter entirely to actually take the field.

  Satisfied with the first answer, Cyrus pondered the second issue: how much influence did they have within the current FASA structure? After carefully examining the question he decided the literal answer was ‘limited’, because if they had the ability to dynamically influence FASA they would not have split with the organization, nor need to covertly suborn Static Overlook. However, they would most certainly have a few moles in the FASA organization and subjects who would spy upon FASA activities for pay or out of residual loyalty.

  His office would most certainly be compromised as Hodges answered directly to Doctor Davenport; therefore the ERF would have people watching to ensure that their man was safe. Not too many lest they alert FASA’s own in-house security, but enough that Hodges would know what was afoot.

  Cyrus took a deep breath: his safety on the short haul was assured, but he would have to make every effort to ensure that the ERF never suspected that he knew what was going on. Gathering his notes, he carefully shredded them and set about flipping through the files on the other groups so that if they had a remote watch on his CPU the deception would hold up. But while he was absently working the mouse he puzzled at the third question: what was the ERF trying to do?

  The key was Hodges, he decided: he had not gone over to
the ERF when it split, but had stayed on, even though his broad skills set would be very useful to the ERF, who did not eschew the use of technology in the accomplishment of their goals. They had left Hodges in place, not to spy but because FASA had resources that the ERF did not have or were unwilling to apply.

  Could it be Project Lantern? The Doctor pulled up Lantern’s files and glanced over the familiar documents. The project was a brilliant counter-move to the Patriot Homesteads: the creation and distribution into the Homesteads of booby-traps which would infect the victim with the 618 virus, thus threatening the safe zones’ security while destroying the peoples’ faith in their government’s ability to protect them. That was the key: break the government and the vast majority of the population within its borders was doomed; just looking at the operations plan was calming, as it was a good plan nearing implementation.

  But while Hodges was very able and well-suited to lead Lantern, he could have made Lantern work with the ERF’s resources, and likewise if Hodges had not been available FASA would have assigned other people. He was the best virologist available to the terror campaign in the Western hemisphere, but Lantern did not require the very best.

  So it was not a case of the ERF wanting Lantern to proceed but lacking the resources, nor the ERF having a reason to stop Lantern. What, then, was the reason they had left Hodges in place?

  Cyrus sighed and sorted out the administrative files and returns. Under the circumstances there was only one conclusion to draw: Hodges was remaining with FASA not because of Project Lantern itself, but rather because Project Lantern was useful a cover for whatever he was really working on.

  And if that was the case, then any leads available to him would be in the nuts and bolts of the operation.

  The fifteenth dawned cloudy and grim; the Gnomes rolled out of their beds while the train steadily picked up speed as the visibility increased. Cold and grumbling, they went about their ablutions (Marv required shaving every day in the field) as the burners on the small and badly overworked camp stoves flared into life.