by RW Krpoun
Even as Marv started to breathe a prayer of thanks there was a sudden metallic scream from outside and an explosion of sparks erupted outside the left side of the bird. The big Ranger had time to think “Power lines” before the world spun out of control and a giant fist smashed him into eternal darkness.
Jefferson ‘JD’ Davis
JD eased off the gas as a snarl of lights came into view, and tapped his brakes as he drew closer and saw that it looked like nothing so much as a traffic jam, except that cars were in the ditch in addition to being all over the road. His caution wasn’t usual-normally the pro wrestling promoter was an aggressive driver, but tonight’s events had chilled him to the bone.
He had been in the Miami area checking out a pair of Cuban brothers who he had heard might be getting close to being ready for the big time, but not so close that they couldn’t be huckstered into a good contract. He hadn’t been able to focus on the job, though, because reports of the flu outbreak and rioting in the barrios. On impulse he had decided that the Cubans would get their break later and headed north in his Cadillac.
He had pushed it hard, rolling north fifteen miles over the limit, Christopher Cross on the sound system singing about getting to the border of Mexico. He drove non-stop until his gas gauge dipped down to a quarter tank. At the next truck stop he fueled up, hit the head, and bought a take-out burger and fries.
An hour ago he had pulled into a rest area gas stop to top off his tank and stretch his legs. Coming out the store with a bottle of water and four energy bars in a plastic sack, he saw a beat-up-looking drunk come staggering across the asphalt and dive onto a woman standing next to a blue mini-van filled with suitcases and bags. The guy was biting like he was in a screen-test for a remake of Jaws-a lifetime in the wrestling business and JD had never seen anything even remotely like it.
Without thinking he had rushed over and given the guy a full-leg kick, putting the toe of his five-hundred-dollar Gucci dress loafers just under the drunk’s floating rib with all of his six-foot-two frame behind it. JD hadn’t wrestled in nearly twenty years but he still had a lot of the beef, and the kick sent the drunk crashing into the min-van’s front tire.
The woman’s husband dragged her away as JD leaned in, concerned he might have seriously maimed the drunk. The guy looked more dead than alive, so gray-skinned that JD had mistaken him for white when in fact he was a light-skinned black man, wheezing like he had a severe case of asthma. Sucking wind or not, the drunk immediately rolled to his side and started clawing his way back to his feet.
JD yelled at him to stay down, and finally kicked him again, a good heel-shot to the kidney which should have put him down for the count, except it didn’t: he just crashed to the asphalt and immediately started clawing for handholds on the tire to drag himself upright. Watching him JD was reminded of a machine mindlessly trying to accomplish the same task over and over.
Watching the drunk with horrified fascination, JD didn’t realize someone was yelling at him until a hand grabbed his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a heavyset older man in jeans, tee shirt, and a green John Deere cap with a pump-action shotgun braced on his hip.
“Son, you better get into your car and haul ass-they’re here!” The man turned and repeated his message to the husband of the stricken woman, who had a plastic first aid kit open and was bandaging her wounds. John Deere than stepped forward and shot the drunk point-blank in the head, blowing brains and blood all over the tire.
JD staggered back, stunned. John Deere racked the shotgun and fired again-looking in the direction of the shot JD saw a young, sick-looking Hispanic woman in a soiled waitress uniform knocked off her feet by the shot. John Deere ejected the shell, hesitated, then racked open the breech of his weapon and cursed. “Out. You gotta shoot ‘em in the head. Better haul ass, son.” John Deere promptly took his own advice.
Dazed, JD shook his head, utterly confused. His disorientation only intensified when he saw the waitress climb to her feet and resume her advance, her uniform blouse and her chest mauled by the impact of the buckshot. Looking beyond her, JD saw the chain restaurant whose uniform she wore and realized there was a vehicle embedded in the front of the building. More figures were crossing the grassy expanse between that parking lot and this one, all moving with the same staggering gait as the drunk and the waitress.
He had absolutely no idea what was going on-the entire world had come unshipped from its moorings, but in the vortex of confusion JD seized upon John Deere’s words and took to his heels.
He had driven half a mile before he realized he was still clutching the plastic bag.
Staff Sergeant Marvin Burleson
Consciousness returned slowly. Marv hung in weightless limbo, confused thoughts of burning microwave popcorn and summer hammocks rambling around in his dazed consciousness. Very slowly reality seeped in and the confusion eased back until he realized that instead of a hammock he was hanging from the crash harness in a motionless helicopter that was nose down. The image of burning popcorn was prompted by the smell of burning plastic and electronic beeping coming from the cockpit.
The red cargo lights were still on, and the right cargo door was gone; it was dark outside, but he could see grass through the open doorway, and smell freshly turned earth under the cloying smell of aviation fuel.
Synapses closed and he realized that avgas fumes and the smell of melting plastic meant he was sitting at ground zero of a pending bonfire. Instinctively he touch-checked for his weapon and was stunned to realize it was gone. Fumbling with clumsy fingers, he discovered that his one-point sling had been cut, and his magazine pouches were open and empty.
At least the payload was in place-that was something. He managed to unfasten and wriggle out of the safety harness, losing his helmet in the process-the chin strap had come unsnapped, and the Kevlar brain bucket bounced out into the darkness.
Free, he took stock: Wilcox was still strapped in next to him, the crew chief was still dead, and the left-hand pilot was dead in his seat. Bucky and the right-seat pilot were gone.
Wilcox was gone, too, Marv realized: someone had shot him in the head at point blank range. Struggling to maintain his position on the high end of the sloped cargo bay, Marv patted the Fed down, locating the man’s sat phone in the left cargo pocket of his 511 tactical pants, as well as three magazines for the Fed’s H&K USP, although the pistol was gone. He figured that Wilcox must have lost it when the whole mess went down.
Sliding down to the forward bulkhead, Marv cursed: his pack was gone. Casting about, he was struck by inspiration and rolled the dead crew chief over, recovering the man’s sidearm and a spare magazine from the thigh holster. He started for the dead pilot, but the avgas fumes were growing stronger so he ducked through the open door and headed out into the night air, reflexively reaching for his night vision googles, only to blurt a curse when he discovered they were also missing.
Pulling out his tactical flashlight, he staggered off across what looked like a pasture, his first goal to get clear of the wreck, second goal to find a place of concealment, and third goal to make contact.
His second goal was realized when he found the rusted hulk of a 50s-era pickup two hundred yards from the crash site. Heaving himself up into the bed, he paused to listen closely, and then dug out the sat phone.
He had watched Wilcox program it before they took off, so it only took a couple tries before he heard the purr of a phone ringing, and then a man answered, crisp and authoritative. “Control. Identify.”
“This is Fastbox Two. Situation critical, over.”
“Hold on.” Marv slumped against the cool metal of the truck bed and watched the blanket of stars overhead. The phone beeped twice, and someone else picked up. “Section D. Identify.”
“This is Fastbox Two. Situation critical.”
“Fastbox, you’ve missed two sitreps. Where are you, and who are you?”
“This is Staff Sergeant Marvin Burleson, Alpha Company, First of the Seventy Fifth. I was NCO
IC of the security detail. I don’t know where I am-the bird is down, sir.”
“What is your situation?”
“I have the payload. Wilcox is dead, the Coast Guard pilots tried to divert to…,” Marv focused on what he recalled overhearing. “Jacksonville? They wanted to pick up family members. Private First Class Bardwell Johnson over-reacted, and ultimately the crew chief and the left-seat pilot were killed. I was knocked unconscious in the forced landing, and when I came to both the right-seat pilot and PFC Johnson had deserted. Wilcox had been murdered execution-style, sir.”
The line was silent for a moment. “What is your situation, Sergeant?”
“I’m a bit concussed and bruised, but otherwise mission-ready. My weapon and most of my gear was stolen by the deserters, but I’ve secured a sidearm, sir.”
“Do you have a charger system for this phone?”
“No, sir.”
“How much battery strength does it have?”
Marv checked the glowing screen. “Three indicators, sir.”
“All right, it is now zero five forty hours, Eastern time. Expect a call in four hours. Hang on to that payload, son.”
“Yes, sir. Fastbox Two, out.” Setting the phone to vibrate only, Marvin stashed it. Sunrise was at zero seven hundred hours-it was probably best to get a little rest and move after daybreak. Wishing his camelback hadn’t been in his pack, he checked the pistol, a double-action-only SiG P229, and got as comfortable as the truck bed would allow.
Marv came awake, making the transition from asleep to full consciousness with the abruptness he had picked up in his first tour in Afghanistan. The sun was fully clear of the horizon; easing up, he checked his surroundings: open pastureland in all directions, bordered by a swampy-looking tree line to the north and a road a mile to the south. The Blackhawk was a blackened shell surrounded by burnt grass to the east, and there were a few cows to the west, and that was it. He was surprised he had slept through the fire, but attributed it to having a concussion.
Muttering, he crawled out of the truck and stretched repeatedly, trying to loosen up some of the soreness. He was banged up but unhurt, he decided, saved by his helmet and the harness. Methodically he stripped off his gear and emptied his pockets, taking stock.
Besides his ACU cammies and boots, he had his armored vest, his MOLLE vest, empty magazine pouches, tactical gloves, pocket Bible in a waterproof case, a first aid kit with two bandages, Band-Aids, and aspirin, compass and case, a Gerber dagger with a six-inch blade, a lock-blade tactical knife, a Leatherman multi-tool, a tactical flashlight with four spare lithium batteries, soft cover, notebook, pen, sat phone, wristwatch, digital notebook, solar charger with an adaptor for the notebook, three USP magazines, thirty-six hollow point .45 ACP cartridges, one Sig Saur P229 pistol with a spare magazine and twenty-four hardball .40 cartridges, and a roll of Lifesavers. And the payload.
Popping four aspirin followed by a Lifesaver to get his saliva going, he donned his soft cover and repacked his gear, leaving his armor in the truck. Heading south, he crossed a barbed wire fence and strode onto the road, a graveled county road running east-west. North was the direction he needed, but more important was resupply and provisions. Deciding west looked more promising, he set out.
As he walked he pondered his situation. “This is stupid. I’ve got a freaking lunchbox full of bioweapons, the world is turning to shit, and I’m busy jumping through hoops. If I had half a brain I would chuck the whole business.”
Saying it out loud made him feel better. He imagined trying to explain it to Deb. “Babe, it’s just me. I always gotta go too far. I couldn’t be bothered to try for student loans, I hadda go for the GI Bill. I couldn’t just go for Infantry for the extra enlistment bonus, I had to be an Airborne Ranger. I really can’t explain it. Besides, with you gone what difference does it make? I’m single again, I got no family left, so if somebody’s got to do this, better its me and not some guy with kids.”
“You know I have to carry my load, babe. I can’t be one of those slack-jawed welfare losers, or a dirtbag who only looks out for number one. I’m who I am, and that’s all there is to it.”
Pondering what his late wife would say in response, Marv stepped off the pace, heading west.
At zero eight hundred the phone vibrated. “Staff Sergeant Burleson.”
“Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Colonel Nelson. I’m going to be your tactical control for the remainder of this operation. What is your situation?”
“Sir, I am about one mile south and one mile west of the crash site. I abandoned my body armor for better speed, and am headed west on a gravel county road, unknown designation.”
“You have the payload?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, Sergeant. That package is top priority. Prepare to copy.”
Marv knelt on the road and dug out his notepad. “Ready, sir.”
“This phone number is an unsecure line for emergency use, this e-mail address goes straight to me, and the third item are recognition codes. Your destination is the following coordinates, in Texas.”
Marv repeated the digits as he copied them down. “Texas, sir?”
“I know, Sergeant. I’m going to keep this short because of the limited battery life. Your first object is to identify your location; contact me when you have done so, or at eighteen hundred hours, whichever comes first. You are authorized to employ deadly force to retain control of the payload, and to requisition any resources you need to secure, support, or move the payload. The current plan is to vector you to government assets, but first we need to know where you are. What you are carrying is absolutely critical, Sergeant. I cannot emphasize that enough.”
“Yes, sir. Are the other Fastbox units safe?”
Nelson hesitated. “Fastbox Three has reported hard going, and has taken some causalities. Fastbox One is still on track. Avoid major population centers, and keep moving Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir. Fastbox Two out.”
Jefferson ‘JD’ Davis
The Caddy was finished-he was amazed it had gotten him this far. The radiator had been holed by the last collision, punctured low, and the engine had seized. Not that the latter mattered much: both tires on the left side had been ground down to a paper-thin layers of rubber from contact with bits of the devastated left body panels. Neither had more than a couple miles of driving left.
Muttering, he slammed the trunk and trudged back to the driver’s door. He had changed from his suit into hiking boots and jeans, and had dug the tire iron out for defense, only to discover it was plastic and pot metal.
A shout startled him; to his surprise a tall man in military camouflage was trotting up the road towards him. “Yes! About time,” JD grinned and waved back, his smile faltering when he noticed the soldier was alone and unarmed. “Yeah, that’s about par for today.”
The soldier slowed to a walk when he got close. “Well, hell, I expect that won’t go,” he observed grimly as he offered JD his hand. “Staff Sergeant Marvin Burelson, Alpha, First of the Seventy-Fifth, Airborne Rangers.”
“Jefferson Davis, call me Jay-Dee. Yeah, the engine seized. Where’s the rest of your unit, Sergeant?”
“I’m it,” the big soldier admitted. The guy was at best an inch shorter than JD, but younger and more solidly built. He looked tough, with a buzz cut that was nothing but dark brown stubble, and a lot of hard living stamped on his face. “I was in a bird that went down a couple miles from here. Do you know where we are?”
“Around two miles east of Starke, with an ‘e’. This is two-thirty; I’m not sure if it’s a state or county road. Do you have a phone or radio?”
“Sort of. What are the conditions in Starke?”
“It looks like downtown Bagdad the day the US Army showed up. That flu has gotten loose and people are…well, have you seen one?”
“No, but I’m told they look dead and get violent.”
“They don’t just get, they extremely are.” JD rubbed his face tiredly. “I�
��m trying to get home to Tallahassee, came up from Miami. I ran into some at a gas station, and then up I-75 there was a big snarl, and they were attacking cars with their bare hands. I got across to the access road,” he gestured to the mud coating the sides of the Cadillac, “And headed out on secondary roads. Starke was like a war zone-people were shooting and there were barricades…it was a mess. I ripped up my Caddy getting around a barricade with a dozen of those things pounding on the windows, and headed out of town. This is as far as I got.”
“Damn,” Marvin shook his head. “I lost my weapon, ammo, and pack in the crash. How about you?”
“I’ve got one energy bar, which you can have if you’re hungry. Other than that, I’m in the same boat. A guy, he saved me at the gas station, he said to shoot them in the head. I think he’s right.”
“They described it as like being on PCP,” Marvin drummed his fingers on the Caddy’s trunk. “Look, crazy or not, I’m heading into Starke-I’ve got no water or gear. I’m under orders, heading west out of state. If you want to work together we might do better than alone. Tallahassee is pretty much on the way.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely not the outdoors type-I’m a pro wrestling promoter.”
Marvin chuckled. “Well, JD, do you happen to have a map?”
Addison
The operation went well. That the night shift was working short-staffed was an added bonus: Addison freed both his comrades and raided the emergency closet for three Stingray rechargeable flashlights, an EMT medical bag, and a light-weight stretcher before the trio slipped out the number three side entrance.
“This is a great bag, but what’s with the stretcher?” Doc, as Matheson preferred to be called, inquired. He was a wiry little guy whose diffident personality made him look shorter than his five foot six.
“Three men in scrubs look suspicious. Three men with a stretcher and an EMT bag are emergency services.”
“OK.”