by RW Krpoun
“I thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Marv gripped the Georgian’s shoulder before ducking back through the curtains, where he found Doc waiting for him, the Sat phone in hand.
“It should work,” he held the device for inspection. It was bound to a foot-long length of one-by–three board with wire ties, and there were more wires and bits of electronics attached here and there.
“Let’s see. Anything special in the way of controls?” Marv gingerly took the assembly.
“No. I can trickle-charge it, but it will be slow. Can I have my sword now?”
“After it works.” Slipping through the bedroom, careful not to disturb Captain Jack’s sleep, Marv went into the bathroom.
The phone was answered on the second ring by the woman he had spoken to previously, only she sounded a good deal less crisp. “Fastbox Two for Colonel Nelson.”
The Colonel was on the phone in seconds “Sergeant Burleson? We received your e-mail. Report.”
“Sir, we have secured transportation and are on Georgia highway One-Thirty-Three approaching a small town named Berlin. I have the payload, and we are heading for the Marine Logistics Base to the northwest.” He briefly described the blockage of I-75. “We have an improved combat posture, but it isn’t great.”
Nelson sighed. “Sergeant, do not make contact at any military facility in your area. In fact, avoid contact with any government force which I have not cleared. Understood?”
Marv hesitated. “Not at all, sir.”
The phone was silent for several seconds. “Sergeant, we lost Fastbox Three-the agent in charge reported they were over-run, and he was using a thermite grenade to destroy the payload. Fastbox One’s payload was picked up by a helicopter and is expected at our main facility shortly.” The Colonel paused again. “Look, son, I’m going to level with you. It goes against my professional inclinations, but you’re going to need every advantage you can get, and we need that payload more than ever. Your mission has been compromised.”
“Compromised? By who, sir?”
“We’re at war, Sergeant. We didn’t get that at first, and it isn’t widely known at the moment, but we are. Everyone just thought this was a bunch of muslim fanatics trying for a bigger 9/11, but we were wrong.” Nelson’s voice was hard. “I was wrong, to face my own part of the blame. The group is a union of muslim fanatics, doomsday fringe types from the USA and Europe, a bunch of Russian Cold War leftovers who still think Stalin was the greatest thing ever, and a weird bunch out of Africa-I can’t really explain those. The union was built by a former Indian general, and he did a helluva job. I won’t burden you with their title, but the acronym is FASA. Essentially the common goal of all the groups is they want to wreck modern culture and build a better world out of the parts, sort of a New Age anarchy, although they’re too varied to classify as a single creed. They are united by goal, not cause-it’s a union of convenience.”
“We got wind of it, but Indonesia stonewalled us-by the time we got a team in to hit FASA’s command center the plan was too far along. They created the virus that creates the zombies, except that it wasn’t fully stable when their top people realized that time was running out, and ordered the plan to go ahead.”
“Their attack was based on sprayer-bombs smuggled into the targets-you know about that from Miami. They had the bombs already built, and they were able to arm and deploy seventeen before their only production facility was disposed of the hard way. Two went off in Pakistan, including one in the capitol. One went off in India; we believe it was in transit to Pakistan, but we’re not sure. Tokyo, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Warsaw, Paris, and Dover were hit, while the British destroyed one en route to London, and the Israelis got the one aimed at Jerusalem. In our part of the world Mexico City and Toronto were hit. We caught the bomb aimed at Miami, but the ones for New York and Seattle got through.”
“If it were just the bombs we wouldn’t be in too bad of shape, but they have a three-layer plan, each layer completely isolated from the others. The second layer is the truck-borne attacks such as you saw. A few FASA operatives augmented by criminals deploy infected subjects as vectors to defeat our quarantine efforts and overcome the short travel distance created by the virus’ fast incubation period. The second layer cells, code-named breeder cells, each received a single infected subject which they use to create the truckloads such as you encountered on I-75. The breeder cell you encountered would have held back at least one infected whenever a batch is created so as to be able to continue operations. Africa appears to have the highest incidence of breeder cells, but every target country has its share.”
“The third layer is conventional terrorist attacks against command, control, and communications sites in all affected nations, code-named assault cells.”
Marv took a minute to let it all sink in, only half aware that he had been scribbling notes on the side of a tissue box out of ingrained habit. “So there are terrorists aggressively spreading the virus and attacking our Cee-three apparatus, sir?”
“Exactly. However, we’re not sitting on our hands: FASA had over a hundred bombs built, but their ability to arm them was eliminated. Eliminated with nuclear prejudice, in fact. The President authorized nuclear strikes against six sites in Indonesia a few hours ago, and the Indians nuked another site within their own borders. Whatever they had cooking was instantly eliminated-the only sources for the virus FASA has are already deployed, which makes further large-scale attacks impossible. In addition Mossad caught up with FASA’s leader early this morning-he’s out of the picture as well.”
“Sir, I’m getting the big picture, but why am I to avoid government forces?”
“Sergeant, you have in your possession fifty per cent of the world’s supply of the undeployed virus, because Miami was the only bomb captured intact. If FASA can get their hands on it they have a chance to get back into the bomb-making business in the near future. And I am afraid they know about Fastbox.”
“What? How, sir?”
“We have been compromised. In the last twenty-four hours we have arrested sixteen military personnel who are either members of FASA, or being paid by FASA for information. I don’t expect we got them all, and we have reason to believe there are other FASA elements within the military, low-level but dangerous. Within hours every FASA cell will know about the Fastbox mission and its importance.”
“Did they get Fastbox Three, sir?”
“No, that was just bad luck and zombies. We have already instituted security protocols with Fastbox One that should ensure its payload.”
“Shouldn’t I just destroy this payload, sir? You’ve got Fastbox One, and once it’s in a secure facility, you won’t need this one.”
“You must destroy it if capture seems imminent, but we need that payload. FASA deployed the virus before it was fully ready; from examining samples taken from subjects our people believe that working with undeployed samples could fast-track us to various counters. We need every milligram available.”
“All right, sir,” Marv said slowly, thinking hard. “So I should avoid government forces because there may be FASA elements looking for me. Is your section secure?”
“It is now,” Colonel Nelson’s voice was grim. “We are now in a fully secure environment, with dissemination of any data regarding Fastbox limited to a very small circle, ‘Eyes Only’. However, in your case it is safe to assume they know the contents of every communication except this one. Do not employ email again, and expect that any unsecure transmission has been compromised. You need to stay off the grid and continue heading to Texas until I can get reliable forces to you.”
“Any estimate on that ETA, sir?”
“Not soon; everything is, as you must know, a madhouse, and the news of FASA’s infiltration has changed everything. I had two helicopters and a security team drawn from the Georgia National Guard on standby since receiving your e-mail, but I had to release them because I cannot be sure that one or more members could be FASA. Only SpecOps personnel have th
e background investigations sufficiently in-depth to trust at this point, and they are stretched to the limit on other missions. The one asset I have gotten is dedicated to Fastbox One. When that is secure, I’ll shift them to you.”
“Understood, sir.”
Colonel Nelson sighed. “I know this isn’t your usual line of work, Sergeant. We’re asking more of you than even a Ranger ought to have to give. But you’re the man with the ball, and we need to run with it.”
“All The Way, sir.”
“Good. This may not come into play, but if you find a functioning ATM, this account will let you draw cash, compliments of Uncle Sam. Prepare to copy.” He read off the digits.
“Got it, sir. My battery is starting to fade-I have a way to trickle-charge it, and will report in when I have enough power. I’ll try for eighteen hundred, sir.”
“Good luck, Sergeant.”
Marv sat on the toilet lid with his face in his hands, feeling like a man adrift on the open sea. Shaking his head, he tore off the portion of the tissue box that had his notes and tucked it into the nylon case that held the payload. Studying the phone, he detached the scrambler module and the authorization chip and added them to the case as well.
Back in the RV’s main compartment, he handed the phone and the katana to Doc. “Charge it up. Screw with that phone in any way, shape, or form, make any attempt to use it for any purpose, and I will beat that sword into bits. Got it?”
“My sword!” Doc gushed, grabbing the scabbard like it was a lifeline.
“You understand?” Marv insisted.
“Yeah, yeah.” The RV lurched a little as it slowed. “Oh, we’re near Berlin.”
“Great. Go wake Captain Sawyer and tell him.” Marv took a deep breath and headed into the driving area.
Chapter Four
JD, standing between the two captains chairs, pointed ahead. “Berlin, Georgia, population five hundred twenty-five.”
The RV was stopped at the intersection of the state highway and the main street of the small town.
The perfectly normal main street of an American town. A beat-up pickup pulled up to the stop sign on the main street side, eyed the motionless RV, and then cautiously pulled out onto the highway and rolled south.
“It’s like the Twilight Zone,” Dyson observed.
“Were we just killing zombies fifty miles from here?” JD wondered aloud. “I said that before, I think.”
“Yeah, we were,” Marv kept his voice steady, although the sight of normalcy was tearing at him-he wanted to curl up and laugh like a child reaching the safety of home. “Guys, we’ve reached a high spot in a flood zone-the water hasn’t reached here yet. Lets get resupplied and get moving. I just got word from on high, and we’re going to cut further west.”
“The map says there’s a Marine base a couple hours from here,” Dyson protested.
“I know, I’ll explain later. Looks like there is a truck stop up ahead; if there’s an ATM we’ll buy some fuel.” Marv pushed the curtains open. “We’re in a normal zone, guys. Nobody carry any weapons. Captain Jack, Addison, and Doc stay on board to secure the vehicle. The rest come with me.”
Grounding his MOLLE vest and pistol, Marv lead the way off the RV, spotting an ATM sign next to the front doors of the truck stop. “C’mon, I’ll get some official cash and tell you guys something.”
The truck stop looked completely normal except for the fat man in overalls sitting in a chair just inside the front doors with a shotgun across his knees, and the pistol on the clerk’s hip. Marv held his hands open at shoulder height. “We’re just looking to buy some fuel and supplies, cash on the barrelhead.”
“Buy away,” the clerk, a tall, weather-beaten man in his sixties smiled. “We’re just bein’ careful. Radio says there’s a fair peck of trouble going on. Where you fellas comin’ from?”
“Miami,” JD said, as Marv addressed the complexities of the ATM.
“Heard there’s trouble down south.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the promoter shook his head. “It was a war zone just across the Florida line on I-75.”
“Really.” The clerk looked doubtful.
“Look, I don’t expect you to believe me, but just remember this: aim for the head.”
Marv came over and laid four hundreds on the counter. “Can you turn on diesel for pump three? Great. Any place we can get water and dump the sewage?”
“Pull around to the side, there’s water and sewage marked,” the clerk flipped switches and then laid a business card on the counter. “Code’s on this, ten bucks for the service.”
“I’ll settle up when we’re done.” Marv motioned for the others to follow him outside. As they started through the doors the fat man with the shotgun held up a hand. “CB says them with the flu, they’re zombies.”
“I wouldn’t call them liars,” Marv shrugged. “Like my friend said, aim for the head, and don’t hesitate. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”
Outside he explained to Dyson the significance of the payload, and passed on what Colonel Nelson had told him to all three. “We have to keep Doc completely out of the loop,” he concluded. “The guy isn’t right. If he hears what’s in the payload he’ll be after it with a can opener. I don’t want to have to kill or abandon our only medic.”
“Actually, that trio escaped from a mental institution,” JD said.
“How do you know?” Dyson asked.
“Captain Jack,” the promoter shrugged. “Look, I get people talking, it’s what I do. Addison filled in a few details-Doc had a complete breakdown, thinks he’s a CDC virologist. As you will have already guessed, Captain Jack isn’t British or even military.”
“Yeah, I got that. Are any of them dangerous?”
“I don’t believe so, at least on the short term. Current events are supporting their particular delusions.”
“We’re fighting zombies-being insane can only be an asset,” Bear observed.
“No joke. OK, leave those three out of the loop. I’m going to gas up and take care of the water and sewage.” Marv passed out bills. “Dyson, you go back inside and buy what you think we’ll need, especially gas cans. Bear, you hit that Chicken Express across the street and load up, a hot meal will go over real well. JD, hit that Dollar Box and get what you think we can use. Get me a ball cap, plain black if they have it. Get extras-it’s too hot to be bare-headed.”
Struck by a thought, the Ranger stepped back into the store. “Anyplace here we can buy guns or ammunition?”
Standing next to the pumps, the familiar ticking noise as diesel flowed into the tank both comforting and surreal, Marv tried to think through the mission issues. There were terrorists hunting them, certainly on their back trail, and they knew where the Gnomes had been until early this morning. Assuming that his most recent communication was secure, they would only have his destination to work with.
It was time to get further off the grid, he decided.
The truck stop was far below its usual inventory, but Dyson had gotten four five-gallon gas cans, six loaves of bread, a selection of auto fuses, two gallons of coolant, a dozen cases of soda, and all the jerky and Slim Jims they had left.
After moving the gear to the RV, he tried his luck with the pay phone, and was astounded when his girlfriend’s mother accepted the charge and opened a clear, if a bit scratchy line. “Mrs. Hughes, am I glad to hear your voice! Is Anna all right?”
“Yes, Dyson, she’s fine. She tried calling you many times-the news isn’t much, but Atlanta seems to be having trouble. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m not in Atlanta. Can I speak to Anna, please?”
“I’m sorry, she’s not here, she is helping her father close up the shed out at my father’s old place. She’ll be back soon, maybe a half-hour.”
“Is everything OK there where you are? Any trouble?”
“No, everything’s fine. There are odd stories from down south, but that is all.�
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“Listen the flu…it makes people crazy, Murderous crazy-the only way you can stop them is to shoot them in the head. Get what food and things you can, and stay out of town. I’m heading to Texas, there’s this thing I have to do. Please tell Anna I love her and I’ll call again if I can get to another phone that works. But stay away from people, this is some really bad mojo going on.”
Mrs. Hodges sound doubtful, but she dutifully agreed. Hanging up the phone, Dyson didn’t think he had convinced her, but at least he had planted the idea in her head. For a moment he thought about heading up to Maine, but dismissed it-the Eastern Seaboard was going to be a war zone, and she was safe out in the country with her family. Once they got the payload through they would be owed favors, and he figured a military flight to Maine wouldn’t be asking too much. Odds were good he could get to her faster by getting to Texas.
Spotting JD dragging two overflowing carts out of the Dollar Box, he trotted across the street to lend a hand, passing Bear heading the other way, burdened with bags of bright yellow boxes.
“OK, we’re topped off,” Marv shut the door behind him. The interior of the RV was redolent with the odor of fried chicken and gravy, and the big Ranger drew in an appreciative breath before continuing. “JD, what did you get?”
“About one day’s worth of microwave dinners-the run on the place was starting. I got blankets, sheets, towels, paper towels, household stuff for cleaning, soap and shampoo, laundry detergent, some pocket knives, bug spray, and a lot of over-the-counter medical stuff. The real score was bandoliers for shotguns shells, and four cases of road flares. Plus I bought a box of number four buckshot off the bagger for fifty bucks.”
“No beer?” Bear asked, loading shells into a camouflage-pattern bandolier.
“No license,” JD shrugged.