by RW Krpoun
Marv snagged a box of chicken and dug in. “Did you get any cleaning gear for the weapons?”
“Sold out. I did get three cans of sewing machine oil-that should work well as a lubricant.”
“How about ball caps?”
JD pulled one out of a sack and tossed it to the Ranger. “Buck apiece for gimme caps.”
The cap was black, with a postage-stamp-sized US flag over the left temple and lettering in white on the front and rear, but at least the lettering was small.
“Money well spent. I got some more cash out of the machine, just in case. From now on we’re heading onto country roads-I’ve had orders to avoid government forces until I get back to Texas, barring specific instructions to the contrary. Seems the terrorists, FASA, have guys in disguise spreading hate and confusion.” This was for Addison, Captain Jack, and Doc’s benefit. “We may get some trouble for my taking out that FASA team at the Wal Mart truck-apparently these boys take that sort of thing personally.”
“The pay phone works,” Dyson announced. “If anyone has anyone to call.”
“If you do, don’t mention me or what we are driving,” Marv warned. “FASA might be listening.”
JD washed his hands at the kitchen sink and got behind the wheel. “I’ll get us headed west.”
Doctor Cyrus Davenport, PhD, sat erect in his executive’s chair, pondering the data that flowed across the multiple monitors that were the room’s only illumination. It was a starkly functional chamber with concrete walls painted white and short-napped beige carpet, furnished with a central desk, tall executive’s chair, and a wall rack supporting multiple HD TVs employed as monitors and their CPU units.
A short, heavy-set man in his fifties who had been born a child prodigy of a Haitian father and Vietnamese mother, Cyrus was a creature of intellect best suited to the processing of data, the study of patterns, and the administration of lesser intellects. He was a man who valued the mind over any other qualification, creed, race, or gender.
He had gotten his start in activism serving in the trenches of the pro-choice and environmental movements as a teenager, albeit a teenager who had had his first BA at sixteen. Over the years since that simple start he had become disenchanted with American liberals, and later with American leftists. His philosophy had evolved into a narrow focus that ultimately centered upon the core issue of the problems besetting Mankind: mediocrity.
Doctor Davenport came to the conclusion was that there were simply too many people on the planet, and that of those, the least viable candidates were reproducing the most prolifically. Virtually every problem that beset mankind in the modern era, he believed, could be traced back to the population’s size exceeding nature’s and society’s ability to manage it, and to the exploding numbers of third-rate minds.
He had formed The Humanity Accord to study methods to alleviate this problem, but it wasn’t until he was contacted by General Nawaz that the way was made clear: a viral purge of the lower orders, leaving the world with a sustainable population built around a high concentration of the best minds.
General Nawaz had appreciated Cyrus’ brilliance and the value of his group, so much so that Doctor Davenport was placed in control of all operations in District 12, the southern USA. Now General Nawaz was dead, he had been informed, and the bulk of the FASA central control had been destroyed. For all intents and purposes he and the FASA forces under his direction were now an independent faction.
He tapped the arrow key and a photo appeared on the center monitor, a hard-faced soldier with electric blue eyes and dark hair burred close to his skull staring into the camera.
The door behind him opened and he recognized the gait of his chief assistant, Guy Weatherford. “Where are we on the sample, Mr. Weatherford?”
“The recon team found where the target group crossed the river using an improvised ferry,” Weatherford’s voice was permanently husky, legacy of a beating he had taken in Gaza after he had hit an IDF jeep with a Molotov cocktail that failed to ignite properly. “They camped in a fisherman’s shack, returned to I-75, and engaged the infected, a two-pronged attack. The team leader believes they extracted a large vehicle from the blockage.”
“On what basis are they estimating that it is a large vehicle?”
“The team found where the subjects cached their equipment, presumably before engaging the infected. They found fresh tire tracks on the soft shoulder of the road.”
“A large vehicle, presumably a bus or RV?”
“That would be my assumption.”
“Tell me about this sergeant.”
“Staff Sergeant Marvin Burleson, known as Marv the Maniac by his contemporaries. Enlisted as an Airborne Ranger, six years’ service, extensive list of training, and four tours in Afghanistan. Twice decorated for valor in action, both instances involving rather extreme violence. Wounded three times. A widower, no real family, no close friends. Very high aptitude scores within the military testing system, superior individual ratings with emphasis on excellence in combat. Not a career soldier, but not inclined towards leaving the military. The death of his wife five years ago appears to be the defining moment of his adult life.”
Cyrus continued to study the image: a brute, a follower, the sort of Neolithic leftover that existed solely to breed and swill alcohol. A third-rate intellect operating primarily on instinct and half-understood impulses, dangerous in a physical sense but helpless as a child in any other circumstances.
“Our sources indicate he is not alone.”
“Yes, sir. The exact number and composition is unknown, but there are at leave five members; they have assumed the title of ‘Yard Gnome Action Team’, some sort of juvenile allusion to pop culture, I assume. The recon team indicates they are armed and capable of some violence. The only lead we have is the observer for the breeder cell that was tasked with cutting I-75 identified the vehicle they were using. He remembered it because a soldier from the vehicle engaged and eliminated the extraction team.”
“Burleson, no doubt.”
“Yes, sir. The vehicle, a Land Rover, was reported stolen in Jacksonville. It is also tagged by the local police as having a possible connection to the burglary of a military surplus store, and the escape of three inmates from a private mental health facility.”
“You believe that part of this ‘team’ are mentally ill subjects?”
“The facility has computerized treatment records. The inmates not only escaped leaving no clear indication of their method of egress, but also deleted their computerized records and stole most of their hard-copy files as well. The police report indicates that all three had high levels of personal skills and functional delusion levels which include paranoia and high-risk circumstances.”
“What actions are you taking?”
“The recon team is following the probable trail. I expect they will be heading for a Marine Corps facility by way of Highway One-Thirty-Three; I have placed our asset there on alert, and an assault team is en route. We also have a feeder team in the general area, but it has gone off the communications net.”
The map appeared on a secondary monitor. Cyrus rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. “Dispatch a full breeder cell and stage a helicopter into the area. Advise the recon team to look for interactions with locals in unaffected areas.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With his sat phone damaged and our actions against nearby relay points preventing the use of the Net, he is going to be looking for a means of communication. As soon as he makes contact he will be warned about unsecure communications and the uncertainty of government forces, so we must be prepared for him to bolt. Have we re-established a data source within his controllers?”
“No, sir. We can intercept any unsecure phone call and have a high probability of reading Net communications, but secure analog communications are beyond our capability. We have no agent or source in position or ever likely to be in a position to access Lieutenant Colonel Nelson’s new area.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
Marv craned his head to catch a look at the battered county road sign as Dyson turned the Gnomehome, as Doc had christened the RV, onto yet another beat-up country back road. “OK, we’re about fifteen miles from Berkley, and thirty from the Alabama line.”
“Blakely,” Addison mumbled.
The Ranger frowned at the atlas. “Yeah, Blakely.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen-fifteen hours. Slow travelling normally, but all in all not bad. I have to say, so far Georgia hasn’t sucked as bad as Florida did. We ought to stop soon and use the fuel that’s in the gas cans. In this heat the fumes can accumulate fast, diesel or not. With a little luck we can be nearly across Alabama before dark.”
“We still planning on laying up at night?” Bear asked.
“Yeah, I hate to lose time but I’m hesitant to get caught on the move after dark. This RV is nice, but I bet its not zombie-proof.”
“Doc, how long are you going to mess with that TV?” JD asked. “You’ve been coon-fingering it since Berlin.”
“I can’t get the Net and nobody will let me work on viral research, so I want to watch CNN,” Doc didn’t look up from the device he was building. “If we could stop for a while so I could put this…”
“We’ll stop when we need to stop,” Marv interrupted him. “You can put it up tonight.”
“But CNN…”
“Sucks,” Bear finished for him. “Get HBO, or better yet the Penthouse channel.”
“Gentlemen, we have a roadblock,” Captain Jack called from the passenger’s seat.
Marv moved up between the front seats. “Crap-its overrun with zeds.”
The roadblock was two white Ford F150 pickups with ‘SHERIFF’ stickers on the doors parked so as to narrow the roadway to just wide enough for a single vehicle to pass. In the pasture to the south was a long horse trailer and a half-dozen parked vehicles. A handful of infected subjects wandered between the pickups, several in tan uniform shirts and brown jeans.
“Why the hell would a Sherriff’s Department put up a roadblock on a gravel road in the middle of Georgia?” Dyson wondered out loud as he slowed the RV to a stop two hundred yards short of the roadblock.
“I don’t think they did,” Marv shook his head. “Those are ordinary license plates on those trucks, and I don’t think county governments have to pay taxes on vehicle registration. They sure don’t in Texas.”
“You’re thinking FASA?”
“I’m not sure what to think, but we’ll either have to turn the RV around or move one truck in order to get through. I’m thinking we might as well do our civic duty and take out those zeds.”
“”I’m tired of running from those bastards,” Bear nodded, sliding his roofing hammer into his belt.
“Two of us stay on board the RV as insurance. Captain Jack and JD? Good. Doc, watch where you’re waving that damn sword or I’ll shove it up your ass. Let them come to us.”
Marv led the way out of the RV, pistol in hand, moving to a point on the edge of the ditch and waiting.
Doc, katana overhead, leapt off the step and raced toward the nearest zombie, screeching a war cry. Swinging with both arms, he landed a powerful cut on the infected man’ neck, slicing deep, the blade audibly hitting bone. The zombie collapsed sideways, its entire left side limp, and immediately began clutching at the medic’s legs with its right arm. Doc screeched even louder and flailed wildly at his attacker.
“So much for waiting for them,” Marv shook his head.
“And for the magic power of gook swords,” Bear barked a laugh. “Looks like we do this the hard way.”
“Always.”
A hatchet spun end-over-end to whack into an infected woman’s skull, dropping her in her tracks. Addison pulled its mate from his belt and balanced as Marv and Bear opened fire. More zombies were spilling out from shady places around the vehicles but their numbers were nothing as bad as the Gnomes had encountered on the Interstate.
Doc managed to hack the crippled zombie to death and stumble back to where Addison, Dyson, Marv, and Bear were on line, firing steadily.
Without numbers or cover for their approach the infected were cut down before they could close. Marv inserted a fresh magazine and checked that his two empties were in his goggle pouch. Bear was reloading, and Dyson was gathering up his empty speed loaders as the big Ranger darted back and caught Doc’s shirt collar as the medic trotted towards the parked cars.
“What did I tell you about following orders? I said let them come to us.”
Wriggling in the larger man’s grip, Doc gestured towards the vehicles. “There’s a lot of stuff.”
“Not for you. You clean off the blood and go relieve Captain Jack, tell him I want him standing watch.” Marv wrenched the sword, already clean and back in its scabbard, from Doc. “Maybe you’ll get your toy back. Maybe you won’t.”
“That’s mine!” Doc yelled, face flushing.
“Do as you’re told, then.” Marv held the sword toward the medic, but did not release it. “Got it?”
“Yeah,” Doc muttered.
“Weird little bastard,” Dyson observed as Doc ducked into the RV.
“If he would just stay out of the way,” Marv shook his head, then grinned. “That was something when he hit that zombie. Bone’s a lot tougher than Hollywood suggests.”
Bear laughed, slinging his stubby weapon. “Nothing’s like Hollywood. If it was, half of this group would be beautiful women.”
“Don’t I wish. OK, Bear and Dyson, take a look at the bodies, and then check out the trucks, move ‘em too. Addison and I will take a look at the vehicles in the pasture.”
Marv waited while Addison scrubbed his hatchets with handfuls of grass, and then led the way to the long horse trailer. “What the blazes were they doing here?”
“Recruiting,” Addison mumbled. Seeing the Ranger’s puzzled look, he jerked a hand towards the roadblock. “They’re pretending to be government. They knew that there were vehicles coming this way, from one of the directions. They have an infected with them, and make more infected.”
“Huh.” Walking around the rear of the horse trailer, Marv stopped and picked up a rifle. “Oh, you little beauty,” he grinned, carefully brushing dust and grass from the weapon. “A semi-only M-4, Colt no less, with an ACOG sight and tactical light.” He pulled the magazine and eased the bolt back. “One in the tube, looks like five or six gone from the mag.” Inserting a full magazine into the weapon, he settled the weapon into place on its three-point sling. “Man, I feel whole again.”
The Gnomes gathered in the RV. “Addison called it,” Marv observed, tossing a pager and some notepaper to the table. “Those FASA assholes reported a fake emergency of some sort and grabbed volunteer firefighters and Red Cross types on their way to the station to gear up. They handcuffed them inside the horse trailer and brought an infected in on a catch pole to spread the virus. Looks like they over-estimated the strength of the chain they strung, because the zeds got loose.”
“Irony or justice?” JD chuckled.
“We found this rifle, and not a lot else.”
“There were six FASA guys,” Bear spread a map of Georgia out. “See, this looks like the fifth time they’ve done this.” He held up a notebook. “They got the specs on a dozen volunteer fire organizations here. Pretty smooth operation. I’m guessing this is where they got the zeds like we saw in the Wal Mart truck. This bunch gathers, another delivers.”
“What a bunch of low-lifes,” JD shook his head in disgust.
“Aryan Circle, from their tattoos,” Dyson observed. “Looks like we’re up against fanatics and fringe types, with hired criminal muscle.”
“Find anything interesting?” Marv asked.
“We found four handheld CB radios, two pairs of binoculars, one rifle, two shotguns, and
four handguns. The rest of the weapons are in the tall grass someplace, I suppose. Lots of boxed ammo, some bottled water. The rifle is a stainless Mini-14 with five mags, the shotguns are Remington 870 riot guns, three of the pistols are Glock 17s, and one H&K USP,” Bear read from his notes on the back of the map.
“I’ll take the Mini-14,” Dyson offered. “I imagine you’re more comfortable with the M-4.”
“I am, thanks.”
“I’ll take the USP if no one wants it,” Bear held it up. “No? OK, Dyson, you want a Glock?”
“No, I’ll stick with my Colt.”
“OK, anybody else want something?”
“I’ll take a Glock,” JD held up a hand.
“That reminds me, I’ve got three USP mags in my pack,” Marv told Bear. “OK, let’s test-fire the new hardware and get rolling. Captain Jack, can you and Doc…where the hell is Doc?”
“Installing his construction on the roof,” Captain Jack pointed up.
“OK, get him back down and top off the tank with the fuel cans. Too bad nobody was driving a diesel.” Marv stopped, frowning. “How did these nimrods communicate? They weren’t setting up their meets over hand-held CBs.”
Bear shook his head. “Its always something. C’mon, Dyson.”
“I want to finish my TV hook-up,” Doc complained.
“Shut up and concentrate,” Marv snapped. “Or I’ll pitch the sword out the window. Tell me about this phone.”
The medic sighed. “It’s a sat phone, encrypted, made in China, and I mean made for China, as in their military. You don’t see many on the open market.”
“Who does it communicate to, or with?”
“I don’t know. Its got four numbers programmed in, but the readout is encrypted. The whole thing is a sealed system.”
“So what good is it to us?”
“Not much.”
“Could they track it, like a regular cell phone?” JD asked.
“No. That’s been deactivated.”
“So we can’t find out who they are calling?”
“Nope.”
“Pull the battery, dump the rest,” Marv was losing interest. “Speaking of which, could we use the battery in my phone?”