by RW Krpoun
Marv laid the ACOG’s doughnut on a zed about three back from the front and squeezed the trigger, gratified to see that whatever else might seem different about this bunch, a head shot dropped them literally in their tracks. To his left the entire line opened fire, the shots coming raggedly because of the differences in shooter skill and weapon types.
These were easier, Marv found as he carefully focused on each sight picture-they clearly were not real people any more. They didn’t exactly look dead, either, but rather some sort of gray-skinned intermediate stage between the two.
Glancing to the rear and flanks, he spotted a stumbling figure amongst the trees to his right and dropped it with two shots. Checking the firing line to his left was gratifying: Brick was firing carefully and steadily, glancing to either side every third or fourth shot, and beyond the burly Pole Addison was scowling over the MAC-10’s stubby barrel, which was steaming in the rain, shooting methodically. Beyond them Dyson and Bear were businesslike and calm, putting out rounds with good accuracy. At the far end of the line Chip was as pale as a bar of Dove soap, but he was standing his ground, stuffing shells into his shotgun.
Around fifty infected subjects spilled out of the gate, and the last fell with half its skull liquefied by Chip a dozen feet short of the firing line.
“Stand fast and reload,” Marv ordered, checking the flanks and rear, noting a downed zed in the roadway behind them, JD’s contribution. With a fresh magazine locked, he keyed up the portable CB. “You good?”
“All clear,” JD replied.
“Everybody good? OK, three teams: Bear-Dyson one, Brick-Chip two, me and Addison three. We all stay together, stay in pairs, watch each other’s back. OK, let’s head to the gate, no one moves faster than me.”
As they moved forward, Marv slowed to examine the bodies. “Man, it’s hard to tell white from black or Hispanic,” he observed, keeping his voice low. “The skin isn’t pale, its more…gray. Gunmetal gray.”
“Like jaundice, only gray instead of yellow,” Addison mumbled.
Bear squatted next to a corpse, pulling a folding lock-blade from its belt and snapping the blade open. He pried at the cadaver’s shoes, then prodded its clothes with the blade.
Standing, he discarded the knife. “I think they’ve been down a couple days,” he told the others. “From what we got off the Net, this place went under around sixty hours ago, one of the first outbreaks in Mississippi.”
“Likely from a load of turned captives like the Wal Mart truck on I-75,” Marv nodded. “What’s your point?”
“So that’s two days in the sun and the rain.” Bear waved an arm at the wet landscape. “It’s about eighty right now, humidity about the same, and it was probably hotter yesterday. This guy’s jeans are mildewing, and his leather shit-kickers are a soaked mess. But his skin is still tight, and the muscle tissue is elastic.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Dyson shook his head. “He’s a freaking zombie.”
“What Bear means is that there is no decomposition, no sunburn, no immersion effect-what they used to call trench foot, dude. You stand, literally stand, in the sun and rain for two straight days, and your skin is going to take a beating. Plus there’s no sign of decomposition,” Chip nudged a zombie’s head with his foot. “Hair loss, some sores, but the ears, eyelids, and lips are intact. Even in September, a dead guy in the open for two days in this part of the world be in pretty poor shape, breaking down fast.”
“But these guys seemed a bit more spry than usual,” Marv nodded. “Maybe…maybe the newly turned are clumsy because early onset of rigor mortis?”
“Could be,” Bear nodded. “Or the virus is not fully in control of the motor functions yet.”
“If that’s the case, the longer a subject has been turned, the more agile it gets,” The big Ranger shook his head. “I wonder where the upper limit to the recovery process could reach?”
“What about brains?” Addison asked. “Can they get smarter?”
“These were a little harder to get rolling,” Dyson admitted. “But even back at I-75, the ones that had been down longer were less inclined to follow us after we stayed out of reach for a while. They’re more cunning than animals, but I wouldn’t say they think.”
“Animals can be pretty dangerous, dude,” Chip pointed out. “I think we better pay attention to the condition of the zombies we come across.”
“You notice they don’t attract flies,” Dyson said. “What’s up with that?”
“I miss Doc,” Bear said. “Demented little weirdo that he was, he still knew more about this stuff than we do.”
“We’re not exactly a brain trust,” Marv agreed. He took a tactical look around the gate. “OK, let’s do this.”
Gravel rattled under their boots as the six eased in, weapons ready. “There’s a vehicle that didn’t make it out,” Dyson nodded towards a rental box truck lying on its side, apparently after riding up a pile of tires near the gate. “Looks like they tried to run for it and lost control.”
“I got it,” Bear hefted his Mossburg. “Cover me.”
“Brick, Chip, move over there and watch to the north and west, Addison, keep an eye to the east,” Marv knelt to examine the roadway. “Couple other vehicles peeled out recently.”
“This was the zombie-bomb,” the biker announced. “Had the same plastic barrier you described on I-75. Driver had an infected in the cab-he got it, but wrecked out. I guess he turned and wandered off.” Bear held up a snub-nosed revolver. “Anyone want a backup? It’s empty, but there was a zip-lock of extra rounds in the glove box.”
“I’ll take it,” Dyson offered after no one else spoke up. “Thanks.”
“Bring it into the gate,” Marv advised over the CB, and moments later JD backed Gnomehome through the gate until the front bumper was flush with the wall.
“OK, let’s sweep the motor shed, and then refuel. That way no matter what happens, we’re mobile.” Marv halted and brought the M-4 to his shoulder. The shot echoed against the metal fence, and to the east a zombie collapsed. Lowering his weapon, the big Ranger looked thoughtful. “It was just watching us-thought it was Human for a second.”
“Not exactly mindless behavior,” Dyson observed.
“Even a dog understands odds,” Chip pointed out.
“Stay in pairs, stay alert,” Marv warned. “I think the risk factor is a bit higher here than average.”
The motor shed had five deserted stalls and a machine shop. In the entrance to the latter Brick bent and picked up a sawed-off pump shotgun. “Good machinist,” he announced after examining. “Fired, empty.”
“You’re right, a nice cut-down job,” Marv nodded. “From the ejected shells, I’m thinking he was standing right there.”
“Looks like he didn’t get the word on head shots,” Chip sighed. “Anybody want it? If not, I’ll take it.”
“Getting awful militant there, dude,” Bear grinned. “What about giving peace a chance?”
Thumbing shells into the cut-down, whose muzzle was cut back to be flush with the tube magazine and whose stock had been replaced by a Pachmayr rubber grip, Chip shrugged. “I tried. Now I’m gonna give staying alive a chance. This thing is a lot handier than my 870 in close quarters.”
“That’s what pistols are for.”
“Still got the pistol, but a shotgun’s more forgiving of my skill level.”
“OK, let’s spread out so we can refuel,” Marv rapped on the diesel tank and tested the nozzle. “Anyone see any gas cans?”
“Damn, it was almost dry,” Chip moved the spout to the open mouth of a gas can and opened the flow as JD replaced the cap and closed the outer hatch on Gnomehome’s fuel port. “We need more gas cans.”
“We need a lot of things,” the promoter sighed. “What’s the plan now?” he asked Marv.
“Clear that building and the trailers, see if there’s anything we can use, then move on.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen... I mean, almost half past three. We could still ge
t a couple hours of driving in.”
“Dude, why don’t we spend the night here?” Chip asked. “We could close the gates, put Gnomehome in the shed out of sight, and work on disguising her. They’ve got a paint set-up here, and I’ve done some of that. Brick can do his weapons thing in the machine shop-they have a generator in case the power fails.” He flinched as Dyson suddenly fired, sloshing a pint of acrid diesel fuel down the side of the can.
“Another straggler,” The martial artist advised.
Marv scowled at the mounds of rusting metal.
“We aren’t going to get across tonight,” JD agreed. “You wouldn’t want to get caught on the west bank with the light failing. We’re about an hour from the boat places, so there’s nothing to lose.”
“OK,” The Ranger nodded. “Makes sense. Let’s get the gates squared away once we’re done fueling.”
“Well, that sucked,” Chip rubbed mud off his hands. It had taken the combined efforts of six Gnomes to haul the downed north gate upright and hold it in place while Brick secured it with chains and then tightened bolts through the links to keep it standing. “It just took a minute to close the south gate.”
“Nothing is easy on this trip,” JD snarled. “I enjoyed my last root canal more than this freakin’ expedition.”
The trailers had nothing of interest save toilet paper and propane cylinders, but the cinderblock building was a different story. On the ground floor was a small waiting room, a surprisingly tidy office area, and a parts/tool room, and nothing was much out of the ordinary. Until Addison found the trapdoor.
Beneath the building was a cellar that looked to be a bit bigger than the building above-it was Chip’s opinion that it was from a previous, larger building. Two-thirds of this was a bunk area and latrine; the remainder was a storage area.
Marv was sitting at a desk in the office area staring at the phone while Addison sat nearby typing on a laptop. Chip stuck his head in the door, looking, then entered. “OK, we’re loading the stuff. We’re trading off, one team loads, the other stands guard, just like you said, dude. Look, if its OK, I’ll keep track of things-JD was kinda doing it, but he doesn’t mind at all, he said he’ll just track weapons and ammo.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
“Cool. We’ll get the soda machines opened up last thing.”
“OK.” When the hefty Gnome had left, Marv picked up the phone with the air of a man who had made a decision. He had already ascertained that there was a dial tone. Tapping in the numbers, he listened to the purring ring tone until it ended in an answering machine. Muttering, he checked the other number and dialed again.
This time a man answered, a gruff, older voice. “Yeah?”
“Brayston Shipping?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Listen, I need to move a cargo across the river, drive on, drive off. Fifty feet long, gross weight…” Marv consulted the numbers he had gotten from the owner’s manual and read them off. “I would like to do it first thing tomorrow. From your place to the nearest landing point with a road.”
The line was silent for a moment. “I give you credit, boy, you got balls. World’s coming to an end, and you wanna do business.”
“Can you do it, sir?”
The silence returned. “I could,” the voice admitted. “Been moving cargo up and down the Muddy for nigh onto sixty years, me. My fadder, my granfadder, them too. Was gonna retire one of these days. Now…well, hell, boy, there ain’t no such animal now. Now its root hog, or die. Odds strong on dying, too.” The man was quiet for a moment. “How bad you want across, boy?”
“A lot depends upon my getting across, sir.”
“I don’t doubt. But things have changed, world’s changed, see? Back to the days of barter. My grand-pop, now, he used to haul pigs in a little launch back before the Spanish War, haul nine for one, you see? He hauls ten, keeps one. Didn’t all work out to one-in-ten, but that’s how things worked along the river back when Russia had them a Czar. You understand me, boy?”
“I do, sir. What’s the shoat you want?”
The man barked a dry laugh. “Yeah, I like that. You a tough customer, boy? You know how to fight?”
“Pretty well, sir.”
“Well, good for you, you’re gonna need it. The Muddy’s a tough place, always has been. More’n one body’s floated down because some damn fool thought he was tougher than he actually was. Still, you’re the only customer callin’. I been sittin’ here cussing myself for getting’ so old and feeble, and up the phone rings. You used to be a soldier, boy?”
“Still am, sir. Infantry.”
“Figured. Only time you hear ‘sir’ from somebody under forty, they learned it in the military. Me, I was minesweepers in Korea, Inchon, all that. Damn fool job, Navy forgot all about mines after the big one, we had to sort it out as we went. Anyway, that’s as dead as the Czar. The shoat I need, it’s a corker. My grand-daughter and her kids are in their storm-cellar with a town’s worth of them infected bastids standing on top of the door. That’s the toll, boy: bring her and her kids, and I’ll see you to safe and dry on the west bank, a landing about a half-mile north, just what the doctor ordered.”
Marv dragged a pad over and grabbed a pen. “Where is she at, exactly?”
The Gnomes gathered in the machine shop, where Brick, Addison, and Chip were comparing notes and gathering materials. “OK, we’re spending the night,” Marv announced. “Everyone outside the RV moves in pairs-there could be a couple zeds left loose in this place. Tomorrow we have an issue that everyone needs to consider: the guy who can get the RV across the river will only do it if we extract his granddaughter and her kids from a storm cellar, one Mary Beth something-I didn’t get her last name. The good news is that it’s kind of on the way, the bad news is that its zombie central. Town of a few hundred, and it’s fully involved, as the smoke-eaters like to say. It won’t be like this place-we’ll have to run and gun, and it could get very ugly. I spoke to her on the phone, she’s expecting us around zero eight hundred. Volunteer mission, guys. Could be very rough.”
“I’m in,” Dyson shrugged. “I’m not leaving kids behind.”
The rest indicated their agreement.
“OK, great. The land line is working, but anyone who makes a call: do not mention FASA, our team name, our names, where we are, or anything about our plans. I don’t know how sophisticated these guys are, but after the RV park I’m not taking any chances. Chip, what did we get?”
“Food, plenty of bottled water, and sundries. Enough food and frozen meat to keep us three or four days easy, and more if we eat a lot of potatoes and canned corn. We’re topped off on diesel and gas for the generator, plus a total of thirty gallons of diesel in cans.”
“Great. JD?”
“We found a lot of ammo, really topped us up, plus a stainless nine millimeter Berretta 92, another folding-stock AK, and a couple Tec-9s, which I plan to leave behind. Plus some holsters and slings, magazines, a lot of weapons cleaning gear, that sort of thing.”
“Good. Bear, the AK work for you? That’s that, then. Anyone want the Beretta? OK, then, let’s get things stowed, cleaned up, and ready for tomorrow.”
Sitting on an old barrel cleaning his weapons and keeping an eye out while Brick labored on his projects, Marv pondered their situation. They were resupplied, a little better armed, a little more experienced, a little more of a unit. The Mississippi River was a broad barrier, but it was a close barrier, and if the old man at the shipping company was telling the truth they would be across before noon tomorrow. Let him get on the west bank and FASA had better look out.
The Ranger scowled into the night. He wanted to be free of the worry of the payload, free to hunt FASA, to hit back, to teach them the meaning of terror, just like Afghanistan.
Reassembling the M-4, he drew the Colt from the new holster attached to the lower left panel of his MOLLE vest, broke the weapon down, and methodically cleaned it.
“Son of a bitch!” Ma
rv snarled. Five fruitless attempts to get ahold of Colonel Nelson, when he couldn’t recall a call that took more than three rings to get answered. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, the Ranger rubbed his face. It was the right number, the phone was charged, everything seemed to be working. For a moment he considered the land line, then dismissed the idea as too risky.
Standing, he headed back into the RV main area. It didn’t matter, he told himself: he had the mission order, he had a destination. FIDO. A Ranger adapts, improvises, and overcomes.
Chip was frying pork chops. “I called my mom-she’s safe, they got to my uncle’s ranch. Dyson talked to his girlfriend.”
“You kept it simple, no locations?”
“Yeah. Plus Addison hooked something up to the phone, said it would help. Hey, check out what Brick’s making.” He waved a greasy fork towards the settee.
The hammer was a little over two feet long, a high-carbon steel rod with a grip of paracord wrapped between two large washers welded in place to keep the hand from slipping up or off the grip. The business end was a three-inch spike welded at a right angle to the haft, a vicious-looking alloy shard shaped like a chisel. A large steel nut had been welded opposite the spike, and two inches of haft extended above the spike and had been ground into a dull point. The weapon was surprisingly well-balanced, and Marv essayed a cautious swing before returning it to the settee and examining the shield.
Brick had welded lightweight steel rods into a box shape about two feet across, the frame two rods deep, then added two rods across the center about five inches apart. At the right-hand side he had welded a simple U-shaped handle, and riveted the ends of a canvas strap near the opposite side. Metal cut from what Marv guessed was the body of a 50s era car covered the framework of the shield, and the entirety was spray-painted a flat gray. Sliding his left arm through the loop, he gripped the handle and discovered that the shield was light and comfortable to handle.
“Pretty fine workmanship,” he told the hefty Gnome. “I’m surprised he was driving a truck instead of welding for a living.”