Payload

by RW Krpoun

“I’m in,” Addison mumbled. “She’ll never stop.”

  “I’m in,” Dyson said after a curious glance at Addison.

  “Dude…,” Chip sighed. “I just wanted to finish my house in Skyrim. But I’m in.”

  “This is really, really stupid. I thought pro wrestling was the human limit for pointless macho posturing,” JD said over his shoulder. “But this has left the WWF behind like it was standing still.”

  “Does that mean you’re out?” Bear asked.

  “No, I just wanted to make that point,” JD sighed. “It’s a sad state of affairs when the fate of the USA has to rest upon six idiots and a moron.”

  Marv noticed Addison extracting an electronic device and setting it up. “What’s that?”

  “Scanner,” the dark Gnome muttered, adjusting knobs. “Might be a feeder cell working around here.”

  For a moment the Ranger drew a blank, but then the penny dropped: the FASA roadblock trapping volunteers in order to create zombies and cripple infrastructure. “Good idea.”

  Brick approached him. “I lost pistol, take Berretta?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. That reminds me, JD, how are we doing for ammo?”

  “Not bad, we got a lot at the relay point. You guys shot off a lot, though. A few more operations like that and its hammer time, all the time.”

  The drop-off point was a cotton gin that hadn’t done business in decades, the clapboard siding largely paintless and weather-worn to a dead gray that unpleasantly reminded Marv of the older zombies. A balding man in a blue windbreaker with ATF on the breast was sitting on the crumbling concrete steps in front, and he climbed to his feet as the RV bumped over the rutted, week-choked parking lot.

  “Stay alert,” Marv warned. “At this point I don’t trust anyone.” Releasing the safety on the Colt, he stepped out onto the sunbaked soil.

  “Quaker Millhouse,” the man in the ATF jacket said, holding his hands up.

  “Fallen Backwater,” Marv replied, giving the countersign. “Who are you?”

  “Call me Ed, if you need a name.”

  “Where’s the bird?”

  “Behind the trees,” Ed jerked a thumb back towards the gin mill. “I was told to keep contact to an absolute minimum.”

  “You know what we are doing?”

  “Exchanging goods, and then I deliver what you give me. Top priority, need to know only.” Ed grinned tiredly. “Yesterday I was shooting zombies in Little Rock.”

  “Making any progress there?”

  “Some. Maybe.”

  “OK, let’s do this.”

  Ed picked up a bright mental container identical to the payload. “I was told to tell you that its protein solution and that’s all. I don’t know what that means.”

  “Good enough.” Marv slid the dummy payload into the black nylon carrier and passed over the real one.

  “Sign here.” Ed offered a clipboard. “I have a sat phone, charger, tablet, charger, written orders, a credit card, and something called a CEOI.”

  “Communications/Electronics Operating Instructions,” Marv translated as he signed. “Tells you frequencies for specific days, all sorts of communications data.”

  “That explains why it’s classified. Initial to indicate the paper seal is unbroken. I’m supposed to get a sat phone from you.”

  “Here-we had to fix it after it and me rolled down an embankment in a pickup full of dead terrorists.”

  “It’s been one of those weeks for everybody, it seems. Here’s your copy of the receipt. Are we good?”

  “Yeah,” Marv shook Ed’s hand. “Good luck-you’re the quarterback now.”

  “Thanks. And to you, too, whatever and wherever this thing takes you.”

  “There goes the helicopter,” Dyson observed. “Looks like…yeah, it’s one of those that fight fires.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Marv said absently as he thumbed through the sheaf of orders. “Anybody know anything about first aid?”

  After a pause Chip held up his hand. “My mom is a nurse, a RN. I earned the merit badge in Boy Scouts, got the CPR course, too.”

  “Good,” Marv passed him the tablet and charger. “There’s everything the US Army knows about battlefield medicine on that thing. Start reading.”

  “What’s all the paperwork?” JD asked as he got a soda from the fridge.

  “Orders. I’m now assigned to the Office of Strategic Response, whatever that is. I’ve been promoted to Sergeant First Class in the Regular Army, and I’ve been awarded a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Army Reserve and as such, placed on active duty effective the twelfth; my promotion to SFC is dated the eleventh.”

  “Reaping the rewards, eh?”

  “Yeah. They even included rank insignia and a new ID card. Great, I’m a butter-bar. At least I got Special Forces as a branch-there’s some love.”

  “So are you a lifer now?”

  “Not hardly. It’s not much of a pay bump, even; sure as hell isn’t a payoff compared to what I’ve gone through up to this point. Still, you do what you do. Here’s orders setting out my decoy mission, and authorizing me to employ ‘para-military operatives’, including but not limited to you guys, and you’re listed by name. Addison, I gave Smith as your last name, so remember that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Thumbing through the battered road atlas, Marv frowned at the pages. “OK, let’s stick with our original route for now. Dyson, start monitoring the CB, and we’ll see what we can hear-let’s find an opportunity to help some folks in some fashion that will draw FASA onto our trail. In an hour we’ll catch some TV.”

  “Why not monitor multiple channels using the handhelds?” the Georgian suggested.

  “We’re not great on batteries.”

  “No problem, we found chargers with them.”

  “Then set yourself up a commo net. Any volunteers to listen?”

  “Hey, Marv.”

  “Yeah, Chip?”

  “Is that a tablet?”

  “No, it a cheap e-reader. No Net connection, all you can do is look at pictures, play music, read, and type notes.”

  “So what are you writing, dude?”

  “Working at an idea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking at the future.”

  “I thought the Army would be sorting out your future.”

  “It might. But I have an idea bouncing around. What are going to do, Chip? Moving furniture is gonna be slow for a while.”

  “Not sure,” the husky Gnome shrugged. “Probably drive a truck.”

  “You and Brick. Pro wrestling is gonna take a hit, so is mixed martial arts fighting.”

  “What’s your point, dude?”

  “My point is maybe we are playing the wrong hand. But that’s a talk for another day.” Marv checked his watch. “Why don’t you guys catch a movie?” He flipped up the screen on the laptop. “I need to check out some assumptions on the net.” A thought struck him. “Addison, how long before they get told where we are?”

  “Thirty minutes if moving, fifteen if stationary,” the dark Gnome mumbled. “Every thirty minutes it updates.”

  “Air recon only, then,” Marv said thoughtfully.

  “I think I’ve got something,” Bear announced. “Seems there’s some Spanish-speaking thugs that took over a bar and have been running a roadblock, taking what they want and locking up people, mostly women.”

  “What’s with the bars? You had to shoot your way out of one, Marv had to raid one…is a bar the choice of the day in a zombie outbreak?” JD asked.

  “It’s a roadhouse,” Dyson was examining the road atlas. “All of them were. They’re usually burglar-proofed, have plenty of room, cleared ground around them, and of course booze and often food.”

  “Kitchen, extra bathrooms-they’re ready-made barracks,” Marv agreed. “So where is it and why are we interested?”

  “Southeast of us,” the biker studied the map. “ ‘Bout twelve, fifteen miles. Drive twenty-plus to get there.” />
  “So we are gonna go rescue people now?” Chip asked.

  “Yeah,” Bear nodded. “I think so. One guy I heard said these guys had Los Lobos ink. He got a good look before had had to bail and take to his heels.”

  “Loose-what?” JD asked.

  “Los Lobos, The Wolves. Probably the most dangerous prison gang in the Southeast,” Bear explained. “Serious dudes. I expect they bugged out of one of the major urban centers and are setting themselves up a bolt-hole.”

  “JD, pull over.” Marv looked at the map. “It would mean doubling back, but we’ve never done that, so it’s time we did. They know we know they’re on our trail-we don’t want to make it seem too easy.” He tapped the paper, thinking hard. “Anybody draw, paint, that sort of thing?”

  “I can some,” Chip shrugged.

  “Work up a logo for us, something simple you can paint on a wall like graffiti. Make sure its unmistakable.” He turned to Bear. “How many guys are we talking about?”

  “A dozen or so.”

  “Great, outnumbered, and we’re virgins on non-infected.” The Ranger scowled at the map. “Still, we can do it. Addison, where are you on bomb-making?”

  “Five.”

  “You have any moral compunctions about blowing up gang members?”

  “No.”

  “Dyson, how about you?”

  The Georgian hesitated. “Look…what are you doing?”

  “We hit a relay point, and I bet they know that-we used both the Net and the TV there and at the gravel pit, and they picked us up right away. We used the TV again an hour ago. I want FASA to think we hit this place to resupply, and that we’re having problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “I don’t know-I’m working on it. I want them to keep thinking they’re on the verge of catching us, and I want to make this personal for the guys following us.”

  “And?” JD prompted.

  “And then we ambush ‘em.” Marv’s eyes were hard. “Guys running a dummy payload wouldn’t turn on their pursuers, but a team with a high-stakes mission would.”

  “OK, Google Earth is out of date, but the structure will be the same,” Dyson pointed at the TV screen. “We’ve got an intersection of a county road and a two-lane state highway, Arkansas Sixty-Three. The highway, as you see, is north-south, while the gravel county road is east-west. At the northeast corner is an old building, looks like it was a gas station, one of those cinderblock ones they built before World War Two. Gravel lot, no pumps, long defunct. Southeast corner is the roadhouse. Southwest corner is about four acres of field. Everything else is trees, mixed oak and hickory.”

  “The roadhouse is pretty standard: one story clapboard, set well back from the road with a big parking lot, a double-wide trailer east of it. We’ll be approaching from the east.”

  “Actually, Gnomehome is going to stop two miles short,” Marv said. “I’m going to circle around and come up from the south with whomever wants to volunteer. And before anyone volunteers keep in mind that these are uninfected people-pulling a trigger on them will be an entirely different proposition than facing the infected.”

  “There is supposed to be a dozen of them,” Bear reminded him. “You really gonna go up against that many?”

  “Not all at once. They’ll be spread out, and however badass these chumps are in the hood, this is the boonies, and I bet they’ve got a real good opinion of themselves,” Marv grinned. “This is what I do. This is my gig. A couple guys to watch my flanks and somebody with a medic bag,” he shot a glance at Chip. “And we’re in business.”

  “I go,” Brick slapped his AK. “Polish Army.” He pulled out the tool kit he had liberated at the relay point and started rummaging through it.

  “I’m in,” Dyson sighed.

  “I read half of one manual and did two sections of the interactive course, dude,” Chip shook his head.

  “You got a merit badge, right?” the Ranger grinned. “Addison, we’ll need your bombs.”

  “I make these,” Brick produced three nylon tubes.

  “A sap,” Marv weighed it in his hand. “Good ones.”

  “What’s a sap, besides me?” Chip asked.

  “In this case, a nylon tube with a steel spring and…ball bearings? Yeah, you use this baby right and its lights out.”

  “OK, lets get cammied up, tape up anything reflective, and leave anything that jingles. Where did we put those flex-cuffs we took off the girl at the RV park? JD, how much longer?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “OK, I’ll have a CB and so will Chip, I’m Six, he’s One, the RV is Two. We’ll leave ours off unless we need to tell you something. We’ll take all the binoculars. Brick, you have bolt cutters? Great-I’ll need a set of heavy wire cutters, fencing pliers if you happen to have them. Lets get set.”

  Brick wasn’t bad in the brush, Marv was pleased to see. Chip wasn’t nearly as bad as he had expected-in fact, he was not really bad at all, just outclassed by the rest of the patrol. They had him trail them by fifty feet, and the main body moved with commendable stealth.

  They circled south of the bar, staying a good mile away, and reached Highway Sixty Three. Staying within eyeshot of the roadway, they eased north until they were in a position to see the intersection.

  “Roadblock,” Marv whispered, lying prone behind a handy log. “Shit, they have dogs, look like pit bulls, three…maybe four.”

  “Where?”

  “Left side of the roadblock. That’s OK as long as they’re just there.”

  “Wish I had my bow-I have no issues killing a pit bull,” Dyson whispered. He focused the binoculars. “I count four guys.”

  “Yeah.” Marv stowed the binoculars. “Chip, check in with JD.” He glanced at his watch. “Fifteen hundred hours. We better get moving-if I had my druthers I would do this after dark, but needs must when the devil drives.”

  The double-wide trailer’s door faced away from the bar, opening out onto a broad redwood deck with white metal patio furniture and several half-barrel planters. Somewhere behind the trailer a car stereo was pounding away through a high-end sound system; at their distance it was mostly just bass.

  The four Gnomes, sweating through the boot polish and bug spray, lay in the grass and studied the situation. “We need to clear the trailer first,” Marv whispered. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s on guard back here. We’ll go one at a time, rally at the west end of the deck, hard against the trailer wall. Me, Dyson, Brick, Chip. Ready?”

  He was sweating hard, and yet the hands that gripped his shotgun were as cold as ice. Chip watched Marv slip to the fence and clip the barbed wire, laying a bandana over the wire before cutting so the noise was reduced. Finished, the Ranger scooted to the side of the trailer and motioned; Dyson set off immediately.

  Chip wondered how he had gotten into this. A week ago his main concern was the upcoming expansion to WoW, and now he was crouching in bushes with two shotguns, a pistol, and a pack full of medical gear, boot polish on his face, about to go to war. He wasn’t a soldier-sure, he was a patriot, and supported the veterans and the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, but this sort of thing…this was crazy.

  Brick darted out and headed across the open ground, AK ready, moving confidently. Chip watched his friend go and felt tears in his eyes-this was like your first time on the high board, the last guy to go and everyone watching and waiting for him to fail.

  He decided to stay, to sit this one out, and was surprised to find himself up and staggering forward when Marv waved. Keep low, keep moving, and keep quiet, the Ranger had said. Chip promptly caught his toe on a rock or root and staggered wildly towards his right a half-dozen paces before regarding his balance. Thankfully, he had always been light on his feet, especially given his size.

  Although he wasn’t the same size anymore, he thought crazily as he tried to blink away the sweat running into his eyes. A week of lots of stress, not so much sleep, plenty of sweat, no junk food, and smaller meals than he was used to
had loosened up the waist of his jeans. He ached all over, as a matter of fact, and really wished he could concentrate.

  Too late he saw that he was centered on the steps to the deck, his stumble having sent him much too far east. His abrupt change of course ended in a sprawl as he tripped on the edge of one of the paving stones that made up the walkway, falling flat on his belly, the bottom step digging hard into his ribs.

  Above him, the trailer door banged open.

  Chapter Ten

  Sweating even harder than he had been before, Chip grabbed the bottom step and dragged himself onto his left side, facing the deck in time to see a heavily muscled Hispanic man with a shaved head and copious tattoos step onto the porch. Luckily for the Gnome, the man was looking back as he emerged, focused on the girl he was dragging out the door. He had a Tec-9 machine pistol in his right hand, and two spare magazines stuffed into the rear waistband of his boxers, the latter exposed by his sagging jeans, the slick black metal standing out sharply against his spotless white wife beater tee shirt.

  Chip couldn’t see the girl, but he heard her bark a curse in Spanish as she landed on her knees. The man causally swung the door closed and stepped over to lean back against the rail, reaching around to pull the magazines out and setting them down on the top railing. “Get to it,” he snapped the fingers of his free hand, pointing towards his crotch.

  He had said it Spanish, but Chip spoke the language well enough from four years of High School Spanish and growing up in a multi-lingual neighborhood. Raising his head, he saw the girl kneeling on the deck, hands behind her back, a pretty Hispanic girl with smooth walnut skin and long, wavy hair, wearing a bright yellow sun top and jeans faded to near white and clinging like a second skin. Under different circumstances Chip would have envied those jeans.

  Grabbing the second step, he pulled himself to a sitting position as the girl shuffled forward on her knees, paused, and then slammed her forehead into the man, who managed to twist and catch the blow on his thigh. He yelped and then laughed, backhanding the girl flat. She hit the deck hard, unable to catch her fall, and Chip found himself looking directly into her eyes. Her face registered her shock but she bit back any outcry at Chip’s frantic head-shake.