Payload (23 page)

Marv swore. “No, sir, but I think I know how they’re doing it.”

“Good. Now, give me your location and we’ll set up the meet.”

Marv flipped open the road atlas. “Well, we’re about twelve miles east of Monticello, heading north-northwest.”

“OK, guys, gather around,” Marv leaned against the fridge. “Time to get everyone read into the plan.”

When the Gnomes, less JD who was driving, had gathered in the main area, he held up the payload. “This is the payload. FASA is an amalgamation of various fringe groups and lunatics; they created the virus that is causing all of this mess, built it in a lab or labs in Indonesia. The spooks were closing in so they had to move their plans up. They got seventeen bombs loaded with the virus before the US nuked their labs and production facilities. Some of the bombs were destroyed in transit, but one was captured. The Feds caught it in Miami-I was part of the detail guarding the capture effort at the port. From the bomb they extracted samples of the un-deployed virus.” 

“I don’t get the science, but apparently the lab-state virus is special because they weren’t done refining it or whatever else they do. Something scientific. Anyway, they split what they captured into three portions, and sent it out by air, land, and sea. Fastbox One, Two, Three. I was part of the security detail on Fastbox Two, moving by air. We had a mutiny, and long story short I ended up on foot in Florida, but I had the payload. Fastbox One made it to the destination despite a commando attack by FASA operatives just short of the destination. Fastbox Three ran afoul of zombies and the sample was destroyed with a thermite grenade.”

“The science geeks are making amazing progress with the material from Fastbox One, and they really could use more of the material. Why I’m not sure, but like I said the science is beyond me. All I know is that getting this to them will help. On the flip side, FASA wants this very, very bad. If they get it, they can make more bombs. Without it, they’re creating zombies one bite at a time.”

“So the reason FASA is coming at us is this payload?” Chip asked.

“Exactly. I didn’t tell you because I’ve been under orders this entire time. I didn’t hide the risks, just the reason. Some here knew more than others, but now I’m laying all the cards on the table.”

“Why is the USA reduced to moving this stuff by RV, dude?” Chip asked.

“Because FASA has some infiltrators in the US military and government services, and because they put a bounty on it-remember that I told you about the gold and inoculations? It wasn’t because we killed their guys, it was because of the payload. The government could only send a team that was completely trusted, and right now vetted teams are in short supply. They assassinated the Chief of Staff of the Joint Chiefs and a bunch of Congressmen in the last couple days-resources are thin and getting spread thinner. Plus I lost contact with my controller for a while.”

“Now, here’s the good news: in less than an hour we will hand off the payload to a team on a helicopter who will whisk it to where it needs to be.”

“Good,” Bear nodded.

“The bad news is they are going to give me an identical payload container, and I am going to continue my cross-country run to the secure site the where real payload is destined to be researched.”

“What? Why?” JD asked from the driver’s seat.

“The team picking up the real payload is off the grid. FASA used a massive amount of resources attacking that RV park-that many zeds could have turned a good-sized town. If they think we still are Fastbox Two, they’ll keep throwing resources at us, resources that won’t be used to attack civilians, infrastructure, or cee-three sites.”

“What’s ‘Cee-three’?” Dyson asked.

“Command, Control, and Communications, basically headquarters units.”

“So we act as bait to draw FASA away from soft targets,” Bear mused.

“More like chum drawing sharks, dude,” Chip shook his head. “But I thought we lost them?”

“We did, again.” Marv jerked his thumb towards the TV. “But when we connect with the satellite, FASA knows.”

“So you’re going to watch some HBO,” Dyson said slowly. “You’re going to keep them on the trail.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna be the bunny faking a hurt leg that lures the wolf away from the den.”

“Easy way to get killed,” Bear pointed out.

Marv shrugged. “That’s my choice. I’m not gonna give you a John Wayne speech-when the payload gets handed over anyone who wants out can take their weapons and their share of the food. I need the RV because of the sat link, but nobody else has to put it on the line. You guys are solid, I haven’t soldiered with better, but no one can ask more of you than you’ve already given.”

“I will fight for America,” Brick said.

“I better get full immunity for
everything
,” Bear shook his head.

“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.”