Payload (5 page)

Back at the Land Rover Addison hung two OD green government-surplus hatchets on his belt, strapped on a Bowie knife, and hefted a British Army ice axe. Doc produced a hunting knife and a machete, while Captain Jack strapped a Sykes-Fairbairn dagger to his right calf and took up a cricket bat. Looking over the extra weapons, Marv took a baseball bat, while JD and Bear chose knives and bats.

“I would suggest that if a head strike is not immediately practical that you aim for the legs,” Captain Jack cautioned the others. “They are unsteady on their feet, so getting them to a prone position should be fairly easy. Once there, a coup de grace should be simple enough.”

“Any plan?” Bear asked Marv.

“Drive up, bail out, and kill them,” the Ranger shrugged. “Work in pairs, one attacking, the other covering the attacker’s back. Me, Bear, and Addison lead; Captain covers me, JD covers Bear, and Doc covers Addison. Everyone stick close-if they get us separated we are in trouble. Don’t get into a hurry, and remember: survival is victory-we don’t need any heroes.”

“Seems workable,” Captain Jack agreed, carefully tucking his beret into a thigh pocket.

“Code name,” Addison mumbled.

“What?” Marv asked.

“We need a code name for the team,” Doc explained. “For operational security.”

“After this fight,” JD suggested. “You want to get a look at a guy in action before you work on his ring name.”

Addison nodded.

Bailing out of the Land Rover as it slid to a stop, Marv hefted the bat, cursing whichever of the deserters stole his M-4. Afghanistan had taught him about firefights, both engagements where you fired at distant muzzle flashes and movement, and fights close enough so you saw dust fly from the enemy’s clothes as the rounds impacted, but this was an entirely new flavor of violence, and he wasn’t happy about it.

All the infected people made a wailing cry, a sort of long drawn out moan at the sight of them, almost a chorus, and advanced at a stagger. Mindful of Captain Jack’s advice Marvin leaned into a good bent-knee swing, blasting the left knee of the gray-faced tourist coming at him, the joint bending sideways under the impact.

The injury would have reduced an NFL defensive guard to a mewling fetal shape, but the man hit the gravel like a sack of potatoes, thrashed like a turtle until he was on his belly, and then methodically began the business of getting to his feet with one knee joint flopping loosely. Marv watched him with a detached sense of horror-he knew all too well that unlike Hollywood, real people scream and thrash and linger in agony even with mortal wounds, but this man was ignoring a knee smashed into bone chips. It conveyed an alien sense of mindlessness, an ant-like quality. Whatever its shape, the thing at his feet was not Human.

He swung the bat downward in a vicious arc that killed the creature and his misgivings.

“Anyone hurt?” Doc swung the EMT bag around to the front. “Anyone? JD?”

“Might have a bruised butt,” the promoter ruefully dusted off his jeans. “I haven’t done a reverse pile-driver in a long time. These…
things
, they’re not people. Not anymore.”

“Zombies,” Bear said, eyes wide. “Or so close as makes no difference. We’re up against
zombies
.”

“It’s a world gone mad,” Captain Jack agreed, adjusting his beret. “I say, you throw those rather well,” he nodded to Addison, who was recovering his second hatchet from the skull of a corpse dressed in coveralls.

“That’s all of them,” Marv rejoined the group, having made a quick circuit of the building. “Store’s locked up tighter than a drum, bars on the windows, decent locks. Anybody have job skills as a burglar?”

“No need,” Doc announced, holding up a sturdy yard gnome statue that had been resting atop a long-defunct chest-style Coke vending machine. “His name is Moogie.”

“Good for him,” Bear said slowly. “So what?”

“There are three keys duct-taped to his base,” Doc held them up. “I expect Sid sometimes forgot his own keys.”

“Yard Gnome Action Team,” Addison announced. When the others looked at him, a bit surprised at his statement, he shrugged. “You said after the fight. Doesn’t give anything away.”

“And it marks our first victory,” Captain Jack gave a golf clap. “A name, a battle standard, and a tribute, all in a single stroke.”

“I’m OK with it,” JD agreed, and Bear nodded.

“OK, I’ll stand watch by the Land Rover; Captain Jack, will you cover the back? We need to make sure no…zombies wander up while we’re here. The rest gather food, bottled water, anything close to medical supplies, all weapons, and all ammo regardless if we have anything that it fits. Anything I’m missing?”

“Tools, gas cans, and camping gear,” Bear suggested. “I’ll see about getting the pumps turned on.”

“OK, lets get paid,” JD took the keys from Doc and headed to the front door.

Once the others were occupied Marv moved to the far side of the Land Rover and dug out the sat phone. “Fastbox Two reporting.”

“Fastbox Two, go ahead.” A woman was on the other end, crisp and professional sounding.

“I am at Sid’s Grub and Gas on Highway Sixteen, approximately three miles east of Starke, Florida, that’s with an ‘e’. I have five civilian men with me, plus vehicle transport. These five seem trustworthy, but I haven’t explained my mission. We are resupplying at this location, and will depart for Tallahassee ASAP.” He paused. “Ma’am, we have engaged…zombies, for lack of a better word.”

“Understood. You are weapons free on all infected subjects. Lieutenant Colonel Nelson wants you to check in at eighteen hundred hours or as close to that time as possible. We are working on an air extraction.”

  “Wilco. This group calls itself the Yard Gnome Action Team. Fastbox Two, out.”

Pocketing the phone, Marv resumed sentry duty as the others lugged supplies to the vehicle.

Donning surgical gloves, mask, and apron, Doc knelt beside one of the downed zombies and began probing in its mouth.

“What are you doing, Doc?” Marv asked.

“Collecting blood and saliva samples, and excising the glands responsible for saliva.”

“Why?”

“There is a simple chemical reaction test which should answer a few questions about transmissions. An electron microscope would be my first choice, but you have to make do.”

“OK, we’ve got full tanks and thirty gallons in cans,” Bear hopped down from securing a duffle bag to the roof of the Land Rover. “Probably a week’s worth of food, ten days’ worth of bottled water, and no throwing the bottles away.”

“Camping gear, with what the terrible trio had, is sufficient,” JD tossed a coil of rope into the rear of the Land Rover.

“We located one Remington Model 870 pump shotgun in a tactical riot configuration, one stainless steel Colt Government Model pistol, and one lever-action Marlin carbine in .30-30. We located fifty rounds of twelve gauge number two shot, one box of fifty rounds of ,45 ‘hardball’, and forty rounds of .30-30, as well as eighty rounds in calibers for which we have no weapons,” Captain Jack reported.

“Any forty caliber?” Marvin asked.

“Afraid not. We also found a katana, apparently a war trophy from the Second World War, but Doc has threatened to murder anyone who tries to take it away from him.”

“I’m happy with this Mossberg for now,” Bear said. “But I need ammo.”

“I’ve got this SiG which I don’t care for; I’ll trade it for the Colt,” Marv offered.

“I would suggest that I take the Remington and divide the shotgun ammunition with Bear,” Captain Jack said. “Marv can take the Colt, Doc the katana, which leaves JD and Addison choosing between the Marline carbine and the SiG pistol. Gentlemen?”

“I’m not a great shot,” JD admitted.

“Pistol,” Addison mumbled, and accepted the SiG from Marv.

“OK, that leaves us with a better weapons load-out, but we’re still light on ammo, and I need magazines,” Marv checked and loaded the pistol. “Doc needs a firearm, and Addison a long gun.”

“A pistol,” the short man shrugged. “I’m not the violent type.”

Addison heft the ice axe. “I’m OK.”

“All right. In any case we’re better off than we were. Everybody but Bear needs to fire off a few rounds to get the feel for their weapons right before we leave. OK, if we circle around Starke, its fifteen miles up 301 to I-10, and I-10 is a straight shot to Tallahassee. Best of all the Interstate lets us avoid towns.”

“The phone in the store works,” JD sighed. “All I got was voicemail.”

“Cell coverage is always the first to go,” Bear said, unsure if that were true, but convinced it was the right thing to say.

“Lets roll,” Addison mumbled.

It was nearly two when they struggled across the ditch and got onto 301; the Harley had had troubles getting across damp pastureland, and the Land Rover hadn’t fared much better.

Once on asphalt rolling north the day seemed eerily normal: ranchers tending their charges, a town of a hundred souls going about their day, a tractor pulling some sort of farm machinery waddling down the road.

“Did we just kill zombies and loot a store?” JD asked as Addison passed the tractor. “This is like the Twilight Zone.”

“The virus hasn’t completely spread,” Doc advised. “From what Bear described incubation appears to be between sixty to ninety minutes, and is debilitating within thirty. Newly infected victims do not get far under their own power.”

“So it can be contained?” JD sounded doubtful.

“Perhaps. I don’t know enough now, but in an urban sprawl it seems unlikely. Out here, maybe, although from your description of Starke its open to debate.”

When they reached I-10 things started looking less serene. Traffic was steady, but almost exclusively westbound, and a high percentage of vehicles were loaded with household belongings. The truck stops, gas stations, and fast-food joints that cluster at handy exits were closed with signs that stated they were sold out.

More ominous were the number of abandoned vehicles on the shoulders, and those vehicles with drivers standing next to them with ‘out of gas’ signs.

“Jacksonville has begun the final slide,” Doc observed unhappily. “No doubt there are infected subjects in a few of the vehicles around us, being taken to safety by family or friends. That’s how it spreads: in jumps of fifty miles or so, based on traffic.”

“How did it get started?” JD asked. “It takes too long to get on a plane these days for an infected subject to manage it.”

“Bioweapon,” Marv answered. “Sprayers shipped into busy ports, which are also inevitably large cities.”

“You know that for sure?” JD asked.

“Pretty sure. We got it through high-higher. They didn’t say what group or why, but I figure ISIS or Al Q are a safe bet.”

“Bastards,” JD muttered.

“130 miles to Tallahassee,” Addison announced. “We’re averaging forty miles per hour.”

By three in the afternoon the average speed was twenty-five miles per hour as wrecks and broken-down vehicles regularly created impediments. By four they were down to twenty miles per hour and they had covered just over fifty miles.

“Conditions in Tallassee are confused,” Doc reported, shutting down his tablet, which he had built into a digital picture frame so he could smuggle it into the River Arms. “Looks like a coyote packed a bunch of illegals into a box van and headed up there, only to find out that he had a truckload of infected when he arrived.”

“How much damage can one truckload cause?” JD asked from the front passenger seat.

“I doubt that was the only vector incident, but the key time element depends upon the reaction of the authorities. The fringe Net says TPD is shooting infected subjects on sight, and the National Guard is trying to deploy troops into the area, but they are running against the clock. Communications are a major issue-there’s panic, and the cell network is failing under the surge.”

“Lemme check my e-mail again,” JD busied himself with his phone.

“I would like to get away from the coast,” Marv advised Captain Jack. “After we drop off JD we should head northwest and catch I-20 into Texas. The coastal regions will be hit the hardest.”

The slender man leaned around Doc to study the road atlas. “Yes, that sounds good. Perhaps…”

“YESSSS!!!” JD whooped. “Got contact! Damn, it’s a long one.”

“I was thinking perhaps we ought to make camp at night,” the slender man continued. “After dark driving conditions will deteriorate and the chance of encountering infected under unfavorable circumstances will increase.”

Marv touched his empty NV goggle pouch and scowled. “That’s something to think about. Sundown is around nineteen hundred; we’ve two hours of daylight and eighty-odd miles to go.”

“THAT BITCH!” JD screamed; everyone but Addison jumped.

“What?” Marv leaned between the front seats.

“My wife-that bitch was
cheating
on me!” JD snarled, punching the dash. “Look, it has been rough for the last couple years-I’m on the road a lot, things, you know, drift, but I didn’t think…” He slammed the phone into the dash, crushing it into a twisted mess. “She took the kids and left with her boyfriend. Said they were going to Belize. Said she was sending the e-mail just as they were boarding the plane. About twenty-four hours ago.”