Payload (9 page)

“The RV is nice, but there’s real prize,” Bear pointed to a pick-up with a company logo on the door which was embedded in a hybrid a bit south of the RV.

“A work truck?” Captain Jack said.

“A
roofer’s
truck,” Bear corrected. “Looks like all the tools are still in it. You ever seen a roofing hammer?”

“Yeah,” Marv grinned and nodded.

“What is special about a roofing hammer?” Doc asked.

“It’s a hammer with a long hatchet blade instead of the claw on a claw hammer, usually about four to six inches longer that regular hammers, too. Ought to be just right for cracking zombie skulls.”

“The hatchet side isn’t quite sharp,” Marv added. “More like a chisel, they use it to split shingles.”

“Let’s get this done,” Doc suggested, batting at the cloud of mosquitos around his head. “These things will drain me dry once the Cutter’s starts to fade.”

“All right,” Marv and the rest of Group Two knelt by the concrete divider on the south-bound lanes. “We go for the RV. I’ll clear it, JD gets it fired up, Doc and Dyson keep watch. Once we know if the RV is a go or no-go, we hit the roofing truck.” A sudden spatter of gunfire erupted to the north and east. “There’s our cue. Nobody move too fast, the zeds will need time to react to Group One.”

Staying low, Group Two eased up on the northern end of the blockage, every sense straining. To the north the shooting had quickly tapered off to the occasional single shot, but they could hear yelling and the rattle of metal on metal, and once a fiery explosion.

“There’s the RV, facing south. Door to the west; Dyson cover west, Doc east. JD follow me.”

The RV loomed over them as they closed, a tall, gleaming rectangle in white, black, and pale blue with tinted windows that blindly reflected their surroundings. Up close, a scattering of shell casings, three discarded empty speed loaders, blood splatter, a head-shot zombie, and a stainless Colt Python lying on the roadway told part of the story: at least one occupant had dismounted the vehicle and engaged the infected, getting one before being overwhelmed and infected.

Dyson opened the Python’s cylinder and dumped out six empty shell casings. Shrugging, he tucked the weapon into the back of his belt, and gathered up the speed loaders

The interior of the RV was brand-new, and free of the living or the infected; Marv did a safe-clear first, then worked his way back, checking cabinets as JD sat at the steering wheel, owner’s manual in hand.

“How’s it look?” Marv kept his voice low, watching for movement in the frozen traffic jam south of them.

“Keys in the ignition, three-quarters of a tank, battery is good. Let me work out the controls for the three backing cams, and we’ll be ready to rock. There’s a GPS system and a CB as well. What does it look inside?”

“Brand new-still has factory stickers on appliances. Only things that didn’t come from the dealership are three pieces of luggage, the sheets on the bed, and a case of water in the fridge.” Marv rooted in the pockets on the sides of the driver’s and front passenger’s captain’s chairs and extracted a shoulder holster, a loaded speed loader, and a box of .357 Magnum hollow points. “Once you’re comfortable with it, get it turned around. If we don’t catch up, meet at the gear, or one mile north of the gear if the zeds get too close.”

“Got it.”

Marv closed the door behind him as he exited. “Here,” he passed the ammunition and accessories to Dyson. “Sneak up and grab as many hammers as you can carry and get back to the RV. If it takes off before you get back, escape and evade back to the gear.”

“Got it.” Dyson slipped on the shoulder holster, dumped the rest of his acquisitions inside his shirt, and headed south.

“Doc…,” Marv came around the RV only to see the medic digging in the rear of a wrecked blue hatchback with a corporate logo thirty yards south of the RV. “Little maniac.”

Bear heaved a rock at the nearest zombie and trotted back a few yards. Their initial fusillade had dropped five and gathered the attention of more than a hundred; since then all they had to do was hold their attention and keep them moving.

They were a chilling bunch to see-the recently infected were hardly distinguishable from the living except for visible wounds and their jerky, slow movement. Those who had been infected for longer periods actually looked like zombies: gray, lifeless skin, hair falling out, clouded eyes, open sores.

After the initial chorus of wailing cries that chilled the blood in his veins, they had been mostly silent, just the occasional dragging moan, and a sort of hissing they made when they really got close.

The front ranks faltered, so he leveled the Mossburg and shot the least fresh zed square in the face-the older and deader they looked, he found, the easier it was to shoot them. Captain Jack shot another a second later, and the infected resumed their lurching pursuit.

“How much longer?” Captain Jack called, thumbing fresh shells into his shotgun.

Bear glanced at his watch, lifting his wrist up to eye level rather than letting the infected get out of his sight, backing steadily as he did so. “One minute.”

Addison, the Mac-10’s stock unfolded and in place, fired three evenly spaced shots, cleanly dropping three infected.

Bear shot another infected and swore as he backed into a deep puddle. “OK, we’re done. Stop shooting and let’s make tracks.”

The RV rumbled to life as Marv ran, arms laden with green fabric bags of canned goods taken from a wrecked mini-van. He paused to let Dyson, who had a grimy white five gallon plastic bucket in each hand, precede him into the big vehicle.

JD started backing up even as the Ranger cleared the top step. “Dyson, set the thermostat to seventy and hit the green button,” the promoter said over his shoulder. “It should be near the fridge.”

“Got it.”

Marv dumped the bags on the floor and stepped to JD’s side.

“Where’s Doc?”

“Dunno,” JD muttered, eyes on the cam monitors. “Shut up-I’m rusty, and there’s not a lot of room.”

“Oh, shit,” Marv muttered. The vehicle’s height and the broad expanse of windows gave him an excellent view of the blockage to the south, the parking lot of wrecks and abandoned vehicles that stretched for a half mile or more.

“What?” Dyson and JD asked in chorus.

The Ranger unslung the payload’s black sling and hung it on the back of JD’s seat. “Keeping driving, JD. Dyson, come with me. And keep the door shut,” he added as he descended the steps, the Georgian on his heels.

Fifty yards deeper into the blockage Doc was rooting in the back of a white van with a media satellite dish on the roof, blissfully unaware of the scores of zombies drawn by the sound of the RV’s big diesel engine.

“That little asshole,” Dyson swore, shaking rounds from the box and slotting them into a speed loader.

“He is gonna regret this-if they don’t kill him, I will,” Marv agreed. “I’ll get him-you cover me. Don’t fire until I start.”

“Got it. Here,” Dyson handed Marv two road flares.

Pistol in hand Marv moved forward, not running, not walking, keeping close to cover. This felt good, simple and clean. He had enlisted for the money for school and because it was what men in his family did, and stayed in because overseas was the only place where the loss of Deb quit hurting him. Living in a tactical environment required focus, imposed a stripped-down, Spartan lifestyle, and reduced the world to preparation and execution of missions ordered by others. It was as much a retreat from his pain as alcohol or drugs, but at least it performed a useful service: while he was doing the job overseas some normal guy with a life wasn’t over there.

It had changed during his third tour, not dramatically, but when the tour ended the pain didn’t really come back. Slowly he had gotten a new viewpoint, and began feeling a bit like he might have a life after all. But he still enjoyed the rush of being on the edge.

He whistled when he was halfway to the van but Doc was oblivious, rooting in the storage bins racked inside the van like a coyote digging in a steer’s carcass. The zeds were about forty yards beyond the van and lurching at best speed. One caught sight of Marv and gave a moaning wail that chilled the Ranger’s blood, and the cry was immediately taken up by scores of others.

Doc finally popped out the van, spotted the oncoming threat, and ducked back in, emerging ten long seconds later dragging two heavy duffle bags.

Marv picked the north edge of an open spot and waited, touching the hilt of his dagger and his spare magazines. “Drop the bags!” he yelled: burdened by his load, Doc wasn’t moving much faster than the infected. The little man ignored him, struggling forward like a turtle lugging a rock.

His clear area wasn’t much more than ten yards, but it was better than nothing. As Doc lumbered across its narrow expanse Marv took up a good stance, and laid the front sight on the nearest infected’s forehead, a gray-faced, milky-eyed black man in a sports coat zigging between vehicles in hot pursuit of the gasping medic.

The zombie’s rear skull fountained dark blood and brain matter, but Marv didn’t waste time watching him fall, instead shifting to a fresh target, focusing, and squeezing the trigger. When Doc lumbered by he reached out and grabbed one dangling strap. When the medic protested he rapped the little man’s wrist with the warm barrel of his pistol and then shoved him north.

Dyson was firing, but Marv ignored that, focusing on each target and shot as the zombies spilled into the open ground, their eagerness and numbers conspiring to impede their efforts. The slide locked back and Marv ejected the empty magazine into his night vision goggle pouch before slotting in a loaded replacement.

Six shots and four dropped infected later he grabbed up the duffle bag, getting a surprise at its weight, and double-timed north, loading a fresh magazine as he moved. Up ahead he saw Dyson, the other duffle bag across his shoulders, herding a winded Doc onwards, and beyond that the RV rolling north, clearing the last of the blockage.

Digging in, he concentrated on controlling his breathing as he ran.

Group Two and the RV were waiting at the gear point, their packs and equipment already loaded and stowed when Group One caught up. Stepping into the interior of the RV, which was already ten degrees cooler than the outside Florida air, Marv dumped the duffle bag and heaved a sigh of relief, accepting a bottle of blessedly cold water from Captain Jack. “Anybody hurt? Great, let’s get rolling.”

Bear drove with JD in the passenger seat, ready if advice was needed. Dyson dumped his duffle bag and slumped onto the sofa, which someone had covered with an OD green blanket to protect it from the dirt.

The RV was spacious and gleaming new, with tall soft captain’s chairs for the driver and front passenger, a sofa (with a hide-a-bed), booth, and sound-proofed water closet with a toilet and sink on the driver’s side, and a settee/hide-a-bed, fridge, kitchen, and closet for a stacked washer/dryer on the passenger side. A king-sized bed was behind an interior wall, with a full bathroom beyond that.

“After action report: anyone learn anything?”

“Older ones look dead, move better,” Addison mumbled from his seat in the booth, the RV’s owner’s manual open in front of him.

“They don’t like being led,” Captain Jack observed, giving Dyson and Doc water. “We had quite a challenge keeping up our end of the operation. When it was apparent they were taking losses to no gain they kept turning back to the vehicle park.”

“Interesting,” Marv leaned over and grabbed Doc in a headlock, cruelly twisting the smaller man double. “The next time I tell you to stand guard and you wander off,” he said in a conversational tone, “I’m going to turn you upside down and use you as a pogo stick. You understand?”

“But there was
stuff
,” Doc protested, then screeched as the Ranger tightened his grip.

“When you stand watch, you have our lives in your hands,” Marv explained calmly. “If you go to sleep or wander off to find stuff, you place us all in great danger, because we’re counting on you.”

“…
stuff
,” Doc gasped.

Sighing, the Ranger released the medic, then punched him squarely in the stomach, dropping Doc to the floor. “And the next time I tell you to do something in the middle of a firefight, like drop a duffle bag so I don’t get ripped to shreds by an infected, and you don’t, you’ve gonna regret it.” Reaching down, he unbuckled the katana’s strap.

“That’s
mine
!” Doc gasped around the ache in his belly.

“Fix the sat phone, and we’ll talk,” the Ranger snapped. Struck by inspiration, he jabbed the tip of the scabbard into Docs chest. “Next time you screw up I’m bending this into a circle.”

Sitting by Dyson, who was reloading his speed loaders, Marv began refilling his magazines.

Once he was confident that Bear had the RV in hand JD rose and began sorting through the supplies they had salvaged and the luggage left behind.

Addison rose and checked the thermostat, and then rooted under each of the three sinks, finally opening the fridge and freezer and checking displays. “Hot water in thirty minutes,” he mumbled. “Gonna get the washer on line.”