Payload (11 page)

Struck by a thought, the Ranger stepped back into the store. “Anyplace here we can buy guns or ammunition?”

Standing next to the pumps, the familiar ticking noise as diesel flowed into the tank both comforting and surreal, Marv tried to think through the mission issues. There were terrorists hunting them, certainly on their back trail, and they knew where the Gnomes had been until early this morning. Assuming that his most recent communication was secure, they would only have his destination to work with.

It was time to get further off the grid, he decided.

The truck stop was far below its usual inventory, but Dyson had gotten four five-gallon gas cans, six loaves of bread, a selection of auto fuses, two gallons of coolant, a dozen cases of soda, and all the jerky and Slim Jims they had left.

After moving the gear to the RV, he tried his luck with the pay phone, and was astounded when his girlfriend’s mother accepted the charge and opened a clear, if a bit scratchy line. “Mrs. Hughes, am I glad to hear your voice! Is Anna all right?”

“Yes, Dyson, she’s fine. She tried calling you many times-the news isn’t much, but Atlanta seems to be having trouble. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m not in Atlanta. Can I speak to Anna, please?”

“I’m sorry, she’s not here, she is helping her father close up the shed out at my father’s old place. She’ll be back soon, maybe a half-hour.”

“Is everything OK there where you are? Any trouble?”

“No, everything’s fine. There are odd stories from down south, but that is all.”

“Listen the flu…it makes people crazy, Murderous crazy-the only way you can stop them is to shoot them in the head. Get what food and things you can, and stay out of town. I’m heading to Texas, there’s this thing I have to do. Please tell Anna I love her and I’ll call again if I can get to another phone that works. But stay away from people, this is some really bad mojo going on.”

Mrs. Hodges sound doubtful, but she dutifully agreed. Hanging up the phone, Dyson didn’t think he had convinced her, but at least he had planted the idea in her head. For a moment he thought about heading up to Maine, but dismissed it-the Eastern Seaboard was going to be a war zone, and she was safe out in the country with her family. Once they got the payload through they would be owed favors, and he figured a military flight to Maine wouldn’t be asking too much. Odds were good he could get to her faster by getting to Texas.

Spotting JD dragging two overflowing carts out of the Dollar Box, he trotted across the street to lend a hand, passing Bear heading the other way, burdened with bags of bright yellow boxes.

“OK, we’re topped off,” Marv shut the door behind him. The interior of the RV was redolent with the odor of fried chicken and gravy, and the big Ranger drew in an appreciative breath before continuing. “JD, what did you get?”

“About one day’s worth of microwave dinners-the run on the place was starting. I got blankets, sheets, towels, paper towels, household stuff for cleaning, soap and shampoo, laundry detergent, some pocket knives, bug spray, and a lot of over-the-counter medical stuff. The real score was bandoliers for shotguns shells, and four cases of road flares. Plus I bought a box of number four buckshot off the bagger for fifty bucks.”

“No beer?” Bear asked, loading shells into a camouflage-pattern bandolier.

“No license,” JD shrugged.

Marv snagged a box of chicken and dug in. “Did you get any cleaning gear for the weapons?”

“Sold out. I did get three cans of sewing machine oil-that should work well as a lubricant.”

“How about ball caps?”

JD pulled one out of a sack and tossed it to the Ranger. “Buck apiece for gimme caps.”

The cap was black, with a postage-stamp-sized US flag over the left temple and lettering in white on the front and rear, but at least the lettering was small.

“Money well spent. I got some more cash out of the machine, just in case. From now on we’re heading onto country roads-I’ve had orders to avoid government forces until I get back to Texas, barring specific instructions to the contrary. Seems the terrorists, FASA, have guys in disguise spreading hate and confusion.” This was for Addison, Captain Jack, and Doc’s benefit. “We may get some trouble for my taking out that FASA team at the Wal Mart truck-apparently these boys take that sort of thing personally.”

“The pay phone works,” Dyson announced. “If anyone has anyone to call.”

“If you do, don’t mention me or what we are driving,” Marv warned. “FASA might be listening.”

JD washed his hands at the kitchen sink and got behind the wheel. “I’ll get us headed west.”

Doctor Cyrus Davenport, PhD, sat erect in his executive’s chair, pondering the data that flowed across the multiple monitors that were the room’s only illumination. It was a starkly functional chamber with concrete walls painted white and short-napped beige carpet, furnished with a central desk, tall executive’s chair, and a wall rack supporting multiple HD TVs employed as monitors and their CPU units.

A short, heavy-set man in his fifties who had been born a child prodigy of a Haitian father and Vietnamese mother, Cyrus was a creature of intellect best suited to the processing of data, the study of patterns, and the administration of lesser intellects. He was a man who valued the mind over any other qualification, creed, race, or gender.

He had gotten his start in activism serving in the trenches of the pro-choice and environmental movements as a teenager, albeit a teenager who had had his first BA at sixteen. Over the years since that simple start he had become disenchanted with American liberals, and later with American leftists. His philosophy had evolved into a narrow focus that ultimately centered upon the core issue of the problems besetting Mankind: mediocrity.

Doctor Davenport came to the conclusion was that there were simply too many people on the planet, and that of those, the least viable candidates were reproducing the most prolifically. Virtually every problem that beset mankind in the modern era, he believed, could be traced back to the population’s size exceeding nature’s and society’s ability to manage it, and to the exploding numbers of third-rate minds.

He had formed The Humanity Accord to study methods to alleviate this problem, but it wasn’t until he was contacted by General Nawaz that the way was made clear: a viral purge of the lower orders, leaving the world with a sustainable population built around a high concentration of the best minds.

General Nawaz had appreciated Cyrus’ brilliance and the value of his group, so much so that Doctor Davenport was placed in control of all operations in District 12, the southern USA. Now General Nawaz was dead, he had been informed, and the bulk of the FASA central control had been destroyed. For all intents and purposes he and the FASA forces under his direction were now an independent faction.

He tapped the arrow key and a photo appeared on the center monitor, a hard-faced soldier with electric blue eyes and dark hair burred close to his skull staring into the camera.

The door behind him opened and he recognized the gait of his chief assistant, Guy Weatherford. “Where are we on the sample, Mr. Weatherford?”

“The recon team found where the target group crossed the river using an improvised ferry,” Weatherford’s voice was permanently husky, legacy of a beating he had taken in Gaza after he had hit an IDF jeep with a Molotov cocktail that failed to ignite properly. “They camped in a fisherman’s shack, returned to I-75, and engaged the infected, a two-pronged attack. The team leader believes they extracted a large vehicle from the blockage.”

“On what basis are they estimating that it is a large vehicle?”

“The team found where the subjects cached their equipment, presumably before engaging the infected. They found fresh tire tracks on the soft shoulder of the road.”

“A large vehicle, presumably a bus or RV?”

“That would be my assumption.”

“Tell me about this sergeant.”

“Staff Sergeant Marvin Burleson, known as Marv the Maniac by his contemporaries. Enlisted as an Airborne Ranger, six years’ service, extensive list of training, and four tours in Afghanistan. Twice decorated for valor in action, both instances involving rather extreme violence. Wounded three times. A widower, no real family, no close friends. Very high aptitude scores within the military testing system, superior individual ratings with emphasis on excellence in combat. Not a career soldier, but not inclined towards leaving the military. The death of his wife five years ago appears to be the defining moment of his adult life.”

Cyrus continued to study the image: a brute, a follower, the sort of Neolithic leftover that existed solely to breed and swill alcohol. A third-rate intellect operating primarily on instinct and half-understood impulses, dangerous in a physical sense but helpless as a child in any other circumstances.

“Our sources indicate he is not alone.”

“Yes, sir. The exact number and composition is unknown, but there are at leave five members; they have assumed the title of ‘Yard Gnome Action Team’, some sort of juvenile allusion to pop culture, I assume. The recon team indicates they are armed and capable of some violence. The only lead we have is the observer for the breeder cell that was tasked with cutting I-75 identified the vehicle they were using. He remembered it because a soldier from the vehicle engaged and eliminated the extraction team.”

“Burleson, no doubt.”

“Yes, sir. The vehicle, a Land Rover, was reported stolen in Jacksonville. It is also tagged by the local police as having a possible connection to the burglary of a military surplus store, and the escape of three inmates from a private mental health facility.”

“You believe that part of this ‘team’ are mentally ill subjects?”

“The facility has computerized treatment records. The inmates not only escaped leaving no clear indication of their method of egress, but also deleted their computerized records and stole most of their hard-copy files as well. The police report indicates that all three had high levels of personal skills and functional delusion levels which include paranoia and high-risk circumstances.”

“What actions are you taking?”

“The recon team is following the probable trail. I expect they will be heading for a Marine Corps facility by way of Highway One-Thirty-Three; I have placed our asset there on alert, and an assault team is en route. We also have a feeder team in the general area, but it has gone off the communications net.”

The map appeared on a secondary monitor. Cyrus rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. “Dispatch a full breeder cell and stage a helicopter into the area. Advise the recon team to look for interactions with locals in unaffected areas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“With his sat phone damaged and our actions against nearby relay points preventing the use of the Net, he is going to be looking for a means of communication. As soon as he makes contact he will be warned about unsecure communications and the uncertainty of government forces, so we must be prepared for him to bolt. Have we re-established a data source within his controllers?”

“No, sir. We can intercept any unsecure phone call and have a high probability of reading Net communications, but secure analog communications are beyond our capability. We have no agent or source in position or ever likely to be in a position to access Lieutenant Colonel Nelson’s new area.”

“Very well. Carry on.”

Cyrus looked at the photo as Weatherford left. A dim-witted brute, some mental defectives, and whatever simpletons he had managed to dredge out of the human debris in his path. This was not going to be difficult.

Marv craned his head to catch a look at the battered county road sign as Dyson turned the Gnomehome, as Doc had christened the RV, onto yet another beat-up country back road. “OK, we’re about fifteen miles from Berkley, and thirty from the Alabama line.”

“Blakely,” Addison mumbled.

The Ranger frowned at the atlas. “Yeah, Blakely.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen-fifteen hours. Slow travelling normally, but all in all not bad. I have to say, so far Georgia hasn’t sucked as bad as Florida did. We ought to stop soon and use the fuel that’s in the gas cans. In this heat the fumes can accumulate fast, diesel or not. With a little luck we can be nearly across Alabama before dark.”

“We still planning on laying up at night?” Bear asked.

“Yeah, I hate to lose time but I’m hesitant to get caught on the move after dark. This RV is nice, but I bet its not zombie-proof.”

“Doc, how long are you going to mess with that TV?” JD asked. “You’ve been coon-fingering it since Berlin.”

“I can’t get the Net and nobody will let me work on viral research, so I want to watch CNN,” Doc didn’t look up from the device he was building. “If we could stop for a while so I could put this…”

“We’ll stop when we need to stop,” Marv interrupted him. “You can put it up tonight.”

“But CNN…”

“Sucks,” Bear finished for him. “Get HBO, or better yet the Penthouse channel.”

“Gentlemen, we have a roadblock,” Captain Jack called from the passenger’s seat.

Marv moved up between the front seats. “Crap-its overrun with zeds.”

The roadblock was two white Ford F150 pickups with ‘SHERIFF’ stickers on the doors parked so as to narrow the roadway to just wide enough for a single vehicle to pass. In the pasture to the south was a long horse trailer and a half-dozen parked vehicles. A handful of infected subjects wandered between the pickups, several in tan uniform shirts and brown jeans.