Payload (36 page)

The implication of that was sinking in just as a boot slammed into her side.

The tree sheltered Addison from the worst of the blast, and the earplugs preserved his hearing. Rolling to his feet he saw that the bodyguard was dead, having been sitting too high on the slope: his head and shoulders had been in the blast window. Addison had chosen his spot on the assumption that the guard would want to be higher on the slope than any Gnome.

Discarding the ear plugs, he rushed down the slope; the other Gnomes were rousing themselves, better-prepared for the blast than the enemy had been but still stunned.

Sophia was on her hands and knees looking dazed and pawing through the littler of leaves and branches for her sidearm as he booted her solidly in the short ribs. Pouncing on her, he bound her wrists with two heavy wire ties, grabbed the revolver, and heaved her onto his shoulder with a labored grunt. As he turned west JD was helping a dazed Bear to his feet and supporting him down the creek bed, Doc’s green camp chair dangling from the biker’s hand.

“You got her?” Chip asked as the dark Gnome stepped over the log.

“Yeah, cover us-the zombies will be coming.”

“Go check body,” Brick jerked his chin towards to dead bodyguard as he calmly unfolded his AK’s stock.

“Ok.”

The explosion rocked the SUV on its springs; Dyson and Sylvia had just heaved a securely bound Portal into the cargo area while Bambi put her bra back on.

“Damn!” Dyson grinned. “That was something-it knocked the drone out of the sky!”

“Two to Four, move it,” Chip’s voice was a bit shaky over the CB. “Five by five.”

“Roger, baby,” Sylvia grinned. “Everybody’s OK!”

“And we got Sophia,” Dyson nodded. “Bambi, you drive.”

“Where? Our vehicles are on the other side.”

“Straight through town-it will distract the zeds, give our guys some help-they were close to ground zero. And I bet there’s more where sentry-boy came from.”

“I hope you dropped him on his head,” the stripper said as she climbed behind the wheel. “That guy is a rapist if I ever saw one.”

“He is a sick-looking bastard,” Sylvia agreed. “You want in the front, Dyson?”

“No, I’ll get in the back seat-I want to be able to shoot out of either side.”

The blast and the pillar of dust drew every zed within a half-mile, Chip bet-it looked like a free concert opening. The captured SUV plowed through several knots of zombies as it roared through town, but it didn’t warrant a second glance, not that zombies really glance.

The plan had the rear guard focusing the zed response on the blast site to reduce the risk that zeds might wander into the creek bed while the Gnomes were trying to extract their captive and themselves. Like so many of their plans it sounded a lot better in the air conditioned confines of Gnomehome than it felt in the field.

Bracing his carbine against a splintered tree trunk, Chip methodically squeezed off his shots, dropping the faster-moving older infected first, Brick pounding away to his left. The sight of two humans motivated the already-interested herd, and the moaning wail was a solid wave, kind of like a crowd at a concert when the main attraction walks out onto the stage.

The bolt locked back, and Chip reloaded, dropping the empty mag into his pocket and resuming fire, part of his mind grinning at the thought of the anti-gun politician’s interview who based her (failed) bill on the idea that magazines were disposable. Sixty rounds and fall back was the rule, then take a position for ten shots and displace further back, just enough to hold the zeds interest on the rear guard. 

It was easier this time: Chip found he didn’t really think of them as anything but targets anymore. Whatever they had become, they weren’t Human anymore. Still, given a choice he preferred facing older ones who looked even less alive.

The bolt locked back. “Ready,” he called to Brick, who nodded and started scrambling down the slope. Reloading as he picked his way carefully, unsure if even Brick’s beef could haul his bulk if he tore up an ankle, the husky Gnome headed down. He wondered if he broke an ankle would he have the balls to tell Brick to go, and cash in like a man?

The old Chip certainly wouldn’t, but this new Chip, the one feeling a little slack in his waistband and whose hands were actually fairly steady, he might. The new Chip might just fire until they over-ran him and bust the M-1’s stock over the skull of first one to reach him.

He liked that thought.

Marv had the Remington packed inside its hard case and was climbing down from the bales when he heard the engine approaching. Kneeling at the corner of the stack, he peered carefully around the wall of straw. He had figured Sophia would have some way of tracking the stones, and would call for her best team within an hour’s drive. He also figured that after a big explosion had gone off in town the reaction team would approach cross-country rather than risk another IED. He was also betting that the reaction team would be made up of city boys-that was a bit of a long shot, but so far their contacts with FASA assets were drawn from urban types, and it hadn’t seemed like too much of a stretch. More reliably, he figured they would be hyper-aggressive types flush with one-sided ambushes of badly distracted police and first responders, and lots of soft targets.  

South of the creek bed was all hay fields, recently cut and baled, nice and flat. They were fenced, but had cattle grids instead of gates, each a depression covered by a transverse grid of metal bars whose gaps were wide enough for animals' legs to fall through, but too narrow to impede a wheeled vehicle. From an approaching vehicle the fact that the bars covered a hollow wasn’t obvious, and most people from a city environment wouldn’t be aware of that fact.

A wise sergeant would stop and cut barbed wire, but the SUV was ripping across the fields whose furrows would make for a rough ride but otherwise wouldn’t really slow them down. Fifty yards from Marv’s position was a cattle grid and the SUV was headed for it like cruise missile on final approach. As fast as they were moving they would easily catch the withdrawing Gnomes long before they got to their vehicles.

They missed the thin rod with the front axle, or maybe Addison had the delay wrong; in any case the SUV was almost clear when a hundred pounds of industrial black powder and fifty pounds of diesel-soaked ammonium nitrate fertilizer detonated, shredding the rear tires and ripping off the back bumper, cargo hatch, and rear body panels.

It’s rear flung into the air, the SUV skidded forward on its nose for twenty feet, stripping away the grill and front fenders before friction caught hold and it went over onto its roof, sliding another ten feet before coming to a stop.

Marv went prone and shouldered his M-4 as the dust settled. The vehicle sat rocking gently on its roof for several long seconds, and then a wail started, a high-pitched pain-wracked keening that was without gender or inflection, just a primal expression of pure agony.

He could hear voices and see confused struggles, and finally a figure in woodland BDUs wriggled out a side window and with great difficulty, aided by someone kicking, got a side door open. Armed with a fire extinguisher he busied himself with spraying white powder into the engine compartment and the fuel tank. The second man out scrambled up onto the undercarriage and crawled into the engine compartment, cursing the motor’s heat and the steam from the ruptured radiator, emerging with a grease-coated knife in hand to report the battery connections had been cut.

The next two out started working bodies and gear out of the vehicle. Of the six in the vehicle, two were too badly injured to move on their own, and one of the four who were upright was hopping on one leg whenever she had to move more than a step or two.

Marv was impressed with their energy and organization-these guys were pretty squared away. He would have been more impressed if they had put out security, but he was willing to spot them on that issue.

He let them get their equipment out and start tending their injured before settling the M-4’s stock into his shoulder. He shot Fire Extinguisher twice and then moved to Greasy Knife for a quick double tap before that worthy could rise from the first aid kit he was setting out.

Limper was damn fast, injured or not: she was prone, fumbling to bring her weapon to bear (it had been on her back on its assault sling) when Marv put a round squarely in her forehead. Number Four got his weapon into play but was blazing away on full auto from the hip, putting out a lot of rounds but none even close to Marv’s location. Marv shot him four times rapid fire and then scooted back behind the bales.

Loading a full mag as he trotted around the bales, he moved to the other corner and checked the scene. Limper was gone for good and Number Four was breathing his last, but Greasy Knife was crawling towards his weapon, which he had leaned against the SUV, and the leader was actually up on his feet and hobbling around the SUV, using one hand on the vehicle to pull himself along. 

Unfortunately, the leader was moving more or less towards the Ranger. Marv hit him with another double-tap, and then shot Greasy Knife in the back of his head.

Periodically checking his rear and flanks, Marv watched the scene for a few minutes, then stood and eased up, shooting the leader and both injured subjects in the head for safety’s sake as he approached. Once he was sure they were all dead, he turned on his CB. “Six, flankers zero. I’ll set off the other three big bangs and head to rally. How you, over?”

“One to Six, we are five by five. Sending trio to pick you up in target vehicle.”

“Outstanding. I’ll be here.” Marv replaced the expended rounds in both magazines as he trudged up the fence line. They had planted IEDs at four fence crossings, and he didn’t want someone accidently tripping them.

JD was on watch as the captured SUV rolled up. “Everyone OK?” Marv asked as he climbed out of the back seat.

“Yeah, pretty much. Bear took a bad jolt from the blast; he’s resting. I need the girls to strip-search Sophia so she doesn’t do a Himmler on us. Or was it Goebbels? Whatever, just make sure she doesn’t have a cyanide pill.”

“Bear’s hurt?” Bambi asked, frowning.

“No, just a little concussed. Chip gave him some aspirin and he’s laying down, you can check on him once you’re done. That damned explosion was like a freakin’ A-bomb.”

“We’ve got one more to check,” Marv jerked a thumb at the SUV’s cargo area. “Plus we got some very solid gear off these guys. Me and Dyson will take care of it if you’ll stand watch.”

“No problem. The zeds didn’t stay with the rear guard once they cleared the stream bed, but better safe than sorry.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mister Weatherford?’

“We just received word from in-place assets-Fastbox Two’s payload has been at its target site for at least fifteen hours.”

The Doctor pondered that for a bit. He was too tired, but there just wasn’t time to rest. “How did it get there?”

“Apparently they broke protocol. They used civilian assets deployed on short notice with minimal information. Our bribery efforts were focused upon military and paramilitary forces, and in any case the payload was within single-flight range.”

“So the offer to Sophia was a ruse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recall her.”

The pause spoke volumes. “We reached her pilot. It was an ambush.”

“Is she dead? Confirmed?”

“No confirmation, sir. As per protocol she had a tracker, and the payoff had a tracker. After an explosion and gunfire both left the exchange site and moved to another location less than two miles away, then stopped. Since the team she summoned was eliminated, we have to direct assets from some distance away to investigate, but I would suggest they captured her, moved her to a secure location, located and discarded the trackers, and departed.”

“That is reasonable.”

“I have instructed the pilot to return, and will have a ground team confirm or deny my theory.”

“Very good.” Doctor Davenport sighed. “We will have to operate upon the assumption that she was taken alive. Begin the displacement plan immediately. Were the security protocols followed with her departure?”

“Yes, sir. She was moved in a sealed vehicle, as was her bodyguard. Neither can place this facility to within a half-mile.”

“No immediate fear of an air strike, then. We can move at Priority Three, I believe. Did she have access to any of the displacement sites?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Choose one at random and get things started.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door closed, Cyrus leaned back in his chair and stared tiredly at the ceiling. The virus was out of his reach, and Sophia was lost. Getting that sample would have turned the battle around for FASA; as it was, the thin veneer of central control over his organization was unravelling as the various government agencies fought back. District 13 had almost no central control left, and his own district was beginning to experience desertions. Without a rallying point FASA would soon split into its component parts, each cell, group, and faction going its own way.

Losing Sophia was a blow, albeit not for any personal reason-she had no real commitment to any goal, just a burning lust for anonymous harm and chaos. She was useful in these hectic days of setting the fires, but would have been a significant liability when the time came to rebuild.