Rolling Hunger (The Yard Gnome Action Team Book 2)

by RW Krpoun

  “Do it to yourself, dude,” Chip grumbled, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ve got a country full of terrorists and zombies trying to kill me, and you have to cripple me first?”

  “Let Uncle Brick kiss the boo-boo,” Brick went for a headlock but Chip blocked and got the smaller man around the waist, lifting him off the ground in a crushing bear hug while the Pole gave him an Indian burn.

  “OK, enough grab-ass, let’s get to work. The hero squad is already on the move,” Marv jerked a thumb towards the sounds of HUMVEEs starting. “That goofy bastard is going to turn it into a race.”

  “I’m OK with going,” Sylvia said as Chip stood on Gnome-3’s bumper checking hoses and belts under the raised hood. “I’m tough.”

  “I never doubted it,” Chip grunted, squinting at the smear of oil on the end of the dip stick.

  “I don’t think I would want to do it with a hammer, but shooting, that’s OK.”

  “Just remember they’re not Human anymore. Its like stepping on a roach with rabies.”

  “Ugh. I hate roaches. Spiders don’t bother me, but those big roaches, the long ones? Creepy.”

  “Palmetto bugs.”

  “Yeah.” Sylvia removed the magazine from her Colt AR, examined it, and replaced it. “So…how many zombies do they think?”

  “A lot. Marv says it’s a head-on assault mission, clear them out with gunfire; trust me, that’s actually easier than with the hammers. The trucks are too tall for zombies to reach you, so as long as they can’t swarm a truck in such numbers that they can climb, you’re OK. You just have to move the truck so the pile-up of bodies doesn’t give them an easy way up. “

  “Gross.”

  “It is.” Chip slammed the hood and lifted the spring-loaded T-handle latches into place. “But we’re going to be fine. Zombies are only really dangerous when the visibility is restricted, or they can come at you in really big numbers, or from all sides. We just stay in the trucks, keep moving, and its like shooting moldy cans.”

  She laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “That’s me, a funny fat man.”

  Marv rode with Dirk and Brick in the rear of Gnome-2, which was the lead vehicle. Dirk had asked to be ‘in the thick of it’, and Marv hadn’t seen any reason not to accommodate him.

  “I made Afghanistan on a regular basis in my Soldier of Fortune days,” the big man mused. “Interesting country. Just when you have written the people off as the most backward, debased, perverse examples of Humanity that every crapped on dirt they do something utterly heroic and throw your perceptions on their ear.”

  Brick was listening with the devotion of a first-year seminary student in the presence of the Pope. “A very tough people.”

  “Indeed they are, and with a strong streak of nobility in those the Taliban hasn’t debased. I recall one operation where an entire village rallied and drove off the Taliban in the defense of three API crewmen whom they had invited to dinner. The rules of hospitality, you see. The fact that their guests were disloyal, lying scum from the depth of the muck-raking barrel was immaterial; they backed up the ancient creed with violence and their own hearts’ blood. You have to admire that sort of integrity.”

  “They kill many Russians,” Brick pointed out. “That makes up for much.”

  “Very true. Marv, what is your opinion on the matter?”

  “Me? Well, I can tell you that the only place in Afghanistan that mattered to me was that part I was standing on, and the only people I cared about were NATO troops. They could use the place as a nuclear weapons testing ground for all I care.”

  “Harsh but honest,” Dirk grinned. “Being a Ranger I expect your encounters were more Taliban-oriented.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You were part of Operation Threadgill, weren’t you?”

  “It wasn’t like they chose me personally; my entire company was.”

  “Threadgill?” Brick frowned. “Never heard of.”

  “We hunted Taliban bomb-makers. Well, not really hunted, Military Intelligence and the EOD types cooperated to track IED builders by their signature styles. If you look at losses to IEDs by bombs-to-losses ratios they weren’t really that effective individually; most IEDS never really hurt anyone. But if you broke down the numbers by the type of IED construction you got a completely different picture. The better-built devices nearly always hurt or killed someone. Trouble is, Afghanistan isn’t a country with a deep pool of people with the kind of skills to build the top-end bombs. Iran trained a lot, and they used the experienced bomb-makers to train others. Once MI had identified a bomb-maker he went on a hit list. Naturally drone strikes were the preferred method, but the bomb-makers just ensured that they lived and worked in the heart of villages.”

  “Our job was to go in, usually at night, and take out the bomb-maker without a lot of collateral damage. We usually used a platoon-sized element, forty to fifty guys. It was good, clean fun.”

  “I envy you,” Dirk boomed cheerfully. “I was on the receiving end of several IEDs.”

  “Yeah,” Marv muttered, looking back in time to adrenalin-charged infiltrations, the hit, and often a running firefight with the bomber’s guards on the way out. It had been a rush like nothing else in the world could ever be, made all the sweeter for knowing that every bomber killed was a score of lives and a hundred limbs saved. There were few situations in war that were so neat and clean, so guilt-free. “It had its moments.”

  His radio interrupted his musing. “Three to Six, you need to see this.”

  Dyson was in Gnome-2’s cab. Marv shoved a foam block against the cab and stood, clamping one hand on his cap to keep it on his head. They were on a county road that arrowed across gently rolling farming country, the fields to either side harvested and plowed-over for winter, the pale concrete bulk of the grain elevator rising a mile to the west like a castle of old.

  What Dyson was referring to was a group of people scrambling to get out of the roadway ahead. “What the hell?” Marv mumbled. “Six to all, shut down, stay mounted.” Beneath him he felt the truck shifting gears as Bugsy slowed down, easing over onto the right edge of the road.

  Gnome-2 came to a halt a hundred feet from the people, who were clustered in the ditch with their backs to the barbed-wire fence.

  “George, Brick with me, the rest cover,” Marv said slowly. Straightening his hat he jumped down from the truck and headed towards the group, hands open and held at mid-chest in front of him in a gesture of peace.

  There were twelve in the group: a burly man with a short beard that was mostly gray sitting on a tall horse, and eleven on foot. The man on the horse wore gleaming chain mail, a full shirt which reached his thighs, a broad leather girdle supporting a broadsword and dagger. He had an axe and shield slung from his saddle, and a conical helm with a red and white streamer on his head.

  The other eleven were of a period, so far as Marv could tell: there were two men in mail shirts, while the rest wore leather armor, not the fanciful stuff Marv had seen at ren faires, but heavy multi-layered boiled leather with solid fastenings. Men and women wore loose pants that reminded the Ranger of sweat pants, dyed in check or stripe patterns, and boots of various styles, a few looking like finely made hand-work and some modern mass-produced footgear. All were armed, the two mail-clad men with shields, swords, and axes, while the rest were a mix of seven-foot spears with wicked steel heads, and iron ball maces paired with a small shield. The sole unarmored member was a slender young blond girl who looked to be just into her teens who carried a composite bow and a brass-headed mace whose business end was shaped into a skull.

  “Marvin Burleson, Director of the Yard Gnome Action Team, contract security,” Marv tried to keep a normal tone of voice, but it wasn’t easy. This had to be the most surreal experience he had ever had, much more so than the eerie trip into Berlin a few weeks ago.

  “Sir Roger Hunt, Baron of the Western Realm,” the mounted man nodded in a regal manner. “What brings you to my lands?”


  “Wariat,” Brick muttered behind the Ranger.

  “The DSR has directed us to rescue a group trapped in the grain elevator,” Marv pointed to the distant structure, feeling stupid.

  “I gave no such leave,” Sir Roger snapped.

  “You what?”

  “I did not give my permission for such an undertaking.”

  “Take that up with the DSR. Now, do you know anything about the situation over there?”

  “I need not take anything up with anyone. These are my lands, and here my word is law.”

  “Do you know anything about the situation at the elevator?” Marv tried to keep the topic on point. “Who is there, how many zombies, that sort of thing?”

  The ruler of the Western Realm seemed torn between the issue of authority and the situation at the grain elevator, but before he could choose the blond girl with the bow spoke up. “Sir, my sister is one of those beset. There are many of the walking dead laying siege, and the lower regions of the hold have been carried.”

  It took a moment to work out the odd sentence structure, but Marv was glad the ice was broken. He kept his eyes on the knight, who was visibly annoyed at the girl’s statement. “Are all the people there yours?”

  “No,” Sir Roger admitted, shooting the archer a glance that caused her to duck her head. “All but one are outlanders. We have been skirmishing with the invading dead for some days, but they recently concentrated at yon structure and caught a number of gentle folk by surprise. Among them is my granddaughter, as her sister has mentioned. The bulk of my troops are resting while I lead a small force to survey the enemy’s works.”

  “Well, we’re here to end the siege,” Marv said carefully. “We’re…sell-swords. Leave or not, we are going to get paid.”

  The knight looked sourly at the waiting trucks. “I will not oppose you,” he said reluctantly. “However irregular these circumstances may be, the needs of those beset must first be addressed. “

  “Well said,” Marv nodded. “We are going to move within a quarter mile and observe before launching our assault. If you would like to participate…”

  “We need no transport,” the knight cut him off. He turned in his saddle to point. “A drive cuts south to the structure; following this road, although it appears to be dead-on, actually leads you to a point somewhat north of the position. Where the drive enters the road is a suitable spot to examine the situation. I will lead my force directly to the structure, and attack when you strike, so as to split the foe.”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “What a loon,” George observed as they returned to the trucks.

  “He has definitely gone a bit native,” Dirk nodded, glancing back over his shoulder. “But I expect his troops are fairly formidable against the infected. Their armor is bite-proof, and I expect they work in teams, the spearmen holding a target in place while the mace-man crushes the skull. A horse, however, would be a liability, I would think.”

  Marv motioned Addison forward. “When we stop again I need SkyGnome deployed. It will give the Age of Conan types time to get into place.”

  Bracing his elbow against the fender of Gnome-2, Marv watched carefully through his binoculars; behind him he could hear Dirk pontificating on the crucial importance of the rural Midwest in the recovery of the USA and the world as a whole. The man could make a shopping list sound like the speech before the battle of Saint Crispin’s. He wondered how the celebrity would handle the reality of what was awaiting them; a lot of those who talked tough in the forward operating base had nothing to say when the bullets started to fly.

  He heard SkyGnome lift off and pass overhead, and he lowered the binoculars. JD and Dyson were still studying the scene; he offered his pair to Bear who shook his head. Stowing the binoculars, he headed back to where Addison would be streaming live feed from the drone.

  “All right, listen up,” Marv clapped his hands for emphasis. “We’re looking at a tough one.” He gestured towards the sketch Dyson had made in Magic Marker on a boot-smudged sheet of cardboard. “The target area is a grain elevator which hasn’t been used in years. It consists of this square structure and four attached round silos, the whole business built out of Depression-era concrete. The square structure used to house the grain lifts and channels, and has offices at the top two floors; it is ten stories tall, although the first eight stories’ worth of height is just an open shaft. The silos are roughly eight stories tall, and are likewise just shafts, with openings at ground level and the top. The zeds have breached the ground floor entrances; the survivors are forted up in the two office stories on top of the square tower.” He tapped the diagram. “These two stories are only a few hundred square feet, so while the place is tall, the interior is small. Addison, roll the footage.”

  He took a pull from his camel back while he waited for the video footage to finish. “OK, you can see what we’re up against: it looks like a free concert. There’s a couple hundred zeds in plain view and we have no idea how many are in the square tower or the silos. The plan is simple: we roll in and make a circle of the parking lot traveling clockwise so the front passengers can shoot and the drivers are protected; as you can see the entire grain elevator runs east-west, with the square tower on the east end. The parking lot and all ground-level entrances are on the south side, which is also where the infected are hanging out.”

  “By staying mobile they shouldn’t be able to swarm any of our trucks, not that I really believe they could.” That was a lie, but the sort that the Gnomes needed to hear. “We will circle until the zeds are down or until I pull us back. Once the outside is clear we create a new plan.”

  “There’s about a dozen people coming up from the due south tricked out like medieval warriors; they’re on our side, although how much good they will be, I don’t know. Be aware of your backstop at all times, friendly fire is a bitch.” That got a weak chuckle or two.

  The Ranger sighed and looked at the circle of Gnomes sitting and standing before him in a half-circle in their mottled desert camouflage, the tactical webbing, the weapons, the open faces. “This won’t be easy, but there are twenty-one people on the top of the grain elevator who don’t have long to live if we don’t get them out. We’ve been thumping our chests over what a bad bunch of operators we are, and now is the time we change brag into cold hard fact. We are those peoples’ only hope; you are their only hope.” Marv looked from face to face. “Some of you are alive today because strangers put it on the line to save you, and the rest have family or friends who have been there. Now its our turn to bring them home. We’ve done this before on a smaller scale, and now we’re heading into the big leagues.” He let them absorb that for a moment. “JD, do you have anything?”

  “Yes, sir. Guys, life sucks.” That got a ripple of laughter. “In the years to come you’re going to deal with depression, regret, and the emotional fallout from trusting the wrong woman.” Another ripple of humor. “But in those times, just like a hundred dollar bill in your wallet you’ll be able to pull out the memory of today and remind yourself that you stepped up, you saved those people when nine out of ten men or women would have saved their own hide. Let an old man tell you, that’s worth a lot.”

  “All right...,” Marv saw Dirk’s raised hand. “Would you like a word, Dirk?”

  “I would, sir.” The big man strode determinedly forward to stand in front of the Gnomes. “Marv called me a poet earlier today, and I’m not ashamed to say that he is right. I would like to share a poem with you, written by a man who knew something of war. His words seem perfect for the situation we find ourselves in.” He cleared his throat.

  “ ‘Epitaph for an army of mercenaries’

  These, in the day when heaven was falling,

  The hour when earth's foundations fled,

  Followed their mercenary calling

  And took their wages and are dead.

  Their shoulders held the sky suspended;

  They stood, and earth's foundations held;

 
; What Hope abandoned, these defended,

  And saved the sum of things for pay.”

  Marv was startled; he had had to keep his face poker-straight as the big man had moved forward, expecting some bloody chest-thumping rhyme, but the poem touched him, all the more so for the heart-felt way Dirk recited the words.

  There was a long pause after Dirk finished, head bowed, and then Brick stepped forward and roared, “DO IT LIKE DIRK! USA, USA, USA!”

  Then the entire company was on their feet, bellowing the chant into the morning sky.

  Gnome-1 led the charge, the three trucks travelling in numerical order; Brick drove Gnome-1 with Sauron riding shotgun, while Marv was in back with Bugsy, Whiz, Upchuck, Dirk, and Dirk’s cameraman. The Ranger prayed as he had done so many times in Afghanistan, simple words that brought peace and strength. Closing with the Sign of the Cross, he focused on the problems of weapons, tactics, and situational reaction.

  “Won’t be long now,” Dirk yelled over the truck noise, eyes gleaming.

  Marv shook his head and pointed. “They’re bunching up.”

  “They don’t care for vehicles,” Dirk shrugged.

  “It feels as if they’re forming a square, like British infantry receiving the French dragoons at Waterloo.”

  That wiped the grin from the big man’s face. Balancing against the rough ride, Dirk stood to get a better look. Settling back, he kept his voice lower. “That’s….strange.”

  “Not the first time I’ve seen it,” the Ranger snapped the M-4’s stock to full extension as Brick shifted down, slowing as they reached the parking lot.

  In the cargo area of Gnome-2 Chip knelt on a folded canary cover, watching the mob of zombies, Sylvia perched on a padded dock float next to him. “They are not breaking up,” the girl observed as Gnome-1 turned and shots rang out.

  “No, they are not.” Chip turned on the reflex sight on his M-1 carbine. “Stay cool, pick your shots,” he said over his shoulder. He had George, Bad Dog, Ernest Harris, and Dirk Chamber’s aide with him; Chef was driving and Dyson was riding shotgun.