by RW Krpoun
“That was pretty impressive.”
The voice surprised him; turning, he saw the speaker was a young woman, nineteen or twenty by his best guess, a striking young woman with smooth ivory skin, a strong, well-proportioned face, and electric blue eyes. Her long black hair had blue highlights that matched her eyes, and a tattoo of a fairy dragon curled around her left eye. She wore wool leggings dyed half gray, half black which were tucked into tall soft-soled leather boots, a thick gray sweater whose hem reached mid-thigh, and a black cloak of rich wool. A belt of woven black cords worn around her narrow waist over her long-hemmed sweater supported a large hand-tooled leather pouch on each shapely hip, each paired with matching cylindrical leather case. She had a leather backpack slung over the cloak with a furry bedroll strapped to its top and a thin straight staff her exact height wrapped in leather cord leaned against her shoulder.
“It’s what we do,” he managed, struck by the cat-cool expression in her eyes and the way her lips seemed quirked into a slight smile that spoke of a joke she alone enjoyed. He suspected he was looking at the noisemaker and paint-bucket-thrower.
“Chief, they’re at the door,” George reported, giving the girl a quick appreciative glance.
“Will it hold?”
“For a while.”
“Lean on it. When it starts giving way we’ll fire it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, you’re the chief, eh? I’m Angela Hunt, once granddaughter to the Master of the Western Realm, now a political refugee. Who are you guys?
“I’m Senior Chief Operator Addison Smith; we are the Yard Gnome Action Team, private security contractors to the Department of Strategic Response. I’m just in charge of this detail, our commander is down below.”
“So is my grandfather; how are you guys fixed for camp followers? Every mercenary band needs camp followers.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” Addison said automatically, very much at a loss. “We’re corporate security.”
“If you say so.” She jabbed an inert corpse with the tip of her staff. “These guys looked like wheat before a thrasher and that big mob down below didn’t do all that well, either. Security types guard, whereas you guys seem to be pretty proficient at locating and kicking ass.”
He shrugged, well outside his comfort zone but at the same time intrigued. “We met your grandfather.”
“Yeah, the Baron. Jolly old soul, that one.”
“Your sister is down there, too. She’s all right.”
“Half-sister; dear old gramps is a firm believer in sister-wives. That’s why I’m on the lam: I’ve managed to duck becoming some old lecher’s latest bunk-warmer for longer than most, but it finally came down to spread ‘em or hook it, and I chose the latter. Turns out my timing really needs work.” She saw Addison’s expression. “Look, gramps is, well I guess was a survivalist, you know, prepping for the bitter end? Which, ironically, is now upon us. He moved us all into a compound around nine years ago and started working towards a ‘sustainable technology’. A good idea in principle, but personally I think that given our head start we could have sustained a lot later in civilization than the Middle Ages. Anyhow, he decided that the best way to repopulate the Earth is for every greasy old bastard who joined him to get a couple teenaged girls as wives. When the virus broke out we went full ren faire, and with the influx of refugee girls the ‘two babes in every bunk’ program went live. I was supposed to be married yesterday, but I managed to escape and run into the biggest concentration of zombies in eastern Nebraska before they even planned the ceremony. Not that gramps really invests in the ceremony; he usually makes a speech about the duties of a wife and the obligation to repopulate the world and tells the groom to hit it hard and often, only phrased more discreetly. My betrothed was a buddy of his, maybe a year younger.”
“I see,” Addison said, a little dazed.
“Yeah. So, how about it, Chief? Got a camp follower position vacant?”
“We can…figure something out.” Addison wasn’t sure what, but he was pretty confident that this was not a member of the cult whose ranks had included every woman he had ever had sex with; he wasn’t sure what the exact details of the group were, but he guessed they needed his DNA as part of an effort to create an improved strain of Human being. Nine years on a compound in Nebraska would suggest that she hadn’t come under his mother’s influence, either. He had been a solitary man all his life, occasional cultist encounters aside, but since the Gnomes had formed he had gotten used to having people around, and he was getting a strong feeling that having this girl around might be a good thing.
“Great. Hey, that’s a good idea.”
Addison looked to where she was looking: George had dragooned several of the men who had been waiting their turn to descend and set them to lugging dusty old metal desks out of the office area and piling them in front of the double doors. “Yeah, that’s George Sanchez, one of our best men.”
“He has one circle on his collar, and you have three,” Angela observed. “I guess that makes you a better man.”
“No, just senior. I helped form the Yard Gnomes.”
“Modest, I like that in a man. Don’t sell yourself short, though: it takes a good man to lead from the front.”
There was an air of tension when Addison hopped off the last rung and went looking for Marv, Angela in tow. Sir Hunt and his followers were on the south edge of the parking lot scowling at JD, Chip, and four Gnome Associates who apparently were keeping them away from the rescued people. A two-wheeled cart drawn by a mule had joined Sir Hunt’s group, and his horse was nearby.
The Gnome leader was squatting over a map with Dyson and Bear. He stood as Addison came up, his eyes on Angela. “There she is.”
“Angela Hunt,” she executed a sweeping curtsy. “Cook, soothsayer, fortune-teller, mistress of a thousand primitive skills, and camp follower extraordinaire.”
“Marv. Your grandfather has been spouting bloody murder about what will happen if we don’t hand you over, and that is not a figure of speech.”
“I’m free, white, and twenty-one. Well, twenty, actually. I want to join up.”
“Soothsayer, eh? We hang witches.” Marv was unaffected by her charm. Watching the exchange Addison was surprised to realize that she wasn’t any more than five two; he could have sworn she was his height when they were talking on top of the grain elevator. She had had an impact on him, he realized uneasily.
She fished a Gothic silver cross on a black cord from beneath her sweater. “I’m a Methodist soothsayer. More importantly, I’m the sort of soothsayer who knows the right sooths to say at the right time.”
The Ranger stared at her without expression, but the young woman didn’t flinch under his gaze. Finally he looked over at her angry grandfather. “I’m not inclined to kill people over a family dispute.”
“I don’t want anyone killed, I just want an opportunity to earn my keep, or at least hitch a ride outside my grandfather’s reach. Look at it this way: getting me out of here saves at least one life, because if you don’t help me I’ll end up gutting that sleazy bastard gramps has decided would be marrying me.’
“You might be getting into a worse situation than one old guy,” Marv observed. “I’ve got a crew of young healthy guys and you have no idea what sort of ship I run.”
She smiled. “That’s not what a guy who hands out girls to his troops would say.”
“What sort of a shot are you?” Dyson asked as Marv stared at Sir Hunt.
“None, really. I’ve put down a few zombies, but its strictly old-school with us.” She rapped her staff against the crumbling asphalt. “This is titanium alloy, a repair part for a nuclear reactor. I had to wrap it in leather before Gramps would let me carry it. You keep me on you won’t be fitting me for camouflage, but I can make myself useful, and if I get cornered I can fight.”
“Useful how?” Bear asked.
“I bet you guys are living on stuff out of cans and bags, salvage,” she
grinned. “You’re rolling past cattle and pigs going feral and silos bulging with grain and potatoes while you look for supermarkets and warehouses. I’m the kind of cook who knows how that stuff translates into food, and that translates into good morale.”
Marv glanced at each of the Master Chiefs, then faced Angela. “OK, we’ll try it. But while you’re with us, in uniform or not, you follow orders and you don’t create trouble. We won’t make you marry anyone, but there will be hard work involved. And just as important, you keep Gnome business to yourself when you’re around others. Understood?”
She curtsied again. “Your obedient servant, mi’lord.”
“You’ll answer to Chief Smith for the immediate future.” Marv shook his head and headed towards the angry knight, who was berating JD, motioning for Bear and George to follow.
“Sir Hunt,” he held up a placating hand. “If you would give me a moment.”
“I grant you nothing,” the knight snapped, red-faced and furious. “You will hand over my granddaughter this instant.”
“Sir, she does not wish to be handed over, and she is an adult.”
“She is my ward!”
“She is nothing of the sort,” Marv said tiredly. “This issue is closed.”
“It most assuredly is not…” Sir Hunt was interrupted by the muzzle of Marv’s M-4 being jammed into the knight’s beard.
“Its over,” Marv said quietly as the Gnomes behind him brought their weapons up. “Or you are over. If trouble starts here, your fault, our fault, nobody’s fault, I will blow your head clean off. We are going to load up and leave, and that’s the end of it. Do we have an understanding?”
“Common law…” Sir Hunt began.
“The law of the United States of America is what applies, not whatever nonsense you spout. Understand that we are perfectly willing to kill to keep her, so the only issue before us is how many of you are willing to die to take her.”
The blond archer had drifted away from the group to climb onto the cart as Marv had approached the knight. Hopping back down with a pack on her back and a leather duffle bag in each hand, she suddenly sprinted towards the trucks. “I’m going, too!” she screamed as she ran, startling everyone.
One of the men in mail shouted something at the girl and made to follow until Chip stepped in front of him, carbine ready.
“How about we call this a day?” Marv suggested to the furious knight. “We cleared out a bunch of zeds who would be a problem for you, you got rid of two troublemakers, lets call it a win-win?” He lowered his rifle.
Sir Hunt gave the Ranger a withering stare and then turned with great dignity and marched back to his horse. Marv jerked his head and the Gnomes lowered their weapons and began moving back to their vehicles.
“Dude, you quoted Big Jake!” Chip grinned at Marv as they reached the trucks. “That rocked!”
“John Wayne has shown us the way,” Marv said solemnly. “Now lets get the hell out of here.”
“That was quite an encounter,” Dirk Chambers boomed as he refilled speed loaders for his revolver. “I thought we were going to be recreating the Little Big Horn for a moment there, and then the cavalry arrived, as it were.”
“It got a little western,” Marv agreed. The Gnomes were heading back to the train, the trucks tightly packed with twenty-two additional bodies; the foam blocks the Gnomes usually sat on were hanging on ropes over the tailgates to free up cargo space. “Its good for you, builds character.”
“That it does,” Dirk snapped a refilled speed loader into its belt carrier. “This outbreak has been a time of terror and tragedy, but in all honesty I have to admit I enjoy the fighting.”
“It has its moments. You can get addicted to the feel of it, the intensity,” Marv agreed. “Afterwards…I dunno. Its real, like very little in this world is real.”
“Indeed. I think the Romans must have felt like this, the Legions battling murderous barbarians in Britain, Gaul, and on the Rhine: smashing down what is wrong, eliminating chaos in order to bring forth culture and science, creating a legacy that endures to this day. That is what we are about, you and I: we are creating a legacy that will echo through the ages. Our victories will bring comfort to men and women a hundred generations from now.”
“That’s a good thought,” Marv nodded. “That makes up for a lot of things.”
Doctor Davenport climbed out of the small plane and glanced around at the small rural airstrip surrounded by trees. “I must use the facilities,” he gestured towards a nearby creek bed. “Please wait for me at the SUV.”
Kristi Pratt, his personal bodyguard, scowled at the wooded creek but nodded once and headed to the vehicle that FASA had sent to meet them.
Removing a roll of toilet paper from his overnight bag, Cyrus set the bag at the edge of the strip and carefully made his way through the trees into the deep creek bed. Choosing a handy log by the shallow stream, he spread a handkerchief across the trunk and sat down, absently tucking the roll into his coat pocket.
After a few minutes he heard someone approaching from his right, and moments later a husky black man with a shaven skull appeared, trudging along the stream bank, dressed in a black and gray camouflage uniform, an assault weapon of some sort dangling toy-like from one massive hand.
“Passage?” Doctor Davenport stood.
“Yeah. What do you want?”
The man was a member of the Evening’s Door, an obscure group whose quasi-pagan creed Cyrus did not fully grasp, but which certainly involved mass executions, rape, and torture of the unbelievers. The Door had been FASA affiliates but had drifted away onto their own as the outbreak progressed. They were vicious, brutal, and completely committed to whatever they were trying to accomplish; they had suffered more than fifty per cent losses since the outbreak and yet the Doctor had not heard of a verifiable case of a member abandoning the fight.
He had a solid personal contact with an influential member of the cult who had arranged this meeting, the entire matter done without anyone in FASA being aware of what was going on.
“I need you and your team to go to ground for a few days, a week at most. I will contact you on this phone,” he handed Passage a Chinese-made satellite phone. “And when I do you will immediately locate and kill a man.” He unbuttoned his shirt to retrieve a file folder. “Everything you need to know is in here. When the job is done I will give you the locations of two unguarded FASA weapon caches in this region.”
“Why should we wait to kill him?”
“Because the man will have a covert security team close by, very close. I am going to arrange for that team to be absent. I will call you when they are out of the way.”
Passage flipped through the file. “OK.”
“Thank you.”
Climbing out of the creek bed, Cyrus replaced the toilet tissue in his bag and walked to the SUV.
When he had contacted Hodges to arrange an immediate face-to-face meeting the head of Project Lantern had chosen a truck stop a few miles from the airfield, an isolated eatery that served the summer trade. When the Doctor arrived it was well-guarded, and as he rode past the armed men and women Cyrus reflected that most were likely to be ERF infiltrators pretending to be FASA security.
Hodges’ staff had cleaned the truck stop, which was warm and filled with the smells of coffee and a meal being cooked. The director himself, bow tie firmly clipped in place, met the Doctor at the door. “Good to see you again, sir,” he shook hands warmly. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Tea, dark,” Cyrus handed his coat to an aide.
“A shame you can’t tour the project,” Hodges said as he let the Doctor to a booth away from the others. “Its going quite well.”
Tea and a tray of cookies and sliced fruit was delivered to the booth, and then the two men were alone on that side of the building.
“I would like to see how you are coming along,” Cyrus said truthfully, tasting the tea. “But time is of the essence. I didn’t trust this to elec
tronic or voice communications, and frankly, I felt the need to speak to you personally on this subject.”
“I’m all ears,” Hodges assured him.
“There’s a leak in or close to the Project,” Cyrus kept his voice low, cupping his hands around the fine china cup. “The US government, I suspect specifically the NSA, is getting suspicious.”
Hodges froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “A leak?”
“Yes. They don’t have a clear picture or otherwise we would have a battalion of paratroopers charging around as we speak, but they have a solid line on what you are up to in these woods. Obviously I can’t give you the specifications on how we know, but the key factor is that they are coming to mount a covert investigation.”
“When and how?”
“The government is mounting a new program called Operation Rolling Hunger, using train-mounted contract security to extend the DSR’s capabilities. One of the test units will be arriving in Grand Forks tomorrow. On board is a contract security company known as the Yard Gnome Action Team. This team was assigned at literally the last minute, and has requested down time to conduct personal business in Grand Forks and western Minnesota.”
“They’re sending contract security?” Hodges wasn’t impressed.
“I don’t believe so. The man who formed the company was, until less than a month ago, a Special Operations officer promoted by order of the President for his post-outbreak actions. He was discharged from the military immediately afterwards. Tell me what it means to you when you have an officer who warrants a Presidential Order and several medals, and the same week he is tossed out of the military?”
