Rolling Hunger (The Yard Gnome Action Team Book 2)

by RW Krpoun

  Withdrawing under pressure was the most difficult test a unit can perform, and Marv was proud beyond words of the Yard Gnomes: the skirmish line was ragged and the Gnomes were visibly shaken, but they were withdrawing in good order, keeping a fairly consistent distance between them and the enemy, bringing effective fire to bear, and carrying on just as the best American fighting men had had in countless wars before.

  It was the hammers, he believed: once they had stood shoulder to shoulder and crushed skulls, zombies would never look the same way again.

  Behind him the train’s horn bellowed in a ten-second howl, then gave three short sharp shrieks: the signal that it was going to cease signaling.

  He had emptied two-thirds of his magazines and the train still seemed to be too far away, although at least he could see it through the trees as he backed up; this retreating business was getting very old for Chip. Trying to control his breathing, he struggled to bring the dancing red dot of his reflex sight into the nearest zombie’s head and managed to drop it with the third shot.

  He took a couple steps back and was trying to convince himself that it looked like the press of infected was easing off a bit when he heard Bear bellow “MEDIC! CHIP!”

  “Cover this point!” he yelled at Chef before hurling himself towards the voice, crashing through brush and branches by brute force. He heard the thunder of Bear’s shotgun on full auto pounding away ahead and exploded through a thicket, eyes watering from the welt sliced across his face from a birch branch. He slammed into a body, sending the person sprawling and knocking his carbine from his grasp.

  The stench of rotten cloth and sour grease slapped him in the face even as a bloody hand pawed at his face. Recoiling, he jerked his Glock from his thigh holster and fired into his attacker’s face without really looking at it; later, he would not be able to recall if the infected had been a man or woman, black, white or Asian.

  The person he had knocked down was infected as well, with long brown hair, wearing jeans and a bloody down jacket. It was executing a push-up preparatory to getting up until the Gnome leaned forward and shot it in the center back of its skull.

  Shoving his Glock back into his holster Chip pushed through the brush and branches to where Bear was blazing away at the closing zombies, Gunner kneeling behind him cutting open Bugsy’s battle dress top and thermal undershirt. A half-dozen inert zombies were scattered behind the trio and Chip wondered crazily how they had gotten there.

  “He’s bit!” Gunner bellowed as Chip crashed to his knees beside Bugsy. He could see that the young Gnome’s desert camo top had been ripped and that he had a bleeding partial bite wound on his upper pectoral.

  “Put me down!” Bugsy howled. “Don’t let me turn!”

  “Shut up,” Chip gasped, digging in his gear. Pulling one of their two KIND injectors free, he stripped off the wrapper and twisted off the security cap. “Hold still.” Without waiting he slammed the exposed needle into the midst of the torn flesh, feeling the unit force-inject its payload into the young man.

  Shoving the injector inside Bugsy’s shirt he pulled an out a plastic tube; snapping off the top he dumped the colorless liquid into the open wound, causing Bugsy to scream and buck as the odor of super tropical bleach engulfed the three men. Slapping a self-adhering bandage over the bite as best he could, Chip dragged the net litter from where it rode on the bottom of his pack. Unrolling it, he and Gunner pulled Bugsy onto its mesh as the young man’s eyes lost focus and he began to mumble.

  “I need...” Chip started to yell, trailing off as he saw Brick, Bad Dog, and Dirk hurrying over. “Brick! We need to carry this! The rest cover.”

  With Brick, Chip, Bad Dog, and Gunner at the corners, the Gnomes lifted Bugsy in the litter and started for the train at a clumsy trot. Behind them Bear keyed up his radio. “Four to Six, we have a hole in the center.”

  “Six to all, get back to the train. I say again, pull back, we’re done, mission complete.”

  “Time to haul ass,” JD yelled over the shooting. “The center is gone. Stick together, we are getting back to the train.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Upchuck gasped, reloading his Mini-14.

  The trio began trotting back, turning after every few steps to shoot a couple zombies, aiming for center mass for quick shooting and to slow them down. They were almost to the edge of the trees when a sudden flash of color caught JD’s eye; spinning, rifle coming to bear, he checked fire at the last second. Forty yards to the southeast a young boy, six or seven years old, wearing a bright blue down jacket had burst out the trees, his face beet-red with exertion, pale blond hair glued to his scalp by sweat and his limbs pumping with the leaden deliberation of a body brought to the verge of collapse by exhaustion. Seconds later a half-dozen zombies emerged in full pursuit.

  The boy’s path put him on a collision course with the main body coming from the east; JD yelled, his dry throat cracking his voice, but the boy, his eyes wide and staring, stumbled on, too far gone in horror and fatigue to do anything beyond fleeing.

  Then Whiz was moving, shooting from the hip as he charged back the way they had come, heading for the boy. JD rasped out an inarticulate cry, took a step, and then shouldered his weapon, opening fire on the main body. Beside him Upchuck began firing rapidly at the pursuing zeds.

  Dropping his shotgun on its sling Whiz grabbed the boy around the waist, ignoring the child’s feeble blows and struggles as he drew his pistol and turned back to the west. Firing rapidly, trying for low-center hits so the kinetic shock would knock them back, he started back towards the two Gnomes. JD, firing as fast as he could acquire targets, watched out of the corner of his eye as Whiz came around, took a step, another and a third before his boot slammed into the corpse of a headshot infected Native American in a firefighter’s bunker pants and filthy white tee shirt.

  The Gnome crashed to the ground, and as he struggled to rise with his exhausted burden the first zombie dove onto him. JD sent a round into the second zombie’s skull as Whiz rapid-fired into his attacker’s torso, driving it off him so he could shoot it square in the skull.

  Then two more piled onto him, and the bolt of JD’s G-36K locked back as he head-shot the fifth to reach the downed pair. JD dropped the rifle onto its sling and jerked his Glock from its holster, blazing away like a madman, the sights dancing and weaving as if they had a life of their own.

  Somehow the Glock’s slide was locked back and he was cursing and struggling with the pistol when he realized that Upchuck was yelling his name. There was an infected man in blue coveralls closing with him, five holes in his chest, and more zeds were close behind. Beyond them a mound of excited zombies marked the end of Whiz and the boy.

  Cursing, tears coursing down his cheeks, JD turned and raced for the train, Upchuck on his heels.

  “Who got hurt?” Marv demanded when he reached the tracks, counting heads as the Gnomes clambered onto the cars. There were a surprising number of downed zeds on both sides of the train; Addison was moving among them pulling arrows from those who had not succumbed to gunfire. “There’s Dirk, but I’m short at least two Gnomes.”

  “Bugsy got bit,” Bear limped up, changing out the drum in his overheated Vep-12. “Chip hit him with a KIND injector.”

  “Whiz,” JD gasped, bent at the waist and gulping air. Straightening, he pulled a bottle of water from his thigh pocket and nearly drained it in two pulls. “He doubled back for a kid,” he struggled for words. “Didn’t make it. Either of them.”

  “Shit.” Marv took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled heavily. “This…,” he gathered himself. “OK, anyone else hurt? Where’s Chip?” Beside them the train lurched forward. “Forget that, get on board.”

  Dirk came over as Marv got the Gnomes sorted out. He offered his hand when the Ranger paused. “I’m sorry about your men, and I want to thank you for letting me be part of that operation. We bought some time for the refugees, I believe.’

  “Yeah…thanks for your help, every rifle matters.” M
arv was badly distracted. “Chip! Get over here. How is Bugsy?”

  “We’ve made him comfortable, and his temperature has hit a hundred. The DSA medic is on his way, and at this point I think all we can do is wait. I got the KIND injector into him in less than five minutes, so he has a chance. According to the experts if his temperature stays below one-oh-two for the first two hours he’ll recover.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “If the KIND injector worked, fifty-fifty.”

  “Anything you need, you let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marv punched the nearest sandbag a couple times, finally straightening and carefully adjusting his equipment and the hang of his M-4. “How did Bugsy get bit?” he asked Bear, who was slumped in his green camp chair sipping a cold soda Bambi had fetched him.

  “A bunch hit us from behind, like directly from behind, they came out of nowhere. We were lucky they didn’t get all three of us. You always nagging us to watch the flanks and rear was the only reason they didn’t: Bugsy looked back and sounded the alarm. He got bit covering us.”

  “They didn’t come from the north.” Noticing the four women standing quietly by the gleaming mound of the grill, he stepped towards them “Where did the zombies around the train come from?”

  “Some chased Hard Eight out of the trees, but most came up the tracks from the front and back. They circled around,” Sylvia held up an iPad. “We watched them coming, and then I landed the drone.”

  “They flanked the train? Zombies?”

  “It looked like…like they had leadership,” Bambi said a little defiantly. “I know that sounds crazy.”

  “Not so much anymore,” the Ranger said slowly. “Not lately. Did many people make it to the train?”

  “A bunch,” Bambi nodded. “A couple got attacked while waiting to get aboard, but I think most of the zombies must have gone after you guys. The train backed up so the Amtrak cars were more centered on you after Hard Eight bailed.”

  “Speaking of which, you need to see something,” Sylvia held up the iPad again.

  “In a bit. OK,” Marv turned to the senior Gnomes. “Make sure nobody else is hurt, get weapons cleaned, issue out ammo and load up magazines, you know the drill. Angela, soup and hot coffee will do a lot for these guys. Ladies, you did good, by the way, that was a lot of zeds downed around the train.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be around to talk to the guys in a few minutes.”

  Not liking the look in Marv’s eye JD brought Brick, Bear, and Dyson along when they headed towards the Amtrak command car; it was quickly apparent, however, that the Hard Eight personnel were very busy with tasks that prevented any eye contact, and did not feel the need for any comments as the group of grim-faced Gnomes moved through their area.

  Colonel Walters was waiting outside the car. “Mister Burleson, if I could have a word before we go in?”

  Marv rocked his head as if dealing with a stiff neck. “I lost one man and another may or may not be infected.”

  “I understand, I lost a man yesterday. I am sincerely sorry for your loss, but those zombies who attacked your two men did not come through Hard Eight’s area.”

  The Ranger was silent for a moment. “OK. I’ll accept that, but it doesn’t change the fact that you left us hanging. Hard Eight cut and ran.”

  “I will admit, our end of the operation was not all it could have been,” Walters conceded. “I am not pleased with how we performed, but I have identified the issues and am working to correct them. What I was hoping from you was a little professional courtesy. I freely admit that the Yard Gnomes out-performed Hard Eight on this operation,” it was visibly difficult for him to admit that. “But I was hoping we could keep it from becoming a major issue when we make our after-action report to Mister Grase.”

  Marv glared at the former officer. “How many refugees bought it because your crew folded like wet cardboard?”

  “Plans seldom go perfectly in combat,” Walters was visibly struggling with his temper.

  “True.”

  “And nothing in our contract required us to deploy as infantry. We are irregulars, as a point in fact.”

  “Well-paid irregulars. Which brings us to a core point: reputation is money, and if this situation is not handled right your reputation is mud.”

  “That is rather strong…”Walters began, but Marv cut him off.

  “This is footage from our drone.” He let it play for a few seconds. “Note the Hard Eight operators, clearly identifiable by the dark tiger-stripe uniforms, breaking and fleeing. Two even throw away their individual weapons. This is clearly a rout; some would call it a cowardly rout.” Marv lowered the tablet. “One thing keeps me from putting this on the Net and giving Dirk a copy right now: the last man standing and firing is you. However pathetic your outfit is I believe you personally meant to stand up and be counted. That means something to me.”

  “Thank you,” a pale Walters managed.

  “But we’re still not out of the ‘tell the world’ phase yet, Colonel,” Marv grinned, a smile with no humor in it. “The girl that controlled the drone has a chatty nature, and my men know about this. I have to go back to them with a compelling reason to keep mum.”

  “Obviously, the security team assigned to a train itself needs to be slightly expanded and trained to cope with loading rescued subjects under attack,” Anton Grase observed, dapper as ever. “Mounting more spotlights on the train to cope with low-light operations, and an improved signaling method would seem to be needful. Do you gentlemen have any suggestions?’

  Neither had. Walters was still sulking, and Marv was trying to reconcile the spotless fashion plate before him with the drone footage of the man on the ground, pistol in hand, helping organize the refugees onto the train. Kat had said that it looked like Grase was the last one back onto the train, taking considerable personal risks to safeguard the refugees.

  “Very well. Mister Burleson, your company performed admirably, and please convey my compliments to your personnel.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mister Walters, if you would wait a moment I have a point to discuss with you.”

  As he stood to leave Marv noticed a framed picture on a nearby desk: a much younger Grase in Marine Corps dress blues, immaculate as ever, with a beaming young woman in a blindingly white wedding dress on his arm. The block of ribbons on the uniform was too far away to read, but it was clear that then-Captain Grase had been places and had happened to people. Hostile people.

  “How is he doing?” Marv asked.

  “Still below one-oh-two, and we’re fifty-nine minutes in,” Chip said. “The DSR medic got an IV going and gave him a shot on top of the anti-viral I gave him. He gave him a sedative, too, so he’s resting comfortably. Given his progress I’m betting the KIND injector took hold, so the question now is whether it kills the virus or just delays it. In another hour we can start relaxing; in three we break out the champagne.”

  “You’re doing great, Chip,” Marv thumped the big Gnome’s shoulder. “Keep me appraised.”

  “Where’s Brick and Bear, dude?” the weary Chip asked JD after Marv moved down the flatcar.

  “Inventorying our new vehicle,” the promoter grinned. “Hard Eight decided to donate its command HUMVEE to us, along with a few handheld radios.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dawn brought a thick coating of frost on the vehicles and sandbags and the odd snowflake drifting down from the low-hanging clouds; more importantly to the Gnomes, it arrived with Bugsy still uninfected, albeit weak and feverish.

  Breakfast was stale bread and a hot and plentiful beef and potato stew which prompted a spirited debate as to what the specific differences were between a thin stew and a thick soup. After eating and Marv’s return from the morning briefing the senior Gnomes gathered in the cargo bed of Gnome-2.

  “We’ll hit Grand Forks around eleven, eleven-thirty. Grase has already called the Air Force and arranged for Anna to be dropped off when they come
to get the rescued people; since the Amtrak cars are full they’re not going to wait until the border run is done. The train is stopping for fuel and we will offload with all our gear into a warehouse. Once the train is finished refueling it will run up to the Canadian border for a photo op and then return to Grand Forks where it will pick up some more cars and do whatever trains do when they’re not rolling. It will start south at noon on the twentieth, and head back to Fort Hood. We’ll get dropped off at our place along the way.”

  “Next time I say we walk,” Chip sighed. “This has not been a fun trip.”

  “Don’t hate the train, grubasek,” Brick pinched the big Gnome’s ear.

  “Ouch,” the medic threw a hard slap at the Pole, who blocked and tried for another pull at Chip’s ear, only to miss when the big Gnome head-butted him in the shoulder, nearly knocking the laughing Brick off the block of Styrofoam.

  “Enough with the grab-ass,” Marv shook his head. “We’ll take the sixteenth off to rest and get sorted out; I’m told laundry and showers will be available. On the seventeenth we roll out to look for our buddy. Three days ought to be enough to get a feel; if we need more I’ll keep looking with a detachment and drive home while JD leads the rest on Rolling Hunger.”

  “Anything that gets me south quicker,” the promoter nodded to a chorus of agreement.

  “With the addition of the HUMVEE I want to set us up on a more permanent basis,” Marv continued. “We have a good overall unit identity, and now its time to start working on team-building. We’re going to have five sub-units: Teams One, Two Three, Command Group, and Reserve Group. The Command Group is me, Brick, Chip, one Associate, and Gnome-4, the HUMVEE. Team One is JD, Addison, Sylvia, and three Associates, with Gnome-1. Team Two is Dyson, George, Anna, and three Associates, with Gnome-2. Team Three is Bear, Sauron, Bambi, and three Associates, with Gnome-3. Reserve Group is Angela, Kat, and anyyone else, with Gnome-5, the ATV. When we get to full strength that puts each of the line groups with a leader, a second in command, a rescued person rep, and three shooters; we’ll have to promote Sauron.”