by RW Krpoun
Of course, the foundation-rot was already terminal in his marriage, although at least back then he hadn’t known about it. The zombies might have moved up the timetable but his wife certainly had her bug-out plan in place and all its details sorted out by that point, and Lord knows she had been humping that British bastard for months. At least the bitch had gotten the kids to Belize where the virus hadn’t yet reached.
His life had been pretty predictable up to five weeks ago: school, the Navy, college, marriage, kids, better than average business success. Even the unfaithful wife hadn’t been that far off the realm of possibility-he had spent a lot of time on the road.
Then in five weeks his Caddy was junked and abandoned in Florida and he found himself the oldest guy in a rag-tag band of hired guns putting their lives on the line for God, country, and cold hard cash, like something out of Kipling’s more bellicose works. He wasn’t sure whether to weep, laugh, or feel proud. His kids said they were proud of him-that was something. He spent his spare time reading military manuals and wishing he had been born fifty years earlier so he could have missed this mess.
George picked off the shooter and the firing rattled to a stop. “George, Gunner, check the building.” Movement caught the corner of his eye and JD turned to see a zed clad only in ragged scrub pants trotting purposely at him from the north. “Great.” Shouldering his G36K he shot the emaciated, gray-skinned man squarely in the forehead, something that had sickened him the first time he had done it but which was now so common that it only registered when he missed.
“Zombies on the loose,” he called to his team. “Keep an eye out.”
Addison eased forward past the corpse of the woman he had killed, sparing her a quick glance as he passed: younger than he had initially thought, the initial impression of age coming from hard living and an unfortunate luck of the draw on facial bone structure. He guessed her to be Central American with a heavy dose of Indio blood, probably recruited by his mother from the death squads or leftist guerrillas down there. A member from either group wasn’t worth feeling sorry for, much less a paid assassin with his name on her hit list. He was getting tougher, getting icy-cold inside, and he suspected that despite his mother’s virus his teeth and the fate of the world were safer than ever before.
Easing past the vehicle barn as gunfire rattled to the north and the breeze carried wisps of chemical smoke past the row of parked vehicles, he crouched by the front bumper of a truck and tried to get a feel for what was happening.
He threw himself prone as a gunshot barked close by; twisting on the damp, leaf-littered ground he saw a rugged-looking shaved-headed man in black and gray battledress at the corner of the farm house with a rifle shouldered. As he desperately brought up his MAC-10 the man swung towards him only to be knocked off his feet, shot by someone to the south, about forty yards to Addison’s right.
Low-crawling in that direction, the dark Gnome took cover behind a rusting water trough and hastily unscrewed the suppressor before stowing both it and the machine-pistol. Swinging his G36K around to the front he unfolded the stock, scanning the tree line to the south.
Spotting a track in bare soil the Gnome eased to his feet and slipped into the brush, keying up his radio as he moved.
Marv crouched alongside the tree Bear was lying behind. “You have rear security?”
“Yeah, Scarface,” Bear jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Good. What have you got here?”
“There’s a lab in this end of Pen One, they were doing something with zombies, active zombies, in there. What, I have no clue.”
The Ranger scowled at the buildings. “This has not worked out well.” He tilted his head, listening to his earpiece. “OK, the DSR has help on the way, that’s a bit of good news. Look, the surprise has worn off, and those zombies complicate things. We need to stop playing soldier and start setting new goals.”
“Who’s been playing soldier? We’ve been kicking ass.”
Marv grinned. “No doubt. I’m going to take Dyson and Brick and head after Hodges. You take Bad Dog and Sauron and head back to the trucks-we’ve seriously screwed up whatever the Evening’s Door had going here and killed at least four of their guys, maybe more, so they might be looking for payback. Leave Chip in charge here; when I get to JD I’ll have him send you another Gnome. Chip, you secure the lab until JD gets here.”
“Oh, great.”
“That’s the spirit. Let’s get moving.”
Bear rolled to his feet. “We’re on our way.”
“I’m glad to see you,” JD admitted as Marv trotted up, although to the Ranger’s eye the promoter and his team looked calm and confident in their own right. “The vehicle barn is clear, but Hodges got past us. Addison is trailing them. We took out three shooters and a few zeds.”
“You guys have done good work,” the Ranger took a knee. “Chip is in the tree line just north of the two pens keeping an eye on a lab they found. I want you to send one man back to the trucks-Bear is already heading there with two men. The Evening’s Door is loose around here and probably looking for payback, so we need more security for our vehicles. You take the rest and link up with Chip, keep an eye on the lab until the response force gets here. Watch yourselves closely, the Door will be hunting for blood.”
“How far out is the response force?”
“I’m not sure.” Marv stood. “It’s a platoon from the 101st Airborne and a DSR Site Response Team coming in on Blackhawks, so I’m guessing an hour plus. I’m going after Hodges with Dyson and Brick.”
“Good hunting. Gunner, you have spare batteries for your CB? Great, head back to the trucks and hook up with Bear.”
“Doctor?”
“Yes, Mister Weatherford?”
“I thought you should know that the distress alarm was sounded at the Project Lantern site some time ago. The District command post can’t raise anyone there.”
“The primary site in Minnesota?” Cyrus swiveled around. “Do we have any idea what is going on?”
“Not exactly, sir. The alarm was sounded in the main building, and within minutes in both work sites and the security station. One of the Security officers reported a ground attack, but there were no further transmissions.”
“How did the government find that location?”
“They did not, sir. At the time of the alarms no government forces were unaccounted for in that area.”
“Some outlaw band, I expect.”
“That was the District command center’s assumption, sir. At least until we received a call from an asset within the DSR. Apparently the attacking force is a contract security unit.”
Doctor Davenport felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”
“We do not have the full transcript of the transmission, sir, but apparently the mercenaries encountered an ERF direct action team, and obtained the site’s location from prisoners.”
“ERF? How would the ERF know about Project Lantern?”
“We don’t believe they did, sir; they probably just knew that a FASA site was nearby.”
“If the ERF ambushed the mercenaries, how did ERF personnel get taken prisoner?”
“Apparently the mercenaries caught the ERF off-guard, or some sort of military folderol, sir.”
“Do we have the corporate security unit identified?”
“Yes sir.” Weatherford’s thin, bloodless features twisted in unconscious distaste. “The Yard Gnome Action Team.”
“Them,” Cyrus hissed, not having to feign anger.
“Yes, sir. I had hoped we had heard the last of that group.”
“Indeed.” The Doctor looked down at his hands. “Well, we shall have to see what damage control can be performed.”
“Very little, sir. The mercenaries advised the DSR that they were attempting to capture Franklin Hodges, who as you know is a CATL subject. A military reaction force has been dispatched on helicopters, a detachment from one of those dramatically-named Regular Army units.”
“W
e’ve lost Lantern.” Cyrus slumped back into his chair, stunned.
“That would seem to be likely, sir.”
The Doctor was silent for a long moment. “Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.”
Cyrus swung around to stare unseeing at his data screens as the door closed behind Weatherford. Lantern wasn’t supposed to be lost-the Door should have killed Hodges and a few security personnel or staffers, but that was to be all.
They couldn’t lose Lantern; if the government found out they would alert everyone, tighten procedures, render the plan useless. FASA had invested heavily in the project, an investment which could not easily be made good.
Hands inert in his lap, the small dark man sat and stared unseeing at the computer screens.
Outside the door Guy Weatherford, paused, thinking hard. Why had the Doctor assumed that the ERF had ambushed the Yard Gnomes? It was a rather specific military term for a decidedly unmilitary man. He, Guy, had said the Yard Gnomes had encountered them, although from the tone of the fragmentary transcript they had obtained from their source in the DSR the mercenaries had in fact mounted some sort of complex anti-ambush stratagem. Guy Weatherford knew very little about the military or its terminology, but he did understand the military concept of ambush, at least in the textbook sense.
It was unlike the Doctor to make such a sloppy assumption, unless it hadn’t been an assumption. Weatherford had been very bothered by the fact that there was an ERF direct action team in close proximity to a key FASA site, and that apparently one or more of the team had known something about FASA operations. There was little going on in Minnesota lately, and direct action teams, especially ERF teams, did not pass unnoticed nor have time to loiter.
Something was out of place, and Guy decided he would be well advised to find out what it was.
“I’m glad to see you,” Sylvia grinned at Bear as the biker climbed into the bed of the truck. “How is Chip?”
“Glad to be here.” The big man abruptly punched Wade in the solar plexus. “Chip’s OK, everyone is, as a matter of fact. I’ve got guys positioned around the vehicles as extra security, but if you hear shooting watch for guys or gals in black and gray camo. They’re as vicious as your buddy here and twice as dangerous, so don’t hesitate on the trigger-they’re even less Human than the zeds.”
“Are they coming here?”
“Probably not, but better safe than sorry; the DSR has a response force in route so it’s a temporary risk at best.
“OK.”
Bear clouted the gagging terrorist again, sneered at Josh, who pointedly looked away, and hopped down out of the truck.
It was all going back to the Lord of the Rings. He, like the noble Sauron, was trying to see right done, to stop the war-monger before hell could be unleashed. Whatever Hodges had been working on out here in the boondocks, it was certainly not going to be in Mankind’s interests, and now there was only Addison left to stop him. Unlike the one true leader of the Middle Earth, however, he wasn’t doing to be duped by the decoy operation, but would stay focused on the true target.
His mother was going to regret reading him those books.
He was marking his trail so that Marv could follow, simple deep heel-gouges in the soil and broken branches, actions which were quicker and less distracting than trying to talk the Ranger through on the radio.
He wasn’t an expert tracker, but he could tell there were two people ahead of him, moving south-southeast, and he guessed that they had a destination because of the care they took to stay on the same azimuth.
He liked the woods, something he had learned as a Boy Scout. He had enjoyed the Scouts, eventually becoming an Eagle Scout despite his mother infiltrating assassins into his troop; it had been good fun, and the sense of belonging had been unique in his life until the creation of the Yard Gnomes. The skills the Scouts had taught him had proven valuable many times in his later years. Her active support and involvement in his Scout program had been one of the few mistakes his mother had ever made-it had gone a long way towards preparing him for the life he had led ever since.
Absently he wondered what had happened to his comrades from Troop Thirteen, the non-assassin members, anyway. Had his mother had them killed? Were they applying the skills they had learned to survive in this new chaos-filled world? He hadn’t thought of them in many years and a sudden pang of painful nostalgia pricked him; he hoped they had survived.
He saw the black patch first, just a glimpse through the brush and trees, but Addison had never needed much to put him on high alert. He immediately eased to his right, flipping out his compass to ensure that he kept his bearings. Moving at an angle off the pair’s azimuth for about forty yards, he angled back to intercept them, whispering his situation into his radio mike at the furthest point from the enemies’ line of travel.
They were moving slower than he had expected and his angle brought him almost on top of them. He heard the lead person crashing through the brush, clearly no outdoorsman, and took a knee, bracing his rifle barrel against a tree trunk. Seconds later he caught sight of a brown hunting coat and heard labored breathing as someone thrashed across his front about fifteen yards away-probably Hodges, but he was not the issue at this point.
The second person moving was quiet and in much better shape. He saw movement and then a rifle barrel, and he realized the black patch that had alerted him was the burnt portion of the rifleman’s jacket. He wondered why the shooter wore such a damaged garment as he eased the glowing red inverted ‘V’ of his sight to bear.
He fired as the jacket and rifle barrel darted across a narrow clear patch, and was rewarded by a startled shriek of pain. The scorched camo jacket, Hodge’s bodyguard he supposed, hit the deck and rolled, but he followed the movement, firing steadily, ripping up the brush with the entire magazine. Dropping the empty magazine into his dump pouch, he reloaded and watched intently, counting slowly under his breath.
After two hundred counts without sight (his ears were ringing from the gunfire, so listening wasn’t as reliable) he eased away from the tree and circled ahead, going after Hodges.
Compass in one hand at the end of its lanyard, pistol in the other, Marv led Dyson and Brick forward at a steady pace, shooting an azimuth every dozen yards and cursing the tangled Minnesota landscape. They had heard shooting a couple minutes ago, and Addison had reported that he thought he had gotten Hodge’s bodyguard, but that wasn’t something the Ranger was going to bet a lot on.
At least JD had linked up with Chip, and Bear had reported that Gunner had arrived; seven shooters should be enough to hold the vehicles until JD responded, while the promoter had more than enough Gnomes to hold off whatever Door shooters were left, assuming the Door still wanted to fight.
Spotting a decked-out AR-15 lying on the ground with a smear of blood on the stock Marv dropped the compass and took a knee, holding up a hand to warn the others. Holstering his M1911A1 he swung his M-4 around and opened the stock, listening carefully. Hearing nothing over the gunfire-born ringing in his ears, he caught the compass swinging on its lanyard and tucked it into its pouch. Easing up to the rifle, he noted the impact damage to the nearest tree and the damage a round had done to the weapon sling’s quick-release buckle.
Looking back at the others, he tapped his chest and pointed ahead on an axis following the crawl marks on the soil. He pointed to Dyson and gestured for the man to swing wide to the left and angle in, and for Brick to stay with Marv. He tapped his watch and held up two fingers, then tossed the martial artist two of the flash-bangs he had taken from the dead cultists.
Dyson nodded shortly and slid noiselessly into the brush. While they waited Brick used a handful of dirt to wipe the blood off the rifle and knotted the broken sling together so he could carry it across his back.
Moving forward one careful step at a time, pausing every couple steps to watch, listen, and smell, Marv followed the drag marks and blood smears on the ground. Emerging fr
om a clump of trees he saw a young black woman sitting with her back to a good-sized blue spruce; she had dried blood on the collar of her mossy oak camouflage jacket, which was also scorched black along her left sleeve, and her left eye was swelling shut. The jacket was open and the sweater underneath was bloody and roughly cut open. She had both hands pressed to her midriff, which was covered in a thick bandage whose OD green outer cover was smudged with drying blood, while darker stains were soaking through from underneath. The wrapper from the bandage lay between her outstretched legs, a combat knife was stuck into the ground at her right, and an unholstered stainless steel SiG P226 lay atop her right thigh.
Her head was back against the trunk, eyes closed, and her breathing was slow and painful; her color was bad, far too gray to be good news for those near and dear to her.
Marv lifted his M-4 and gave a careful cough; the woman swallowed thickly and opened her eyes, looking about blearily. “Keep your hands where they are,” the Ranger advised.
“Might as well,” the woman said thickly. “I was afraid it would be the infected who found me before I went.”
“How bad are you hit?”
“I can’t feel my legs,” she admitted frankly. “And I taste blood.”
“If you can hang on for about an hour there’s a response force on its way. Our medic isn’t really all that great.”
“No point,” she sighed. “They’ll execute me long before I find out whether my legs are dead or just numb.”
“You ERF or FASA?” Dyson emerged from the brush, and Marv gestured for the Georgian and Brick to continue on.
“Both.” She smiled sadly at his look. “Long story. Stupid story. I’ve been sitting here thinking about why I’m going to die this way, and it’s just plain stupid.”
