by RW Krpoun
“You ex-military?”
“Yeah,” she swallowed painfully. “Marines. Iraq.”
“I figured-it would take a pro to get Hodges out of that maelstrom.”
“I wasn’t always a shitbird. You guys the Yard Gnomes?”
“Yeah, I’m Marv.”
“Irene. Who was it that hit the farm house?”
“Evening’s Door-they were coming after your boss.”
“You guys take out Schmidt?”
“Yeah, that’s how we knew where to look-we took Wade alive.”
“I figured he was taking too long to get back. You beat it out of him, or did that asshole just give it up?”
“We dunked him until common sense prevailed.”
“I hope he drowned. Any of his crew survive?”
“One besides Wade, but both are headed for the Feds.”
“Good riddance.” She swallowed again. “Bunch of rapists. I wanted to take them out myself.”
“How did a good Marine get mixed up in the ERF?”
Irene smiled wanly. “Seemed like…a good idea at the time. I was pretty pissed after Iraq. Tired of how things were going. Then FASA releases the virus, and its too late to do anything but follow orders and do your best.”
“What was Hodges doing at the farm?”
She smiled again. “You one of those Boy Scout types?”
“Just stupid. I’m a former grunt who had one half-assed good idea in his life, and even that one is likely to get me killed before its all over. I’m pretty surprised to have survived this long, to be honest.”
“Yeah, me, too, although I’m pretty sure this is as far as I go. You in Iraq?”
“Afghanistan, four tours, Army.”
“I did two tours. Maybe I should have stayed in.”
“That isn’t a safe bet, either.”
“Nah. But at least they would bury me right, you know. If my granny was alive they could give her the folded flag. This way, they dump me in a ditch along with everyone else and bulldoze dirt over us.”
“At least you won’t be a zed.”
“There’s that,” she sighed.
“Is Hodges alone now?”
“Yeah, I was the only one that got out with him. Five more minutes and we would have been away clean, but that asshole had to run back to the farmhouse first. You know what was fucked up about the Corps?”
“What?’
“Almost everything. You know what was fucked up about the ERF?”
“What?”
“Everything,” she smiled. “Took me getting gut-shot to figure that out. I should have gone with the lesser evil.” She coughed weakly, pain twisting her features, and then spat blood onto the ground.
“You have anyone I could notify?”
“Nah.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “You mind hanging around a couple minutes?’
“No problem.”
Franklin Hodges sagged against a tree trunk, breathing hard, his thighs and hips aching. Once he had been an excellent handball player, but that had been too many years of desk work ago, and he was running out of wind. Pulling the Bushnell Backtrack G2 digital compass from his coat pocket, he stabbed at the two buttons and cursed the flickering screen. The damn thing was either malfunctioning or the batteries were dying, and his replacement batteries were in the go bag he had dumped back at the farm. He should have learned how to use a lensatic compass such as Irene had carried.
Thinking of Irene brought a pang of regret-abandoning her had been unpleasant. She hadn’t been a true believer, just an angry young woman looking for acceptance, a handy lie to believe in, and a purpose for her life. Most people were content to just go through life trading work for money, but there were always some who wanted to be challenged, to feel risk, to do something. Modern society ignored those personality types, providing few viable outlets for their pent energy. Those were exactly the sort of people that the better militaries and terror groups sought out.
He fished a bottle out of his coat pocket and took a long drink. Project Lantern was finished-the shooting and explosions would draw official interest. With the knowledge gained from the workshops the government could take steps to ensure it wouldn’t work, at least on the scale required. Hodges genuinely regretted that fact: while it hadn’t been his primary concern, Lantern was a viable program which had every chance of striking a significant blow against Humanity.
Project Outback had been saved although precious time had been lost. The key was time: sooner or later the CDC or some other governments’ disease control agency would realize that they were dealing with two viruses, and undoubtedly the troops in the field were already raising questions about aberrant behavior they were encountering, behavior that would no longer be considered aberrant when they realized there were two different types of infected. The ghouls needed time to mature, and the ERF needed time to increase the number of ghouls. It all boiled down to time.
Let him get set up again and thirty days’ with which to work and he would finish the job the 618 virus started. Not only that, but he felt he was getting close to the 620 virus-given a couple months’ work he believed he could put the revenants in business. They had lost a battle, a secondary campaign, but the war was far from over.
His breathing was evening out, so he finished the bottle and tossed the container aside as he straightened up. Time to push on, get to Wade’s place and take the spare SUV stashed there. He wondered if Wade had made it to the farm yet, and hesitated, frowning. The shooting behind him had tapered off to the occasional shot, probably ghouls or vectors being put down, but that didn’t make sense: the attackers had been after him, a hit. They would burn the place to cover their tracks, but that was all their interest in the site. He turned and looked: the trees hemmed him in, but there were no obvious smoke. If Wade had arrived, and he had had plenty of time to do so, there would be the sound of considerable fighting.
Pulling his sat phone out he hit auto dial.
“Yeah?” Wade sounded non-committal.
“Where are you?”
“I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
“Is that some sort of joke? The farm has been over-run while you were taking your time. I need you to return to your base and pick me up, I should be there soon.”
“OK.”
Franklin hesitated: something was not right. “Why didn’t you get to the farm?”
“We had car problems, and one of the stews made a break for it. We couldn’t shoot her because the mercs were too close, they would of heard, and besides, I wasn’t gonna take another fine for losing zombie-bait.”
A chill crawled down the project director’s spine. There were no fines, so Walt was sending a message. “Quite right. I’ll see you at your base.”
They had Walt-they must have hit him before the first call, or perhaps they had caught him as he was trying to depart; in any case Hodges was certain the man was talking with a gun to his head. The question was whether it was the mercenaries or the hit team which had Walt. The mercs, he decided: the hit team would have been waiting for Davenport’s alert that it was safe to go. Davenport must have tipped off the Yard Gnomes about the ambush.
He frowned at that thought as it made no sense; the mercs living or dying was unimportant, just their ability to distract the ERF team. He snapped his fingers: the audio bugs-the Gnomes or the DSA must have suspected trouble, perhaps in conjunction with the Rolling Hunger program.
Wade and his team were no great loss, being purely expendable violent animals, but if Schmidt was in enemy hands his base was compromised as well.
Pocketing the phone he looked around, checked the useless digital compass again for luck, and decided to veer to his left, away from the ERF base. There was an east-west road in a mile or so, and once he located it he could use his gun or money to secure a vehicle.
He heard a metallic ping and something landed near his feet. Looking down he saw a black grenade-looking cylinder with a hexagonal top and base and holes in
the steel sleeve connecting them. He got the impression of ETS or ATS stamped in white near the top before the universe filled with noise and light.
Chapter Fifteen
Marv met them as they came trudging back, “Well, well, well, Franklin Hodges as I live and breathe. Marvin Burleson, head of the Yard Gnome Action Team.”
The man, his wrists flex-cuffed behind his back and his clip-on bow-tie askew, shook his head and muttered something the Ranger couldn’t make out. Brick was supporting him as he walked.
“He’s had a rough day,” Dyson grinned. “Apparently he was close enough to the rocket blast to get the cut on his cheek and the black eyes, and then a flash-bang went off at his feet while he was looking at it.”
“It sucks to be him.”
“The girl die?” Dyson asked as the group headed back the way they had come.
“Yeah, not long after you left. I took her pistol and magazines, and marked the spot so the reaction team can recover the body. Hodges have anything interesting?”
“Cash, some gold and silver, a nice pistol, and a derringer. The rest we’ll have to turn in.”
“More importantly, we turn him in. When we get to the farm you guys take him to the vehicles; I’ll wait with JD for the response force. Addison, you OK?”
“Yeah.”
“That was good work, staying on his trail. His bodyguard wasn’t any slouch, either.”
The dark Gnome didn’t respond, but Marv hadn’t really expected him to comment. He was hard to get to know but he was solid in action, and that was all that mattered these days.
“We could put you in for a medal,” Dyson slapped Addison on the shoulder.
“I killed two women today,” the Gnome replied somberly.
“You killed two terrorists,” Marv corrected him. “Keep in mind this bunch was somehow tied together with Wade’s sick band of renegades. Gender, age, none of it matters. They chose a side, and the bodyguard would have killed you in a heartbeat if you hadn’t gotten her first.”
Addison nodded quietly.
Snow was starting to drift out of the sky as the Gnomes led Hodges to where the vehicles were parked. Anna ran over to embrace Dyson as they reached the trucks. “I’m so glad you’re back!” she exclaimed after a suitable kiss.
“It was more noise than substance,” he lied smoothly. “We got the job done, and help is on the way.”
“That’s him?” she whispered as Brick lifted Hodges into the back of the truck and used flex cuffs to bind him in place. “He looks like the guy at my insurance company.”
“That is seven hundred fifty thousand tax-free US dollars on the hoof,” Dyson nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. He swatted Anna on the rear. “Get back to what you were doing; I need to meet with Bear and get tied into our security. Chip’s fine,” he added to Sylvia.
The leader of the Second Platoon, Bravo Company, 1/327th PIR was a short bulldog of a Second Lieutenant named Wilson who had cut down a finger on his tactical gloves so he could wear his VMI ring. He had a Ranger tab, an 82nd Airborne right shoulder patch, and an attitude of unbearable cockiness. His platoon sergeant was an Hispanic E-7 who kind of looked like a younger version the actor Jimmy Smits, if Smits had pumped some serious iron and had somebody go after the right side of his head with a broken bottle. He had 101st patches on both shoulders and looked tough enough to chew nails and defecate tin foil, and didn’t say much, nor did he need to. He and Wilson had a good mojo going, a well-tuned platoon leadership that Marv knew wasn’t as common as it should be.
They swiftly deployed their chalks (helicopter loads of troops) and mopped up the zeds that hadn’t wandered off and what was left of the FASA staff, several of the latter going out the hard way. Then they established a security perimeter so the DSR team could begin the site search, and within minutes of starting the Fed team leader was on the horn for more resources.
“So where is he?” Wilson asked as the trucks and captured SUVs rolled up to the farm, called in by Marv at the DSR’s request.
“Over here,” Marv led the way to the truck. “You former enlisted?”
“Yeah, kinda liked it so I went through VMI, came back with a bar. You?”
“Four tours in Afghanistan, Airborne Rangers”
“Cool.” Wilson stepped into the handle/step on the lowered tailed gate and hopped up into the truck’s bed. “Ma’am,” he nodded to Sylvia. “Well, well, well,” he grinned happily. “Wade Schmidt in the flesh; the man, the legend.”
“I know you, kid?”
“Nope, but I’ve crossed your back trail a couple times recently. Got your prints off one such incident, pulled up the rap sheet you call your life, put you on my ‘list of guys I want to meet’. We were getting close, Wade, real close. Another week or two and we would have had you anyway.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t be sour, Wade. What’s a week to a guy who pissed away two decades in juvie and prison?” Wilson clapped the terrorist on the shoulder. “It gives me great pleasure to advise you that they have named you an enemy combatant. You know what that means?”
“I feel like you’re going to tell me.”
“It means you will go to the head of the line, boy. It means that you’ll get executed before the month is out.” Wilson leaned close to the ex-convict, grinning. “Assuming you don’t fall out of a helicopter today. Feces occurs.”
A husky black man in jeans and a blue coat with POLICE across the back and the insignia of the Federal Marshals Service on the breast heaved himself up into the truck. “Why did they build these damn things so high?” he grumbled. “Deputy Marshal Jackson,” he said to the gathering at large.
“Here’s Franklin Hodges,” Marv pointed him out.
“Not my problem, the eff-bee-eye want him in the worst possible way, got a bird in route special.”
“Wade Schmidt of the ERF.”
“Yeah, that one’s mine. Schmidt, pursuant yadda yadda yadda anti-terror act and so forth, you’re caught. Bring him down to ground level and I’ll hook him up.”
“They used illegal interrogation tactics against me,” Wade grinned at Marv. “They violated my civil rights.”
“Makes sense, given what an asshole you are,” Marshal Jackson ran a hand through his graying, close-cut hair. “Who is this jerk-wad?”
“Joshua Barton, the only survivor of Schmidt’s crew.”
“You shoulda killed him when you had the chance, save me some paperwork,” the Marshal observed. “OK, Barton, you heard the spiel. You’re an enemy of the state, a murderous scumbag terrorist who will get a fair trial and a speedy execution. Try to run and one of the gee-eye-joes running around out there will light you up like a Christmas tree. Be a pain in my ass and what few days you have left on this planet will be a lot harder than they have to be. Either of you losers have any questions?”
“Yeah,” Wade was still grinning. “What about my complaint?”
“You don’t get to complain. People who take up arms against the United States of America in a terrorist capacity and who get their record run before a tribunal on the chance we take ‘em alive get a speedy execution, and that’s it. You can forget the last meal privilege, too. Any other stupid questions? OK, you guys get them on the ground and I’ll sign for them. Did you strap them to the truck?”
“We didn’t want them getting loose,” Sylvia explained, pulling her knife.
“Obviously. Anyway, by the powers vested in me by the Emergency Powers Act et cetera, et cetera I rule that your actions against ERF forces including but not limited to these two terrorists and their subsequent detention, housing, and treatment is hereby and hereafter ruled to be within the bounds of all aspects of the law as set forth in said Acts, blah blah blah.” The Marshal traced a cross in the air at eye level in the manner of a benediction. “There you go, I’ll e-mail you a copy of the documentation in a couple days. The DSR team leader will have to sign off on the killing you did here at this place. Don’t sweat it, he’s not nearly as much of
a stickler as I am.”
The two ERF members were manhandled out of the truck, released from their flex-cuffs and secured with handcuffs, transport belts, and leg irons provided by Marshal Jackson, and after Lieutenant Wilson posed for a picture with Schmidt, were escorted away by one of Wilson’s fire teams.
The Gnomes clustered around their vehicles cleaning weapons and reloading magazines while they waited for the DSR site commander to release them and the FBI to show up for Hodges.
“You OK with this?” Marv asked as he sat on the blue bumper of Gnome-1 next to Dyson, who was eating a sandwich.
“You mean killing a real person?” the Georgian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. The ERF guys are real easy to live with, and I got a look at the lab in Pen One; these were not good people. The Evening’s Door, well, I don’t know if I got any of them, but it wouldn’t bother me if I did. I don’t feel great about doing any of it, but I’m not…sorry. Yeah, I’m not sorry I did it. Somebody had to do it.”
“How’s Anna holding up?’
“Overwhelmed. I think she’s thrown up three times so far today. But seeing the stewardesses certainly changed her world view on several subjects. I don’t want to do a lot of this sort of thing, but if its forced on us, I’m game.”
“I prefer zombies,” the Ranger nodded. “But it’s a big war. I hope we never get into another firefight, but if we do I want to be ready.”
“Me, too.”
The two colorless FBI agents, who had finally arrived on a Chinook helicopter loaded with additional DSR personnel, signed Hodges into their custody and carefully inventoried the equipment taken from him without comment or unnecessary chatter.
“You just know he’s gonna get water-boarded,” Bear observed to Chip as the two watched the FBI agents lead Hodges away.
“And soon, dude. They are going to want to know everything about everything. They’re going to be running voltage through his nuts for the next year.”
