Payload (10 page)

“I’ll settle for a cold shower now, if no one minds,” Captain Jack stood up and offered Doc a hand, helping the purple-faced medic into a seat in the booth. “How is our water, Addison?”

“Full,” the dark-haired man mumbled. “Clean.”

“Very good. I suggest we ration ourselves to five minutes each, agreed? Excellent. If you would time me, Addison? A thump on the wall when I have thirty seconds would suffice.”

“The GPS is off-line,” Bear announced. “Georgia border in six miles. Any ideas?”

Marv found the battered road atlas and moved up to the passenger’s captains-chair. “It looks like there’s major swamps to either side of the Interstate up ahead, so we need to get to Valdosta, about thirty miles north of the border, and then head northwest on Georgia Highway One Thirty-Three. There’s a Marine logistics base to the northwest.”

“OK.”

Marv took the payload and moved back to the booth; Dyson moved to the passenger seat, while Addison was examining the stove. “Look, Doc, I don’t like hitting you, but you have to keep your mind on the game. We need to be able to count on you-everyone here has to be able to trust each other with their lives. With you rooting in that vehicle, one infected could have come from the west and rolled us up.”

“But there was great
gear
,” Doc protested.

The Ranger stated into the little man’s face. Finally rising, he slapped the medic on the shoulder. “Think about what I said. You wouldn’t want one of us to die because you were looting when you should have been watching, right?”

Doc concentrated. “Maybe you shouldn’t put me on guard where there’s loot,” he suggested.

“Noted.”

JD was stowing canned goods into the pantry. “What did we pick up?” Marv asked.

“I figure about two days’ worth of canned food, a dozen roofing hammers, a first aid kit, a lot of electronic goods and tools, and a Browning High Power with two spare magazines, holster, and about two hundred rounds of nine millimeter hollow point ammunition. The luggage has clothing for a man who wasn’t any of our sizes, and a woman. Other than a box of .357 magnum and some towels there was nothing of use in them.”

“Well, we’re two pistols and a lot of hammers ahead of the game,” the Ranger shrugged. “Give the Browning to Dyson, and either you, Captain Jack, or Bear can take his revolver as a back-up. Pass out the hammers, too.”

Slumping onto the blanket-covered sofa, the big Ranger leaned back and closed his eyes. The temperature, despite the number of bodies, was a good fifteen degrees cooler than outside, the humidity was much reduced, and the window tint was reflecting the morning sunlight. He was still wearing the muddy uniform he had donned on the eleventh, but at least there weren’t any bugs hovering around. His body ached, but it wasn’t time to pop another Tylenol.

He hadn’t realized how deep he had drifted until someone spoke his name. Sitting up, he saw Captain Jack, wearing a clean if mismatched uniform, standing in front of him. “Why not take a shower and hit the bed in there?” the slender man gestured to the rear of the RV. “You’ve been through a great deal lately, old chap. You are the captain of our little enterprise, and a clear head will be critical. I shall be happy to stand watch with the driver.”

Marv blinked at the countryside sliding by. “How long was I down?”

“About fifteen minutes. JD and Addison have had their showers, and the water is warming up steadily. I’ve laid out some of the proceeds of our surplus expedition back in Jacksonville, and we can begin washing clothing once the showers are done.”

Dyson was still sitting up front with Bear, Addison was dozing on the settee across from the sofa, and Doc was working on the sat phone at the dinette booth. JD, in clean clothing and freshly shaved, was emerging from the rear area of the RV.

“Yeah, thanks.” The Ranger heaved himself to his feet.

“We’re going to stop so JD can spell Bear for his shower,” Captain Jack explained.

“Good. Look, wake me an hour after I take my shower, or if you find an opportunity to resupply.”

“What particulars on resupply?”

“The three F’s: firepower, fuel, and food.”

“We shall remain alert.”

In the rear of the RV Marv selected underwear, OD green socks, and a worn ACU that would fit from the slender selection Captain Jack had laid out. A travel alarm was in the bathroom to time the showers, and the green cloth sacks that he had found with the canned goods had been pressed into service as laundry bags.

The water was only lukewarm but it was bliss, lifting away twenty pounds of stress and tension even as it washed away stale sweat, river mud, and sour bug spray. Five minutes passed too fast, but it left him feeling better than at any point since he had boarded the Coast Guard helicopter. Clean clothes and freshly brushed teeth did wonders for his morale as well.

Stacking his MOLLE vest, ACU top, and boots by the bed, he slid between the crisp cool sheets, pistol under the pillow, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

In his dreams he wandered the dry plains of Afghanistan, searching for a way to contact Deb and warn her not to climb.

Captain Jack speaking his name snapped him instantly awake, pistol in hand. Rolling to a sitting position, he stretched. “What is the situation?”

“We have covered about forty-five miles as we have been more concerned for safety than speed, obviously. We are on One-Thirty-Three, approaching a very small town called Berlin.”

Someone had cleaned the mud off his boots and MOLLE vest, he noticed absently as he dressed, and guessed it had been Captain Jack. “Thank you. It’s good to be operating with another soldier.”

The thin man’s chest visibly swelled. “Just trying to do my bit. I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

“Get some rest, Captain Jack; I’ll stand watch.”

Marv knew that Captain Jack was no soldier, nor even a Brit for all his PBS mannerisms, but he was carrying his load, and that meant a great deal more than any ID card in times such as these.

He realized that the soft noise he had been hearing was the washer and dryer running in their closet; this was the way to go to war, with bed, air conditioning, and laundry services. It must be how the Navy felt all the time, he reflected.

In the main area Doc was fussing with the flat-screen TV, Bear was asleep on the sofa, Addison was asleep on the settee, and the forward curtains were drawn, isolating the driver’s area. Marv drank a glass of water and then ducked through the curtains. JD was driving, and Dyson was reading the RV’s operator’s manual.

“How’s it look?” he scanned the passing countryside.

“All right,” Dyson waved a hand at the windshield. “I-75 was rough, lots of wrecks and abandoned cars, some signs of active looting, a few infected. We passed outside Valdosta, but from what we could see there were a few fires, but I think it was still in…
human
control.”

“That’s good news. Dyson, what are your plans? We’re angling a bit away from Atlanta.”

The martial artist sighed. “I’ve been on the CB. Atlanta is bad off, real bad. All I have there is an apartment and a rented dojo, no family. My girlfriend is up in Maine visiting her family, and everything I have in Atlanta is insured, so other than getting to a phone to check on her I’m good. Might as well stick with you guys.”

“I thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Marv gripped the Georgian’s shoulder before ducking back through the curtains, where he found Doc waiting for him, the Sat phone in hand.

“It should work,” he held the device for inspection. It was bound to a foot-long length of one-by–three board with wire ties, and there were more wires and bits of electronics attached here and there.

“Let’s see. Anything special in the way of controls?” Marv gingerly took the assembly.

“No. I can trickle-charge it, but it will be slow. Can I have my sword now?”

“After it works.” Slipping through the bedroom, careful not to disturb Captain Jack’s sleep, Marv went into the bathroom.

The phone was answered on the second ring by the woman he had spoken to previously, only she sounded a good deal less crisp. “Fastbox Two for Colonel Nelson.”

The Colonel was on the phone in seconds “Sergeant Burleson? We received your e-mail. Report.”

“Sir, we have secured transportation and are on Georgia highway One-Thirty-Three approaching a small town named Berlin. I have the payload, and we are heading for the Marine Logistics Base to the northwest.” He briefly described the blockage of I-75. “We have an improved combat posture, but it isn’t great.”

Nelson sighed. “Sergeant, do not make contact at any military facility in your area. In fact, avoid contact with any government force which I have not cleared. Understood?”

Marv hesitated. “Not at all, sir.”

The phone was silent for several seconds. “Sergeant, we lost Fastbox Three-the agent in charge reported they were over-run, and he was using a thermite grenade to destroy the payload. Fastbox One’s payload was picked up by a helicopter and is expected at our main facility shortly.” The Colonel paused again. “Look, son, I’m going to level with you. It goes against my professional inclinations, but you’re going to need every advantage you can get, and we need that payload more than ever. Your mission has been compromised.”

“Compromised? By who, sir?”

“We’re at war, Sergeant. We didn’t get that at first, and it isn’t widely known at the moment, but we are. Everyone just thought this was a bunch of muslim fanatics trying for a bigger 9/11, but we were wrong.” Nelson’s voice was hard. “I was wrong, to face my own part of the blame. The group is a union of muslim fanatics, doomsday fringe types from the USA and Europe, a bunch of Russian Cold War leftovers who still think Stalin was the greatest thing ever, and a weird bunch out of Africa-I can’t really explain those. The union was built by a former Indian general, and he did a helluva job. I won’t burden you with their title, but the acronym is FASA. Essentially the common goal of all the groups is they want to wreck modern culture and build a better world out of the parts, sort of a New Age anarchy, although they’re too varied to classify as a single creed. They are united by goal, not cause-it’s a union of convenience.”

“We got wind of it, but Indonesia stonewalled us-by the time we got a team in to hit FASA’s command center the plan was too far along. They created the virus that creates the zombies, except that it wasn’t fully stable when their top people realized that time was running out, and ordered the plan to go ahead.”

“Their attack was based on sprayer-bombs smuggled into the targets-you know about that from Miami. They had the bombs already built, and they were able to arm and deploy seventeen before their only production facility was disposed of the hard way. Two went off in Pakistan, including one in the capitol. One went off in India; we believe it was in transit to Pakistan, but we’re not sure. Tokyo, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Warsaw, Paris, and Dover were hit, while the British destroyed one en route to London, and the Israelis got the one aimed at Jerusalem. In our part of the world Mexico City and Toronto were hit. We caught the bomb aimed at Miami, but the ones for New York and Seattle got through.”

“If it were just the bombs we wouldn’t be in too bad of shape, but they have a three-layer plan, each layer completely isolated from the others. The second layer is the truck-borne attacks such as you saw. A few FASA operatives augmented by criminals deploy infected subjects as vectors to defeat our quarantine efforts and overcome the short travel distance created by the virus’ fast incubation period. The second layer cells, code-named breeder cells, each received a single infected subject which they use to create the truckloads such as you encountered on I-75. The breeder cell you encountered would have held back at least one infected whenever a batch is created so as to be able to continue operations. Africa appears to have the highest incidence of breeder cells, but every target country has its share.”

“The third layer is conventional terrorist attacks against command, control, and communications sites in all affected nations, code-named assault cells.”

Marv took a minute to let it all sink in, only half aware that he had been scribbling notes on the side of a tissue box out of ingrained habit. “So there are terrorists aggressively spreading the virus and attacking our Cee-three apparatus, sir?”

“Exactly. However, we’re not sitting on our hands: FASA had over a hundred bombs built, but their ability to arm them was eliminated. Eliminated with nuclear prejudice, in fact. The President authorized nuclear strikes against six sites in Indonesia a few hours ago, and the Indians nuked another site within their own borders. Whatever they had cooking was instantly eliminated-the only sources for the virus FASA has are already deployed, which makes further large-scale attacks impossible. In addition Mossad caught up with FASA’s leader early this morning-he’s out of the picture as well.”

“Sir, I’m getting the big picture, but why am I to avoid government forces?”

“Sergeant, you have in your possession fifty per cent of the world’s supply of the undeployed virus, because Miami was the only bomb captured intact. If FASA can get their hands on it they have a chance to get back into the bomb-making business in the near future. And I am afraid they know about Fastbox.”

“What? How, sir?”

“We have been compromised. In the last twenty-four hours we have arrested sixteen military personnel who are either members of FASA, or being paid by FASA for information. I don’t expect we got them all, and we have reason to believe there are other FASA elements within the military, low-level but dangerous. Within hours every FASA cell will know about the Fastbox mission and its importance.”

“Did they get Fastbox Three, sir?”

“No, that was just bad luck and zombies. We have already instituted security protocols with Fastbox One that should ensure its payload.”

“Shouldn’t I just destroy this payload, sir? You’ve got Fastbox One, and once it’s in a secure facility, you won’t need this one.”

“You must destroy it if capture seems imminent, but we need that payload. FASA deployed the virus before it was fully ready; from examining samples taken from subjects our people believe that working with undeployed samples could fast-track us to various counters. We need every milligram available.”

“All right, sir,” Marv said slowly, thinking hard. “So I should avoid government forces because there may be FASA elements looking for me. Is your section secure?”

“It is now,” Colonel Nelson’s voice was grim. “We are now in a fully secure environment, with dissemination of any data regarding Fastbox limited to a very small circle, ‘Eyes Only’. However, in your case it is safe to assume they know the contents of every communication except this one. Do not employ email again, and expect that any unsecure transmission has been compromised. You need to stay off the grid and continue heading to Texas until I can get reliable forces to you.”

“Any estimate on that ETA, sir?”

“Not soon; everything is, as you must know, a madhouse, and the news of FASA’s infiltration has changed everything. I had two helicopters and a security team drawn from the Georgia National Guard on standby since receiving your e-mail, but I had to release them because I cannot be sure that one or more members could be FASA. Only SpecOps personnel have the background investigations sufficiently in-depth to trust at this point, and they are stretched to the limit on other missions. The one asset I have gotten is dedicated to Fastbox One. When that is secure, I’ll shift them to you.”

“Understood, sir.”

Colonel Nelson sighed. “I know this isn’t your usual line of work, Sergeant. We’re asking more of you than even a Ranger ought to have to give. But you’re the man with the ball, and we need to run with it.”

“All The Way, sir.”

“Good. This may not come into play, but if you find a functioning ATM, this account will let you draw cash, compliments of Uncle Sam. Prepare to copy.” He read off the digits.

“Got it, sir. My battery is starting to fade-I have a way to trickle-charge it, and will report in when I have enough power. I’ll try for eighteen hundred, sir.”

“Good luck, Sergeant.”

Marv sat on the toilet lid with his face in his hands, feeling like a man adrift on the open sea. Shaking his head, he tore off the portion of the tissue box that had his notes and tucked it into the nylon case that held the payload. Studying the phone, he detached the scrambler module and the authorization chip and added them to the case as well.

Back in the RV’s main compartment, he handed the phone and the katana to Doc. “Charge it up. Screw with that phone in any way, shape, or form, make any attempt to use it for any purpose, and I will beat that sword into bits. Got it?”

“My sword!” Doc gushed, grabbing the scabbard like it was a lifeline.

“You understand?” Marv insisted.

“Yeah, yeah.” The RV lurched a little as it slowed. “Oh, we’re near Berlin.”

“Great. Go wake Captain Sawyer and tell him.” Marv took a deep breath and headed into the driving area.

Chapter Four

JD, standing between the two captains chairs, pointed ahead. “Berlin, Georgia, population five hundred twenty-five.”

The RV was stopped at the intersection of the state highway and the main street of the small town.

The perfectly normal main street of an American town. A beat-up pickup pulled up to the stop sign on the main street side, eyed the motionless RV, and then cautiously pulled out onto the highway and rolled south.

“It’s like the Twilight Zone,” Dyson observed.

“Were we just killing zombies fifty miles from here?” JD wondered aloud. “I said that before, I think.”

“Yeah, we were,” Marv kept his voice steady, although the sight of normalcy was tearing at him-he wanted to curl up and laugh like a child reaching the safety of home. “Guys, we’ve reached a high spot in a flood zone-the water hasn’t reached here yet. Lets get resupplied and get moving. I just got word from on high, and we’re going to cut further west.”

“The map says there’s a Marine base a couple hours from here,” Dyson protested.

“I know, I’ll explain later. Looks like there is a truck stop up ahead; if there’s an ATM we’ll buy some fuel.” Marv pushed the curtains open. “We’re in a normal zone, guys. Nobody carry any weapons. Captain Jack, Addison, and Doc stay on board to secure the vehicle. The rest come with me.”

Grounding his MOLLE vest and pistol, Marv lead the way off the RV, spotting an ATM sign next to the front doors of the truck stop. “C’mon, I’ll get some official cash and tell you guys something.”

The truck stop looked completely normal except for the fat man in overalls sitting in a chair just inside the front doors with a shotgun across his knees, and the pistol on the clerk’s hip. Marv held his hands open at shoulder height. “We’re just looking to buy some fuel and supplies, cash on the barrelhead.”

“Buy away,” the clerk, a tall, weather-beaten man in his sixties smiled. “We’re just bein’ careful. Radio says there’s a fair peck of trouble going on. Where you fellas comin’ from?”

“Miami,” JD said, as Marv addressed the complexities of the ATM.

“Heard there’s trouble down south.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the promoter shook his head. “It was a war zone just across the Florida line on I-75.”

“Really.” The clerk looked doubtful.

“Look, I don’t expect you to believe me, but just remember this: aim for the head.”

Marv came over and laid four hundreds on the counter. “Can you turn on diesel for pump three? Great. Any place we can get water and dump the sewage?”

“Pull around to the side, there’s water and sewage marked,” the clerk flipped switches and then laid a business card on the counter. “Code’s on this, ten bucks for the service.”

“I’ll settle up when we’re done.” Marv motioned for the others to follow him outside. As they started through the doors the fat man with the shotgun held up a hand. “CB says them with the flu, they’re zombies.”

“I wouldn’t call them liars,” Marv shrugged. “Like my friend said, aim for the head, and don’t hesitate. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”

Outside he explained to Dyson the significance of the payload, and passed on what Colonel Nelson had told him to all three. “We have to keep Doc completely out of the loop,” he concluded. “The guy isn’t right. If he hears what’s in the payload he’ll be after it with a can opener. I don’t want to have to kill or abandon our only medic.”

“Actually, that trio escaped from a mental institution,” JD said.

“How do you know?” Dyson asked.

“Captain Jack,” the promoter shrugged. “Look, I get people talking, it’s what I do. Addison filled in a few details-Doc had a complete breakdown, thinks he’s a CDC virologist. As you will have already guessed, Captain Jack isn’t British or even military.”

“Yeah, I got that. Are any of them dangerous?”

“I don’t believe so, at least on the short term. Current events are supporting their particular delusions.”

“We’re fighting zombies-being insane can only be an asset,” Bear observed.

“No joke. OK, leave those three out of the loop. I’m going to gas up and take care of the water and sewage.” Marv passed out bills. “Dyson, you go back inside and buy what you think we’ll need, especially gas cans. Bear, you hit that Chicken Express across the street and load up, a hot meal will go over real well. JD, hit that Dollar Box and get what you think we can use. Get me a ball cap, plain black if they have it. Get extras-it’s too hot to be bare-headed.”