Payload by RW Krpoun Page A

“I’ll get him-you cover me. Don’t fire until I start.”
    “Got it. Here,” Dyson handed Marv two road flares.
    Pistol in hand Marv moved forward, not running, not walking, keeping close to cover. This felt good, simple and clean. He had enlisted for the money for school and because it was what men in his family did, and stayed in because overseas was the only place where the loss of Deb quit hurting him. Living in a tactical environment required focus, imposed a stripped-down, Spartan lifestyle, and reduced the world to preparation and execution of missions ordered by others. It was as much a retreat from his pain as alcohol or drugs, but at least it performed a useful service: while he was doing the job overseas some normal guy with a life wasn’t over there.
    It had changed during his third tour, not dramatically, but when the tour ended the pain didn’t really come back. Slowly he had gotten a new viewpoint, and began feeling a bit like he might have a life after all. But he still enjoyed the rush of being on the edge.
    He whistled when he was halfway to the van but Doc was oblivious, rooting in the storage bins racked inside the van like a coyote digging in a steer’s carcass. The zeds were about forty yards beyond the van and lurching at best speed. One caught sight of Marv and gave a moaning wail that chilled the Ranger’s blood, and the cry was immediately taken up by scores of others.
    Doc finally popped out the van, spotted the oncoming threat, and ducked back in, emerging ten long seconds later dragging two heavy duffle bags.
    Marv picked the north edge of an open spot and waited, touching the hilt of his dagger and his spare magazines. “Drop the bags!” he yelled: burdened by his load, Doc wasn’t moving much faster than the infected. The little man ignored him, struggling forward like a turtle lugging a rock.
    His clear area wasn’t much more than ten yards, but it was better than nothing. As Doc lumbered across its narrow expanse Marv took up a good stance, and laid the front sight on the nearest infected’s forehead, a gray-faced, milky-eyed black man in a sports coat zigging between vehicles in hot pursuit of the gasping medic.
    The zombie’s rear skull fountained dark blood and brain matter, but Marv didn’t waste time watching him fall, instead shifting to a fresh target, focusing, and squeezing the trigger. When Doc lumbered by he reached out and grabbed one dangling strap. When the medic protested he rapped the little man’s wrist with the warm barrel of his pistol and then shoved him north.
    Dyson was firing, but Marv ignored that, focusing on each target and shot as the zombies spilled into the open ground, their eagerness and numbers conspiring to impede their efforts. The slide locked back and Marv ejected the empty magazine into his night vision goggle pouch before slotting in a loaded replacement.
    Six shots and four dropped infected later he grabbed up the duffle bag, getting a surprise at its weight, and double-timed north, loading a fresh magazine as he moved. Up ahead he saw Dyson, the other duffle bag across his shoulders, herding a winded Doc onwards, and beyond that the RV rolling north, clearing the last of the blockage.
    Digging in, he concentrated on controlling his breathing as he ran.
     
    Group Two and the RV were waiting at the gear point, their packs and equipment already loaded and stowed when Group One caught up. Stepping into the interior of the RV, which was already ten degrees cooler than the outside Florida air, Marv dumped the duffle bag and heaved a sigh of relief, accepting a bottle of blessedly cold water from Captain Jack. “Anybody hurt? Great, let’s get rolling.”
    Bear drove with JD in the passenger seat, ready if advice was needed. Dyson dumped his duffle bag and slumped onto the sofa, which someone had covered with an OD green blanket to protect it from the dirt.
    The RV was spacious and gleaming new, with tall soft captain’s chairs for the