Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (12 page)

CHAPTER 17

Curtis glanced down at his watch as he drove. Time really was irrelevant now, just another manmade construct that had no bearing nowadays. Just like theoretical physics or the Earned Run Average, just something else that occupied one’s time until the end of said person’s life. The timepiece on his wrist was a Timex Ironman. Curtis wondered if the watch’s manufacturers had had the apocalypse in mind. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the advertisement that would accompany it.

30 Meter Water Resistant

Indiglo Light

100-Count Lap Timer

Zombie Bite-Proof Coating

Built-in Headshot Counter

Guaranteed to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse, or your money back!

Curtis became tickled with himself and laughed aloud in the noisy truck. It was then he realized just how tired he was. The light of day had faded almost entirely, and they were still driving, still moving towards their goal in Virginia. They hadn’t stopped since their encounter with the cannibals at the New River Gorge Bridge outside Beckley. They had traveled over two hours since then, not stopping for anything. Fortunately, they had picked up Interstate 77 just outside of Beckley. The interstate was surprisingly absent of vehicles and other deterrents. The occasional rock or mudslide made the passing along difficult, but by no means impassible.

Curtis had a plan in mind once they got to the West Virginia/Virginia state line. He didn't know any of the area, and wasn’t in any mood to try to find something to stay the night in. However, there was something of use near where they would have to exit the interstate. The East River Tunnel would leave them a safe place to park the vehicles and barricade themselves in. It was the closest thing to shelter they were going to get, but it beat the alternative of driving the remaining thirty miles to Tazewell.

In the dark.

In the snow.

“Curtis to Mike, Wagner; y’all still awake back there?” Curtis’ weary voice crackled over the radio.

Two equally tired voices responded with meager acknowledgements. They were exhausted as well. None of the three of them had any experience driving for any length of time, especially not in the last nine years. Driving was yet another manmade honor that they didn't have the time nor the energy for, another privilege that had fallen by the wayside.

Curtis wheeled his LMTV past Exit 1 on Interstate 77. About a hundred yards past lay their current destination, the East River Mountain Tunnel. The tunnel had fared decently since the beginning of the apocalypse. It still stood mostly intact, minus some cracking and fading of the façade and some missing letters on the VDOT sign at the entrance. The southbound entrance to the tunnel, the one they faced, was clear save for an orange, long-abandoned, VDOT snowplow. It looked as if the truck had been used for a temporary blockade for the right-hand lane. The normal day-glow orange truck was now a faded peach color from years of neglect. The blade and cab were rusted thoroughly, as was the bed. The contents of the bed had spilled beneath it, the calcium chloride and salt eating through the bottom of the container.

Curtis pulled the LMTV into the median between the tunnels, parking the truck. A hiss of air pressure escaped as he pulled the oversized yellow button, locking the vehicle in place.

“Wagner, back yours into the tunnel; Mike, you back in front of him, and I’ll back in last. That way if we need to make a quick escape, we should be able to.”

“Ten-four, Curtis,” Mike replied.

“Roger that,” Wagner said. Wagner tossed the handset of the SINCGARS angrily at the dash of the LMTV. Being the first truck locked into the tunnel was going to throw a kink in his plan. They were close enough to Tazewell that he could contact the Captain and guide him into their current location. All he had to do was dispatch Mike and Curtis. Easy enough. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d first thought, after seeing how they’d dealt with the cannibals. Curtis had shown that he wouldn’t just lie down and take it, and Mike would follow Curtis obediently. Both men were hardened from years of having to fend for themselves, Curtis especially. Reluctantly, Wagner did as he was told and backed the LMTV about fifty yards into the tunnel and parked it. The interior of the tunnel was going to prove to be even more of an issue as he grabbed the sat-phone and checked the signal.

No signal and no bars meant no help coming if he couldn’t get a call out.

“Shit,” Wagner muttered to himself, stuffing the phone back in his bag.

Mike backed in his LMTV in front of Wagner’s and parked it as well. His sat-phone had sat neglected and unused since leaving Camp Dawson. The Captain hadn’t given him strict orders when he'd been given the phone, other than to answer it when it rang. It had only rung twice so far. His instructions the first time around were to get recon on the ZBRA unit, and the Captain’s men would take care of the rest. The second time it rang, the Captain had already been aware of them moving out to Tazewell. Mike had suspected that Wagner might be in on the takeover of the convoy, but he'd made no effort to show his hand. Wagner had helped along the way just as much as he had. Mike looked at the phone and studied the lack of signal, perhaps a blessing in disguise. If the Captain couldn’t contact him then maybe he would assume that the mission had been scrubbed, possibly saving him the trouble of having to explain himself. His face flushed at the thought of having to lie and betray his cohorts. He had nothing to gain from turning his back on them, just the safety of not having the Captain hunting him down, a possibility that made him more nervous than having to kill a friend.

Mike took a deep breath and turned the phone around. He removed the back of the handset and ripped the battery out of it. He dropped the rest of it onto the floor and ground the remaining parts into the floorboards. He stomped it until he was satisfied that it was destroyed, the black plastic parts scattered all over the floor. He grabbed the steering wheel of the LMTV as Curtis backed the third truck into place. He pounded his fist into the steering wheel, unsure of what he was going to do. After a few moments of intense thought, he settled on telling Curtis everything in the morning.

He needed a night to sleep on it.

Curtis jumped out of his truck after parking it, leaving the engine running. He motioned for Wagner and Mike to join him at the head of the tunnel. Both men obliged, shutting their doors in unison. Wagner pulled his parka around his shoulders and up near his face, shielding it from the constant wind through the tunnel.

“What’s up, Curtis? Are we not going the rest of the way tonight? I know we’re close,” Wagner asked as he approached.

Curtis pulled the hood out of his own jacket, throwing it up over his head quickly. The stinging cold wind blowing through bit hard against what little bare skin he had left exposed. His beard kept most of the cold off him, but not quite all of it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

“No, not tonight. There’s no sense in going the rest of the way in shitty weather in the dark. The tunnel will provide a little bit of shelter from the cold, plus a little protection should any unwanted assholes be coming by,” Curtis replied.

“Yeah, but it bottlenecks us into one spot too. If we have to leave in a hurry, then we are gonna be shit outta luck.” Wagner wanted Curtis to see it his way; he needed to get a clear view of the sky, at least for a few minutes.

“Well, if that
does
happen, then it won’t be a problem,” Curtis replied.

Mike frowned. “And why’s that?”

“Because we are all gonna sleep in the lead truck. I’ll take first watch; Mike, you take second, Wagner, you take third. We’ll sleep in four-hour intervals. It’s seven now; Mike, I’ll get you up around eleven; Mike, you wake up Wagner around three or four. We’ll get the trucks started around four and get some food. Once daylight breaks, we’ll hit up the last thirty miles or so.”

Wagner gritted his teeth. The current arrangement would put a larger kink in his plans. “Curtis, why don’t I take the first shift, you look tired as shit. You can switch with me; get you some sleep since you know better where we’re going.”

Mike shuffled nervously at Wagner’s suggestion. He figured that Wagner was conspiring with the Captain, and now the evidence was piling up. He figured that Wagner had another sat-phone stashed somewhere in his truck or on his person. He wanted to act. He wanted to redeem himself from something that he hadn’t even done yet. He owed it to Curtis and to Joe and to all the people that had helped him instead of turning their backs and making him into an indentured servant.

Curtis opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Mike drawing his pistol. Mike pulled the 9mm from its battle-worn holster. He thumbed the hammer back as he brought it up, and aimed directly at Wagner’s head. The light from the lead LMTVs headlights cast a long shadow behind them, giving him just enough light to work with. Mike took a step forward and pulled his other hand up to stabilize the gun.

The action caught both men off guard. Wagner jumped back as if someone had hit him, bewildered.

“Mike, what the fuck are you doing?” Curtis said as he fumbled with his own pistol, a 1911 .45.

“This sonofabitch wants to trade you shifts ‘cause he's in with the Captain!”

“Are you off your fucking rocker, Mike? If anybody around here is in with the Captain, it’s
you
!” Wagner said, defending himself. He had both hands raised in surrender.

Curtis drew his .45 and aimed it at Mike. Mike was taken aback, swinging his pistol back and forth between the two men. “Mike, how the fuck do you think that Wagner is in on something?”

Mike swallowed hard and tried to compose himself as best he could. Despite the cold temperature, a bead of sweat broke out on his brow. “Because I was in on it too.”

Curtis was now the one unsure how to react. “What the hell are you talking about? And give me that goddamned gun; I don’t trust either one of you fuckers right now.”

“I'm not giving up shit until this asshole admits that he was in on it, too!”

“I'm not doing
shit
for you right now, you lyin’ fuckrag!” Wagner said emphatically. “Curtis, I ain't done shit but help you since I got here. This motherfucker,” he said, pointing to Mike, “was the one that we caught with the Captain before!”

Mike smiled knowingly. “Well, what about this shit then?” He reached into his jacket and threw down the remnants of his sat-phone, the black plastic parts standing out against the pure white snow. He put his other hand back on the gun.

“What the hell is that, Mike?” Curtis asked. He kept his .45 aimed at Mike.

“It’s a satellite phone. The Captain gave me one when I was left at Beckley. He said he would contact me with further instructions,” Mike said, not taking his eyes off Wagner.

“What did he tell you?” Curtis wondered aloud.

“He wanted me to get recon on the ZBRA unit and report back to him. I never called him back, but right before we left he called me and told me that he knew about the trucks leaving for Tazewell. I hadn’t told him shit yet, so I figured this fucker was in on it too. Think about it. He was the only survivor? Yeah, my fuckin’ left nut. He gave one to Wagner in case I reconsidered. Truth is, I never intended on screwing you guys over as long as you got me away from that fucker. I got in on his good side, lied to get in on the recon, and waited until I could get away.”

Curtis stood, completely shocked by what he was hearing, but putting the pieces together nonetheless. “I didn't rat us out to the Captain, either.” Curtis slowly moved his .45 from Mike to Wagner’s chest. “Wagner, no disrespect, but I'm gonna need to look in your truck.”

Wagner’s expression changed from disbelief to hatred nearly instantly. “What the fuck, Curtis? You're not gonna sit and listen to this shit are you?”

“I’d feel a lot better if you’d just cooperate and let me see in your truck before I have to detain you instead. You either let me in, or I zip-tie you to that guardrail over there and do it myself,” Curtis said, gesturing to the guardrail behind Wagner.

“Fuck both of you!” Wagner screamed suddenly. He kicked up a large pile of snow at both Curtis and Mike, causing both men to duck and momentarily lose sight of him. Wagner swiftly drew his own .45 from behind his back and fired three shots wildly at both men.

Curtis instinctively fired a shot in Wagner’s direction as he ducked away, rounds whizzing by him close enough for him to hear the reverberation. He ducked down and turned, bracing himself with his left hand and losing his balance for a moment. He lunged forward and tried to catch himself, to no avail. He hit the ground hard on his left shoulder and quickly rolled over.

Wagner was gone.

Curtis swiftly got to his feet in just enough time to be knocked back down. The front of the LMTV clipped him as it rolled forward with Wagner behind the wheel. Curtis hit the ground again, hard. The LMTV trundled past him, black smoke spewing forth, engine rumbling along. Curtis got up on one knee and fired the rest of his clip at the fleeing vehicle. Seven rounds pelted the back of the LMTV, uselessly bouncing off the hardened steel armor. Curtis looked at the slide of his .45, locked back and out of ammo.

“Shit!” He thumbed the release and the slide slammed forward. The LMTV rumbled across the median of the interstate, headed towards the onramp marked Exit 1 – Bluefield. Curtis slid the .45 back into the holster. “C’mon, Mike! We gotta get that asshole!”