Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (13 page)

Only silence and the fleeting sound of a diesel engine answered.

“Mike! Mike! Come on!” Curtis shouted once again, to no avail. He ran over to where Mike had previously stood and was met with a horrible sight. One of the rounds Wagner had fired had caught Mike squarely in the temple, killing him instantly. Curtis grabbed his mini Maglite and shone it on Mike. The blood and gray matter had splattered in a straight line out from what remained of his head. Curtis shoved Mike’s body out of the path of the next LMTV. “Sorry, brother, but I gotta catch that sonofabitch.” 

Curtis crossed himself, then left Mike’s body lying where he had shoved it. It was an unceremonious way to leave his fallen friend, especially considering that he may have just saved his life, but Curtis had bigger fish to fry. He sprinted to what had been Mike’s LMTV. With one swift motion, he grabbed the door of the truck, planted his left foot, and swung himself into the cab. He fired up the 2.5-ton truck and pressed the “D” button to throw it into drive. Curtis stomped the gas and the LMTV lurched forward quickly. He swung the steering wheel and bounded across the median, just as Wagner had not thirty seconds ago. The truck roared across the interstate and made a beeline for the exit ramp. The copious amount of snow made gaining traction more challenging, but the tires soon met grip and Curtis found himself sliding the big truck around the cloverleaf and onto the main road.

Wagner evidently thought that he'd made a clean getaway as Curtis thundered down the road. The other LMTV was less than a quarter-mile ahead of him as he made his way onto the secondary route on 460 West. Curtis hadn’t bothered to turn on the driving lights on his truck. The thought to turn off the lights evidently had not occurred to Wagner. The red taillights glowed in the distance ahead of Curtis as he gained on the other LMTV. There was just enough moonlight peeking through the light snowfall to give him the element of surprise.

Curtis gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckle hold. Wagner had not only killed Mike, a travesty in and of itself, but was planning something infinitely more sinister. The fact that he was colluding with the Captain was more disconcerting. What did Wagner tell him already? The Captain was obviously well aware of their exodus back to Tazewell, but what was his exit strategy? The supplies that were within the three trucks were more than worth the trouble of killing a pair of travelers. Where in the hell was the Captain coming from? He didn't have to be close by if Curtis and Mike were supposed to be dead, but he wouldn’t risk Wagner taking the assets for himself and taking off with them. Curtis sure as hell intended on finding out.

He raced down the road until he was within fifty yards of Wagner. The lead LMTV started swerving between lanes, kicking up plumes of dry, white snow, creating an effective smokescreen. Curtis stayed his course behind Wagner despite the poor visibility.

“Come on you son of a bitch!” Curtis yelled and punched the accelerator. His LMTV caught up to Wagner, only a few yards behind. “Remember me, asshole?!” Curtis’ truck lurched forward the few yards and closed the gap. He hit the back end of Wagner’s truck, jostling the vehicle back and forth. The short wheelbase of the truck made it difficult to control, but he pressed forth, ramming the vehicle again.

“Curtis, you goddamned asshole!” Wagner screamed at the top of his lungs. He looked over to his left as the other truck pulled alongside. He glanced just long enough to see Curtis turn on the interior light, just to flip him the bird. “No, Curtis, FUCK YOU!” he yelled, and swerved his massive rig, colliding with the other LMTV with a dull metallic clang.

Curtis’ truck rattled back and forth, losing a bit of ground to Wagner. The truck bounced off the cement wall to his left, nearly crashing him. “Goddammit, Wagner! You're gonna pay for that!” Curtis floored the accelerator once more and pulled alongside Wagner. He drifted over to his left and came at the opposing truck hard. Both trucks hit with another thundering boom of metal-on-metal racket. The trucks quaked but didn't recoil from one another, sticking to each other in a steel embrace.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Wagner hollered as he realized that his truck was caught on Curtis’ machine. The mechanical clinch didn't last long, however, as both trucks smashed into the concrete barrier to their left. Sparks and a metallic screech filled the frigid air. Wagner’s truck inexplicably spun around, pulling the other LMTV with it. The combination of a short wheelbase and the fact that the truck was not meant to travel sideways became immediately evident. Wagner’s truck started tipping, pulling the other with it. Both trucks teetered as they slid sideways, finally giving into gravity and falling over.

Both trucks crashed with a grinding thud, falling on the snow-covered pavement in a heap of clattering metal and breaking glass. The hulking LMTVs slid for a short distance before coming to a merciful halt.

Wagner stirred first, quickly climbing over broken radio equipment, scattered pieces of glass, and the general state of disarray inside the cab. He stood up on the passenger’s side door and looked up above him. He’d injured himself in the crash, but nothing that was going to keep him from getting out. He searched around until he found his .45 lying below him. The gun had survived the crash nearly as well as he had. Wagner, woozy and disoriented, stumbled as he bent over to retrieve the gun. As he did, he noticed the windshield had been dislodged from the front of the truck. Wagner sat down heavily and kicked at the glass. After a couple of hefty boot strikes to the glass, it gave way and Wagner scurried out.

Curtis had not fared as well as his adversary. He lay half-out of the windshield of his LMTV. As the truck made impact with the ground, the windshield had been forcefully ejected off the truck. It now lay on the ground a few feet away from him. Curtis rolled over onto his back, dazed by the impact. Stars passed through his vision, mixed in with the still-falling snow. It was a remarkable sight as he neared the edges of his consciousness. Curtis took shallow, ragged breaths, made all the more difficult by the broken ribs he had suffered. He closed his eyes as he heard the footsteps approaching. The crunching of snow came closer. Curtis struggled to regain what consciousness he had left. The footsteps shuffled nearer, coming to a stop beside him.

“I told you not to fuck with me, Curtis.” Wagner stood over him, the .45 in his right hand, his left hand holding his ribs. Wagner raised the .45 and cocked the hammer back. The sound of far off moans of the undead made for a macabre landscape in the still of the night. Wagner looked out towards the sound, a disturbing expression growing across his face. “Too bad you won’t turn, but the dead will eat you alive, literally. The Captain wanted me to keep you alive until he got here from down the road.” Wagner drew his attention back to Curtis. “Oh fucking well.”

Curtis closed his eyes and said a silent prayer as he readied himself for whatever waited for him in the afterlife.

He was at peace.

Boom!

He was covered in blood.

Wagner fell forward, minus a large portion of the right side of his face. His right eye flopped out and bounced forward, landing inches away from Curtis. The blood and gore from what remained of Wagner’s head coated the LMTV and Curtis’ face. He didn't know who his guardian angel was, but the shot had come from less than fifty yards away, the sound reverberating through the quiet mountain night.

Curtis turned his head to one side, the frozen precipitation lightly falling on his face. Sounds came and went, as if the world was in a barrel. His sight faded in and out. The smell of copper and the stink of gray matter permeated the air around him, a forsaken miasma of a world gone to hell. The world was nearly absent from his mind until he heard the snow crunching again, this time someone
running
towards him. Curtis smiled and slowly exhaled. His guardian angel had arrived at last.

The figure approached Curtis and checked his breathing and pulse. It was thready and weak, and his breathing ragged, but he was alive.

“Hang in there, buddy. I’ll get you some help real soon.”

* * *

Joe finally managed to settle in for the night. As the night’s true darkness fell, he laid on the makeshift bed Jim had been so kind to fashion. A couple of flattened cardboard boxes and a meager amount of bedding on top wasn’t much, but it would do for now. The day had been a long one. No, it had been a time-consuming jumble of overwhelming scenes. After spending the last three years settled down at one spot to call home, it felt weird to be sleeping around complete strangers. He shifted uncomfortably on his ‘bed’ and tried to gain a more peaceful position. He didn't plan to get a good night’s sleep, but any rest at this point was better than none at all. The alcohol-induced near-coma that he'd had the night before was great for loosening up some of his much-needed tight muscles, but he hadn’t got much in the way of restful REM sleep. He pulled his meager covers tight to his chin and rolled to his left side.

Rick was asleep not far from him, snoozing on the same improvised
bedding. Kane was asleep beside him, Rick’s arm draped over the German Shepherd. Joe watched him sleep for a few moments. Rick looked at peace with Kane. The two had formed a fast friendship, moving and acting as one very quickly. The dog was now part of Joe’s family. It was not a family of blood, but one made through a combination of life events and chance. Joe had been close to the men in his group before they’d formally formed as a unit, but now their bond was inseparable. Each man was willing to risk his life for another. Each devoted to the notion that there was still some good left in the world. Each dedicated to making it safe for the future of mankind.

As Joe finally
fell asleep, many thoughts permeated his mind, but none more prevalent than one:

How was Curtis holding up?

CHAPTER 18

DECEMBER 23, 2021

The hustle and bustle of Camp Brown started early in the morning. Joe, and for that matter, the rest of the team, was wholly unfamiliar with being woken up by other human contact. They were used to sleeping as much as they cared to, only to be woken up by the call to duty or the smell of food. It wasn’t until the denizens of Camp Brown started their morning routine that the team realized how good they’d had it at Camp Dawson.

Joe pulled the covers over his head and tried to drown out the sounds of the camp coming alive, but he couldn’t. What finally got him off his duff wasn’t the noise, but a smell; a familiar smell, but one that he hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Coffee.

In lieu of having a Monster or Red Bull first thing in the morning, a cup of java was the next best thing. He missed the caffeine jolt and sugary wakeup call of energy drinks, but under the circumstances, a cup of coffee would do just fine. He tossed his covers aside and let his nose track down the sweet smell of breakfast. He reached down and laced up his boots, grabbed his rifle, and started the day.

As Joe walked through the camp, it was evident that the word had gotten out about Joe and the crew. As he passed by several of the men and women, they gave him a much more cordial welcome than the day before. Smiles, nods, and waves were directed his way as he kept his pursuit of the delicious-smelling java. After walking another thirty seconds, he found the promised land.

“Good morning, Joe! How the boys doing?” Jim said as he approached with two steaming mugs. Joe graciously accepted and sniffed the beautiful aroma.

“I think they might be coming around soon. Especially Jamie; he’ll go nuts over some coffee.”

“Well thankfully it was vacuum-sealed and there is plenty of it. It might be a little on the old side, but it’s still coffee.”

“I'm sure he won’t mind,” Joe said as he sipped some of the black drink, the bitter taste awakening his thought processes. “What, no sugar?”

Jim laughed as he drank some of his own. “We’re good, but not
that
good, at least not yet.”

* * *

Joe swirled the cup under Jamie’s nose. The big man didn't take long to stir once he caught a whiff of the java. He moved slowly at first, blinking away his sleepiness and lethargy. His eyes opened slowly and he grinned at Joe.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Damn straight it is. Get the boys up and get ‘em moving; we got some work to do today.”

“As long as you let me have some of that, I’ll whistle ‘Dixie’ while eatin’ crackers and covering one eye.”

Joe snickered. “Well, let’s get to it.”

After a short wakeup for Balboa and Rick, the four men stood around the hood of the Humvee, contemplating. Each one stood with a steaming hot mug of liquid breakfast, pointing out what exactly they wanted to do about procuring their wheels. The trucks around the back of the UPS center were enclosed like the rest of the facility. Six semis with trailers occupied the area. The space as a whole was around fifty feet squared and utilized the same chain-link fence with barbed wire that the rest of the facility did. Thankfully the trucks were parked facing the exit of the section, but the gates were shut and locked. On the up side, the trucks should have no problem bashing through it. On the down side, however, it meant that any zombies that were not taken care of would immediately escape, creating a bigger issue. Joe did not have it in him to just bash open the gates of hell and release the ghouls. The people of Camp Brown deserved better. Each man had plenty of ammo to take care of the threats. Despite their need to leave for Tazewell, they would neutralize all hostiles before doing so. They would still most likely have to bash the gate in, but at least there would be no adverse side effects from doing so.

Joe explained the intricacies of his plan, of which there were few. He, along with Rick and Jamie, would take a service ladder to the roof. Once they were there, Joe and Jamie would take out all of the undead visible to them. Rick would be lowered down onto a trailer and make his way to the front of the truck. Joe and Jamie would take up flanking positions on the roof, keeping Rick in their sights. Rick would take only his sidearm and a backpack with Sta-Bil so as not to be weighed down. Once Joe and Jamie took out the walkers, then Rick would drop the Sta-Bil into the tank – assuming it still had fuel – and give the all clear for the area. Jim would bring around the Humvee and jumpstart the truck. Assuming everything went to plan, they would be done in ten minutes or less.

“Let’s do it, then. Jamie, Rick, you guys are with me. Balboa, you give Jim a hand with the Humvee and ride shotgun. I haven’t seen any undead, but that don’t mean they won’t pop up when we least expect it. Anybody got anything else?”

They all shook their heads.

“Alright. Mount up.”

Balboa got in the Humvee with Jim as Joe, Jamie, and Rick set off to the middle of the building. The service ladder to the roof was located above Jim’s office. The top of the ladder opened up onto a small landing above the mezzanine.

“After you, Dad. Age before beauty and all,” Rick said, snickering. Another playful smack on the back of the head answered him.

Joe climbed the ladder, followed by Rick and Jamie. After several uneasy creaks and groans during the climb, causing them to slow more than once, they reached the top. Joe pushed open a square aluminum hatch. The hatch gave way as puffs of dry, white snow fell down through the opening. Joe gave a hard shove and the lid locked in place. Joe climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and had a look around.

Five feet below him towards the trucks was a foot-wide walkway with adequate gripping. Joe carefully made his way down to the railing. From his he vantage point, it wasn’t the best view of the zombies that stirred about underneath, but it would do. Joe watched as Balboa and Jim pulled up in front of the gate. With the thin aluminum walls that made up the building, they didn't want to shoot towards it any more than they had to. The chance of the odd round punching through and injuring or killing someone was too great to ignore.

Joe moved to the left and brought his M4 around to his front. Steam rose from his mouth as he breathed the cold, early morning air. The snow had finally ceased, but left its mark on the area, blanketing everything in sight. The sky remained ominous hues of gray, evidence of the weather’s activity the day before. Mother Nature was done with her winter wonderland, at least for now.

Jamie hefted himself onto the roof, followed by Rick. Both men stood for a moment and admired the scenery before moving towards Joe.

“Looks like Jim and Balboa are in place. Rick, are you ready?” Joe said, handing the looped rope to Rick.

“Ready as I'm gonna get I suppose.” Rick was obviously nervous, but tried to hide his anxiety through determination. He stepped through the loop as Joe and Jamie held the line. Once the slack was taken in, Rick edged to the end of the roof, on the verge of falling off. Joe sat and curled the rope around him, as did Jamie. Rick gave a thumbs up, ready to go. Joe let out a little slack at a time, as did Jamie, and Rick slowly lowered. The rope rubbed against the aluminum siding of the building, not making much noise, but enough for the dead to notice. Once one of the creatures turned to look, all of them did.

As Rick dangled like a worm on a hook, he began to notice them stirring. It was one or two at first, followed by another and another. By the time his boots hit the top of the trailer, all of the undead in the lot had descended on him, drawn by the slightest of sounds. Rick stepped out of the rope loop and cinched his assault pack tighter. The moans of the dead greeted him as he walked along the roof of the trailer. They scratched and clawed at the sides of the truck, making an eerie nails-on-chalkboard screech as they did, amplifying the bloodcurdling horror of it all. Rick felt a shiver go down his spine as he listened. He became agitated that Jamie and his father had not yet opened fire. He stopped as he neared the front of the trailer and looked back.

He couldn’t see anyone.

“Guys? You can start shooting the zombies any…” Rick was cut off by a single suppressed rifle shot, followed by another. The sound of Jamie’s unsuppressed M4 cracked through the air like thunder compared to Joe’s much quieter offerings. The sound mattered little as each round tore through its intended target. Rick watched as zombie after another fell.

Jamie and Joe watched through their respective ACOG scopes as they fired. Joe had taken up a position to cover the driver’s side of the truck, while Jamie took out the dead on the passenger’s side.

Headshots on zombies were slightly different than they had been previously. Over the years, Joe had noticed that the bone density in the undead had diminished considerably. He didn't know whether it was a side effect of the Romero Virus, or just time and the elements softening the bones. Even the thickest-skulled undead now went down with a single shot. The 5.56mm rounds that he used had been known to skip off the skull or even stay embedded in it without breaking through. That was not a problem now, though. The 5.56mm bullet was not initially designed to be a killing round, more of a maiming round, but now it did the trick just fine.

Black blood, tarry indeterminate goo, and skull fragments splattered the side of the once-white trailer and marred the pristine snowbanks. Rick watched as one by one, the pack of undead was whittled down. One especially audacious zombie tried to climb between the cab and trailer of the truck. Rick pulled his .45 and dispatched the lone zombie with a well-placed round, right between the ghoul’s eyes. The .45 hollow point sabot blew the cerebellum out the back of the zombie’s head, dangling for just a moment before falling in a heap to the ground. After a couple more rifle reports from the top of the roof, all was silent again.

“Clear left!” Joe hollered.

“Clear right! How’s it looking down there, Rick?” Jamie countered.

Rick moved about on the top of the trailer and listened. “Looks and sounds clear from here,” he hollered back.

Rick holstered his .45 and climbed down from the trailer. Once he was on the ground, he made one more thorough search of his surroundings. Heaps of undead lay at his feet, all with a single rifle round to the head, all of them nearly naked as well. Blood, brains, and other unknown bodily fluids and parts lay scattered on the ground near the trailer. Thankfully, none were moving or making an effort to eat him. That was good enough for him.

Rick walked over to the gate where Balboa and Jim waited. He retrieved his .45 and aimed it at the lock and chain that blocked the way. “Y’all might wanna stand back for just a second.” Both men obliged. Rick fired two rounds, the lock falling away after the second.

Joe and Jamie left their posts and went back down the ladder, making sure to close the hatch as they exited the roof. They shimmied down the ladder again and were met by concerned looks from the residents of Camp Brown. A small crowd greeted them as they got to the bottom of the ladder. Questions were hurled at them like batting practice fastballs.

“What was all that shooting?”

“Is everybody okay?”

“What’re y’all doin’ up there?”

“Why were y’all on the roof?”

Joe stopped to politely explain the situation to the people of Camp Brown. “Look, we were just trying to get the zombies out of the back lot so we can get one of the semis. We don’t mean y’all any harm, matter of fact we needed to speak with you guys anyway.”

“What do y’all want to talk about?” came a question from the back of the crowd.

Joe stepped forward and addressed the group. “We are from a ZBRA unit that was taken down by a bunch of paramilitary assholes. Those same paramilitary assholes are the ones that ran you off from the outpost in Lexington. I'm not telling you that you have to go with us, but I am asking if anyone
wants
to come with us. We will be travelling to Tazewell, Virginia at least. We plan to try to meet a couple of our friends that are on the way there. They have a couple trucks that will be loaded down with supplies. We will have guns, ammo, food, and medicine there hopefully.”

“
Hopefully
don’t cut it with us. We don’t wanna pack it up unless we know that something is gonna be there for us. We have been doin’ just fine here. What promises do we have that there’ll be anything there at all?” a voice from within the crowd hollered out. It was Maria, moving forward through the crowd.

Joe sagged his shoulders. “I can’t promise anything. I'm just asking if there is anyone that is interested in going, that’s it. If you are, then as soon as the truck gets around front, we will be outta here. Thank all of you for your hospitality and kindness. We are eternally grateful and will return the favor if the opportunity ever arises.”

The crowd mumbled and moved about as Joe politely excused himself and walked away. He knew there had to be some members of the camp that wanted to leave, but didn't stick around to explain himself further. There was no use in trying to convince them that the Promised Land would be waiting for them in Tazewell; they just needed to have a little faith.

For that matter, Joe could use some too.