Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (4 page)

“Just get your shit together and come with us to Blacksburg.
We can regroup some of the guys from there and bring some of our guys down from Dawson and get what’s left here that is still of use. I hate to say it, Wagner, but you may have to relocate with us or the Blacksburg crew.” Joe really didn't know what to tell him, but it was certain that the Beckley ZBRA unit was lost and they needed to make sure that they got all the stashed items that they could. There was plenty of spare ammo and guns lying around. Whoever had come through, they had no intentions of stopping or taking anything with them. It didn't make any sense.

Wagner nodded somberly and started back to his living area inside the terminal.
The airport was a little larger than the one they’d been holed up in while they were in Alabama. It had a full-fledged ticket counter and did a little more commercial traffic back in the day than the Monroe County Airport did.

Joe
watched him go off on his own and tried to figure out why the storm trooper brigade that had come through did not take any of the plentiful supplies that the complex had. He didn't have time to ponder it much before Rick and Chris discovered something.

“Hey
Joe! Come here! Looks like the Beckley boys managed to get one of ‘em! He’s alive… for now,” Chris said as he helped Rick drag the man towards Joe. The guy looked like a U.S. Marine, dressed in worn out DCUs (desert combat uniform), and looked as if he was in his late thirties or early forties. He dragged his feet as Rick and Chris brought him over, then winced in pain as they tossed him down none too gently. Joe knelt down and addressed the man.

“Seeing as how there ain’t a prison system in the good ol’ state of West Virginia, I don’
t see us taking you prisoner. So here is how it’s gonna go; you tell me what I want to know or I beat it out of you and kill you when I'm done. Or, you tell me what I want to know without me having to beat the shit out of you and I consider you a loose end.”

The man held up his hands in surrender.
“I don’t want any trouble. I was lookin’ for a reason to get away from those assholes anyways.”

Joe
didn't know what to make of the guy. He looked to be sincere, but after nearly a decade of having to talk to assholes like him, it was hard to tell anymore. During more than one mission, Joe would have to talk to people just like the straggler. Most of the time he could be around them for thirty seconds or so and be able to tell if they were full of shit or not. This guy was hard to read. Joe couldn’t really tell what his deal was. Joe studied his face, trying to look for something that he could use against him, but there was nothing. Guys like this were more common than he cared to mention; they wanted to be part of a group – it was the only way to survive. The lone wolf nowadays wasn’t able to stay alive very long without help.

Joe
handed him a bottle of water from his assault pack. He grabbed it and downed three-quarters of it in one long draught.

“Careful, there buddy.
You gonna end up seein’ that again if you take it down too fast.”

He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and breathed heavily.
“Sorry. The Captain doesn’t let us have too many provisions, especially since we have been on the move.”

“Yeah, about that.
Who is this ‘Captain’ y’all keep goin' on about? By the way, why the hell does he want to take out the ZBRA units? We don’t infringe on anyone that doesn’t need an ass whoopin’ – especially if they are trying to hurt innocent people or trying to run the world over.” Joe needed to get intel on this “Captain” douchebag, and this guy seemed like he would be a good source if he kept giving him a little food and water. Joe looked over at Chris.

“Go ge
t an MRE for our friend here.” Joe turned back to the man and met him eye to eye. “If we give you some food, you give us some information – deal?”

He nodded vigorously and a few seconds later Chris came back with an MRE
. It was one of the vegetarian MREs and they were, unbelievably, the best ones. Cheese tortellini was Joe’s personal favorite. Chris handed the food to Joe and he in turn handed it to the man.

Joe
gave Ogre the signal to finish fueling the chopper, got to his feet and motioned for all the guys to follow him; it was starting to spit snow and none of them was particularly dressed for an extended stay outdoors. He let their ‘prisoner’ lead the way and directed him to the hangar, one of the only buildings still standing. Chris split off, grabbed one of the fifty-gallon drums for a hobo campfire, and dragged it inside. They lit the barrel with a little tinder and busted parts from the destroyed terminal. They all stood around the fire as the man started to tell them his story. Joe had learned by now that everyone had a story, none of them were the same, and very rarely did they have a happy conclusion.

“I really don’t know what
y’all need to know, but I suppose I can answer questions if you have some. I was with the Captain and his men for almost a year. I can tell you they are not to be fucked with; they have plenty of firepower and they are getting more since we started moving out.”

Joe warmed his
hands on the fire. “You keep saying ‘since you were on the move.’ When and where did you start out from, and how long have you been on the road? Most folks nowadays don’t venture out any further than they have to, and they damn sure don’t go on some Bataan Death March in the middle of winter,” Joe said, watching their prisoner open his MRE and begin to eat.

“I don’t know where
they
started from, but they picked me up on their scouting mission down near Chattanooga, Tennessee. I had lost most of my friends after that hurricane that hit last August. We had a good thing going out near the South Carolina/Georgia line, and the storm took out most of our shelter. After that, the dead started flooding in. Those of us that didn't die in the storm were overrun by the dead or starved to death. We escaped as best we could, but there were only about a dozen of us left.” He tore into the main course of the MRE and ate slowly as he talked, continuing his tale.

“We had been on the run since we left and were trying to find some decent shelter when we first saw them.
They looked so official that we thought that the military had finally gotten together and were trying to retake some of the areas that they had lost years ago. We were welcomed in with open arms. They fed us, clothed us, and took generally good care of us for a few days; then they conscripted us into their ranks. We were told that what we were doing was for the good of the United States, and that we should help them out in any way that we could, so we did.” He took another spoonful of tortellini, chewed it down, and continued. He had all of their attention now.

“We went along with them for a week or so, and then the raids started.
We went through small camps and large settlements for the next few months. We took in more and more people that thought we were making a run back to D.C., you know, to take back the country. We were wrong. The people that refused or were too sick or injured were just killed outright. I didn't see it for myself, but some of the others did. There were plenty of people that wanted to leave, and at first, the Captain said they could. That changed very quickly. Once they left, they would be shot before they could get a hundred yards away. The rest of us that were left just kept our mouths shut and just went along with it. We were heading north and then we made a drastic turn once we got into Virginia. Instead of travelling up through the largest part of Virginia, we started heading towards West Virginia for some odd reason. Whenever we would ask where we were going, the Captain said that we couldn’t make a headlong run at Washington or we would be overrun. There were too many undead in Arlington, D.C. and Northern Virginia that we had to make a round trip into West Virginia and up into Pennsylvania. He said we would encounter less undead and we believed him. Hell, we
wanted
to believe him.”

“So this ‘Captain’ fellow thinks that he’s gonna go and retake
Washington, does he? What kind of person is he? And how many people and what kind of equipment does he have at his disposal?” Chris asked.

The stranger tossed the remains of his eaten MRE into the fire.
“He has a couple hundred people, I would guess. They have quite a bit of military-grade stuff that we took from different places – National Guard armories and such. He doesn’t keep all his people in one place at the same time. He usually breaks ‘em up into different types of teams. I was on a scavenging team.”

“What other kinds of teams does he have?”
Joe asked, listening intently.

“Scavenging, assault, recon, and some of ‘em I swear are just death squads.
Some of the boys they sent out didn't come back with anything useful, or anything at all for that matter. They’d just go out and come back a couple magazines worth of ammo less than what they left with. I dread to think what they did to some of the poor people we ran across. The Captain is a conniving, ruthless sociopath if you ask me.”

“What’s he like?
I mean as far as age, looks, background, that sort of thing?” Joe was enthralled at getting some sort of information about the new Public Enemy Number One.

“
As far as the man himself, I couldn’t tell ya much. Nobody knows a whole lot about him other than he is, or should I say
was
, a U.S. Marine, and from his accent sounds like he’s from the Deep South. He’s got a fake left leg that some people said is the aftereffect of getting bit by one of the zombies. I've heard some of the guys actually say his name; it’s something like White or Wyatt or something like that.”

Joe thought his
heart was going to stop, and by their reactions, Chris and Balboa felt the same way. The bastard was still alive after all these years. But how? Joe was positive that he’d made at least one good shot at the estranged Marine while in Alabama. The fact that he was alive wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the fact that he was not only surviving, but also
prospering.
He had a small army at his disposal, along with vehicles. Wyatt had the kind of personality to talk nearly anyone into doing his bidding, as Brittany could attest to, if she was still alive. Joe had nearly done his dirty work as well, had he not met with Curtis. Wyatt was controlling and power hungry, left in a world with a huge void of power waiting to be filled.

Jamie came back over as the stranger announced Wyatt’s return.
“Ogre says the chopper is fueled and we’re ready to head out to Blacksburg.”

“We’re not going to Blacksburg.
Our old friend Wyatt is back at it, Jamie. We’re headed back to Camp Dawson – right now!”

No time to waste now.
They had work to do. They loaded up their prisoner to take him back with them. Something told Joe that he shouldn’t let him go just yet. Wagner tagged along as well, now homeless from the attack.

They all wanted to go home – Joe included.

CHAPTER 3

“Sounds like the asshole gave himself a promotion,” Balboa said as Joe helped roll the chopper back out to a safe distance to take off. The ‘Captain,’ or Lieutenant Wyatt, was alive and well. Joe couldn’t figure out why he was detouring into southern Virginia instead of just marching up Interstate 95. It would by far be the most direct route into Washington, but the prisoner was right, a headlong assault on D.C. would be a massacre. There had to be something of use in the area for him to make that large a detour. The crazy bastard was probably still trying to find some damn nuke silo or something in the hills of West Virginia.

They
had all heard rumors about some of the goings on in the hills in the Appalachians, but nobody had actually seen anything. Heck, there were rumors going around during the Cold War in the 1980’s that some of the Soviet’s big targets were right in their back yard, but no one knew anything concrete about them.

After Joe
told Ogre of their new destination, he started to think about what that crazy bastard had been doing for the last nine years. It wouldn’t have taken him that long to get from Alabama to West Virginia, even under the worst conditions imaginable. Of course, it was about as bad as it could get. It was a hell of a long time to try to amass an army if he was just taking and conscripting people as he went along. It didn't really matter much; Joe was going to go and kill the son of a bitch. He owed him that much.

Ogre took back off and
radioed in to Blacksburg that they had an emergency and would be returning to base. Joe told Ogre not to use anything specific as far as locations or anything like that. The likelihood was high that Wyatt was listening in and had plenty of military-grade hardware. His firepower should be no match for air superiority, however.

There were plenty of worr
ied looks and double takes as they headed out from Beckley back towards Camp Dawson. All of the men kept a close eye out for anything of Wyatt’s army, but came up with nothing. If he had a couple hundred people, he was hiding them quite well. The hills of West Virginia made an excellent hiding spot, even for a force that size; the chopper could pass right over and wouldn’t be any the wiser. Joe directed Ogre just to head back to Camp Dawson until they could sort out exactly what their plan of action was.

* * *

It was a long forty-five minute flight home. Ogre kept their radio chatter to a minimum so as not to alert any nosy sociopaths that might be listening in. Curtis knew not to ask too many questions, and Ogre gave him a bullshit story about having mechanical difficulties and that he would be landing soon. Curtis acknowledged and gave them the lowdown on the weather. Their local weatherman was broadcasting about a hellacious winter storm that was heading Camp Dawson’s way. There wasn’t much in the way of specifics, but the snowfall amounts were going to be between six inches and a foot, with more on the way after that. It looked like they would need to hole up and fortify Camp Dawson as much as possible. There wouldn’t be much going out in the snow for them. Joe couldn’t risk the choppers for the weather.

Upon their arrival,
Ogre touched down and they all exited the bird. Joe had told the team to meet back in their barracks in about a half hour to discuss what they were going to do about Lieutenant Wyatt, or ‘the Captain,’ as he was now apparently being called. Joe strolled into the commo tent where Curtis was still holding down the fort; he could tell that he was anxious to see why they had cancelled their run to meet up with Blacksburg.

“So you mind
tellin’ me what that was all about? I’ve had Birdman up my ass for the last hour tryin’ to figure out why you guys bugged out,” Curtis asked with a raised eyebrow. Birdman was the codename for the closest thing that they had to a central commander in the area. Rumor has it that he was a retired Air Force Colonel before the world went to shit, and nowadays he tried to take care of the ZBRA teams and coordinate the runs. He was the one who was responsible for the run to Blacksburg.

Joe sat down in front of Curtis’ table.
A SINCGARS, a HAM radio, and various other VHF and UHF equipment was spread out in front of him, most of them silent. The HAM operators were some of their best contacts, as they were the most reliable sources of intel going. They reported in every so often and gave Curtis the lowdown on the happenings in their neighborhood. Most of them had been prepared for the apocalypse beforehand and had fortified bunkers and other impenetrable areas to hole up in, even long after the supplies ran out. Most of them were self-sufficient at this point. Joe gazed over the radios and looked back at Curtis.

“He’s back, Curtis.”

“Who’s back? Last time I checked, the militia leader in Cincinnati was killed when we went over last month. Can’t seem to remember the bastard’s name, though,” Curtis said, scratching his head.

Joe kicked back in the aluminum folding chair and laid his rifle down.
He wasn’t even entirely sure what to call the gun at this point. It had started its life as an AR-15, but now that it had been decked out, it was more of a short-barreled M4, heavily modified, of course.

“I wish it was just him that we had to worry about
.” Joe sighed and leaned forward in the chair. “Lieutenant Wyatt is back at it again, except now he’s referred to as ‘The Captain.’ The boys in Beckley got overrun by a large group of wannabe Marines, and one of the guys said something about a guy named Wyatt that was a U.S. Marine before and is now conscripting people into service to make a run on Washington D.C.”

Curtis clenched his jaw and got a mean-spirited look in his eyes.
He had just as much reason to hate Wyatt as Joe did, and had dealt with him long before Joe had. Wyatt was a loose cannon and had no qualms about killing whomever he needed to so long as he got what he wanted. Lucy and Brittany could have attested to that. The image of Lucy getting her brains blown out the top of her head and the subsequent firefight that had ensued was one of the many nightmares that woke Joe up at night. Barely a week would go by before he’d replay the whole thing in his subconscious, unable to do anything more than what he had done before. Joe guessed that was the definition of insanity; doing something repeatedly hoping for a different outcome. Everyone was a little off kilter – some more than others.

“I don’t know what he’s planning or why he’s been off the radar for the last decade
, but I am damn sure not gonna let anything stand in between me and killing that asshole. I had Ogre do a flyby over the area before we started back and we didn't see anything worthwhile. Just keep an ear out for anything unusual, well, anything more unusual than normal. I had Balboa and Rick take the prisoner into the barracks. We keep a guard on him at all times, even if he’s sleeping.” Joe got up, grabbed his rifle, and started out of the building.

“So what do you think he’s up to?”

Joe turned and cocked his head to the side. “I haven’t a fuckin’ clue. Does it really matter? All I know is we are going to find him, and we’re going to kill him. Lemme know if you get anything useful. I’ll be in my room if you need me.” Curtis gave Joe a halfhearted salute and he headed back outside the commo building.

Joe glanced up at the sky as he walked down the small road leading back to the barracks.
The snow was starting to come down a little more steadily, but didn't look as if it was going to get bad just yet. The team would be grounded before long, and with good reason. There was no reason for them going out into the skies with the impending storm.

Or so he thought.

* * *

Balboa, Chris, Rick, Jamie, and Joe were deep in conversation when
Curtis advised them that they’d gotten another call. They had been discussing the recent intrusion of Lieutenant Wyatt a.k.a. ‘The Captain’ back into their lives. None of them had a clue as to why he had disappeared for such a long time. They’d stayed on board the USNS
Mercy
and USCGC
Joshua James
for some time after they were rescued, and had been told of the issues that they’d had with the Marine. The captain aboard the
Joshua James
knew of the disgruntled Marine and had lost contact with him almost immediately after they were sent from the boat. He had his doubts as to whether or not the loss of communications had been accidental or purposely done. He had leaned towards the latter.

The
ir inability to know what was coming, especially concerning The Captain, made it difficult for the team to make a decision on what to do about their current call. Curtis had received a HAM radio transmission from a group outside of Lexington, Kentucky. They were being surrounded by a horde that seemed to be led by a group of paramilitary soldiers that were using the undead as a battering ram to get into the city. They had apparently figured out a way to get the zombies to do their bidding. They didn't have any further information from them, at least nothing that was discernible over the radio.

T
he group went to the commo building where they sat with Curtis as he tried desperately to contact the group again, to no avail. The ZBRA teams were loosely held together and they really didn't have the notoriety that they wanted. It wasn’t like back in the day when you could just call 911 and police would show up, guns ready. Joe and his group had managed to get their reputation up over the last five years or so, and people in West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, and parts of Tennessee knew about them and knew that they could call if they needed to and knew exactly how to get hold of them. The Lexington people had just lucked out and reached Curtis on the shortwave radio.

Joe sat in front of the radios as Curtis s
et the mic back down, unable to get anyone on the other end.

“Well, what do
y’all think? Think it’s worth us gettin’ stuck in the storm to get these people some help?” Joe looked around the room.

“I think we have to go and help, but we need to be extra careful.
I don’t think this falls under ‘rescue’ but I think we could at least give ‘em some air support. We go and lay down some cover fire, thin out the herd, and take out the paramilitary boys. I think it’ll be about the same as Cincinnati,” Jamie said as he rested his chin on the back of an aluminum folding chair.

“Sounds doable, but are we gonna get caught by this snowstorm?
We get lost in the snow or run into some worse weather than this and we’re fucked,” Chris said.

“Ogre
, what do you think? You think we can get in and out before it gets bad?” Joe asked his pilot. It was ultimately up to him as to whether they would go. The men were always ready to go, but Ogre had the final say.

The big man got up and looked at the map.
“I think if we go within the next hour or so, then we can do like Joe says and just lay down cover fire. After that, I say we haul ass back home and don’t let any grass grow while we do it. We can take the full team, but don’t be expectin’ to fast rope in and take ‘em out. We stay in the air unless it just goes all to shit; if that’s the case then we just level the place. God bless anybody that’s left after that.”

“Alright then, we leave in five.
Y’all get your gear ready and we will take off just as soon as Ogre gets the bird fired up,” Joe said, standing up. “Let’s go save the fuckin’ day one more time.”