Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (6 page)

The ground came towards them closer and closer.
The blur of a few trees and a former residential neighborhood came into view quickly. Joe braced himself and held onto Chris to keep him from being tossed from the chopper. It continued its death spin as the ground was now less than twenty feet away.

Joe thought that his life was supposed to flash before his eyes, but all he saw was a blur of buildings and trees as he closed his eyes and prayed that he would be able to open them again.

“Good luck, boys. God be with ya,” Ogre said to whoever could hear him as the chopper slammed into the middle of the street.

* * *

A weathered man in his mid-forties watched as his RPG hit the chopper square in the tail rotor. He dropped the RPG-7 launcher and turned to his cohorts; at least at the ones that were still alive after the miniguns had obliterated their diversion crew. He raised a crooked, dirty finger and pointed towards the smoke trail and the out-of-control helicopter.

“Go make sure those assholes are dead.”

CHAPTER 5

The radios were nearly silent as Curtis sat in front of them, constantly flipping back and forth between the different communications. He had never been the nervous type, but having to keep up with all of the random scrambling noise that came across the radio made him a little twitchy. Curtis was the only one of Joe’s crew that cared to drink coffee. He always had, even before he took over in commo. The MREs had plenty of coffee in them, but Curtis still insisted that they get some whenever they went out. The java fueled him.

Wagner had taken up a seat beside him and was staring at the different radios that Curtis was minding. There was a SINCGARS military radio, a CB radio, a HAM radio, VHF and UHF, and a barely running military computer that still received a signal on occasion. The military computer was running off a
Milstar satellite that was good only for weather. It also gave limited heat signatures. It was used to keep track of the undead hot zones. Those zones were to be avoided at all costs.

Next to Wagner sat the prisoner from Lieutenant Wyatt’s militia. His name, come to find out, was Mike. Curtis could tell that Wagner had reservations about having to be near the man, but knew he wouldn’t let it bother him too much. Joe had tasked him with watching the prisoner while they were gone to Kentucky, and he’d do as he was told. Wagner had mentioned to Curtis that he didn't agree with their decision to get so close to what looked to be a major
snowstorm, and Curtis had to admit he agreed with him.

Wagner shuffled in his seat as Curtis settled on the VHF radio. “Something wrong, Curtis?” he said as he leaned forward.

Curtis fiddled with the dials on the VHF and strained to hear. “I haven’t heard anything from the boys for almost twenty minutes now. That’s not like them. They usually at least give me a holler and let me know something.” Curtis looked behind him to an imaginary spot outside. “Maybe the antennas are overgrown again. We haven’t cleaned ‘em off this year yet. Do you mind goin’ up there and seein’ if you can get it cleared off? And take him with you. Y’all look like you could use some air.”

Wagner frowned. “I don’t wanna take this asshole out with me. I don’t really trust him to be honest, and I damn sure don’t want him
backstabbin’ me.”

“Just go out and take a look and let me know if they’re clear. Take one of the handhelds and holler back at me once you do. There’s an M4 in the rack beside the door. Grab one just in case,” Curtis replied.

Wagner grumbled and waved for Mike to follow him. He grabbed an M4 and checked the magazine. There was a full clip and a round in the chamber. Wagner threw an ACU field jacket on and hesitantly tossed another to Mike. “Better throw this on. It’s cold as shit out there.”

Mike accepted the jacket and threw it over his shoulders. He followed Wagner out of the commo building and into the cold air. The snow was beginning to fall and the arctic cold air nipped at his face and hands. He pulled the flimsy hood of the field jacket over his head and stuffed his hands into the pockets. He greatly appreciated not having the zip-tie cuffs on him that Joe had bound him with prior to their trip to West Virginia. He meant no harm to Joe and his crew, but was having a difficult time showing them that he meant no ill feelings. On the contrary, he was trying to figure out how exactly to help, but again, it was no picnic convincing them.

Wagner walked ahead, rifle at low ready, and scanned the area. He didn't see anything, or hear much or anything – aside from his and Mike’s footsteps – and that bothered him more than the walk out. Normally when he was in Beckley, there were the sounds of the dead close by. Camp Dawson, however, was in the middle of scenic nowhere and had previously had the population to boot. Most of the undead had not migrated down from Morgantown, about twenty-five miles north of them. The dead tended to stay in packs, as did their human counterparts. There was always safety in numbers.

Wagner shook off his daydreams as he and Mike made their way to the antenna. As they neared the end of their trek, he could see it. There was nothing wrong with it. There was no overgrowth or anything obstructing the structure.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with it,” Mike said as they walked to the base of it.

“I know. Wonder what the problem is. Curtis seemed like he was a little distracted and I don’t think this was his first thought as to what was goin’ on. I think the boys might be in trouble,” Wagner replied.

Mike turned and started to walk back, and Wagner followed suit, their pace considerably quicker than before. Both men had a sinking feeling that there was something amiss. As they approached the commo building, their assumptions proved to be correct. Curtis was coming out of the building as they neared, his face grim.

“We got a big problem.”

* * *

“I got three boys headed out to the crash now,” said the weathered man. His scraggly beard brushed against the satellite phone as he talked. He hadn’t shaved in nearly three years, even after joining up with the Captain and his Peacemakers. He didn't see the relevance in the name of the group, but went along with it anyway. The Captain kept them supplied with food, water, and ammo. As long as he did then he could call them
McDoober Shitstain Patrol for all he cared.

“Just make sure that those ZBRA assholes are dead, and then head back towards me in Virginia. Is the chopper still flyable?”

“Yessir, they didn't hit it, but we lost three men,” said Weathered Man.

“Acceptable losses. Did everything else work to plan?”

“Yessir, they fell for everything hook, line, and sinker,” the Weathered Man replied.

“Good. Captain out.”

CHAPTER 6

A strange combination of sounds, sights, smells, and feelings greeted Joe as he regained consciousness. He still felt like the chopper was crashing, even though he had been out for almost three minutes. In those three minutes, two of his people were killed, and he did not know it yet.

He could hear the moans of the undead, which gave him the most anxiety. Despite the wretched surroundings that he found himself stuck in, he realized that there was little time to dwell on them. He rolled around to his side and immediately realized that he was lying on the port side of the helicopter. As he blinked away blurriness that he soon realized was blood, he attempted to gain his bearings. He looked around the cabin, the tail of the chopper at his feet, and tried to figure out who was alive and who might not be.

“Guys … guys … hey … anybody alive?” Joe coughed out.

“
Unnnnnh. What the hell? Dad? You okay?” Rick shot up quickly. A trail of blood that started from a gash in his scalp dripped down onto his right shoulder. He’d landed to Joe’s right and was the first of the crew to sit up. Rick swung his head around left and right, quickly realizing the same thing that Joe had.

They had company.

Rick’s young age and spryness served him well. He reached down, grabbed Joe under the arms, and lifted him up onto his feet.

“Ah! Careful there, slugger, I'm not as young as I used to be.”

Rick was already moving about in the cabin of the chopper. The next man that he came to was Balboa. He was conscious, but in an extreme amount of pain. His left arm was obviously broken, and bent at an odd angle. Rick did the best he could to try to pick him up with as little pain as possible, but it was not easy. He cradled his arm under Balboa’s back and sat him upright. The big man was grey-faced with shock.

“I'm pretty sure that’s not a natural look for an arm,” he said with a dry smile.

“Sorry, dude. We gotta get you moving. Just chill for a second and let me get everybody going, and then we can get us outta here. Cool?” Rick was talking as he hurried over to Jamie. Balboa nodded in acknowledgement.

Jamie was already moving about. Suddenly he squatted down and looked towards the floor of the chopper. He had one hand resting on his forehead. “Son of a bitch.”

Joe and the rest of the living members of the crew turned to look. Joe felt around for his M4, which had surprisingly survived the crash much better than the men had. He clicked the light on the end of the rifle. He did not like what he saw.

The interior of the Yankee was covered in gore. Bloody handprints, oil, and dirt were smeared all over the walls of the chopper. He swung the rifle over to where Jamie was squatted. Jamie appeared to have
fared well in the accident. He had no obvious injuries other than a cut below his left eye. He was, however, covered in someone else’s blood. Joe shone the light down at Jamie’s feet. There was a limp, lifeless, body there.

It was Chris.

“Nonononono!” Joe exclaimed. He hurdled over the mess of gear in the chopper and to the head of his fallen friend.

Jamie rolled Chris’ body over. Joe wished he could say that he died for a reason, for something that he believed in doing. He
had
died doing what he loved – saving lives, but had still died nonetheless. The skin from both of his arms was gone, sloughed off by the immense heat from the miniguns. It was a terrible way to go – bloodied, burnt, and broken.

Joe knelt down and cradled Chris’ head, looking into his still-open eyes. The sparkle had dissipated from them, and now they were just lifeless, wet globes. Joe closed his eyes and blinked away tears. Chris was his best, lifelong friend. The sadness in his chest welled up and choked him as the lump in his throat could no longer be held down. He broke down in sobs, unable to control himself. It had been nearly ten years since he had lost a close friend, since that fateful day in Tennessee when Ronnie had died. Yet Ronnie had taken his own life, of his own accord, to save them all.

Joe immediately felt the guilt of Chris’ death. Ronnie had at least died so they could escape from Abraham and his cronies. Chris had just died, taken out by an unknown group of assholes that simply wanted them dead.

Joe laid Chris’ head back down. Chris had taken the vaccine for the Romero virus, so thankfully he was not going to reanimate. Joe brought his crying and fear under control. He looked over to Jamie and Balboa, who were also brushing away tears. Rick came from the front of the chopper, the sadness in his eyes clear in the gloom.

Rick looked down at Chris’ body. “I think it goes without saying, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Ogre didn't make it either. Let’s just get our shit and get outta here. We can’t do anything for ‘em now.”

The low guttural sound of zombies furthered Rick’s point. Even though they could not be changed into one of the undead now, they still did not feel like being torn to shreds and eaten. Joe gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.
Keep it together now; you can always fall apart later.
He swiped away the last of the tears from his face and grabbed his M4.

“Rick’s right. We need to get the fuck outta here, now. Grab as much shit as you can and we’ll see about trying to find some shelter. Balboa, can you function with your arm like that? I promise we will try to fix it as soon as we can, but we gotta get moving.”

Balboa got up, bracing himself with his good arm. “I ain’t goin’ out like this, that’s for damn sure. I’ll live, for now.”

Joe admired the big man’s determination. Even with his arm broken, Joe could still rely on Balboa to have his back. He, like the rest of them, had aged considerably beyond his years, but still maintained the survival instinct that had served them well so far. Balboa held his broken arm against his chest and, with Jamie’s help, managed to get on his feet.

Rick grabbed the handle to the side door of the Yankee, rattling the release to no avail. He reached up, braced himself above the door, and gave it a righteous kick. The door flopped loose and opened.

Then the gunfire started.

Random, ill-placed rounds plinked off the chopper as the report from the gunfire was heard. The intermittent pop caused Rick to duck back into the Yankee quickly, grabbing his rifle as he did.

“What the fuck is that? Who the hell is shooting at us?” Joe said as he grabbed his M4 as well, attempting to find the source of the fire. He climbed over to the now-opened door and peeked out. His curiosity was met with a second helping of random gunfire. He ducked his head back inside the mangled chopper and braced his back against the partition between the passenger compartment and the cockpit. As he did, he noticed the gaping hole in the back of the chopper. He didn't hesitate to get his men moving and direct them out. Joe pointed to the opening.

“Sneak out the back with Balboa, Jamie. Rick and me will give you cover fire. Go hole up in one of the houses here and see if you can get a clean shot on whoever the hell is shooting at us.”

“Gotcha. C’mon Balboa,” Jamie replied. Balboa grunted and swore under his breath as he prepared himself for the move. Jamie slung Balboa’s rifle on his shoulder, across his neck. There was no sense in leaving the weapons there if they had someone bearing down on them. Jamie took Balboa under his good shoulder and led him out of the yawning hole in the back of the chopper. The tail rotor had broken off and was lying a few feet away. The RPG round had not done a vast amount of damage in the initial impact, but just enough to doom them to their current state.

A trail of blood dripped behind Balboa as Jamie dragged him through the broken tail section of the chopper. The small cuts to his hand didn't bleed much, but it was enough to leave a line of crimson droplets behind him. Jamie shifted his arm under Balboa, grabbing his belt and helping him straighten up. As Jamie looked behind him, he noticed the trail.

“You alright, man? You're
bleedin’ pretty badly there.”

Balboa limped a bit but straightened up, watching over his left shoulder to make sure it was clear. He moved forward as Jamie slowed. “C’mon, Jamie. I told ya I ain't goin’ out like this. Let’s get some cover before we get shot.”

“Alright, man. C’mon, I got you.” Jamie and Balboa shuffled across the street and into a large house that looked relatively untouched. Jamie let Balboa lean against the house as he approached the door. He reared back to kick the door in, but remembered something Joe had told him before.

Try before you pry.

Jamie put his foot back down and tried the door. The doorknob did not give.

“Shit. Fuck it!” Jamie reared his leg back again and slammed it forward, connecting with the door. The door swung open slightly, revealing a plush interior. “C’mon, dude. Let’s go,” Jamie said, grabbing Balboa again and dragging him inside.

Joe watched from the downed chopper, darting his gaze back and forth from the two assholes in front of him and the door that Jamie had just kicked in. Once he saw that his men were clear, he grinned, having a flashback of Jamie attempting another door kick, one that nearly broke his foot. Joe shook off his memories and grabbed his suppressed M4.

Joe went through his normal routine of checking the chamber of his rifle. The round was ready and so was he. Rick came and knelt to his right, also checking his AR-10. He released the charging handle of the rifle, then moved the AR-10 up to his shoulder and peered through the 8x Leupold scope that was attached to it. The snow was coming down steady now, but he held the optic to his eye steadily despite it. Rick had chosen to be the team’s sniper since he had practiced on the
Southern Hospitality
by shooting long–ranged targets off the rig. He would toss rotten vegetables overboard and shoot them before they sank. After much practice, he’d become a hell of a shot.

“I got three in sight…”

The 7.62mm rifle boomed, shoving Rick back from the recoil.

“Make that two,” he declared.

The other two men that Rick eyed jumped back after their cohort’s head exploded in front of them. The near-headless form stood for a moment, then fell in a heap. His companions ducked, then darted behind houses on either side of the road.

Rick peered through the scope once again and found another target. The first man had taken refuge off to his left; the second darted across the street to his right, taking cover behind a two-car garage. Rick knew his dad would have the man on the left in his sights, so he focused on the man on the right in his. A moan from a nearby zombie signaled them that they needed to make haste.

“You got him?” Joe asked.

“Yep. Three, two, one, fire.”

A round bellowed from Rick’s rifle, a stark contrast to Joe’s whisper-quiet suppressed M4. The noise was followed shortly by two exploding heads. Both the Peacemakers fell in unison with brains and skull splattered against their respective hiding spots. Rick pulled the scope from his view and peered over the top of the rifle.

“I think that oughta do it. Let’s get to Jamie and Balboa and see what’s up,” Joe said as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ducked out of the mangled chopper in one motion. Rick followed suit behind him, ducking under the remains of the twisted door.

They stood for a moment and surveyed their surroundings as snow flurries gusted around them. The suburban area the ZBRA team had crashed in looked like it had been an affluent area before the end of the world. Multimillion-dollar houses lined each side of the street, weathered from years of neglect and overgrown by foliage. Nature had taken back the land. Ogre had managed to place them in the middle of a street, flanked on either side by houses that ended in a cul-de-sac. It was his last measure of help to the crew, narrowly saving them.

The air was heavy with moisture as the snow continued to fall. The grayness of the sky matched the attitudes of the men. The futility of their next move, whatever it might be, was not lost on them. They were effectively stranded, cut off from anyone or anything that might be of use.

The rescuers needed rescuing.