Six Feet From Hell: The Lost Chronicles (Book 1) (3 page)

Steve was not a tactical expert, nor a military or police veteran, but he knew his way around hunting more than anyone. He checked the chamber on the rifle as Josh grabbed another one of his jackets and took off his uniform shirt. He stuffed the .45 into the waistband of his pants and grabbed the shotgun. Both men paused at the same time as they realized that they both had heard the same sound emanating from the front of the house. They made eye contact and exchanged a devilish grin. They both calmly grabbed their respective guns and walked slowly to the front door.

The zombies outside looked as if they had recently died, they were still moving about faster than the zombies that Steve and Josh had seen in video games and movies. They had not been the slow-moving George Romero zombies that they were accustomed to. It did not matter, however, they were locked and loaded and ready to go. Steve and Josh exchanged another look of anxious excitement. Steve raised the end of his rifle towards Josh to indicate a toast. Josh in turn laughed and raised the shotgun, clinking the barrels together gently.

Steve grinned and opened the front door; at least a dozen zombies were now within earshot. He checked the bolt one more time and took off the safety on the rifle. Josh did the same with the shotgun, clicking the safety to make the gun hot. Steve raised the rifle from the front porch and aimed it to the head of the closest zombie.

“Let’s go have some fun, shall we.”

As the faint glow of impending sunrise came across the small town of Grundy, Virginia, gunfire could be heard coming from the small back road near the edge of town. Josh and Steve could tell they were outnumbered, but they did not care. They had friends out there amongst the undead, and they had plenty of ammo to go around.

And they had work to do.

THE END…?

THAT OTHERS MAY LIVE

“It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save lives and to aid the injured. I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things I do, that others may live.”

– USAF Pararescue creed –

Captain Travis Myers closed his eyes and let the salty spray from the warm, inviting waters of the Gulf of Mexico waft over him. In the days and weeks following the end of the world he had managed little time to pause and reflect on what once was. The warm sunshine and smell of the ocean rose towards him and reminded him of better days, days when he and his family had taken short vacations to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and the same feel and smell had relaxed him into a blissful daze. The world had been simpler, better, and seemed like it was decades ago compared to now.

He had lost two of his best friends and nearly his own life in pursuit of reaching help from whomever he could. Once he had reached the Gulf, not all was lost, but nearly so. A Georgia native with eight years in the Air Force, he was no stranger to being away from home. After serving five tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, he longed for home, wherever it may be now.

Captain Myers, or “Moose” to his fellow pararescuemen, became lost in his own thoughts so much that he did not initially hear MA2 Hale tell him that they were two minutes out. Due to the lack of adequate personnel, MA2 Hale had been assigned to the crew as an impromptu communications officer. Hale was a master-at-arms – a Navy cop. Moose still had not completely familiarized himself with the rest of the crew he’d been assigned, but they were sly enough and smart enough to have made it this far.

He was the lone officer among them, so he was in charge of the six aspects of CSAR (Combat Search and Rescue), which were prepare, report, locate, support, recover, and reintegrate isolated personnel and materials. A motley crew of a Coast Guard rescue swimmer, an Air Force PJ, two Navy Corpsmen populated the Seahawk, along with MA2 Hale and their pilot, an Army warrant officer named Shupe.

There wasn’t much to choose from when it came to making a crew for the missions, but they somehow managed. There had been word from some of the other naval vessels and Coast Guard cutters that they nicknamed the units “ZBRA’s.” It was short for Zombie backup, rescue, and assault. It seemed a fitting name for what they did. Moose was Air Force pararescue. Their Coast Guard swimmer was PO1 Swafford or “Swamp Thing,” as he was called, and the two Navy corpsmen, HM2 Fox and HM2 Owens, made up the rest of the team.

The team was upbeat after they had received news earlier that day. There had been a group of survivors aboard the USNS
Mercy
that had brought in a child. It was no ordinary child, however. The infant had been born while the mother had perished, giving the newborn extraordinary abilities to fight off the infection, effectively immunizing him. The limited resources on the
Mercy
were hard at work attempting to reproduce the antibodies and hopefully garnering enough knowledge to create a vaccine. It was a painfully slow process, but it was process nonetheless.

The group that had brought the child in had travelled all the way from Virginia with the infant – Virginia! Moose was no less astonished that the crew had made it, let alone with a newborn baby. He and another group of sailors had rescued the group from a hospital in Alabama, delivered them to the USCGC
Joshua James
, and managed to save one of their group members in the process. Rumors swirled the man they managed to get back from the brink of death was developing antibodies similar to the child.

The Seahawk lurched upward as they neared the coastline of what had been Biloxi, Mississippi, fluttering Moose’s stomach for a brief moment. They had made berth from the USCGC
Mohawk
headed towards Kessler AFB. The base had been overrun just a few short days after the dead began to rise, and now – nearly a month later – sat derelict. No one was there to be rescued, no military unit left behind to try to hold the base together.

Or so it appeared.

The
Mohawk
received a dozen or more random radio transmissions per day, mostly from automated systems broadcasting everything from the weather to so-called “safe areas.” Most of the transmissions went unheeded by the crew; the Stephen Hawking-style voice was commonplace. One message, however, was not the work of an automated machine. Approximately two hours ago, a transmission sent in Morse code was received by the
Mohawk,
as well as other ships in the area. It was a simple message, but got to the point rather curtly.

S.O.S. – Kessler AFB – Hangar 18 – help

The message repeated twice and was on a third run when it abruptly stopped. Moose had been briefed by the
Mohawk
‘s communications officer and decided that it warranted a visit to Kessler AFB. Since there had been no indication of any activity in the area aside from the message, it seemed to be a safe bet. Commander McBride, the commander for the
Mohawk
, authorized the team to gather recon on the area and, if possible, secure any vital resources as well as rescue the victims. He advised there would be a Chinook standing by on the USS
Nimitz
to load up any assets that might be obtained from the venture.

Moose stared out into the sea, barely making out the edge of the mainland. Fires still burned out of control and no attempt had been made at a large-scale attack of the mainland United States. The dead were simply too numerous for an all-out assault.

“
One minute, Moose. Weapons free from here on out
,” MA2 Hale said across the radio. Hale was the gunner for the Seahawk and had planned to be a career Navy man when the zombies came. He would get his chance to live out the rest of his days at sea if he chose, but riding along with the ZBRA team made it feel like he was actually making a difference. Hale was originally tasked with being the closest thing to law enforcement on the offshore rigs. It was by no means an easy job, but he enjoyed what he did. The job was second nature, albeit difficult. Many days were spent breaking up fights over food, clothing, or water. Since there was no way of telling what people did in their previous life, it was hard to tell who might be a threat to themselves or others. Policing the population on the mainland was easy, doing so on a floating city, not so much.

Moose turned to the rest of his team. He rapped his knuckles on his weapon – a LaRue Tactical OBR 5.56 – and held up a single finger to his team. He mouthed the words
one minute
to the rest of the team. Each man nodded and flipped safeties off their respective rifles – M4’s – and grabbed their personal gear for the mission. They would fast rope in pairs until all four were on the ground. The Seahawk would then circle the area and recon. If there was light undead presence, then the chopper would land near the men and keep the engines running for a “hot load” if need be. They wouldn’t be caught with their pants down if they needed to leave in a hurry.

“We’re gonna drop you near one of the hangars on the airstrip. Commo said they relayed back another Morse code message to the survivors,” MA2 Hale informed the crew.

“What’d they tell ‘em?” Moose asked.

Hale looked away and grabbed his headset, trying to make out the radio transmission from the
Mohawk
. He looked up and nodded to Moose. “They’re just repeating ‘runway’ and ‘rescue’ to the survivors. If they’re smart enough to figure it out how to send Morse code over the SINCGARS then I’d say they’re smart enough to get to the airfield.”

Moose nodded. Most survivors that had made it this far tended to be smarter than the average, but some were just born lucky. He tended to favor the former. People who knew enough about their surroundings and their opposition were much easier to relate to than the individuals who were just holed up in Wal-Mart. Moose cinched up his gear and readied himself mentally for the rope in. It wasn’t that he was scared of what might be down there; it was just the fact that he couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept of the undead. They were mindless, walking corpses that didn’t fear, didn’t sleep, and had no concept of survival instinct or self-preservation. All they did was eat, cause chaos, and move on.

They were a plague and Moose was the cure.

The Seahawk rumbled in over land finally, and as soon as it had a view of Kessler AFB, began preparations for landing. Daylight was their friend at the moment, bathing the area in sunlight and highlighting specific areas to avoid. The base, although overrun, was not as bad as Moose figured it would be. Below them, the runway and hangar areas appeared relatively untouched, with a few undead randomly shambling through. Although it was a minor threat, it was a threat that would not be ignored. One misplaced zombie wandering into the tail rotor of the chopper would mean certain death for the zombie as well as the crew. Even with the Chinook waiting at the
Nimitz,
it would be a harrowing wait for the large chopper to show. Even with the best equipment, it was no walk in the park, and none of the men in the Seahawk took it for granted.

MA2 Hale keyed up his comms. “Looks like a light gathering down there, so we should be able to land. We’re gonna keep it hot, but be advised, bingo fuel after twenty mikes. If our survivors aren’t in sight in twenty, then God bless ‘em.”

“Understood. Keep open comms with us; no chatter unless we initiate. Holler at us if we need to bug out
only
. We don’t know who’s listening nowadays, and I know we have more than one rogue unit out there.”

“Roger. Wilco,” MA2 Hale answered.

Moose nodded at the sailor, then turned to address his team. “Fox, Owens, you guys are with me. Swamp Thing, you stay with the bird and provide cover if necessary.”

“Gotcha, Moose,” Swamp Thing held out a fist-bump. “Stay frosty. Don’t be all ‘Mr. Air Force Badass.’”

Moose let out a rare grin. He didn’t smile much, not out of unhappiness, but he just didn’t have much to smile about these days. He didn’t joke much, either, but the opportunity to make a mild funny was never out of reach.

Moose returned the fist-bump. “That’ll be difficult, Swamp.”

Fox and Owens exited the chopper, the blades still whirring. Both men ducked down and trotted around to the front of the chopper, keeping an eye out as they did.

The Seahawk had managed to set down a hundred yards away from the hangar, well away from everything. They had plenty of daylight between them and the hangar, so any approach or movement would be easily spotted. CW3 Shupe had succeeded in avoiding most of the undead on the airstrip, but the irradiated zombies were still a greater threat than the regular ones. The irradiated ones had uncanny speed and were much more prone to violence than the standard zombie. They were easily provoked, and could descend on a person before they could adequately protect themselves.

Moose keyed up his throat mic. “Fox, Owens, on me.”

Fox was eyeing an approaching zombie as the radio crackled in his ear. It was a little over a hundred yards out, but was swiftly moving in their direction. He didn’t want the lone walker to attract any others to them, so he leveled his M4, aimed through the ACOG scope, and fired. Between the whir of the helicopter’s rotors and the suppressor on the rifle, it barely made a sound. The affected zombie jumped as if electrified, then fell to the ground, face first.

Fox keyed his throat mic. “On it, boss.”

Moose and Owens were already slowly making their way to the hangar as Fox caught up to them. Even with the abundant sunshine and the noticeable lack of zombies, there was still a certain amount of disturbing stillness about the place. Normally, the airfield would be a bustling place with military aircraft taking off and landing regularly. The C-130J Super Hercules, Hurricane Hunters, and many other assorted aircraft sat derelict on the runway as well as assorted USAF fighter jets. Now, there was no indication of any life whatsoever, a fact that was not lost on the three men as they approached the hangar.

The hangar was a typical half-moon shape and extra-large size, big enough to hold the massive C-130s that the base kept. Moose led the way towards the hangar, which had all of its exterior doors closed. He moved forward quickly and tactically, with Owens on his left, and Fox on his right. Fox kept his rifle in his shoulder, as did Owens. Both men were not used to combat situations; the excelled at what they did do, however. It wasn’t that they were unfamiliar with their rifles or shooting, they just weren’t in a combat-based MOS (military occupational specialty). Make no mistake though, they were the best at what they did, and what they did was save lives.

Moose was similar to his Navy corpsman cohorts. As an Air Force pararescueman, or PJ as they were commonly referred to, he was well versed in combat. After six tours in Afghanistan, he was not only a seasoned operator, but also a damn good medic. There were several men from each tour in the sandbox that were still walking around because of what he did.

The moans of the undead wailed through the air like macabre sheets of rain. The ebb and flow of the ghastly sounds were matched by the slight wind. Along with the noise came the smell; a sick combination of shit, body odor, and decay.

Moose pulled his balaclava up around his nose and desperately tried to breathe through his mouth. The stink of the undead was something that he could not and did not get used to.