Six Feet From Hell: Unity: 6FFH Book #5 (22 page)

CHAPTER 26

April 19, 2022 – 1031 Hours – Anniston, Alabama

Captain Michael Styles had bad news.

It was news that he didn’t want to deliver himself, but his subordinates were unfortunately otherwise occupied. He never relished giving the General bad news. The General had a funny way of taking it, and that fact was not lost on him. The old adage of
don’t kill the messenger
never fit with him. In the past few years, whenever bad news had been delivered, it had occasionally been met with corporal punishment and, in extreme cases, death

Captain Styles hoped it would be neither.

He trotted down the hallway, mulling over the possibilities of his assignment. Maybe he could pass the duty off to the secretary; she was
always
on the General’s good side. Of course, she gave him almost daily blowjobs to keep him that way, something that Captain Styles would prefer not doing. She could salve the wound a little better than he could, but something told him the General would want to know firsthand from
him
as opposed to
her
. He needed to convey the communications message they had received to relay the importance of the message. His voice, the inflection in it, and the manner in which it was delivered would be paramount.

The communique in question had been received only twenty minutes ago, but it was the disturbing nature in which it had been delayed that bothered him. Apparently, it had been nearly four months since a particular unit in northeast Tennessee had been heard from. It was not uncommon for the units to have sparse communications with the home base, but four months was pushing it. The commander of the unit in Tennessee had been with the General since the beginning and was known to be one of the best officers he had at his disposal.
He was well trained and rarely complained about anything. He was the ideal officer.

Captain Marcus White was a damn good Marine.

And so was General Andrew Wyatt.

Captain Styles’ heart rate picked up as he got closer to General Wyatt’s office. The General had set up in the former Post Commander’s office for Fort McClellan, and rightfully so.
Without the General’s guidance and strict rules, the small section of the military that they controlled would have fallen apart long ago. There was no room for traitors, bleeding hearts, or individual policies. The rules that were set forth were ironclad and unbreakable.

And God help the man that broke those rules.

Captain Styles knocked on General Wyatt’s door. He was given permission to enter.

He came to attention at General Wyatt’s desk, and raised his right hand in a perfect salute.
So far, so good
, he thought.

General Wyatt’s secretary was sitting cross-legged on the corner of his desk, dressed in a skimpy skirt and tube top. The General was running his hand on her thigh as Captain Styles snapped his salute down.

General Wyatt was a prominent-looking man. Even though Captain Styles had many meetings with the man, the incredible confidence and leadership ability that he exuded was remarkable. A cutthroat at heart, the attitude that he put forth was steeled and unwavering. He looked good for his age, all things considered. He kept the military high-and-tight haircut throughout the apocalypse, another sign of his incredible dedication. When he spoke, motherfuckers listened.

“Sir, we have some news.”

“What kind of news?” Wyatt answered, not looking up to address Styles.

“Not good, sir.”

General Wyatt snapped his gaze to Styles, and then back to his secretary.

“Leave us for a minute, bitch.”

The secretary paid no mind to the General’s snide comment, and simply did as she was told. After she had left the room, Wyatt stood and addressed his fellow officer.

“What’s the problem, Captain Styles?”

Styles swallowed hard. “Sir, we have not had communication with Captain Marcus White in Tennessee for nearly four months now. We are afraid that something might have happened with his unit. We understand that it is difficult to get a signal in the mountains, but at this time, we think that another incident may lead to the conclusion that they have been overrun. Specifically, they might have been overrun by locals and not Zulus.”

“And why do you fucktards think that the locals took them over, hmm? Did you idiots think to track the sat-phone linked to Captain White?”

“Yes sir, we did. I’ll get to that in a moment, sir. We had a separate incident with a unit near Lexington, Kentucky that might explain both.”

“My patience is wearing very fucking thin, Captain Styles. Get to the fucking point before I lose my cool!”

Captain Styles swallowed hard again. This was the part he didn’t want to have to relay to the General. It was an insult, and a gross one at that.

“Sir
, the Lexington unit reported that they didn’t have their nightly check-in from a squad outside Hazard, Kentucky. When they got to the building where the squad had set up command, they found it to be empty.”

“Empty? Did the little traitors leave any messages as to why they would want to sign their own death certificate?”

“Well, sir, the Lexington unit reported several destroyed vehicles, spent brass, and about a dozen dead Zulus at the site.”

“So the squad bugged out and had to reassign. Give them another twenty-four hours and then we will decide if it is worth pursuing.” Wyatt waved a dismissive hand and sat back down in his plush, leather chair.

Captain Styles sat in a chair in front of the General’s desk. “Someone took a shit on the CB.”

Wyatt was briefly bumfuzzled. “You mind repeating that, Captain?”

“The Lexington unit went inside and didn’t find anything. They said the only thing that they found was that someone took a huge, steaming shit on the radio. I think it’s a message, sir.”

Wyatt bolted up. “No shit! How am I supposed to get this shitstain of a country back on track if the goddamned natives won’t fucking behave like human fucking beings?”

“We have a lead though.” Styles grinned. “It’s not all bad news, sir.”

“And what might that be, asshole?”

“We did track the sat-phone and we’ve narrowed it down to a town in Virginia. It’s about three hours from the Hazard squad and an hour from where Captain White last checked in.”

“And where might these insurgents be camped out?”

Styles grinned widely. He knew the General had caught the scent of dissention, and he would stop at nothing to stamp out the insurrection.

“The rebels are in Tazewell, Virginia.”

TO BE CONCLUDED IN…

SIX FEET FROM HELL: ENDGAME