Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (11 page)

CHAPTER 15

Curtis sat patiently. He tried to focus on other things around him. He tried counting the road signs. He tried counting the mile marker posts, at least the ones he could see. He tried to keep track of the zombies that he saw along the route, which were few. The snow that had steadily fallen throughout the day now slacked some. It was now a little after four in the afternoon, and his ass was getting sore. They had managed some good luck in the fact that the snowfall had slowed and was not as bad as they neared Beckley, West Virginia. Under normal circumstances, they would have been in Tazewell by now. The mass of derelict cars and nearly a foot of snow had made that impossible. He still was optimistic of making it before it got too dark out to see effectively, but his time was dwindling. The normal four-and-a-half hour drive was now going to be in the neighborhood of six to seven hours.

He approved of Joe having a secondary escape plan, but he knew very little of what to expect once he got there. Over the past few years at Camp Dawson, Joe had often spoken of how much he liked the Tazewell area and some of the things within it, but he was a little shady on the details. Curtis didn't think he had anything to hide, but he, like the rest of the team, never thought that they would have to use their infamous ‘Plan B.’

Curtis tried to shake off the details and compartmentalize for now. His immediate problem was only about a mile away, and his thoughts soon were on it and it alone. The New River Gorge Bridge was a mammoth passage. The bridge hovered nearly nine hundred feet above the New River and was three-quarters of a mile long. Crossing the bridge normally would make a person dizzy, but nowadays it was downright terrifying. The bridge was nearly fifty years old, and had not had any work done to it in nearly a decade. Add in the fact that there would be three LMTVs crossing it at two-and-a-half tons each, and it was the scenic view from hell.

Curtis grabbed the SINCGARS mic and keyed up. “Alright, boys. Here it is, the New River Gorge Bridge. Let’s stop here for a few and see what our best plan of action is.”

“Roger that, Curtis,” Mike voiced.

“Ten-four good buddy,” Wagner retorted.

Curtis pulled his LMTV up to the beginning of the bridge, while Mike and Wagner fanned out their trucks alongside him. The small squeak of brakes and the release of air pressure were the only sounds that Curtis heard as he stepped out. He motioned the
kill the engine
sign at the other two men, and they both obliged. Curtis walked up to the beginning of the bridge.

“Damn, this is gonna slow us down,” Curtis observed.

It looked as if the bridge had been used as a checkpoint for the military. Jersey barriers had been set up in a Z-shape to prevent anyone from running the checkpoint. A makeshift guard shack and broken wooden gate marked it off. The barriers were worse for wear, one even appearing brittle and broken, probably from years of neglect.

“Well, we can just ram the things out of the way,” Mike said, walking up to the barrier and placing his hands on it. “I'm sure the LMTVs have enough ass to move ‘em.”

“Yeah, but what happens when they get pushed over, we run over one, and get stuck? I'm not willing to take that chance. I say we hook up the chains to it and pull two out of the way. After that, we can squeeze past ‘em.”

“Shit, we got company,” Curtis announced. “Look over on the bridge. I see people moving; can’t tell if it’s zeds or what, but they are movin’ with a purpose.”

Wagner was already making for his truck as Curtis turned to head to his. Wagner fired up the LMTV and quickly put it into gear. He revved the big truck and started it forward as the figures on the bridge came closer. As he looked closer, he could tell they were not the undead, although there were a few of those moving their direction. The figures on the bridge appeared to be carrying bats, clubs, and other weapons as they stormed towards the trucks.

Mike was in his truck, following the lead of Wagner and Curtis as they approached the Jersey barriers. Curtis eased his truck forward and gently bumped the concrete barrier. He revved the engine and started pushing it out of the way. Black smoke billowed from the stacks on the LMTV as the engine bogged down, but then it pushed forward. Curtis moved the barrier until it met the second one, putting further strain on the diesel engine.

“Curtis, hang on to your ass!” the tinny voice from the SINCGARS speaker said. By the time Curtis figured out what Wagner was doing, he didn't have time to brace himself.

Wagner did not hit the back end of the truck hard by any means, but it was enough for Curtis to get a good jarring. His head bounced off the seat as the second truck hit. “Watch it, Wagner!”

“No time, Curtis! We gotta get moving – now!” Wagner floored the accelerator as the first of the marauders began beating on the lead truck. They descended on the three LMTVs like a swarm of locusts, grabbing onto the trucks and beating away at the glass and doors. The combat locks on the LMTVs were engaged, preventing any unwanted intrusion, but it did not stop them from trying.

Curtis slid the bulletproof glass aside and aimed his .45 out of the opening. “Get off my goddamned truck!” He fired several shots out of the opening, the blasts deafening him inside the enclosed space. One of the marauders climbed up to the opening, his face pressed into the small slot.

“Got any food, brother? We’d love to have you for dinner!” The bandit screamed through the opening. It struck Curtis immediately what these people were after. They weren’t interested in the trucks or any of the cargo.

Cannibals.

“Fuck off you little bastard!” Curtis shoved the .45 into the rotting teeth and mouth of the emaciated raider. “Eat this, motherfucker!” Curtis fired the last round of the .45 into the thug’s mouth. The remains of rotted teeth, blood, and gray matter splattered through the hole. Curtis pulled his hand back and shook off the bits of sinew and bone. He looked up in time to see that Wagner had pushed him well onto the bridge, the Jersey rails shoved to one side. He punched the gas pedal and the truck lurched forth.

Wagner was having an equally hard time. Two of the marauders had boarded the front of his LMTV. They proceeded to beat on the glass of the vehicle to no avail. Both of the men were filthy, covered in black grime and soot. They wore patched-together clothes and tattered overalls. They also sported nearly foot-long beards and hair. They were emaciated, and it was clear that they had been living in the mountains for quite some time. It was hard to tell from Wagner’s vantage point, but one of the men appeared to be missing part of the right side of his face.

“Stupid sons a bitches! Get the fuck off!” Wagner screamed at the men climbing on his truck. Then he eyed a semi-trailer sitting askew in the road. “Got you now, motherfucker!” He aimed the LMTV towards the trailer end of the semi and punched the gas. The truck sped forward and met the trailer a few seconds later. Wagner smashed through the trailer, bouncing and tossing the massive vehicle back and forth. Blood splattered over Wagner’s view, casting a red haze on the inside of the truck. The faces of the men on the front of the truck were plastered into the windshield with enough force to lodge a pair of front teeth in the glass.

Mike ran over the remains of the men that had been thrown off Curtis’ and Wagner’s trucks, finishing off what the others had started. The massive wheels smashed over the skull of one, and the ribcage of another. The crunching and popping of bone combined with the splattering of entrails and sinew on the road marked their resting place. The remaining men didn't bother with following the trucks as they sped away. The men that remained had taken the opportunity of a free meal, falling to their knees and feasting on their cohorts as the team made their escape. The
marauders were no better than the zombies that stalked after them. The undead at least did it as an instinct. Little to the notice of the men, the undead closed in fast, prepared to feast on them as well.

Curtis echoed the sentiment as they drove off, leaving the bloody mess behind them. “Good riddance, motherfuckers!”

CHAPTER 16

Joe waved his team along as he passed by them. His attention was not on them, but on the roof of the warehouse. He removed the flashlight off the end of his M4 and pointed it at the ceiling as he moved lengthways down the shipping bays. At first, all he saw were the translucent Lexan tiles on the ceiling. They were spaced about fifty feet apart for the length of the shipping area, giving just enough light to keep the space out of total darkness. The people of Camp Brown followed Joe with their eyes as he stalked through the living area.

Rick was conversing with Balboa about his shoulder when he saw his father approach. He was scanning the roof, obviously looking for something. Rick hastily fixed Balboa’s sling and grabbed his rifle. He knew when his father was on the warpath it meant the team needed to listen up and pay attention. Rick grinned as he watched his old man.

It meant bad news for zombies.

“What’s up, Dad?” Rick jogged towards his father.

Joe inadvertently ignored his son for a few moments as he scanned the roof, slowly walking along the shipping bays. He needed a way onto the roof of the building. Ideally, there would have been an entrance outside, but he hoped there would be an easier access indoors.

The stare drew Rick’s attention up as well. He looked back and forth between his dad and the roof, desperately trying to figure out what he was looking for. “Something wrong?”

Joe finally snapped to and looked down to Rick. “Just looking for a way onto the roof.”

Rick chuckled. “Okay. Why do we need to get onto the roof?”

“So we can rope down and get on top of some of those tractor-trailers out back,” Joe said very matter-of-factly, then resumed his scan of the ceiling.

Rick looked utterly confused. “Did you start a conversation that I don’t remember? Cause if you did, you're gonna have to fill me in on the details.”

Joe snickered and looked back to Rick. “Sorry, just spaced out a little there.”

“I assume you had a meaningful talk with Jim?”

“Yeah, pretty much. He said they have some tractor-trailers around back that we can use.”

Rick again looked confused. “Use for what? We just got here. I think these people could be good to work with. Besides…”

Joe rapped his knuckles against Rick’s chest. Rick’s eyes had wandered, and the light tapping brought him back to center. “Don’t forget that Curtis is headed to Tazewell with most of our supplies. I think that if we want to help these people, then we need at least one of those semis with a trailer. Two if we can get ‘em. We get those trucks, load up the people that want to leave with us, and make for Tazewell. With any luck, Curtis brought most of the radios with him. Town’s not that big, so I figure once we get there we can give him a holler and hook up with him.”

Rick nodded as his father spoke. Ever the knight in shining armor, Joe wanted to do more for the greater good than just a temporary fix. It wouldn’t be an easy task to convince
all
of the residents of Camp Brown to leave, seeing as how Joe and the team were new to them, and the fact that the populace of Camp Brown hadn’t been there long. The outpost in Lexington had been their home for nearly five years before being taken over. They had put up a hell of a fight, even outnumbering their foes nearly twenty to one, but they had been caught off guard, ruining their chances of an effective retaliation. They were probably not very keen on relocating.

“So,” Joe continued. “We rope off the roof onto one of the trailers, drop a shit-ton of Sta-Bil into the fuel tank, and hope like hell it works.”

“Sounds too easy,” Rick said, crossing his arms and giving Joe a discerning look.

Joe was impressed, but held his poker face. “The back lot is full of zombies.”

* * *

After a short briefing to explain everything to his men, Joe stood back and gauged reactions. He didn't get much of one from any of them. Joe shifted his feet and crossed his arms, hoping for a little cooperation from them. The men had assembled in front of the Humvee with Joe’s map laid on the hood. The denizens of Camp Brown had not given them a second look thus far. They were simply accustomed to seeing strangers come and go.

“Okay, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that we’d like to be in on the decision-making process too. It’s been a long time since any of us had a say in what goes on. We’d like to know that we aren’t risking our lives for nothing,” Jamie finally spat out.

“Fair enough. What I want to do, seeing as how Curtis is still steaming towards Tazewell, is get one or two of the tractor-trailers out back here,” Joe thumbed behind him. “After that I want to see how many of these people would like to accompany us to Tazewell. I asked Jim where we are, and he said we are just outside of Hazard, Kentucky. If we can get one of those semis, then the cab will hold the four of us plus Kane. I checked the map, and we are about a hundred and thirty miles from Tazewell. Normally, that would take us around three hours, so I was thinking that if we got the truck now then by the morning we could head out. That way, the people here from Camp Brown that want to leave
right now
can. The ones that are on the fence won’t have time to mull it over.

“Look, you guys have always looked to me to make the right decisions. It’s what has kept us alive this long. If you don’t want to follow me, that’s fine by me, but if you are gonna stay then you
will
listen to what I say and you will do what I tell you,” Joe proclaimed.

“What about all that shit about wanting to die earlier today?” Balboa asked.

Joe smirked. “Moment of weakness, brother. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“So how do we get this semi then?” Rick asked, stepping forward. Balboa and Jamie moved in as well.

“Well, seeing as how you are the smallest and the most agile, you will be the one roping off the roof. Jamie and I will keep watch from the roof and hold your line,” Joe explained.

“How am I gonna get back in the building?” Rick queried.

“Well you … well … shit. I'm not sure,” Joe frowned. He looked up at his men. “Any ideas?”

“Why don’t we wait until morning to get the truck? Same plan, just have to get the thing around front here. Once we get the truck, have someone drive it outside of the bay door near the Humvee. We open the door, run out to the truck, and head out,” Rick said as he walked towards the door in question.

“Yeah, but the locals might not jive with that,” Joe pointed out.

“Why’s that?” Balboa asked.

Joe pulled the group in together. “Because if we bust out that mass of zeds in the backyard, they are gonna have to go somewhere. I’d rather we take care of ‘em instead of running outta this place like it’s on fire. We need to help these people; after all, they helped us. We’ll work on details in the morning. For now, everybody get cleaned up as much as you can, finish eating if you haven’t already, and take the evening off.” Joe lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “And play nice with the locals. We owe them that much.”

All the men dispersed to their respective personal tasks, minus Jamie. He stood motionless for a few seconds after Rick and Balboa had dispersed. He finally stepped forward, letting out a deep sigh.

“Gonna be a mad dash to the truck either way,” he said.

Joe clapped his friend on the shoulder and smiled knowingly. “Ain't it always?”