Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (9 page)

CHAPTER 11

Curtis led the makeshift convoy out of Camp Dawson and into the town outside it. Kingwood, West Virginia was by no means a major metropolitan area; the population at its peak had been a shade under 3,000. The few grocery stores, pharmacies, and the lone bar in town were derelict and nearly flattened. The past several years’ worth of snow had caved in nearly every roof in the small town, making it look like a deflated version of its former self. The mini-convoy meandered through town in the constant snowfall. There was a little over eight inches of wet, heavy precipitation that covered the road. It was making it slow going even for the two-and-a-half-ton trucks and their nearly two feet of ground clearance.

It took over an hour just to reach their main road of travel, the former route of US 50. US 50 would take them to meet with Interstate 79, a considerably wider road. Before leaving Camp Dawson, Curtis had weighed the risk of taking back roads and the ill-maintained routes that would keep them away from major metropolitan areas. He’d finally decided to stay with the traditional course. Taking the four-lane interstates gave them a bit more freedom when it came to finding a way around abandoned cars and the like. The timeworn map that he possessed hadn’t been updated in the last nine years, so he prayed that the roads were still there. The major concern he fretted over was going across the New River Gorge and its nearly nine-hundred-foot-high, three-thousand-foot-long bridge. Other than the massive bridge, he hoped that any other obstacle would be minimal.

“Curtis, Mike, this is Wagner. Radio check, over.” Wagner’s metallic voice spoke out of the speaker box of the SINCGARS radio. Before leaving, Curtis had installed the radios in each of the LMTVs.

“Curtis to Wagner, read you loud and clear. Awful lonely on these roads, ain't it?”

“I was just thinkin’ the same thing. Either one of y’all seen any zeds yet? I haven’t seen the first damn one since we left Camp Dawson,” Mike interjected over the radio.

“Nope,” Curtis replied.

“Huh uh. Not a damn thing. Where the hell is all of ‘em?” Wagner asked.

“Cold slows ‘em down quite a bit, especially if it’s below freezing. Even if they don’t have a heartbeat, the fluids in their bodies sludge up and freeze. It won’t stop ‘em completely, but we shouldn’t have to worry too much about a pack or horde,” Mike informed.

As if to justify what Mike had just said, three walkers flailed harmlessly at the passing convoy. Each one of the three was mired up in nearly a foot of snow. The undead growled and snarled at the trucks, unable to reach or move from their frozen spots.

The trucks wheeled on at a sluggish pace throughout the next several hours. Abandoned cars littered the side of the road on US 50, slowing the unhurried pace of the three men even more. The cold of the outside world was in stark contrast to the inside of the LMTVs’ cabs. The heaters in each one kept their respective drivers warm and comfortable. Each truck was in remarkably good shape, considering the age of each one. The limited time that each one had been used was conducive to the maintenance and life of the truck.

The three trucks drove on for several more hours at a snail’s pace. After driving nearly all day, they came to the intersection of Interstate 79 and US 50. The four-lane highway was a considerable departure from the roads in and around Camp Dawson. Curtis hadn’t driven on a major highway in a number of years. Most missions that he’d gone on with Joe and the ZBRA team were by air. While the helicopter gave a wondrous view of the countryside, especially in autumn, it didn't compare to having boots on the ground. Curtis felt safer with his feet firmly planted on Mother Earth, not five hundred feet above her.

             
Curtis turned the two-and-a-half-ton truck off the exit ramp of US 50 and slowly onto the remains of Interstate 79. Nearly a decade of neglect made the road a little worse for wear. The derelict cars were to be expected, the rockslides and trees were not. The interstate was not outfitted with the usual guardrails or K-rails, making it much easier to drive in and out of the overgrown median when necessary. The next several miles consisted of dodging the cars and rocks, and infrequently squashing a zombie or two. The radio remained quiet aside from the random radio chatter between the three men.

             
Each man kept mostly to his own thoughts and worries. Curtis wondered how Joe and the rest of the team were doing. He questioned if he had made the right decision in leaving Camp Dawson. The contingency plan that was in motion hadn’t been discussed at length. It was a harebrained scheme at best. Even if they managed to make it to Tazewell, what then? There were no landmarks where they would meet up, no indication that the town would even still be there, and no plan to take care of anyone or anything that might be in their way. Curtis mulled over the problems as he drove on at a paltry twenty-five miles per hour.

             
Mike drove along, following Curtis. His main concern was how long it would be before the sat-phone, hidden in his assault pack, would begin ringing.

Wagner wondered the same thing.

* * *

Kane bounded through the snow several feet ahead of the rest of the group. Behind him, Rick, Joe, Balboa, and Jamie kept pace. Rick and Kane had already established a fast friendship, with Kane doing as he was ordered without question. The dog would stop every few minutes and perk his ears up, listening and smelling for anything out of the ordinary. Several times, Kane would spot a lone walker slowly shambling out to meet them. The low growl from the canine was an early warning for the rest of the group. Joe fired his suppressed M4 at each one of the few zombies that was unfortunate enough to be spotted by the dog. The cold, sluggish undead made for easy targets.

After taking the weapons and extra ammo from their pursuers, they’d started walking. Their general direction of travel was south/southeast, headed towards West Virginia and their hopeful target of southwestern Virginia. It was risky not having a reliable course, but they did not have a choice. The lack of preparation nagged at Joe as he became lost in his thoughts.

“So how long do we expect to be able to keep this up, Dad? My feet are already getting cold, and this snow is still coming down just as hard. Any ideas on where we’ll sleep tonight?” Rick said as he tromped through the ever-increasing snow pack. They had been walking for nearly three hours, and had made it only eight miles from their crash site. Rick had noticed his father losing his normally keen edge, and was just trying to make small talk.

Joe snapped out of his contemplation and looked up. He hadn’t realized that he had been staring at the ground for the last few minutes. “To be quite honest, I don’t have any idea what I'm doing right now. I know you guys are expecting a miracle from me, but I don’t have one. I'm just trying to survive long enough to die in peace right now,” he said, disheartened.

Rick stopped in his tracks, as did Kane ahead of him. His father wanted to give up? That wasn’t like him at all. He had gone through hell and back again several times just to make it home to his family. He had suffered through losing friends and family along the way. He had managed to stay alive after all these years away from him. Suddenly, Rick understood what was nagging at his father.

He just didn't give a shit anymore.

Rick turned and faced his father. Joe was still staring at the ground as Rick came up to him. Rick grabbed his father by the shoulders, and Joe looked up into Rick’s eyes. Rick’s gaze was not nearly as cold as the air around them. His warming look gave Joe a little more hope for the time being, but it would not last. Rick didn't say a word; he just continued staring into his father’s eyes. Joe stared right back, managing a weak smile and a nod.

Kane stopped sharply a few feet ahead of the rest of the men. Jamie and Balboa heard the same thing that the dog did, albeit a few seconds after the intuitive canine. Jamie strained his ears and listened as Rick loosed his grip on Joe. All four of them turned towards the sound.

Balboa’s brow furrowed. “Is that a diesel engine?”

CHAPTER 12

The droning sound of the engine got closer as Rick’s men and their canine team member waited in hiding. After Kane had alerted the men to its presence, Rick had grabbed him by the collar and taken him into a nearby garage, along with his father. Balboa and Jamie had taken up refuge across the street in a burger place named Hugh Jass Burgers. Rick had snickered slightly at the name of the restaurant. The front glass window was shattered, so it  didn't offer much in the way of protection from gunfire or the elements, but it served to keep the two men out of sight.

Joe gripped his M4 tighter as the noise of the engine grew louder. The heavy snow made it difficult for him to see anything more than fifty yards away. He also did not want to risk looking out around the corner. The MultiCam ACUs that he wore were great for urban combat - not so much for arctic warfare. He dropped down on one knee, holding his rifle pointed up, and crept to the edge of what he thought was a safe spot. He strained to listen. The sound grew closer and closer without any visual.

Jamie waved at Rick and Joe, trying to get their attention. Kane made a low growl, prompting Rick to look at his cohorts. Jamie raised his rifle and made a motion of his thumb across his throat, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Dad, I think Jamie is asking if we take ‘em out. What’s the plan?” Rick whispered to his father.

Joe quickly looked back to Rick, then to Jamie. Jamie shrugged his shoulders again. Joe made a motion with his left hand palm down. He held up his index finger, and then pointed to himself.

Hold. Wait for me to fire.

Rick shuffled nervously as he continued to hold Kane back. He wanted nothing more than to let the dog loose and see if the K9 officer inside would take over. The dog was obviously well-trained. He waited as patiently as his newfound friends did, although his hackles were raised and alert. He made no effort to take off from Rick’s grip, nor did he make any sound aside from the occasional snort or barely audible growl.

             
The approaching vehicle was nearly in view now, and then suddenly its wide-bodied outline poked through the whiteout of snow. The rumble of the diesel engine and the shape of the vehicle alerted Joe to what it was.

It was a Humvee.

“Shit,” Joe mumbled under his breath. A Humvee meant paramilitary. Paramilitary meant more assholes that wanted to kill them. Joe might have been ready to die, but he was going to do it on his own terms, not taken out by some random asshole.

The familiar reverberation of diesel was nearly on top of them now. Joe peeked out from the corner of the garage and looked. It
was
a Humvee. The vehicle was painted an amalgam of colors, mostly brown and green. The vehicle looked as if it was supposed to be camouflaged, but Joe couldn’t tell what it would blend in with; maybe a bad case of the shits would mirror it well. The Humvee came to an abrupt stop, its brakes squeaking ever so slightly, and Joe could hear the click as the transmission was shifted into park. The vehicle idled for a few seconds, then the engine ceased and it became deathly quiet again.

Joe’s heart galloped in his chest. Had they been spotted? Did the people in the Humvee see their tracks? Would they have to shoot first and ask questions later? Joe gripped his M4 even tighter, a white-knuckled command on the rifle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jamie raise his rifle. Joe reiterated his point, pushing his hand down vigorously.

The clank of doors opening and the crunch of snow signaled the occupants leaving the vehicle. Joe pulled back into the garage and eyed Jamie.

Jamie signaled Joe as he looked over, pointing two fingers towards his eyes and holding the same two fingers up.
I have eyes on two.
Jamie watched as Joe held his fist up, indicating that he wanted Jamie and Balboa to hold for the time being.

The sound of snow crunching and feet shuffling came from about twenty yards away. Joe listened for a few seconds. The sound of a shotgun racking raised the hairs on his neck. He looked back once again to Jamie. Before he could make another signal or say anything, Kane growled a little louder than Joe would have liked. He heard muffled voices and a whispered argument for a moment, then silence.

“Look, if there’s anyone there, we ain't here to hurt you. If y’all are the ones from the crash, then we can help you.”

How the hell do they know about the crash?
Joe’s mind raced with possible outcomes to any action that he could take. On one hand, he could release the dog and hope that it distracted the two men long enough to get clean shots. On the other hand, if their intentions really were benign, popping out from around the corner with their weapons raised could end up like the O.K. Corral. Neither situation boded well.

Joe signaled Jamie. Joe pulled an imaginary hood over his head, and then pointed to himself.
Cover me.
Jamie nodded and counted on his fingers.

One.

“Look, we really don’t mean any harm. We got food and medicine,” the second gunman said.

Two.

“There’s no reason to be afraid. We’ll put our weapons down if you come out,” Gunman #1 said.

Three.

Joe pushed his rifle behind him, the sling holding it in place on his back, and stepped out slowly. He raised his hands in surrender so as not to spook his new colleagues. Rick inched forward, holding Kane at bay – barely. The dog sensed the heightened state of his handler, and the hairs on his back prickled up. Kane was ready to take a chunk out of someone if ordered, and Rick was ready to let him.

Jamie moved to his left and steadied his rifle on a countertop, peering through the ACOG scope. He was far enough back in the building that the two men could not see him, thankfully. He wanted to trust them, but he maintained the crosshairs on the one nearest to him nevertheless.

Balboa reached for the underbarrel attachment of his M4, an M203 grenade launcher. He steadied it on the counter to Jamie’s right and gauged the distance on the weapon. Too short, and it might not have time to arm itself. Too long, and it would sail over the intended target. Even with his shoulder throbbing, he focused on blasting the Humvee if necessary.

Joe walked out slowly, arms raised. Gunman #2 spotted him first and raised his shotgun, an old Mossberg, and aimed it at Joe. From that distance, the shot probably wouldn’t kill him, but the gesture made him stop nonetheless. Jamie’s grip on his trigger finger tightened at the sight.

“What the fuck, man? You invite me out here to talk to you and now you're gonna throw down on me?” Joe hollered at Gunman #1.

The man swiftly looked at his cohort. “Put your damn gun down, Scott!” The man with the shotgun did as he was told. He looked to be in his early thirties, and was dressed in tan work pants and a black Carhartt jacket. A black knit cap covered what looked to be a nearly bald head, while an auburn-red beard shielded the lower half of his face.

Gunman #1 turned back to Joe, hands out in front of him. He put his right hand out for a handshake, sporting a nervous smile. “Sorry, brother. You kinda just caught us off guard is all. Name’s Jim, Jim O’Malley.”

Joe hesitantly walked forward, lowering his arms as he did so. “I just want you to know that I got my rhythm section covering my back. You got three rifles aimed at you, and one hungry-ass police dog. For now they aren’t gonna do anything, but make no mistake, if you harm me in any way my boys will make it so they’re gonna have to scoop you up with a shovel. Cool?”

“I believe ya, brother. We’re just here to help. We heard the commotion yesterday while we were out scouting. Those miniguns ain't very quiet, if you know what I mean. We got a camp a couple miles away. We’d love to bring y’all in and give you a hand if you need. I wasn’t lying; we got food and a little medicine,” Jim replied.

Joe dropped his arms to his side and approached Jim. He appeared to be around fifty, with gray hair popping out of a fur-trimmed trooper cap. Like his companion, Scott, he sported a full beard, but his was as gray as his head. Joe held out his hand and gave the weather-beaten man a handshake. Jim accepted and gave a vigorous shake in return. Joe loosed his grip and turned back towards the hiding spots of his men. He gave a loud whistle and waved them out.

              As soon as Joe whistled, Kane came bounding out, vaulting over the top of the snow as he did. Joe got down on one knee and met the dog, patted his sides reassuringly and rubbed his furry neck.

“This gentlemen, is Kane. He’s not been with us very long, but I can tell you that he is very good at what he does.” Joe thought back to the baggie of weed that Kane had discovered earlier. The dog hadn’t lost his sense of smell – that was for sure.

“Well, like I said, we mean no harm. Those Peacemaker assholes ran us out of the outpost in Lexington about a month ago. We’ve been on the run ever since. We finally got set up at an old farm down the road a couple miles. There’s about thirty of us there now. If y’all would be so kind as to hop in we could give ya a ride,” Jim explained.

“We’d love to, Jim,” Joe answered. “Jim, this is my team. The older fella over there is Jamie.” Jamie gave Joe the finger. “He’s a little cranky right now. Hasn’t had any coffee for a couple days. The big one with his arm in the sling is Balboa; the young kid is my son, Rick. And of course, you’ve met Kane. My name is Joe; that should suffice for now.”

Scott threw his shotgun over his shoulder. “I'm Scott. Sorry about the mix-up earlier. We don’t usually find people worth talkin’ to very often. Just had to make sure y’all were on the up and up.”

Jim turned and opened the door to the Humvee. “Well, now that introductions are over, what say y’all get some food back at camp? We got some venison and a little bit o’ ham left.”

Joe waved his men to get into the Humvee. Jim seemed like an honest enough sort, especially compared to his past encounters with strangers. As Jim went back to the Humvee, Joe noticed a hitch in his giddy up, along with some shakes in his hands. Jim looked as if he had survived the zombie apocalypse, only to be taken by Parkinson’s disease.

Scott helped Balboa into the back seat as Rick held Kane on the center console. Joe got into the driver’s side rear as Jamie squeezed himself in between the front passengers. It was by no means comfortable, but at least it was infinitely warmer than the outdoors. Joe’s mind raced with more questions, actions, and outcomes like a calculator on overload. He had become so engrossed with trying to figure out what Jim’s motives were that he’d missed a key piece of information. A piece of information that he needed. Jim put the Humvee into gear and headed out. Joe leaned forward in the seat and tapped Jim on the shoulder.

“Jim, what the hell is a Peacemaker?”