General Wyatt had personally selected Fisher and Duncan to carry out the recon mission to Tazewell, Virginia. Their expertise in being undetected was paramount if he was to keep the element of surprise. Their mission was simple: sneak outside of town undetected, radio back to the second scout team, and give the basics of what they were up against. Troop strength, the layout of the town, and any guards posted along the area were vital bits of information that the General needed. With ample firepower, the town should show little resistance, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The General had travelled across three states to secure the town, and he wasn’t partial to anything fucking up now.
Resistance was futile.
Fisher crept forward. From the road, they had eyed an area atop a hill overlooking the town. From that vantage point, he could see about three-quarters of where the town should be. According to the map, the spot overlooked a significant portion of Tazewell, as well as their approach from the road.
It was a sniper’s paradise.
The top of the hill was barren of any trees or other concealment, so Fisher and Duncan opted to get a good look, and then retreat to the wooded area just below it. The General had not given a specific time for attack, but both men figured on a nighttime raid. That would catch the residents off guard and ensure victory with minimal casualties.
Duncan moved alongside Fisher. “Top of the hill until right before daybreak. Charlie Mike after that. The General will want some sort of idea of personnel, so we take what number we see and triple it. No sense in being underprepared,” Duncan said, grinning. “Overkill is underrated.”
Fisher nodded in the darkness. “Hell, we could take half of ‘em out right now. Bodies are a lot easier to search when they’re dead.”
Duncan low crawled to the top of the hill and raised his night vision monocular, taking a good look at the town in hues of green. There were a few torches burning along the wall, lighting up a substantial area. From the top of the hill, he could make out most of the town. Off to his left, about a half-mile down, was the jail. He scanned along the wall until he saw the far end of it at the chow hall. Directly under him was another dense wooded area that hid a portion of the wall.
“Looks like half the damn town is walled in. I’ve got torches burning for a good quarter-mile, so looks like about two square miles. There’s a road to the far left that looks like the four-lane highway we were on. There’s a bridge out near the exit ramp, but the ramp leads right into town. I’m guessing the General will want to use that as our main entry point,” Duncan observed
“Get on the horn with General Wyatt. Tell him we have approximately seventy-five civilians and a two square mile walled-in area. No armored assets in sight, doubt there are any. No patrols outside of the walls, either. I vote we stick here ‘til morning. I don’t think anyone is going to find us up here,” Fisher said.
Five minutes later, the call had been made. Their orders had not changed, however. General Wyatt had ordered them to wait out of sight until they were contacted. Once contacted, they were to take up a sniping position at the top of the hill. Once the gunfire started, they were clear to engage any and all targets.
Duncan closed the antenna on the sat-phone after the call ended. “All good. General wants us to stay out of sight until he arrives. ROEs are to take out any and all targets once they start sending rounds down range.”
Fisher raised his rifle. He couldn’t make out much in the darkness, and daylight was still an hour and a half away, but he could take out nearly all the guards posted on the wall right now, even in no light.
“Roger that. Fall back and wait,” Fisher said with a measure of annoyance in his voice.
Duncan chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry hoss. They’ll be plenty of pink mist for you in a couple hours.”
Fisher raised up from his prone position and shouldered his rifle. One of the things he despised during his time in the Marines was the concept of “hurry up and wait.” Dash to the target, size it up, and have a finger on the trigger only to have to wait it out or retreat. He didn’t like doing anything of the sort. His job was to take out unaware targets and counter-snipe if necessary. To Fisher, there was no sense in marching the whole damn battalion down the road for something that he could do unseen from five hundred yards away.
Duncan felt much the same way. He and Fisher had been a shooter/spotter team since Fallujah. Those had been the days. Targets during the invasion of Iraq had been much like it was now; if it was a male of military age, take them out. The undead were too oblivious to do any real damage from a distance, so they had been primarily tasked with taking out living targets since joining up with General Wyatt. Living targets were far more dangerous and unpredictable than the dead ones.
Fisher eased down the hill back to the edge of the woods. He was certain that no one had seen him or Duncan make their approach, but he stayed frosty nonetheless. His natural night vision was better than most, but he did not see the two men in the tree stand until it was too late.
Duncan moved beside him. “Plenty of greenery to blend in to. I vote we –”
A whisper of a sound passed in front of him, like someone trying to whistle, but failing to adequately. Duncan ducked on impulse and brought up his M4.
“Fish! What the fuck was that? Sounded like –”
Fisher fell to the ground in a heap, smacking it hard. Duncan snapped his vision towards the sound as soon as he heard it. By the time he knelt down to see what had happened, he was hit with something hard. At first, it was the force of the impact that he felt, followed quickly by a sharp, burning sensation in his shoulder. The force of the impact knocked him sideways, spinning him to his left and nearly knocking him down.
“Fuck!” Duncan exclaimed. He hit the ground, falling hard to his knees. He instinctively grabbed towards the searing pain in his shoulder. As he felt the warmth spread from the bleeding, his hand found what had hit him so hard.
It was an arrow.
Duncan snapped the arrow in half a few inches from his chest, trying desperately not to move the impaled object. The arrow moved only slightly, but still sent white-hot pain throughout his shoulder. He felt around for a moment, pawing at the cool, wet grass, trying to see if he could find the spot where Fisher had fallen. After a few seconds of feverish patting, he felt the back of Fisher’s head.
“Fish! I’m hit! It’s a goddamned arrow!”
Fisher didn’t respond.
“Goddammit, Trent! What the hell…?” Duncan started. As he was trying to get Fisher up, his hand made it to the back of Fisher’s head. The same feeling that he’d felt a few seconds before, he felt now. Protruding out of the back of Fisher’s head was the sharp tip of a homemade arrow.
The world started to get fuzzy, like a TV losing reception. Duncan tried his best to get himself back up, but it was no use. Blood was pouring from the wound in his chest, and there was little he could do to stop it. Crimson poured between his fingers as he slumped over. Footsteps approached him as he bent over, desperately trying to stem the bleeding.
Rough hands swiftly grabbed his M4 and sidearm – a Glock 17 – away. Duncan tried in vain to keep his consciousness, but it was all for naught. He slumped over and fell face-first into the damp ground.
Reggie turned on his radio.
“Boyd! Get your ass to my tree stand!” Reggie hissed. “We got some unwanted guests here! I think we need to wake Joe and Larry up, right now!”
CHAPTER 7
Joe rolled over in his sleep, distraught. The past few days he slept less and less. Insomnia was a persistent bastard. He shouldn’t be sleeping. He should be coming up with a brilliant plan to save the town, engineering some miraculous comeback for the people he was charged with protecting.
But he had nothing.
No matter how much he crunched the numbers, he couldn’t come up with anything viable. Leaving the town meant leaving everything behind and hoping that the undead approaching would not follow. If for some reason they were alerted t
o the residents leaving, it would be a buffet for the zombies. On the other hand, if he sat idly by and did nothing, the same result would inevitably happen, only the citizens would be trapped in a walled-in area with limited escape routes. He wasn’t a tactician, not some Special Forces operator that could summon up help from all corners of the country to aid him and his people. He had limited resources and only the knowledge that he had gained from surviving this long in the post-apocalyptic world. Not enough to save the town.
Shit.
Joe got his worn but trusty MultiCam pants on, along with a combat shirt and his vest. Might as well go out and get a walk around town in before sunrise. Maybe something would come to him. Either way, he needed to clear his head before the meeting in a few hours.
Joe zipped up the vest, being careful not to wake Angel. They had been sharing a bed for the better part of two weeks now, and Joe could not be happier that he had found someone that felt as deeply for him as he did for her. She was perfect. She was happy when he wanted happy, she was genuinely concerned for him when he left on runs, and she missed him when he was gone. They were inseparable.
Angel stirred on the bed. “Hey, sweetheart. Where you going so early?”
Joe sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and gently rubbed her back. “Can’t sleep. Figured I would take a trip around town and clear my head before the big meeting. I hope that you’ll be there.”
Angel yawned. “After a few more hours sleep I will. Why don’t you try to eat something in the mean time?”
“Not much of an appetite lately. I guess the damn stress is going to kill me sooner or later,” Joe said humorlessly.
Angel sat up on the side of the bed, covering herself. She was compassionate, even in the worst of times. It was something that Joe always thought highly of her. She had the uncanny ability to notice when Joe needed sleep, food, consolation, those sort of things. He would go days on end without eating or sleeping if it weren’t for her. She took care of him better than anyone he’d had in his life. She knew him better than he knew himself. She was a genuinely noble person in a not-so-noble time. The fact she was a beautiful blonde didn’t hurt, either.
“Well, you need to at least try. I don’t want you wasting away to nothing. What am I supposed to cuddle with if my man is all skin and bones?” Angel said, ever so slightly picking at Joe.
Joe leaned down and lightly kissed her on the forehead. “Okay babe, I’ll try to get something. Come find me at the chow hall in a bit. I’ll expect you there in a little while. I love you.”
Angel smiled, closed her eyes, and snuggled back into her blankets. “Love you too, babe.”
A few minutes later, Joe was outside in the cooler-than-usual air. It was surprising how quiet things got at night around Tazewell. Once everyone was in for the night, there was little in the way of noise, except for the occasional grunt and groan of a wayward zombie.
Nighttime was exceptionally lonely for Tazewell. Aside from a handful of sentries on duty, almost no one came out before dawn. There was really no reason to. As Joe walked along the middle of town, he breathed a sigh. In the days before, everyone had something to worry about. The power bill, the water bill, car payment, mortgage, things like that kept you awake at night. There was a certain freedom that came with losing all those things. In the days and weeks following the end of the world, suicide ran rampant. Once folks learned that they couldn’t live without their Starbucks or antidepressants, they couldn’t function normally. Take all those things away and people learned how petty their personal belongings had made them. Without something to strive for – a new car, new watch, other useless things – they simply lost their will to live. After the rash of suicides, the true survivors emerged. People who were both able and willing to do what they had to do to live came out on top. The problem with that instinct was that it made some folks extremely generous, others became complete sociopaths. Those in power found ways to manipulate those without power and they became the modern-day equivalent of indentured servants. Once you did your time, only then could you earn your freedom. It was that freedom of being alone, spending time in the absence of others that few people shined. They embraced the stillness of being alone.
But the stillness never lasts.
“…are you there? This is fucking important!”
Joe grabbed his radio. The voice on the other end sounded panicked and very much out of breath. Sounded like Reggie, maybe.
“Yeah, this is Joe. Who is this?”
“Joe, this is Reggie. Boyd and I are on our way back to town with a major fucking problem!”
So what else is new, Joe thought. “Enlighten me, Reggie.”
“We got a couple of spies. I don’t know where he came from, but he’s wearing a U.S. Marine’s uniform and a ghillie suit. Had a 700 WinMag, too. Looks like a sniper, but he’s passed out right now.”
Motherfucker.
Joe looked around. Boyd and Reggie had a normal hunting post outside of town about a mile from the hospital. They had taken off to the post to keep an eye out and scout. A few miles of Route 460 could be seen from their vantage point, giving them the best view of the oncoming horde. Joe’s heart thrummed, throwing an overstressed cardiac fit as his brain went to work on a plan.
“Reggie, get him to me as fast as you can! Where are you at right now?”
“Boyd and I are dragging his ass back. We are about a quarter mile from the hospital headed towards town.”
“Copy that. Meet me at the chow hall with him as soon as you can. I need to wake everyone up for this one.”
After a pause. “You know who this is, don’t you?”
Joe swallowed hard. “I don’t know who he is, but I can guess where he comes from and who he serves. Get him to us as fast as you can.”
“Will do. See you in about twenty minutes.”
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.
The beginning of the end was underway.
CHAPTER 8
A vice squeezing tighter. That’s what life felt like. Joe ran through the scenarios in his head. God, this shit is getting old, he thought. Delegation of authority was going to be paramount. There was no way in hell that he was going to take on all of this alone. Everyone in town – even ones that were not part of the Town Council – had something to bring to the table. Nearly all of them knew how to shoot and defend themselves – that wouldn’t be an issue. What was quickly becoming a problem was getting everyone to agree on what the next plan of action would be. Run and the dead would follow. Stay and be picked apart by an enemy with no regard for life. Decisions, decisions. None of which led to everyone being safe.
Joe stormed into the entrance of the Tazewell County Jail. Before he could get into the jail, the trail of blood caught his eye. Whatever had transpired outside of town had led to a near exsanguination of the poor bastards involved. Two snipers – or a sniper and a spotter, most likely – did not bode well for the rest of the day. The approaching horde was pale in comparison to an attack by trained military personnel. The undead could be fooled, Wyatt and his cronies – although not the brightest group – were not so easily duped. And make no mistake, Wyatt and the godforsaken Peacemakers were most definitely behind the current situation.
For a man that Joe had only managed to lay eyes on once, former USMC 2nd Lieutenant Andrew Wyatt had caused more headache and worry than any other man that he’d ever met. Nearly a decade ago, he had attacked a group of people in Monroeville, Alabama, leading to the confrontation with Joe and his group at a hospital in Monroeville. While both men had been injured, Joe had dismissed the lieutenant until nearly five years ago. The first reports of issues with the group now known as Peacemakers started as just rumors of rogue military units taking over areas in the Deep South. They were aligning themselves with others sympathetic to their cause – a cause based on intimidation and hostile takeover of the United States. As far-fetched of an idea that it seemed, the men were not easily shaken. They truly believed they co
uld retake the United States – or what was left of it – from the undead. Anyone that stepped in their way was dealt with swiftly and violently. You’re either with us, or against us. The absolutes of the phrase were echoed by the men who carried out the orders associated with it.
“Over here, dude.”
Joe had aimlessly wandered past his intended door, lost in his thoughts. He looked up to see Reggie standing a few feet away. He took a deep breath.
Time to go to work.
“What’s up, Reggie? They tell you anything yet?” Joe asked.
Reggie closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing of any use. First guy died where he fell.” Reggie motioned to the cell. “This one won’t say anything other than his name and rank, which is Gunnery Sergeant Anthony Duncan.”
Joe flexed and popped his neck. “Well, let’s go meet Gunny Duncan.”
Gunnery Sergeant Anthony Duncan lay on the obviously uncomfortable cell bed, writhing in pain. A large puddle of blood was underneath the bed, with fresh drops of crimson adding to the pool. As Joe got closer, he could see the remnants of Reggie’s homemade arrow sticking out from the wound. Gunnery Sergeant Duncan was alive, but not for long.
Joe knelt down. “Listen, asshole. I know who you work for and I know what he’s capable of.” Joe pressed on the wound, feeling the arrow grind against bone. A sickening perception of grating and the squish of blood could be felt under his hand. Duncan arched his back and grit his teeth, the pain becoming immense.
“Now, what I don’t know is why you two fuckers are here! See, in a previous life, my friends and I were paramedics. We helped people stay alive, and I can promise you that I will keep you alive and in so much goddamn pain that you wish you would have never set foot in my end of Virginia! So, either tell me what the fuck you are doing here and what Wyatt has planned, or I will make you pray for death every fucking day!”
Six Feet From Hell (Book 6): End Game Page 5
