by Joseph Coley
They had company.
Rick’s young age and spryness served him well. He reached down, grabbed Joe under the arms, and lifted him up onto his feet.
“Ah! Careful there, slugger, I'm not as young as I used to be.”
Rick was already moving about in the cabin of the chopper. The next man that he came to was Balboa. He was conscious, but in an extreme amount of pain. His left arm was obviously broken, and bent at an odd angle. Rick did the best he could to try to pick him up with as little pain as possible, but it was not easy. He cradled his arm under Balboa’s back and sat him upright. The big man was grey-faced with shock.
“I'm pretty sure that’s not a natural look for an arm,” he said with a dry smile.
“Sorry, dude. We gotta get you moving. Just chill for a second and let me get everybody going, and then we can get us outta here. Cool?” Rick was talking as he hurried over to Jamie. Balboa nodded in acknowledgement.
Jamie was already moving about. Suddenly he squatted down and looked towards the floor of the chopper. He had one hand resting on his forehead. “Son of a bitch.”
Joe and the rest of the living members of the crew turned to look. Joe felt around for his M4, which had surprisingly survived the crash much better than the men had. He clicked the light on the end of the rifle. He did not like what he saw.
The interior of the Yankee was covered in gore. Bloody handprints, oil, and dirt were smeared all over the walls of the chopper. He swung the rifle over to where Jamie was squatted. Jamie appeared to have fared well in the accident. He had no obvious injuries other than a cut below his left eye. He was, however, covered in someone else’s blood. Joe shone the light down at Jamie’s feet. There was a limp, lifeless, body there.
It was Chris.
“Nonononono!” Joe exclaimed. He hurdled over the mess of gear in the chopper and to the head of his fallen friend.
Jamie rolled Chris’ body over. Joe wished he could say that he died for a reason, for something that he believed in doing. He had died doing what he loved – saving lives, but had still died nonetheless. The skin from both of his arms was gone, sloughed off by the immense heat from the miniguns. It was a terrible way to go – bloodied, burnt, and broken.
Joe knelt down and cradled Chris’ head, looking into his still-open eyes. The sparkle had dissipated from them, and now they were just lifeless, wet globes. Joe closed his eyes and blinked away tears. Chris was his best, lifelong friend. The sadness in his chest welled up and choked him as the lump in his throat could no longer be held down. He broke down in sobs, unable to control himself. It had been nearly ten years since he had lost a close friend, since that fateful day in Tennessee when Ronnie had died. Yet Ronnie had taken his own life, of his own accord, to save them all.
Joe immediately felt the guilt of Chris’ death. Ronnie had at least died so they could escape from Abraham and his cronies. Chris had just died, taken out by an unknown group of assholes that simply wanted them dead.
Joe laid Chris’ head back down. Chris had taken the vaccine for the Romero virus, so thankfully he was not going to reanimate. Joe brought his crying and fear under control. He looked over to Jamie and Balboa, who were also brushing away tears. Rick came from the front of the chopper, the sadness in his eyes clear in the gloom.
Rick looked down at Chris’ body. “I think it goes without saying, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Ogre didn't make it either. Let’s just get our shit and get outta here. We can’t do anything for ‘em now.”
The low guttural sound of zombies furthered Rick’s point. Even though they could not be changed into one of the undead now, they still did not feel like being torn to shreds and eaten. Joe gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Keep it together now; you can always fall apart later. He swiped away the last of the tears from his face and grabbed his M4.
“Rick’s right. We need to get the fuck outta here, now. Grab as much shit as you can and we’ll see about trying to find some shelter. Balboa, can you function with your arm like that? I promise we will try to fix it as soon as we can, but we gotta get moving.”
Balboa got up, bracing himself with his good arm. “I ain’t goin’ out like this, that’s for damn sure. I’ll live, for now.”
Joe admired the big man’s determination. Even with his arm broken, Joe could still rely on Balboa to have his back. He, like the rest of them, had aged considerably beyond his years, but still maintained the survival instinct that had served them well so far. Balboa held his broken arm against his chest and, with Jamie’s help, managed to get on his feet.
Rick grabbed the handle to the side door of the Yankee, rattling the release to no avail. He reached up, braced himself above the door, and gave it a righteous kick. The door flopped loose and opened.
Then the gunfire started.
Random, ill-placed rounds plinked off the chopper as the report from the gunfire was heard. The intermittent pop caused Rick to duck back into the Yankee quickly, grabbing his rifle as he did.
“What the fuck is that? Who the hell is shooting at us?” Joe said as he grabbed his M4 as well, attempting to find the source of the fire. He climbed over to the now-opened door and peeked out. His curiosity was met with a second helping of random gunfire. He ducked his head back inside the mangled chopper and braced his back against the partition between the passenger compartment and the cockpit. As he did, he noticed the gaping hole in the back of the chopper. He didn't hesitate to get his men moving and direct them out. Joe pointed to the opening.
“Sneak out the back with Balboa, Jamie. Rick and me will give you cover fire. Go hole up in one of the houses here and see if you can get a clean shot on whoever the hell is shooting at us.”
“Gotcha. C’mon Balboa,” Jamie replied. Balboa grunted and swore under his breath as he prepared himself for the move. Jamie slung Balboa’s rifle on his shoulder, across his neck. There was no sense in leaving the weapons there if they had someone bearing down on them. Jamie took Balboa under his good shoulder and led him out of the yawning hole in the back of the chopper. The tail rotor had broken off and was lying a few feet away. The RPG round had not done a vast amount of damage in the initial impact, but just enough to doom them to their current state.
A trail of blood dripped behind Balboa as Jamie dragged him through the broken tail section of the chopper. The small cuts to his hand didn't bleed much, but it was enough to leave a line of crimson droplets behind him. Jamie shifted his arm under Balboa, grabbing his belt and helping him straighten up. As Jamie looked behind him, he noticed the trail.
“You alright, man? You're bleedin’ pretty badly there.”
Balboa limped a bit but straightened up, watching over his left shoulder to make sure it was clear. He moved forward as Jamie slowed. “C’mon, Jamie. I told ya I ain't goin’ out like this. Let’s get some cover before we get shot.”
“Alright, man. C’mon, I got you.” Jamie and Balboa shuffled across the street and into a large house that looked relatively untouched. Jamie let Balboa lean against the house as he approached the door. He reared back to kick the door in, but remembered something Joe had told him before.
Try before you pry.
Jamie put his foot back down and tried the door. The doorknob did not give.
“Shit. Fuck it!” Jamie reared his leg back again and slammed it forward, connecting with the door. The door swung open slightly, revealing a plush interior. “C’mon, dude. Let’s go,” Jamie said, grabbing Balboa again and dragging him inside.
Joe watched from the downed chopper, darting his gaze back and forth from the two assholes in front of him and the door that Jamie had just kicked in. Once he saw that his men were clear, he grinned, having a flashback of Jamie attempting another door kick, one that nearly broke his foot. Joe shook off his memories and grabbed his suppressed M4.
Joe went through his normal routine of checking the chamber of his rifle. The round was ready and so was he. Rick came and knelt to his right, also checking his AR-10. He released the char
ging handle of the rifle, then moved the AR-10 up to his shoulder and peered through the 8x Leupold scope that was attached to it. The snow was coming down steady now, but he held the optic to his eye steadily despite it. Rick had chosen to be the team’s sniper since he had practiced on the Southern Hospitality by shooting long–ranged targets off the rig. He would toss rotten vegetables overboard and shoot them before they sank. After much practice, he’d become a hell of a shot.
“I got three in sight…”
The 7.62mm rifle boomed, shoving Rick back from the recoil.
“Make that two,” he declared.
The other two men that Rick eyed jumped back after their cohort’s head exploded in front of them. The near-headless form stood for a moment, then fell in a heap. His companions ducked, then darted behind houses on either side of the road.
Rick peered through the scope once again and found another target. The first man had taken refuge off to his left; the second darted across the street to his right, taking cover behind a two-car garage. Rick knew his dad would have the man on the left in his sights, so he focused on the man on the right in his. A moan from a nearby zombie signaled them that they needed to make haste.
“You got him?” Joe asked.
“Yep. Three, two, one, fire.”
A round bellowed from Rick’s rifle, a stark contrast to Joe’s whisper-quiet suppressed M4. The noise was followed shortly by two exploding heads. Both the Peacemakers fell in unison with brains and skull splattered against their respective hiding spots. Rick pulled the scope from his view and peered over the top of the rifle.
“I think that oughta do it. Let’s get to Jamie and Balboa and see what’s up,” Joe said as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ducked out of the mangled chopper in one motion. Rick followed suit behind him, ducking under the remains of the twisted door.
They stood for a moment and surveyed their surroundings as snow flurries gusted around them. The suburban area the ZBRA team had crashed in looked like it had been an affluent area before the end of the world. Multimillion-dollar houses lined each side of the street, weathered from years of neglect and overgrown by foliage. Nature had taken back the land. Ogre had managed to place them in the middle of a street, flanked on either side by houses that ended in a cul-de-sac. It was his last measure of help to the crew, narrowly saving them.
The air was heavy with moisture as the snow continued to fall. The grayness of the sky matched the attitudes of the men. The futility of their next move, whatever it might be, was not lost on them. They were effectively stranded, cut off from anyone or anything that might be of use.
The rescuers needed rescuing.
CHAPTER 7
They spent the waning hours of daylight fortifying their current abode. The house in its heyday would have been magnificent. There were four luxurious bedrooms, three bathrooms, a two-car garage, and plenty of unused space. The spacious living room was sparsely populated with furniture, most of it still in useable condition. Upon first arrival, Jamie had assisted Balboa over to a bluish-gray loveseat, and had then cleared the house. There were no bodies, not much in the way of food, and the house had been more or less hermetically sealed until Jamie kicked the door in. In another life, it would be an excellent place to retire.
All the doors on the first floor were secure. The four men took up residence on the couches, exhausted and bruised. Joe peeled off his LBV (load bearing vest) and sat it in the floor. The other three men followed suit.
“Ah damn! Anything we can do to fix this?” Balboa said, holding his injured arm up.
“Well now that I got a good look at it, I don’t think it’s broken,” Joe said, gingerly holding the appendage.
Balboa frowned. “I'm no doctor, but I’d say it’s broken, dude.”
Joe held Balboa’s wrist, placing his other hand on his elbow. With a swift movement, the arm popped and crunched. The cartilage and tendons protested the movement. Balboa let out a sharp yelp, but then his face softened.
“Dammit! That hurt like shit!” He moved the affected arm, flexing and moving it to see if there were any other injuries. “But I think that should do it. Thanks, man.”
Joe sat back on the couch opposite Balboa. “You’re welcome, but it’s gonna be sore as shit in the morning.”
Rick dropped his LBV beside a coffee table in the living room. “That is assuming we are still here in the morning.”
“Kid’s got a point. Got any ideas yet there, Joe?” Jamie asked.
Joe shrugged his shoulders. It was the most noncommittal gesture he could muster. He didn't have a clue, and wasn’t about to come up with a half-brained scheme. The years since he led his people out of Virginia had given him clarity when it came to survival situations. He needed to survey the situation, plan an escape, and pray that they either had the resources they needed, or could get them somehow.
They looked to be a couple miles from the outpost in Lexington, praying that the undead that were beating down the walls there didn't decide to visit them.
“Let’s just get some sleep. We’ll look at the situation in the morning. I’ll take first watch. Rick, I’ll wake you up in about five hours and you can go from there.” Joe glanced down at his watch, surprisingly intact after their crash. “It’s only a little after five o’clock, so we should get some quality sleep while we don’t have any visitors.”
Balboa had left the living room and wandered over to the nearby kitchen. He came back with a clear glass bottle that was three-quarters full. He took a seat beside Joe. “I think this should do for pain relief. You know, seeing as how we don’t have shit else.”
Joe sat up, propping himself on the edge of the couch. “As a matter of fact, we do have a med kit in the chopper, assuming that it survived the crash.”
Balboa took a short sip followed by a longer one from the top shelf bottle of vodka. “Well, there is definitely some stuff in there that didn't survive the crash. I don’t know about you, Joe, but I don’t really wanna go back and look at it again.” Balboa raised the bottle, took another sip, and handed it to Joe. “To Chris and Ogre. Rest in peace, brothers.”
Joe took the bottle and stared at it longingly. It would be a long time, if ever, that he would be able to forget about his friends that had been lost. It was just a matter of time before he would lose another. The sting from Ronnie dying nearly a decade ago rose back up to the surface. He remembered holding Ronnie’s head against his, at least able to share a final moment with him. Chris had not received the same sendoff, dying sometime after the skin on his arms melted off. It was a horrible way to go, and Joe blamed himself. If they had not taken this mission then Chris would still be alive, as would Ogre.
“It’s been a long time since I've been able to have a drink. Fuck it. No guard duty for anybody tonight. I say that we rid ourselves of responsibilities for one night and enjoy what time we have left,” Joe said, and then took a long draught from the bottle of vodka. It burned on the way down. It had aged for the last nine years, increasing the potency quite a bit. “Damn that’s strong!”
Rick reached a hand to his father and motioned for the bottle. Joe chuckled, letting a wry smile out. He pulled the bottle back as Rick reached for the vodka. “You're not twenty-one, dude. I could get into a lot of trouble letting you have this.”
Rick grabbed the bottle from his father, brought the vodka to his lips, and took a swig, coughing almost immediately. “Holy shit that’s nasty!”
“You’ve just not had a taste of Grandpa’s old cough medicine before. You’ll get used to it.” Joe patted Rick on the back as he took another sip, this one much smaller than the last. “I never thought our first drink together would be like this. I kinda envisioned it being at a bar in Wytheville, to be honest,” Joe said.
“So did I, Dad.” Rick handed him the bottle back. “If you had to do it all over again, would you? I mean, leaving Virginia and all.”
The question caught Joe off guard. He’d never discussed the reasons for their exodus
from Virginia in the first days of the end. They’d lost more people in that initial escape than in the last nine years combined, up until today. Joe thought long and hard about their first week in the apocalypse. “If I coulda done it without sacrificing Ronnie, I still would have. I've thought about it quite a bit over the years. What I've come up with is that I don’t think it would have mattered. If we had stayed, we woulda ran out of food eventually. If we left, well, you see how well that went.”
Jamie chimed in. “For what it’s worth, I think we’ve done alright for ourselves. I don’t think we would have made it out of Tazewell to begin with if it hadn’t been for you, Joe.” Jamie grabbed the bottle and took a drink. He raised it in a toast. “To Andrew and Donnie.”
“And Ronnie and Lori,” Joe replied.
“And Chris and Ogre,” Rick added.
And let’s pray this is the last time we have to drink to someone’s memory, Joe thought.
* * *
“I've checked every frequency on everything we’ve got. They just ain’t there.” Curtis had just downed his third cup of coffee in an hour; the caffeine jitters were starting to hit him. He had studied every screen, tweaked every radio, scanned every frequency, both UHF and VHF, to no avail. No one was answering him.
“Maybe they decided to land in Lexington. If they did, it would explain what’s takin’ ‘em so long,” Wagner replied.
“They would have radioed in or at least tried to. Lexington is about the far end of their fuel supply, so they wouldn’t have stayed long or they would be at bingo fuel after about ten minutes. Ogre wouldn’t risk running out of gas, he’s better than that.” Curtis was still fidgeting with the frequency dials as he tried desperately to hear something positive. He was beginning to suspect the worst.
“So what’s your contingency plan?” Mike spoke up from the corner of the room.
Curtis stopped for a moment and spun around. “Contingency plan?”
