by Joseph Coley
Mike stood up and walked over to Curtis. “Yeah, contingency plan. You gotta have some kinda backup plan, right?”
Curtis was fleetingly befuddled. He and the other men in the ZBRA units knew what to do when someone didn't come back from a mission. There was no sense losing three or four more men out looking for a couple of team members that were probably dead. Under no circumstances were they to go out looking for ZBRA members when they didn't come back.
“Yeah we do. The contingency plan is to move on to the next closest unit or outpost. If for some reason they did crash or they’re otherwise unavailable, they would do the same. We just have to figure out where the closest one is and start heading to it,” Curtis replied.
“So how long do we have to wait before we abandon ship?” Wagner asked, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“Twenty-four hours. Retroactive to the time they left. So we got until noon tomorrow, after that we head out in the LMTVs, load em up with everything that ain’t nailed down, and head to the closest outpost,” Curtis said, leaning back and putting his hands on his head.
Mike’s brow furrowed. “Where is the closest outpost?”
“It used to be Beckley, but they are toast, no thanks to you and your ‘Captain’ asshole. We might have to have a look at the map. If there ain’t one, then we may have a hell of a trip on our hands because we had another backup plan.” Curtis smiled as he thought about their second contingency plan.
“And what might that be?” Mike asked.
Curtis snickered. “Joe said that the worst-case-scenario plan was to go back to Tazewell, Virginia. That’s where he started from.”
CHAPTER 8
The Captain sat atop his LAV-25, proud of himself. The light armored vehicle was his chariot, the single best vehicle that he had in his arsenal. It could lay down suppressive fire from the 25mm chain gun or the 7.62mm M240B light machine guns. It was a mean piece of equipment.
He had just finished a sat-phone call with Bill over in Kentucky. Everything was going to plan – so far. The higher powers’ grand scheme was bigger than just taking out the opposition. A few ZBRA units had been taken care of; most of them were working – whether they realized it or not – for the COG, or Continuity of Government. The COG was set up in the event of a cataclysmic collapse to keep order in the United States.
It had failed miserably.
The Captain and the people he represented were all in favor of a central government, they just wanted it to be the way they wanted it. The men who upheld the Constitution were the ones who didn't abandon their posts in time of crisis, and it was time they were rewarded. Word had spread throughout the outposts and colonies of people that the Peacemakers were in line to take over the country and restore order the way it was intended.
By force.
His superiors wanted to march straight down Pennsylvania Avenue and up to the White House, take it over, and make it their own. Not that it mattered; the White House had long been abandoned, its personnel moved to Cheyenne Mountain in Wyoming and Mount Weather in Virginia. The remains of the organized government would be at both those places. But he knew that taking back Washington D.C. was the best symbolic gesture they could come up with. They knew that a country that was going to come back from the brink needed a familiar symbol to look upon. They intended to be that symbol.
They’d already started the conscripting long before making a run into Virginia, but it was not working as well as they had anticipated. The Captain knew that there would be some resistance to it initially, but he had to hold firm in order to make it work. No longer would the liberal pansies dictate whether they needed to fight. Either they would fight, or they would die. It was that simple. There were no more conscientious objectors, no more bleeding-heart pussies, no more leaning on the government. The government would help you, but first you had to help it, not the other way around. It would be the beginning of a stronger, better nation. However, they needed to pave the road to D.C. first, and it would be paved in blood.
The Captain slowly climbed down from the top of the LAV, using his good leg in the process. His right leg from below the knee was gone, amputated years ago after taking a rifle round just below the knee. After the first few days, the injury had set up with gangrene and he’d had no choice but to cut it off. He’d used his belt as a tourniquet, got drunk, and cut it off with his Ka-Bar. It had not been an easy task, but it had immediately made an impression upon the men that found him. They were amazed that he’d had the balls to do it himself. They were a bunch of weak-minded, easily impressionable ‘weekend warriors’ that needed a leader. He was that leader.
He had managed to find a medical prosthetics shop after he had amputated his leg. He then spent nearly a decade roaming the South, looking for anyone that would join their cause. They first started with the known ‘Patriot’ groups in the South. The liberal media had portrayed them as radical right-wing nutjobs, when in reality they were honest, hardworking people who were misunderstood. However, fewer joined than he’d anticipated, since most of them were well prepared to live off the grid, and the majority of them were real patriots. They’d refused to surrender to the Captain and his people, so he had them killed. There were many firefights with the Patriots, men lost, men gained, but the cause always continued on. After that came the conscripting. Any man over the age of sixteen that could hold a rifle was taken. If they refused, they were considered against the government and were killed for treason.
* * *
“Shit. Fuck ‘em. I don’t have all damn day to wait on ‘em. Head back to me at the Virginia/Tennessee line. We took over the Bristol Motor Speedway. Just land it in the middle of the track and don’t lose any more of my men. I’ll have your fucking head if you do!” the Captain angrily spat at the sat-phone.
A shaky voice stuttered and answered. “Uh … uh … yes sir. We’ll leave within the hour, and we should be there shortly after.”
“Good. Now get your shit together and double-time it down here. I ain’t got all fucking day.”
“Yessir. Peacemaker Seven out.”
The Captain thumbed the END button on the sat-phone. He rubbed his forehead and wondered why he’d left such a complete jackass in charge in Kentucky. It was an unfortunate result of the type of people that were left to work with. They would follow orders when given; otherwise they’d just sit there with their thumbs up their asses.
“Bad news, sir?” One of his lieutenants had been waiting for him to finish his call, and now stood beside him.
“Goddamn retards in Kentucky. They lost six out of nine men. Acceptable combat losses, unfortunately.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that we made contact with the mole in West Virginia. He said they are positive that the ZBRA unit out of there isn’t going to make it back. Their contingency plan is to go to some place near the Virginia/West Virginia border. Some town named Tazewell. They are taking three LMTVs and leaving at noon tomorrow. We could really use those vehicles, sir. In addition to the trucks, he says they will be loaded down with supplies. Guns, ammo, food, and water, the works.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “And where is this place from here?”
The lieutenant, named Edwards, lit up a little. “About sixty miles north of here. We could make the trip in two days. Just give me two Humvees and about ten men and I’ll get it done, sir.”
The Captain pondered the idea. The three LMTVs would make a nice addition to his arsenal, and they could hold twenty men, making it easier to send out more small groups. The one he had sent to Beckley, West Virginia had done well, taking out the ZBRA unit while they slept. The communique they had received from their mole had said that the ZBRA unit in Blacksburg was making a run to the Radford Army Ammunition Plant. They could use that ammo themselves, so he sent the Beckley raiders east towards Blacksburg. The Blacksburg ZBRA unit was the last one in the area that needed to be dealt with. After his team was done, they would resupply and take out the units in Charlottesville an
d Fredericksburg. Then their path to D.C. would be complete.
“What do you think, sir?” Edwards asked. The Captain mulled the idea over a moment longer, then gave him a nod.
“Do it. Make contact with the mole in West Virginia. Tell him to make sure that the vehicles make the trip undamaged or they won’t be worth shit when we get hold of ‘em. Tell him to play along and keep the other two saps alive – at least until they get to Tazewell. You know what to do when you get there.”
Edwards grinned devilishly. “Yes sir.”
“Wait until he’s in position in Tazewell. Once he calls back and gives us the go-ahead, we will make the trip.”
Edwards frowned slightly. “’We,’ sir?”
“Yeah, ‘we.’ I'm going to make the trip with you and oversee this personally.”
CHAPTER 9
DECEMBER 22, 2021
The next morning Rick woke to the most incredible hangover. He was the first one up, and, not being familiar with the ‘morning after’ feeling, had immediately shot up off the couch. The intense pounding in his head immediately crippled him, shooting pain throughout his temples and almost literally knocking him down. He grabbed both sides of his head and slowly sat back down, surrendering to his thumping headache.
“Ohhhhh, dammit,” he said softly.
Joe, Jamie, and Balboa slowly woke as well, each one apparently oblivious to the menacing hangover that Rick had.
Rick frowned. “How in the hell do you old fuckers not have this shit goin’ on this morning?”
Joe laughed. “Years of practice, my son. You gotta drink water while you’re drinkin’ the booze or else – well, you see how it ends up.”
“Yeah, I was wonderin’ why y’all were sippin’ on those CamelBaks the whole time. I guess I got so drunk that after tossin’ a few back I really didn't care,” Rick replied, squinting to avoid as much light as he could.
“Yeah, dehydration and alcohol ain’t real good bedfellows.”
“Hey, guys, c’mere and look at this. I think we might have a problem.” Jamie stood at the back row of windows, motioning them forward. As soon as Joe looked towards him, he knew what was coming.
“Holy shit. How much is out there already?” Joe said as he strolled over to the window.
“I’d say at least five or six inches, and the way it’s coming down I’d say more than this is on the way,” Jamie replied.
Balboa and Rick came over, pulled away a curtain from their respective windows, and gazed out. A sullen look crossed both of their faces as they looked about.
The snow that had been lazily floating down was now in a full-on whiteout. Jamie had guessed correctly. There was six inches of wet snow blanketing the entire area. The large flakes were still steadily coming down as well, further covering the area in cold precipitation. The long, unkempt grass was barely visible under the snow; the tall blades of Kentucky bluegrass were peeking out of the top. The limited weather reports they had received earlier were correct – snow, and plenty of it, with more on the way.
“Damn. This is gonna slow us down somethin’ fierce,” Joe finally managed. “Got any bright ideas, guys?” he said as he let the curtain fall back in place.
“Well, first and foremost, we are gonna need some extra padding. Start looking for some pillows, comforters, anything with that poly-fill crap or down in it. If we can find a needle and thread, then we can sew the bottom of our field jackets once we fill em up with a little extra cushion. If we have enough left then we can do the same with the kneepads and pockets of our ACU pants and boots. On second thought, might wanna do the boots first. Sound like a plan?” Rick said as he tried to rub away his throbbing headache.
The hangover hadn’t affected his thought processes just yet. It was a solid plan to keep them warm and alive if they decided to move from their current spot. After Joe explained to them that Curtis would be leaving in a few hours to make their rendezvous in Tazewell, they had a destination in mind.
“Shit, I’d forgot all about the infamous ‘Plan B’ because I didn't think we’d ever have to use it. I kinda just figured if we ever had one of those missions where we didn't make it back that it meant we’d be dead and it wouldn’t matter.” Jamie sat down and stared out into the snow glumly.
It had been a long time since Jamie had been home, at least to his real home. He was the only one of Joe’s initial group that was originally from the Tazewell area, and he desperately missed home. He thought back to the evening that he had left with Joe, Andrew, and Donnie. It had never crossed his mind how homesick he would become once he left. He’d had no ties to the area or any of its people, but still longed to see the place that he’d called home for the first forty years of his life. He never thought that he would live long enough to miss the area he had grown up in. Throughout the vicissitudes and peril that he and Joe had endured, Jamie had figured he would be long dead by now.
“So, lemme get this straight,” Rick said, interrupting Jamie’s thoughts. “If you guys are gone for twenty-four hours with no contact with Curtis, then we head to Tazewell? Whose jackass idea was that?”
Joe playfully smacked Rick on the back of the head as he walked behind him. “That would be my jackass idea, buddy, and it wasn’t our first backup plan. The original idea was to go to the next closest ZBRA unit and regroup, but seeing as how the only one left near us is Beckley, we’ve gotta head back to Tazewell. I know it doesn’t sound like much of a plan, but I figured if for whatever reason we couldn’t make it back to a ZBRA unit, then at least we could go somewhere that was familiar. That way we could at least have a chance at finding something useable, if there is anything useable left.
“If for some reason Tazewell is uninhabitable, then we search around the area and see what we can do. There are plenty of towns nearby that we can scout. As I said, it helps being in a familiar area. If there isn’t anything in Tazewell, then we go to Bluefield, Richlands, Wytheville, anywhere that we can. Let’s pray that there’s something left.”
Rick stared away as Joe spoke of actually going towards home; his childhood home of Rural Retreat was not far from where they would end up in Tazewell. He sat down as Joe continued talking about his plan to get to Tazewell. Rick drifted off into daydreaming about going back to his home – his real home. It had been nine years since he had seen the small creek that ran behind his house, the open field across the creek where his father had taught him to shoot, and the generally serene atmosphere that could calm the most frayed of nerves.
His travels since he’d left home unwillingly had included a myriad of adventures and locales. He had been with his father and mother as they raced to the Gulf Coast. He remembered losing Ronnie and Lori. He’d nearly lost his father after he was shot by Lieutenant Wyatt, and he had lost his mother not to death, but to his nephew Dakota. His mother, Buffey, had decided to become the child’s permanent guardian and keeper. Buffey and Ashleigh had decided that it would be their task to take care of the child. Buffey was nearly fifty and had quickly taken to being a grandmother and mother to the child. They remained on the USNS Comfort near Kings Bay, Georgia, far from the dangers and horrors of life in the mainland United States.
A sound jolted Rick from his daydreaming. Neither he nor the others had heard a sound like it for quite some time, but it was an oddly familiar one nonetheless. Rick stared in the direction of the street in bewildered amusement as his brain caught up with his hearing, identifying what he heard. He grabbed his rifle, walked towards the door of the stately residence, and stared out the peephole.
A straggling few undead were milling around outside. Their black, decayed look was in stark contrast to the pure, white snow that still fell. A light wind carried the powdery white precipitation against the front of the house, blowing the stench of the dead with it. The sound of the dead as they clumsily banged against the hulk of the wrecked chopper was not what had drawn Rick over. He strained his ear, pushing against the door.
“What is it? I hear the zeds outside. Is there som
ethin’ else?” Joe crept over to the door, rifle in hand.
Rick listened for a second more. He turned to Joe with a knowing grin.
“It’s a dog.”
“A dog? Are you sure? Could just be one of the dead grunting and snorting,” Joe replied, inching closer to the door.
Before Joe could get a reply, Rick had opened the door a few inches and peered out. At first there was no indication of a dog or, in fact, anything living outside. Rick opened the door a few more inches and watched the white flakes fall slowly. The snow was coming down nearly an inch an hour and showed no signs of letting up. Rick was caught up in the moment so much that he did not hear the scratching sound coming from inside the chopper. Before he could figure it out, a black and tan German Shepherd bolted from the chopper and ran inside the house.
“Whoa! What the fuck!” Joe scrambled to aim his M4 at the animal, but Rick placed a reassuring hand on the rifle. The dog sniffed around casually, looking over the group one by one. When he reached Jamie, he turned his head quickly about.
“Hang on. It looks like he’s after something.” Rick watched as the dog made a beeline for the couch that Balboa was sitting on. The dog immediately started pawing at the cushion beside him. The dog sniffed at it and whined ever so slightly.
Rick came over and peered down at the couch. “What is it, boy?”
Balboa reached down and touched the edge of the couch. The dog buried its nose deeper into the cushion as Balboa moved his hand. Balboa grabbed the cushion and moved it out of the way. He glanced down into the empty space and reached in, lifting out a small plastic bag.
“You have got to be shitting me.” Balboa held the bag up for the rest of the men to see.
It was marijuana.
“Well, now we can really party!” Balboa said, opening the baggie.
The rest of the men looked on in awe as the dog sat silently. It gazed around towards Jamie, Joe, and Rick, waiting for his reward. A small token, about the size of a silver dollar, dangled from a choke chain around the dog’s neck. The chain had worn away the hair around the dog’s neck. Rick knelt down and grabbed the small object. He brushed away the grime on the tag.
