by Joseph Coley
“It just says Kane, LPD K9 #17. It would appear our furry friend here was a drug dog.” Rick got to his feet and ruffled the dog’s head. “Maybe we’re finally in line for some good luck.”
Joe chuckled. “Here’s to hoping that Kane didn't kill Abel.”
CHAPTER 10
Curtis fired up the LMTV. The Sta-Bil supply and the bottle of diesel anti-gel that he’d put in the fuel tank caused a momentary cough and sputter. The engine spewed forth a plume of white smoke and turned over, roaring to life. Wagner did the same to his vehicle, as did Mike. The three military vehicles rumbled in unison as they sat. All three had been loaded down the night before with food, water, ammo, and weapons. Everything they were capable of taking was on board. If it wasn’t nailed down, it was now on the trucks. Each one was outfitted with a makeshift brush guard. The brush guards had been made a few months back by Ogre in his spare time.
In optimal conditions, the hulking vehicles could make the trip in about six hours. The weather, plus the poor road conditions caused by nearly ten years without upkeep, would slow them down considerably. Curtis had guessed that it would take them about two and a half days to reach the area where the team should be. They had plenty of fuel and Sta-Bil for the engines. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they would reach their intended destination in one piece.
Curtis hopped down from the cab of LMTV #1 and walked around to the back of it. Wagner was standing there, eating the remnants of an MRE.
“Where is the other guy? What's his name, Mike?”
“I think the MRE ain't sittin’ real well with him. He went to take a shit over by the pond right quick. No sense in ridin’ all this way prairie doggin’ one,” Wagner replied, snickering.
“Well, tell him when he gets back over here we ain't got all damn day. With this weather and the roads the way they are, it'll be a miracle if we make it in one piece,” Curtis said as he walked back to his truck.
A nagging feeling pursued Curtis as he got back into his LMTV. The way that the last twenty-four hours had played out gave him concern over the mission at hand. The ZBRA team in Beckley being overrun, Joe and the crew MIA, and now he had to traverse across the wild and wonderful state of West Virginia. In the nine years that he had traveled with Joe and his cohorts, they’d never had an instance as they did now. Throw in a snowstorm for good measure and the whole mess was truly unbelievable.
Mike appeared a few minutes later. He adjusted his pants as he got back to the LMTV that he’d been assigned. The knot in his stomach was growing larger, and he wasn’t sure why. It could be the food, the abysmal situation, or just a general lack of knowing what was to come that had put him on edge. He’d had strict orders from the Captain about the Camp Dawson ZBRA group. He hadn’t spoken to the Captain since arriving there, and was hoping that the psychopath would lose track of him. He originally hadn’t thought much of Joe after being dragged out to meet him in Beckley, though he was warming up quickly after being fed, clothed, and generally taken care of like a human being, not just some soldier in a war that might never happen - a soldier conscripted into service for a sociopath that hungered for more power. The fact that the Captain answered to a higher authority was even more terrifying. Another power-hungry corrupter of the desperate and naïve.
“Get your shit in gear, Mike! We got a lot of ground to cover!” Wagner hollered from the driver’s side of his LMTV.
Mike nodded and waved to Wagner. The big linebacker ducked back into his LMTV. Mike climbed into his rig as Curtis signaled, waving his index finger in a circle.
Time to hit the road.
* * *
Joe stuffed his MultiCam field jacket. The couches that served them so well and gave comfort were now being used for the poly-fill that was inside them. Joe stabbed into the pillows and cushions of the svelte loveseat he had slept on the night before. The billowy, white stuffing poofed out as Joe continued to rip open the cushions. Jamie did the same for the La-Z-Boy that he’d previously occupied.
The temperature outside was not bitter cold, but the snow still fell. Another inch of snow had fallen in the past hour. Joe hadn’t come up with a solid plan to get away from the Lexington area yet and it bothered him greatly, having prided himself on being the prepared one in all situations. Fortunately, Rick had thought to stuff their clothing, especially jackets, with the poly-fill in the couch and cushions. The added few minutes of preparation and thought might give him a few more moments to plan an escape. When he’d left Virginia, there was the train. When they needed rescue in Alabama, there had been the U.S. Coast Guard. Now there was neither.
Rick, Joe, and Jamie continued raiding the couch cushions for down. Jamie helped Balboa with his gear, since Balboa’s arm was in a sling held close to his chest. Jamie took Balboa’s rifle across his back. The rifle was too good to waste, and all four men had agreed not to leave it idly by.
Kane sat patiently, occasionally licking his lips and wagging his tail. The dog had sat quietly for the last thirty minutes, patiently awaiting orders from his new masters. Before the dead began to rise, Kane had been the prize possession of the Lexington Police Department K9 Unit. He’d started his training at only six weeks old, continuing his training for the next year. His handler – a Lexington PD Sergeant – was overrun during the initial deluge of undead over nine years ago. The sergeant had had the foresight and compassion to use his remote door opener to let Kane out even as he was being attacked. Kane initially came to the aid of his fallen partner, attempting to remove the undead from the officer, but to no avail. The sergeant’s last words before perishing released his canine partner from all responsibility.
Leave it!
Kane reluctantly did as he was told, forging off on his own. The dog was now somewhat emaciated, and lacked the shine and health that he’d had nearly a decade ago, but was still loyal to his orders and those who gave them. He’d been taught to ignore other animals in his training, and abided by that training nearly a decade later.
Rick noticed that Kane hadn’t moved during their work to pad their jackets and clothes. He tossed his poly-filled jacket on and zipped the front, patting the pockets to even out the overstuffed parts. As he patted the right front pocket, he felt part of a pack of MRE crackers. Rick looked down at Kane with a knowing grin. He grabbed the crackers out of his pocket and offered them to Kane on the palm of his hand. The German Shepherd quickly ate the dry crackers, then licked the bits of crumbs that had fallen on the floor. Rick reached down and ruffled the dog’s head.
“Good boy. You're gonna make sure those dead fuckers don’t sneak up on us, aren’t you?” Rick said as he knelt down and scratched the dog’s ears. Kane licked Rick’s hand in acknowledgement.
“You guys ready to head out? I’d like us to try to find some transportation before it gets dark. Balboa, do we still have some Sta-Bil left in the chopper?” Joe asked as he put his LBV on.
“Yeah, I think so. I really don’t wanna have to go back out there, Joe. We never did bury Chris.”
Joe looked forlornly at his friends. He didn’t want to look in the chopper, either. The aftermath of disaster was another thing in a long line of tasks that he normally handled alone. That decision was for the greater good, a decision that would haunt him for the remainder of his days. He didn't want to look at one of his best friends lying in there, dead, cold, and mangled. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
“I’ll do it. None of the rest of y’all need to see it again. We’ve all lost too many people close to us. There’s no sense in having to look at him again, and unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of burying him. The ground is too hard and we can’t afford to burn the calories we have left doing anything but working our way home. You guys go and check out those two assholes we shot yesterday. Maybe they have something of use. I’ll get the maps, Sta-Bil, and anything else we can use from the Yankee.”
Each man silently nodded in acknowledgement. They all knew that Joe was merely doing what he had done for
the last nine years. He was protecting and taking care of the people that meant the most to him, and he could ill afford to lose them now. He needed them as much as they needed him, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure they made it home.
Wherever home may be now.
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 lis
tened 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.
