by Joseph Coley
“After we’d eaten our fill, we decided to strike out and see what all we could get. We tried makin’ a trip back to the outpost after we got ran off, but we lost two men in the process. I'm sorry, Joe. If we’d been able to take back Lexington then maybe you wouldn’t have lost your man back there.”
Joe absorbed all of the information. It didn't dawn on him for a few seconds that he hadn’t told Jim about Chris’ untimely demise. “How do you know that we lost a man?”
“We saw the crash and the body that was in it. I figure that was one of your men. We don’t run into fellas that are as well trained as y’all are. Since he was dressed in military ACUs with a ZBRA patch, I figured he belonged with y’all,” Jim answered quickly.
Fair enough, Joe thought. The ZBRA units had visited Lexington before. Joe had only made one other trip out to them before. Jim apparently hadn’t recognized him from just one visit, however.
“Welcome home, boys,” Scott declared.
Home. There’s that word again, Joe thought.
CHAPTER 14
Jim pulled the vehicle onto a ramp at the end of the shipping and receiving area. It was the only door that was level with the ground. A weary-looking woman appeared as the door was raised by hand. Jim drove the Humvee into the shipping area and the door was lowered behind it; then he clambered down from the driver’s side of the vehicle, followed by the rest of the troupe. Clowns getting out of a clown car. That’s what it reminded Joe of as he tried to help his cohorts out of the Humvee.
Jim waved to the woman that had opened the door. She finished dragging the chain down, the door closing with a metallic crash. “Hello, Maria! I picked up some friends along the way.”
Maria walked over to Jim and shook an angry finger at him. “Where the hell have you been? It’s been two days, Jim!” she scolded. She irately crossed her arms and leaned back, trying to make eye contact with him. He had lowered his head and tried to avert his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were trying to go back to Lexington.” Maria’s face lightened some, but remained firm. “You know damn good and well that we aren’t gonna get any of that back anytime soon. You need to come to terms with the fact that it’s gone. And so is she.”
Jim cringed at the mention of the word she. He had evidently lost someone close to him of the female persuasion. Joe could relate to his situation. He had lost Buffey a long time ago, but it still bothered him from time to time. He had never regretted parting ways, but the fact was that Rick was the one who had really suffered because of it. He had been without his father nearly as long as he had been with him. Joe had wanted to be around for Rick’s formative years, years that were spent on an oilrig far from the possibility of a “normal” life. Joe sighed and shook off the regrets one more time, then turned his attention back to the group of people around him.
Jim carried himself and his dour look away from the rest of his people. He shuffled away and was out of sight within a few seconds. He reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of stew. Joe’s mouth drooled incessantly, nearly as much as Kane’s. The dog stepped forward in front of Rick and licked his chops. Joe was certain that the dog hadn’t had anything other than the MRE crackers that Rick had given him earlier. Joe couldn’t tell if the growling sound was coming from the dog or his stomach.
“Here ya go, boys. We got some more to go around. It’s mostly just venison, potatoes, and some brown gravy mix. For some odd reason we found a shitload of gravy packets,” Jim put forth. He handed the bowls to Joe. “So if y’all plan on staying any amount of time, I suggest you get used to beef-flavored everything.”
Joe stared at the steaming bowls of stew for a few seconds. He lowered one of the bowls down to Kane, and handed another to Rick. The dog looked to Rick before eating, mentally asking for his permission to proceed. The K9 officer was far smarter than any of them could have imagined. Rick looked down and met Kane’s hungry gaze.
“Go ahead boy. You’ve earned it.”
Kane made a low grumble, and then proceeded to devour the small bowl of stew. He stopped only for a moment once all the big chunks were gone, and then licked the bowl clean. He licked his lips and nuzzled the bowl.
“Sorry, boy. Not enough for seconds,” Jim said, returning with two more bowls. He handed them to Balboa and Jamie. As they dug into the delicious-smelling food, they realized just how hungry they really were. They hadn’t eaten anything since right before leaving Camp Dawson the day before. Add in a night of drinking and trudging through the snow, and they were famished.
“Come with me, Joe. I’ll introduce you to some people,” Jim waved Joe towards him.
Joe patted Rick on the back and leaned towards him as Jim turned around. “If anything gets hinky, you guys bail. I’ll find a way out on my own, but do not stick around,” Joe whispered. He followed Jim out of the area at a distance.
“And go where?” Rick managed out disconcertedly.
Joe turned around and stepped backwards for a moment. “Home.”
Joe caught up to Jim and walked in stride beside him, leaving his men to eat. Jim hadn’t brought Joe food. Joe assumed that he would lead him towards the source of the foodstuffs. As they walked along, he noticed some of the citizens of Camp Brown. Going past a large stack of empty shipping shelves, he observed several of the residents sleeping on the shelves. The racks served as giant bunk beds, each with either a worn mattress or a sleeping bag as bedding, and pillows made from rolled jackets or towels. A few of the beds had honest-to-God pillows, but they were few and far between. As they continued on, the shelves gave way to an open area with what looked to be a plastic-wrapping machine and staging area.
The warehouse had ample room for the small amount of people within it. The large, open area of the entire complex didn't afford much in the way of privacy, but no one seemed to mind. The temperature inside the enormous facility was warmer than Joe expected, but still lacked the warmth of a comfortable household. The temperature hovered around 55 degrees. The lack of lighting in the warehouse was supplemented by Lexan glass on the roof. It was by no means bright, casting merely a pale white across the enormous area. As Joe looked up, he could see the glass covered by what now amounted to a little under a foot of snow.
In spite of the less-than-optimal conditions, most of the people Joe passed seemed to be in high spirits. A couple of older gentlemen sat on cinder blocks and played cards on a wooden crate, Several younger men stood around a hobo campfire, warming themselves from the mediocre temperatures. All four of the men were rubbernecking Joe as he walked with Jim. They did not look as if they wanted to do him harm, but gave a him some disconcerting glances nonetheless.
Jim led Joe past the main area where his people congregated. Jim exchanged handshakes and a few short conversations with several of his refugees. Joe stood back, his hands behind his back out of respect, and did not converse. Although he didn't speak to anyone, he still minded a watchful eye on the individuals. Most of the men carried a handgun and some sort of shotgun or rifle. Throughout the course of walking through the warehouse, he had noticed three hunting rifles, four shotguns, one AK-47, and one AR-15. Most of the pistols were revolvers; they held up better and longer without maintenance than most automatics. Fewer moving parts meant less to screw up.
Most of the men looked reasonably healthy. A few sported a small pooch of a departed beer gut, but overall were in decent shape. Most of the women looked a little undernourished, but not alarmingly so. In spite of their less-than-optimal circumstances, they looked reasonably healthy.
Jim walked past the remainder of his people, patting a final hand on one guy’s back, and then waved Joe on. “Sorry, buddy, but we’ll have time for introductions later. All of us usually meet after dinner to discuss any goings-on or problems. We did the same thing back at Lexington, and it seemed like a decent way to get people used to new surroundings. Here’s my office, so to speak,” he said, walking up to an office door marked Fleet Maintenance.
Joe stepped forward and came
in as invited. The office was bare, aside from an aluminum desk and a long-past-its-prime rolling office chair. Jim took his weather-beaten jacket off along with his pistol belt and hung it on a couple of hooks to the left of the door. The office was small; it measured only twelve feet square.
Jim grabbed the handles of the rolling chair and slowly settled into the seat, the pain in his body visible in his face. The colder the weather got, the less favors it did for his aching joints. He kicked back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk and putting his hands behind his head. “I wish I could offer you a seat, but the kind folks that I'm in charge of gifted me this one, and sadly, it’s the only one we have. I don’t usually talk much to outsiders. Honestly, I haven’t met anyone worth conversing with for quite a while. Those Peacemaker assholes were the last ones we had any dealings with and, well, you see how that went.”
Joe grinned ever so slightly and sat on the corner of the desk. “Ah, don’t worry about it, Jim. What I would like to talk about is how to get my boys back towards home.” Joe gazed around the inside of the office and looked out to the shipping floor. A pair of people passed by the lone window to the office as he did so. “As big as this place is, I'm sure you have some tractor-trailers and some old UPS trucks that you could loan us. And just out of curiosity, where exactly are we?”
“You, my friend, are just outside of Hazard, Kentucky. Which direction are you planning on goin’?”
Joe crossed his arms and contemplated. “My immediate goal is Tazewell, Virginia. I don’t have much in the way of plans after that, just trying to get back to a familiar area seemed like a daunting enough task.” Joe chuckled lightly. “I don’t wanna press my luck going any further.”
“Well, just tell me what you need and I will see what I can do. We pretty much hunt our own food and, up until winter, grew some of it. I can give y’all some, but it ain't gonna be much.”
Joe stood up from the desk corner. “I appreciate anything you can do for me. I'm in your debt, Jim.”
Jim leaned forward in the chair and propped himself on the desk. “Now, on to more pressing matters. How do you plan on gettin’ your boys back? I can’t spare the Hummer, but there are some semis around the back of the building, but…” Jim trailed off.
Joe frowned. “But what?”
Jim pushed himself up from the chair and waved Joe to follow. Joe did, reluctantly. He clutched the pistol grip of his M4 as he trailed behind. Jim walked to the back of the office and moved a curtain aside from the small window inset in the back door. The door had been boarded up, minus a couple inches square that allowed a person to look outdoors. Jim moved to the side and motioned Joe to have a look.
“There ain't no way in hell to get out there without losing some people,” Jim said in a hushed voice.
Joe peered through the makeshift peephole. There were about fifty zombies in the shipyard, surrounded by a dozen or so tractor-trailers. Joe leaned back and grinned at Jim. “Piece of cake, brother.”
CHAPTER 15
Curtis sat patiently. He tried to focus on other things around him. He tried counting the road signs. He tried counting the mile marker posts, at least the ones he could see. He tried to keep track of the zombies that he saw along the route, which were few. The snow that had steadily fallen throughout the day now slacked some. It was now a little after four in the afternoon, and his ass was getting sore. They had managed some good luck in the fact that the snowfall had slowed and was not as bad as they neared Beckley, West Virginia. Under normal circumstances, they would have been in Tazewell by now. The mass of derelict cars and nearly a foot of snow had made that impossible. He still was optimistic of making it before it got too dark out to see effectively, but his time was dwindling. The normal four-and-a-half hour drive was now going to be in the neighborhood of six to seven hours.
He approved of Joe having a secondary escape plan, but he knew very little of what to expect once he got there. Over the past few years at Camp Dawson, Joe had often spoken of how much he liked the Tazewell area and some of the things within it, but he was a little shady on the details. Curtis didn't think he had anything to hide, but he, like the rest of the team, never thought that they would have to use their infamous ‘Plan B.’
Curtis tried to shake off the details and compartmentalize for now. His immediate problem was only about a mile away, and his thoughts soon were on it and it alone. The New River Gorge Bridge was a mammoth passage. The bridge hovered nearly nine hundred feet above the New River and was three-quarters of a mile long. Crossing the bridge normally would make a person dizzy, but nowadays it was downright terrifying. The bridge was nearly fifty years old, and had not had any work done to it in nearly a decade. Add in the fact that there would be three LMTVs crossing it at two-and-a-half tons each, and it was the scenic view from hell.
Curtis grabbed the SINCGARS mic and keyed up. “Alright, boys. Here it is, the New River Gorge Bridge. Let’s stop here for a few and see what our best plan of action is.”
“Roger that, Curtis,” Mike voiced.
“Ten-four good buddy,” Wagner retorted.
Curtis pulled his LMTV up to the beginning of the bridge, while Mike and Wagner fanned out their trucks alongside him. The small squeak of brakes and the release of air pressure were the only sounds that Curtis heard as he stepped out. He motioned the kill the engine sign at the other two men, and they both obliged. Curtis walked up to the beginning of the bridge.
“Damn, this is gonna slow us down,” Curtis observed.
It looked as if the bridge had been used as a checkpoint for the military. Jersey barriers had been set up in a Z-shape to prevent anyone from running the checkpoint. A makeshift guard shack and broken wooden gate marked it off. The barriers were worse for wear, one even appearing brittle and broken, probably from years of neglect.
“Well, we can just ram the things out of the way,” Mike said, walking up to the barrier and placing his hands on it. “I'm sure the LMTVs have enough ass to move ‘em.”
“Yeah, but what happens when they get pushed over, we run over one, and get stuck? I'm not willing to take that chance. I say we hook up the chains to it and pull two out of the way. After that, we can squeeze past ‘em.”
“Shit, we got company,” Curtis announced. “Look over on the bridge. I see people moving; can’t tell if it’s zeds or what, but they are movin’ with a purpose.”
Wagner was already making for his truck as Curtis turned to head to his. Wagner fired up the LMTV and quickly put it into gear. He revved the big truck and started it forward as the figures on the bridge came closer. As he looked closer, he could tell they were not the undead, although there were a few of those moving their direction. The figures on the bridge appeared to be carrying bats, clubs, and other weapons as they stormed towards the trucks.
Mike was in his truck, following the lead of Wagner and Curtis as they approached the Jersey barriers. Curtis eased his truck forward and gently bumped the concrete barrier. He revved the engine and started pushing it out of the way. Black smoke billowed from the stacks on the LMTV as the engine bogged down, but then it pushed forward. Curtis moved the barrier until it met the second one, putting further strain on the diesel engine.
“Curtis, hang on to your ass!” the tinny voice from the SINCGARS speaker said. By the time Curtis figured out what Wagner was doing, he didn't have time to brace himself.
Wagner did not hit the back end of the truck hard by any means, but it was enough for Curtis to get a good jarring. His head bounced off the seat as the second truck hit. “Watch it, Wagner!”
“No time, Curtis! We gotta get moving – now!” Wagner floored the accelerator as the first of the marauders began beating on the lead truck. They descended on the three LMTVs like a swarm of locusts, grabbing onto the trucks and beating away at the glass and doors. The combat locks on the LMTVs were engaged, preventing any unwanted intrusion, but it did not stop them from trying.
Curtis slid the bulletproof glass aside and aimed h
is .45 out of the opening. “Get off my goddamned truck!” He fired several shots out of the opening, the blasts deafening him inside the enclosed space. One of the marauders climbed up to the opening, his face pressed into the small slot.
“Got any food, brother? We’d love to have you for dinner!” The bandit screamed through the opening. It struck Curtis immediately what these people were after. They weren’t interested in the trucks or any of the cargo.
Cannibals.
“Fuck off you little bastard!” Curtis shoved the .45 into the rotting teeth and mouth of the emaciated raider. “Eat this, motherfucker!” Curtis fired the last round of the .45 into the thug’s mouth. The remains of rotted teeth, blood, and gray matter splattered through the hole. Curtis pulled his hand back and shook off the bits of sinew and bone. He looked up in time to see that Wagner had pushed him well onto the bridge, the Jersey rails shoved to one side. He punched the gas pedal and the truck lurched forth.
Wagner was having an equally hard time. Two of the marauders had boarded the front of his LMTV. They proceeded to beat on the glass of the vehicle to no avail. Both of the men were filthy, covered in black grime and soot. They wore patched-together clothes and tattered overalls. They also sported nearly foot-long beards and hair. They were emaciated, and it was clear that they had been living in the mountains for quite some time. It was hard to tell from Wagner’s vantage point, but one of the men appeared to be missing part of the right side of his face.
“Stupid sons a bitches! Get the fuck off!” Wagner screamed at the men climbing on his truck. Then he eyed a semi-trailer sitting askew in the road. “Got you now, motherfucker!” He aimed the LMTV towards the trailer end of the semi and punched the gas. The truck sped forward and met the trailer a few seconds later. Wagner smashed through the trailer, bouncing and tossing the massive vehicle back and forth. Blood splattered over Wagner’s view, casting a red haze on the inside of the truck. The faces of the men on the front of the truck were plastered into the windshield with enough force to lodge a pair of front teeth in the glass.
