by Joseph Coley
Mike ran over the remains of the men that had been thrown off Curtis’ and Wagner’s trucks, finishing off what the others had started. The massive wheels smashed over the skull of one, and the ribcage of another. The crunching and popping of bone combined with the splattering of entrails and sinew on the road marked their resting place. The remaining men didn't bother with following the trucks as they sped away. The men that remained had taken the opportunity of a free meal, falling to their knees and feasting on their cohorts as the team made their escape. The marauders were no better than the zombies that stalked after them. The undead at least did it as an instinct. Little to the notice of the men, the undead closed in fast, prepared to feast on them as well.
Curtis echoed the sentiment as they drove off, leaving the bloody mess behind them. “Good riddance, motherfuckers!”
CHAPTER 16
Joe waved his team along as he passed by them. His attention was not on them, but on the roof of the warehouse. He removed the flashlight off the end of his M4 and pointed it at the ceiling as he moved lengthways down the shipping bays. At first, all he saw were the translucent Lexan tiles on the ceiling. They were spaced about fifty feet apart for the length of the shipping area, giving just enough light to keep the space out of total darkness. The people of Camp Brown followed Joe with their eyes as he stalked through the living area.
Rick was conversing with Balboa about his shoulder when he saw his father approach. He was scanning the roof, obviously looking for something. Rick hastily fixed Balboa’s sling and grabbed his rifle. He knew when his father was on the warpath it meant the team needed to listen up and pay attention. Rick grinned as he watched his old man.
It meant bad news for zombies.
“What’s up, Dad?” Rick jogged towards his father.
Joe inadvertently ignored his son for a few moments as he scanned the roof, slowly walking along the shipping bays. He needed a way onto the roof of the building. Ideally, there would have been an entrance outside, but he hoped there would be an easier access indoors.
The stare drew Rick’s attention up as well. He looked back and forth between his dad and the roof, desperately trying to figure out what he was looking for. “Something wrong?”
Joe finally snapped to and looked down to Rick. “Just looking for a way onto the roof.”
Rick chuckled. “Okay. Why do we need to get onto the roof?”
“So we can rope down and get on top of some of those tractor-trailers out back,” Joe said very matter-of-factly, then resumed his scan of the ceiling.
Rick looked utterly confused. “Did you start a conversation that I don’t remember? Cause if you did, you're gonna have to fill me in on the details.”
Joe snickered and looked back to Rick. “Sorry, just spaced out a little there.”
“I assume you had a meaningful talk with Jim?”
“Yeah, pretty much. He said they have some tractor-trailers around back that we can use.”
Rick again looked confused. “Use for what? We just got here. I think these people could be good to work with. Besides…”
Joe rapped his knuckles against Rick’s chest. Rick’s eyes had wandered, and the light tapping brought him back to center. “Don’t forget that Curtis is headed to Tazewell with most of our supplies. I think that if we want to help these people, then we need at least one of those semis with a trailer. Two if we can get ‘em. We get those trucks, load up the people that want to leave with us, and make for Tazewell. With any luck, Curtis brought most of the radios with him. Town’s not that big, so I figure once we get there we can give him a holler and hook up with him.”
Rick nodded as his father spoke. Ever the knight in shining armor, Joe wanted to do more for the greater good than just a temporary fix. It wouldn’t be an easy task to convince all of the residents of Camp Brown to leave, seeing as how Joe and the team were new to them, and the fact that the populace of Camp Brown hadn’t been there long. The outpost in Lexington had been their home for nearly five years before being taken over. They had put up a hell of a fight, even outnumbering their foes nearly twenty to one, but they had been caught off guard, ruining their chances of an effective retaliation. They were probably not very keen on relocating.
“So,” Joe continued. “We rope off the roof onto one of the trailers, drop a shit-ton of Sta-Bil into the fuel tank, and hope like hell it works.”
“Sounds too easy,” Rick said, crossing his arms and giving Joe a discerning look.
Joe was impressed, but held his poker face. “The back lot is full of zombies.”
* * *
After a short briefing to explain everything to his men, Joe stood back and gauged reactions. He didn't get much of one from any of them. Joe shifted his feet and crossed his arms, hoping for a little cooperation from them. The men had assembled in front of the Humvee with Joe’s map laid on the hood. The denizens of Camp Brown had not given them a second look thus far. They were simply accustomed to seeing strangers come and go.
“Okay, what's wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just that we’d like to be in on the decision-making process too. It’s been a long time since any of us had a say in what goes on. We’d like to know that we aren’t risking our lives for nothing,” Jamie finally spat out.
“Fair enough. What I want to do, seeing as how Curtis is still steaming towards Tazewell, is get one or two of the tractor-trailers out back here,” Joe thumbed behind him. “After that I want to see how many of these people would like to accompany us to Tazewell. I asked Jim where we are, and he said we are just outside of Hazard, Kentucky. If we can get one of those semis, then the cab will hold the four of us plus Kane. I checked the map, and we are about a hundred and thirty miles from Tazewell. Normally, that would take us around three hours, so I was thinking that if we got the truck now then by the morning we could head out. That way, the people here from Camp Brown that want to leave right now can. The ones that are on the fence won’t have time to mull it over.
“Look, you guys have always looked to me to make the right decisions. It’s what has kept us alive this long. If you don’t want to follow me, that’s fine by me, but if you are gonna stay then you will listen to what I say and you will do what I tell you,” Joe proclaimed.
“What about all that shit about wanting to die earlier today?” Balboa asked.
Joe smirked. “Moment of weakness, brother. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“So how do we get this semi then?” Rick asked, stepping forward. Balboa and Jamie moved in as well.
“Well, seeing as how you are the smallest and the most agile, you will be the one roping off the roof. Jamie and I will keep watch from the roof and hold your line,” Joe explained.
“How am I gonna get back in the building?” Rick queried.
“Well you … well … shit. I'm not sure,” Joe frowned. He looked up at his men. “Any ideas?”
“Why don’t we wait until morning to get the truck? Same plan, just have to get the thing around front here. Once we get the truck, have someone drive it outside of the bay door near the Humvee. We open the door, run out to the truck, and head out,” Rick said as he walked towards the door in question.
“Yeah, but the locals might not jive with that,” Joe pointed out.
“Why’s that?” Balboa asked.
Joe pulled the group in together. “Because if we bust out that mass of zeds in the backyard, they are gonna have to go somewhere. I’d rather we take care of ‘em instead of running outta this place like it’s on fire. We need to help these people; after all, they helped us. We’ll work on details in the morning. For now, everybody get cleaned up as much as you can, finish eating if you haven’t already, and take the evening off.” Joe lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “And play nice with the locals. We owe them that much.”
All the men dispersed to their respective personal tasks, minus Jamie. He stood motionless for a few seconds after Rick and Balboa had dispersed. He fin
ally stepped forward, letting out a deep sigh.
“Gonna be a mad dash to the truck either way,” he said.
Joe clapped his friend on the shoulder and smiled knowingly. “Ain't it always?”
CHAPTER 17
Curtis glanced down at his watch as he drove. Time really was irrelevant now, just another manmade construct that had no bearing nowadays. Just like theoretical physics or the Earned Run Average, just something else that occupied one’s time until the end of said person’s life. The timepiece on his wrist was a Timex Ironman. Curtis wondered if the watch’s manufacturers had had the apocalypse in mind. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the advertisement that would accompany it.
30 Meter Water Resistant
Indiglo Light
100-Count Lap Timer
Zombie Bite-Proof Coating
Built-in Headshot Counter
Guaranteed to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse, or your money back!
Curtis became tickled with himself and laughed aloud in the noisy truck. It was then he realized just how tired he was. The light of day had faded almost entirely, and they were still driving, still moving towards their goal in Virginia. They hadn’t stopped since their encounter with the cannibals at the New River Gorge Bridge outside Beckley. They had traveled over two hours since then, not stopping for anything. Fortunately, they had picked up Interstate 77 just outside of Beckley. The interstate was surprisingly absent of vehicles and other deterrents. The occasional rock or mudslide made the passing along difficult, but by no means impassible.
Curtis had a plan in mind once they got to the West Virginia/Virginia state line. He didn't know any of the area, and wasn’t in any mood to try to find something to stay the night in. However, there was something of use near where they would have to exit the interstate. The East River Tunnel would leave them a safe place to park the vehicles and barricade themselves in. It was the closest thing to shelter they were going to get, but it beat the alternative of driving the remaining thirty miles to Tazewell.
In the dark.
In the snow.
“Curtis to Mike, Wagner; y’all still awake back there?” Curtis’ weary voice crackled over the radio.
Two equally tired voices responded with meager acknowledgements. They were exhausted as well. None of the three of them had any experience driving for any length of time, especially not in the last nine years. Driving was yet another manmade honor that they didn't have the time nor the energy for, another privilege that had fallen by the wayside.
Curtis wheeled his LMTV past Exit 1 on Interstate 77. About a hundred yards past lay their current destination, the East River Mountain Tunnel. The tunnel had fared decently since the beginning of the apocalypse. It still stood mostly intact, minus some cracking and fading of the façade and some missing letters on the VDOT sign at the entrance. The southbound entrance to the tunnel, the one they faced, was clear save for an orange, long-abandoned, VDOT snowplow. It looked as if the truck had been used for a temporary blockade for the right-hand lane. The normal day-glow orange truck was now a faded peach color from years of neglect. The blade and cab were rusted thoroughly, as was the bed. The contents of the bed had spilled beneath it, the calcium chloride and salt eating through the bottom of the container.
Curtis pulled the LMTV into the median between the tunnels, parking the truck. A hiss of air pressure escaped as he pulled the oversized yellow button, locking the vehicle in place.
“Wagner, back yours into the tunnel; Mike, you back in front of him, and I’ll back in last. That way if we need to make a quick escape, we should be able to.”
“Ten-four, Curtis,” Mike replied.
“Roger that,” Wagner said. Wagner tossed the handset of the SINCGARS angrily at the dash of the LMTV. Being the first truck locked into the tunnel was going to throw a kink in his plan. They were close enough to Tazewell that he could contact the Captain and guide him into their current location. All he had to do was dispatch Mike and Curtis. Easy enough. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d first thought, after seeing how they’d dealt with the cannibals. Curtis had shown that he wouldn’t just lie down and take it, and Mike would follow Curtis obediently. Both men were hardened from years of having to fend for themselves, Curtis especially. Reluctantly, Wagner did as he was told and backed the LMTV about fifty yards into the tunnel and parked it. The interior of the tunnel was going to prove to be even more of an issue as he grabbed the sat-phone and checked the signal.
No signal and no bars meant no help coming if he couldn’t get a call out.
“Shit,” Wagner muttered to himself, stuffing the phone back in his bag.
Mike backed in his LMTV in front of Wagner’s and parked it as well. His sat-phone had sat neglected and unused since leaving Camp Dawson. The Captain hadn’t given him strict orders when he'd been given the phone, other than to answer it when it rang. It had only rung twice so far. His instructions the first time around were to get recon on the ZBRA unit, and the Captain’s men would take care of the rest. The second time it rang, the Captain had already been aware of them moving out to Tazewell. Mike had suspected that Wagner might be in on the takeover of the convoy, but he'd made no effort to show his hand. Wagner had helped along the way just as much as he had. Mike looked at the phone and studied the lack of signal, perhaps a blessing in disguise. If the Captain couldn’t contact him then maybe he would assume that the mission had been scrubbed, possibly saving him the trouble of having to explain himself. His face flushed at the thought of having to lie and betray his cohorts. He had nothing to gain from turning his back on them, just the safety of not having the Captain hunting him down, a possibility that made him more nervous than having to kill a friend.
Mike took a deep breath and turned the phone around. He removed the back of the handset and ripped the battery out of it. He dropped the rest of it onto the floor and ground the remaining parts into the floorboards. He stomped it until he was satisfied that it was destroyed, the black plastic parts scattered all over the floor. He grabbed the steering wheel of the LMTV as Curtis backed the third truck into place. He pounded his fist into the steering wheel, unsure of what he was going to do. After a few moments of intense thought, he settled on telling Curtis everything in the morning.
He needed a night to sleep on it.
Curtis jumped out of his truck after parking it, leaving the engine running. He motioned for Wagner and Mike to join him at the head of the tunnel. Both men obliged, shutting their doors in unison. Wagner pulled his parka around his shoulders and up near his face, shielding it from the constant wind through the tunnel.
“What’s up, Curtis? Are we not going the rest of the way tonight? I know we’re close,” Wagner asked as he approached.
Curtis pulled the hood out of his own jacket, throwing it up over his head quickly. The stinging cold wind blowing through bit hard against what little bare skin he had left exposed. His beard kept most of the cold off him, but not quite all of it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head.
“No, not tonight. There’s no sense in going the rest of the way in shitty weather in the dark. The tunnel will provide a little bit of shelter from the cold, plus a little protection should any unwanted assholes be coming by,” Curtis replied.
“Yeah, but it bottlenecks us into one spot too. If we have to leave in a hurry, then we are gonna be shit outta luck.” Wagner wanted Curtis to see it his way; he needed to get a clear view of the sky, at least for a few minutes.
“Well, if that does happen, then it won’t be a problem,” Curtis replied.
Mike frowned. “And why’s that?”
“Because we are all gonna sleep in the lead truck. I’ll take first watch; Mike, you take second, Wagner, you take third. We’ll sleep in four-hour intervals. It’s seven now; Mike, I’ll get you up around eleven; Mike, you wake up Wagner around three or four. We’ll get the trucks started around four and get some food. Once daylight breaks, we’ll hit up the last thirty miles or so.”
<
br /> Wagner gritted his teeth. The current arrangement would put a larger kink in his plans. “Curtis, why don’t I take the first shift, you look tired as shit. You can switch with me; get you some sleep since you know better where we’re going.”
Mike shuffled nervously at Wagner’s suggestion. He figured that Wagner was conspiring with the Captain, and now the evidence was piling up. He figured that Wagner had another sat-phone stashed somewhere in his truck or on his person. He wanted to act. He wanted to redeem himself from something that he hadn’t even done yet. He owed it to Curtis and to Joe and to all the people that had helped him instead of turning their backs and making him into an indentured servant.
Curtis opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Mike drawing his pistol. Mike pulled the 9mm from its battle-worn holster. He thumbed the hammer back as he brought it up, and aimed directly at Wagner’s head. The light from the lead LMTVs headlights cast a long shadow behind them, giving him just enough light to work with. Mike took a step forward and pulled his other hand up to stabilize the gun.
The action caught both men off guard. Wagner jumped back as if someone had hit him, bewildered.
“Mike, what the fuck are you doing?” Curtis said as he fumbled with his own pistol, a 1911 .45.
“This sonofabitch wants to trade you shifts ‘cause he's in with the Captain!”
“Are you off your fucking rocker, Mike? If anybody around here is in with the Captain, it’s you!” Wagner said, defending himself. He had both hands raised in surrender.
Curtis drew his .45 and aimed it at Mike. Mike was taken aback, swinging his pistol back and forth between the two men. “Mike, how the fuck do you think that Wagner is in on something?”
