Six Feet From Hell: Crisis

by Joseph Coley

  “Let’s do it, then. Jamie, Rick, you guys are with me. Balboa, you give Jim a hand with the Humvee and ride shotgun. I haven’t seen any undead, but that don’t mean they won’t pop up when we least expect it. Anybody got anything else?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Alright. Mount up.”

  Balboa got in the Humvee with Jim as Joe, Jamie, and Rick set off to the middle of the building. The service ladder to the roof was located above Jim’s office. The top of the ladder opened up onto a small landing above the mezzanine.

  “After you, Dad. Age before beauty and all,” Rick said, snickering. Another playful smack on the back of the head answered him.

  Joe climbed the ladder, followed by Rick and Jamie. After several uneasy creaks and groans during the climb, causing them to slow more than once, they reached the top. Joe pushed open a square aluminum hatch. The hatch gave way as puffs of dry, white snow fell down through the opening. Joe gave a hard shove and the lid locked in place. Joe climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and had a look around.

  Five feet below him towards the trucks was a foot-wide walkway with adequate gripping. Joe carefully made his way down to the railing. From his he vantage point, it wasn’t the best view of the zombies that stirred about underneath, but it would do. Joe watched as Balboa and Jim pulled up in front of the gate. With the thin aluminum walls that made up the building, they didn't want to shoot towards it any more than they had to. The chance of the odd round punching through and injuring or killing someone was too great to ignore.

  Joe moved to the left and brought his M4 around to his front. Steam rose from his mouth as he breathed the cold, early morning air. The snow had finally ceased, but left its mark on the area, blanketing everything in sight. The sky remained ominous hues of gray, evidence of the weather’s activity the day before. Mother Nature was done with her winter wonderland, at least for now.

  Jamie hefted himself onto the roof, followed by Rick. Both men stood for a moment and admired the scenery before moving towards Joe.

  “Looks like Jim and Balboa are in place. Rick, are you ready?” Joe said, handing the looped rope to Rick.

  “Ready as I'm gonna get I suppose.” Rick was obviously nervous, but tried to hide his anxiety through determination. He stepped through the loop as Joe and Jamie held the line. Once the slack was taken in, Rick edged to the end of the roof, on the verge of falling off. Joe sat and curled the rope around him, as did Jamie. Rick gave a thumbs up, ready to go. Joe let out a little slack at a time, as did Jamie, and Rick slowly lowered. The rope rubbed against the aluminum siding of the building, not making much noise, but enough for the dead to notice. Once one of the creatures turned to look, all of them did.

  As Rick dangled like a worm on a hook, he began to notice them stirring. It was one or two at first, followed by another and another. By the time his boots hit the top of the trailer, all of the undead in the lot had descended on him, drawn by the slightest of sounds. Rick stepped out of the rope loop and cinched his assault pack tighter. The moans of the dead greeted him as he walked along the roof of the trailer. They scratched and clawed at the sides of the truck, making an eerie nails-on-chalkboard screech as they did, amplifying the bloodcurdling horror of it all. Rick felt a shiver go down his spine as he listened. He became agitated that Jamie and his father had not yet opened fire. He stopped as he neared the front of the trailer and looked back.

  He couldn’t see anyone.

  “Guys? You can start shooting the zombies any…” Rick was cut off by a single suppressed rifle shot, followed by another. The sound of Jamie’s unsuppressed M4 cracked through the air like thunder compared to Joe’s much quieter offerings. The sound mattered little as each round tore through its intended target. Rick watched as zombie after another fell.

  Jamie and Joe watched through their respective ACOG scopes as they fired. Joe had taken up a position to cover the driver’s side of the truck, while Jamie took out the dead on the passenger’s side.

  Headshots on zombies were slightly different than they had been previously. Over the years, Joe had noticed that the bone density in the undead had diminished considerably. He didn't know whether it was a side effect of the Romero Virus, or just time and the elements softening the bones. Even the thickest-skulled undead now went down with a single shot. The 5.56mm rounds that he used had been known to skip off the skull or even stay embedded in it without breaking through. That was not a problem now, though. The 5.56mm bullet was not initially designed to be a killing round, more of a maiming round, but now it did the trick just fine.

  Black blood, tarry indeterminate goo, and skull fragments splattered the side of the once-white trailer and marred the pristine snowbanks. Rick watched as one by one, the pack of undead was whittled down. One especially audacious zombie tried to climb between the cab and trailer of the truck. Rick pulled his .45 and dispatched the lone zombie with a well-placed round, right between the ghoul’s eyes. The .45 hollow point sabot blew the cerebellum out the back of the zombie’s head, dangling for just a moment before falling in a heap to the ground. After a couple more rifle reports from the top of the roof, all was silent again.

  “Clear left!” Joe hollered.

  “Clear right! How’s it looking down there, Rick?” Jamie countered.

  Rick moved about on the top of the trailer and listened. “Looks and sounds clear from here,” he hollered back.

  Rick holstered his .45 and climbed down from the trailer. Once he was on the ground, he made one more thorough search of his surroundings. Heaps of undead lay at his feet, all with a single rifle round to the head, all of them nearly naked as well. Blood, brains, and other unknown bodily fluids and parts lay scattered on the ground near the trailer. Thankfully, none were moving or making an effort to eat him. That was good enough for him.

  Rick walked over to the gate where Balboa and Jim waited. He retrieved his .45 and aimed it at the lock and chain that blocked the way. “Y’all might wanna stand back for just a second.” Both men obliged. Rick fired two rounds, the lock falling away after the second.

  Joe and Jamie left their posts and went back down the ladder, making sure to close the hatch as they exited the roof. They shimmied down the ladder again and were met by concerned looks from the residents of Camp Brown. A small crowd greeted them as they got to the bottom of the ladder. Questions were hurled at them like batting practice fastballs.

  “What was all that shooting?”

  “Is everybody okay?”

  “What’re y’all doin’ up there?”

  “Why were y’all on the roof?”

  Joe stopped to politely explain the situation to the people of Camp Brown. “Look, we were just trying to get the zombies out of the back lot so we can get one of the semis. We don’t mean y’all any harm, matter of fact we needed to speak with you guys anyway.”

  “What do y’all want to talk about?” came a question from the back of the crowd.

  Joe stepped forward and addressed the group. “We are from a ZBRA unit that was taken down by a bunch of paramilitary assholes. Those same paramilitary assholes are the ones that ran you off from the outpost in Lexington. I'm not telling you that you have to go with us, but I am asking if anyone wants to come with us. We will be travelling to Tazewell, Virginia at least. We plan to try to meet a couple of our friends that are on the way there. They have a couple trucks that will be loaded down with supplies. We will have guns, ammo, food, and medicine there hopefully.”

  “Hopefully don’t cut it with us. We don’t wanna pack it up unless we know that something is gonna be there for us. We have been doin’ just fine here. What promises do we have that there’ll be anything there at all?” a voice from within the crowd hollered out. It was Maria, moving forward through the crowd.

  Joe sagged his shoulders. “I can’t promise anything. I'm just asking if there is anyone that is interested in going, that’s it. If you are, then as soon as the truck gets around front, we will be outta here. Thank
all of you for your hospitality and kindness. We are eternally grateful and will return the favor if the opportunity ever arises.”

  The crowd mumbled and moved about as Joe politely excused himself and walked away. He knew there had to be some members of the camp that wanted to leave, but didn't stick around to explain himself further. There was no use in trying to convince them that the Promised Land would be waiting for them in Tazewell; they just needed to have a little faith.

  For that matter, Joe could use some too.

  CHAPTER 19

  Curtis thoroughly believed he had died. He couldn’t outright explain why he could still hear and see, or why he was in so much pain, but he was certain that he’d passed on. He tried to contemplate why heaven would leave a person in agony. Perhaps he hadn’t gone on to heaven, but he was now in hell instead. Hell would be a more apt description of how he felt. His ribs, arms, legs, head, and pretty much every other part of him was throbbing. His thought processes finally started cutting through the haze of painkillers and the fog of sleep. He realized that he was in fact, not dead, just severely injured.

  He moved his head around, hearing the unnatural crunching and popping of his aching neck as he did so. He lifted his arms up to make sure that he could still move them. Evidently, he could, as there was an IV attached to his left arm connected to a bag of fluid. His memory suddenly came flooding back as he regained consciousness fully. Wagner’s betrayal, Mike dead, the chase and subsequent crash that led him to his current predicament snapped to in his mind. He shot up in bed and immediately wished he hadn’t. Pain flooded every fiber of his being as he did. Curtis flopped back down instantly and curled into a fetal position.

  “Holy Mother of God. I really wish I had a beer right now,” he croaked in a dry voice.

  “Well, we don’t have any beer, but there might be some ‘shine left,” a male voice from the corner of the room answered Curtis.

  “What the fuck, man! Who are you? Where the hell am I?” Curtis looked around, and then down to his feet. He had kicked the covers off him, revealing that he was not wearing anything other than his boxers. “And where the fuck are my pants?”

  “Calm down, buddy. You're among friends. Just don’t try to do anything stupid and we won’t have any issues.” The male voice spoke reassuringly, convincing Curtis that if they wanted to do him harm, they would have just left him to die in the wreck, or just let Wagner shoot him.

  Curtis slowly settled his nerves and enjoyed the comfortable bed that he'd been so graciously given. He pulled the covers back around his arms and sat up, leaning against the head of the bed, and surveyed his companions. There were two men in the room. One of them sat in the corner off to his left, a shotgun in his lap. The other was situated in front of Curtis off to his right. The one in the corner appeared as if he was missing his left hand, cut off at the wrist. The one-handed man held a Mossberg 590 shotgun in his lap, complete with a battle-worn bayonet. The gun had several shells on a sidesaddle on the collapsible stock. The one-handed man looked to be quite tall, even in a seated position, and appeared to be around two hundred-fifty pounds.

  The other man looked to be in his mid-thirties. He sported a bald head, full beard, and was dressed in Realtree camouflage. A hunting rifle lay across his lap and a 9mm in a drop-leg holster completed his getup. He sat relaxed in the chair, clearly not concerned with Curtis or any ill intentions that he might have.

  “To answer your questions: you are in Tazewell, Virginia, my name is Aaron, but most folks call me Cornbread. We had to take your pants off to make sure that you didn't break your legs or have any other bleeding, seeing as how you were covered in blood when we found you. You were pretty banged up when we brought you in. You’ve been out for the better part of twelve hours,” Cornbread said, moving his chair closer to Curtis. Cornbread was the one-armed man, but the other man at the foot of the bed continued his silence.

  “What’s your name, stranger?” Cornbread asked.

  Curtis looked him in the eye. “Lowe, Curtis Lowe. I'm originally from ‘Bama, but recently relocated to West Virginia. I was part of a ZBRA team stationed at Camp Dawson, just outside Kingwood, West Virginia. I was sent here on orders from our highest-ranking man. I didn't realize that there’d be people here.”

  “Well, there are not only people here – we have a community. If you're feeling up to it later, we’ll introduce you. Now, you mind tellin’ me why that other fella was trying to kill you? I'm guessing that wasn’t part of your plan,” the other man finally spoke up.

  Curtis shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Wagner. Talking about it was both a literal and metaphorical sore spot. “He was a mole, a spy if you will, for a man that we’ve had some run-ins with before. I'm guessing he spared Wagner’s life in exchange for spying on our group. I also think that he might be responsible for the rest of my team going missing.”

  “Missing? Where?”

  “I sent them on a run to Lexington, Kentucky. Normally they would have been back in a couple hours, three at the most. They never did come back. Fortunately, we had a plan in case something like that should occur. My team leader came up with it. And that plan was to come back here and regroup. Actually, it was to head towards the closest ZBRA post, but they were taken out a few days ago as well by the same man. It was in Beckley, West Virginia.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been around them a couple times, but never needed much from ‘em. They seemed like good people though. I guess every bunch has a bad apple. I know we got a few here that would like to see me leave,” the unknown man said, looking away.

  “Anyway,” Curtis continued. “My team leader was from around here and thought that it’d be a good idea to come back to somewhere familiar to rebuild. I know it sounds like a half-baked plan, but it was all we had to survive by. If they are alive, they should be here within a few days, or at least I hope so.”

  “You said you thought that one man had done all that shit to your boys in Kentucky, while at the same time, they took out a unit in Beckley. What is this guy? Is this dude Batman or something?” Cornbread asked.

  “I don’t know if he's responsible for Kentucky or even if my boys had a problem. Our plan was to wait twenty-four hours and then leave wherever we were and meet up here. If they are alive they would stick to the plan.”

  “This asshole got a name? On the other hand, should I just continue calling him Batman? Bruce Wayne, instead, maybe?” Cornbread asked, slightly perturbed.

  “His name is Wyatt, Lieutenant Wyatt. He goes by the nickname ‘The Captain’ now. I know for a fact that he was behind the attack on the Beckley ZBRA unit,” Curtis replied, looking towards and addressing Cornbread.

  “Well, we will give your boys a couple days, then. Y’all sound like you're on the side of good, so we will give you the benefit of the doubt. That being said, Cornbread here will be guarding you wherever you go. We don’t take any chances with strangers, especially strangers with crazy-ass stories, no offense,” the mysterious man stated.

  “As long as you guys are taking care of me, I ain't got a problem with a guard watching me. Give my boys a couple days; if they ain't here then y’all can cut me loose. Just take me back to my truck before you do,” Curtis replied.

  “What’s in those trucks? We were in such a hurry to get you back here that we didn't really look.”

  Curtis grinned. “I tell you what. If you tell me what your name is I will tell you what is in those trucks. The stuff in there is priceless to an outpost like this.”

  “Well, we will send out a team anyway to check it out, so why don’t you just tell me what they’re gonna find.”

  Dammit, they do have a point, Curtis thought, looking down. “It’s full of guns, ammo, food, medicine, explosives, the works. It’s all the stuff from Camp Dawson that was of use and wasn’t nailed down. Now, you mind telling me who you are?”

  The bearded, mysterious man stood up and walked over to Curtis’ bed. He extended a calloused, dirty right hand and a smile. “Name’s L
arry. Nice to meet ya, Curtis.”

  Curtis took the man’s hand and shook it halfheartedly. There was something Joe had said about a man named Larry, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the painkillers or the grogginess of sleep still clouding his memory. The look of intense thought must have been on his face as Larry watched.

  “Somethin’ on your mind, Curtis? You look like you're trying to put the pieces together, but you don’t know what the puzzle looks like,” Larry said, frowning slightly.

  “You were Joe’s boss when the shit hit the fan all those years ago! You were one of the guys that came and got him after that fat shit wrecked him and left him for dead! I know exactly who you are now!” Curtis exclaimed gleefully.

  Larry’s heart almost literally skipped a beat. “Joe is alive? Is he the one you're waiting on? Was he the one that you said was from around here?”

  Despite the soreness and pain, Curtis moved to the edge of the bed. “Yes! Yes it is! He’s with a couple other guys from the team; Jamie, Balboa, Chris, and Rick are with him!”

  “Jamie? Like, our Jamie? The gun nut?”

  “Yeah, said he was from around here, too. He went with Joe over the mountains to get to his family. He was with him when they picked me up in Alabama,” Curtis chuckled. “They are some tough sons a bitches. My money says they’re still alive.”

  Larry could barely contain his emotions. A floodgate of anticipation, excitement, and worry smashed together in his mind. He couldn’t believe that Joe was alive after all these years. He could still remember the handshake and wretched goodbyes they had said that last day.

  Larry’s original plan had been to bug out to the mountains of Tennessee, but after consulting with a couple friends and cohorts, they had decided to stay in Tazewell, to stay with what was familiar. It had served them well so far. Every person they had set out to save – minus one – was still alive and well. There was a lone soul that Larry had helped escape in the first days of the apocalypse, a person that he had tried to get to come back into the fold in Tazewell, but never could convince. Larry had decided to leave him to his own devices, to seek out his own agenda, and to let him fend for himself if that’s what he wanted. Aside from that, he was pleased with the way the town turned out after the end of days.