by Joseph Coley
And they were the turkeys.
Rick hadn’t got out of the truck yet, ducking down and back in after the first shots. His rifle was laid across the sleeper. It was of no use to try to get a shot off with it. He needed a clear field of fire and a couple seconds to judge the range and movement of the target. It was precious few seconds that he wasn’t going to get. Instead, he grabbed Jamie’s rifle and returned fire through the window.
Jamie put the engine block between himself and the gunfire. Unless their friends up on the massive wall had a .50 caliber rifle or bigger, he would be safe. He clutched the only weapon that he had at his disposal, a borrowed .45 from Balboa. Balboa sat to Jamie’s right, unable to use his bad arm to help in aiming. And the shots needed to be spot-on.
Joe blind fired another three-round burst from his rifle. “Any ideas?”
Jamie turned and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we could try and negotiate with ‘em.”
Another round blasted into the hood of the truck, splintering fiberglass and pinging loudly off the engine block. Joe frowned vehemently at Jamie.
Jamie shrugged again, raising his eyebrows. “Okay, maybe not.”
A lone zombie shuffled off to their left, wandering down a small hillside. The single ghoul stumbled and fell into a ditch line about fifty feet away. It crawled up onto the road, and attempted to get up. As soon as it did, Joe fired a single shot in its head, dropping the creature.
“We better make a move soon! We’re gonna draw a fuckin’ crowd here!” Joe hollered as he swung his rifle back towards the massive wall and its guards. Joe went to fire another couple of shots. As he did, the bolt locked to the rear, signifying that he was empty. “Shit! I'm out, Jamie.” Joe sat his rifle against the side of the truck. Silence followed for a short few seconds.
A faint voice carried over the silence. Joe strained his ears as much as he could without sticking his head up. The slightest breeze rustled, carrying the sound again. Joe’s brow furrowed as he listened. It was a familiar voice, saying his name. Finally, the voice carried again, this time much louder.
“Joe! Jamie! Get out from behind that damn truck and get out here!” The voice called out.
Joe grabbed his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder. He knew that voice. A voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. A voice that he thought he'd never hear again. It was Larry. He stood up and marched across the road with his hands raised, just in case it wasn’t his lifelong friend.
“Joe, wait!” Jamie shouted. His heart raced as Joe stepped out with his hands raised. Jamie stepped out around the front of the truck and kept the .45 he still clutched at low ready. Balboa followed him out slowly as well.
“Put your damn hands down! You look like a fuckin’ retard!” Larry called out from the top of the wall.
“I'm the retard? You're the one shooting at me, jackass!” Joe fired back. He stopped at the base of the wall and looked up at his longstanding friend. Larry had aged considerably, as the rest of Joe’s team had. He sported a full beard that made him look like he could stand in for Billy Gibbons. He held a hunting rifle over his shoulder and wore a dirty set of Carhartt overalls and a black Carhartt jacket to boot. Joe imagined that he was being gauged in the same light as he was sizing up Larry. It had been nine years since he’d seen his close friend and former boss. Clearly, Larry was doing quite well nowadays. He evidently had an entire town walled in from the undead.
Joe was impressed with the fortification that they had managed. It was made out of a combination of rail cars and trees. The train had clearly been left on the tracks and well placed for the barricade that it made. Train tracks split the town effectively in half, so it was not a major task putting it to good use. The gaps in the fortification were completed with felled trees. All in all, it was a menacing sight that brought up memories of old English castles with a drawbridge and moat, and it looked like it could repel whatever invaders happened upon it.
“Why don’t you throw us down a ladder or something? It’s awfully fuckin’ cold out here and I'm sure if you’ve got the whole Camelot Castle thing going on, then you're bound to have somewhere we can stay,” Joe asked.
Larry laughed. “Yeah, I've already sent one of the guys after it. I think it goes without saying, but I’m gonna ask anyway. How the fuck did you end up here?”
Joe returned the laugh as Jamie, Balboa, Rick, and Kane came up behind him. “It’s a long story. One that I will gladly tell you about; after we get inside and get warm, of course.”
“Fair enough. By the way, I've got someone up here that will be glad to see you.”
Joe frowned for a moment, taking a moment to realize who Larry was speaking of. “Holy shit! Curtis made it! Is he OK?”
Another figure popped up on the makeshift catwalk. Another face that Joe was more than ecstatic to finally see. It was Curtis. The Alabama native looked as if he was bruised and beaten, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Joe breathed a deep sigh of relief. Larry patted Joe’s esteemed colleague on the shoulder. Curtis smiled and waved at Joe. He was just as reassured about seeing Joe in one piece.
Larry’s personnel returned shortly with an aluminum ladder. Larry and Curtis lowered it down to Joe and the rest of his crew. Joe motioned to the guys, and Jamie clambered up the ladder first, followed by the remainder of the team. Rick carried Kane slowly up the ladder. The German Shepherd gave him a reassuring and thankful lick under the chin. Even the dog sensed a moment of relief, wagging his tail as they reached the top of the wall.
Joe was the last to ascend the stairs. As he scaled the stepladder, he could hear the growls and moans of the undead behind him. He paused halfway up, listening to the cadaverous sounds in the distance. On the other side of the wall was protection from the ghastly creatures, an asylum from the monsters. It represented what most had forgotten over the last nine years. The wall embodied a normal life, one devoid of the stresses and worries of struggling merely to survive. It was what Joe had missed after leaving Rural Retreat and while being stuck at Camp Dawson. It was the feeling of belonging somewhere finally.
It was the feeling of home.
CHAPTER 22
It was a sight that Joe thought he'd never see again. He had taken a moment to soak it all in, and he still hadn’t been able to wipe the smile off his face. The motley crew that sat around him were some of the most important people that he’d had the pleasure of being around. Larry, Jamie, and Cornbread had worked with him for several years before the apocalypse, Balboa was one of his best friends from his military days, and Rick – well, Rick was family. There were any number of reasons that Larry would turn down his plan, however. Primarily, he had a good thing going here in Tazewell. There was little reason for him to put that in jeopardy. He had plenty of other people that needed tending to, innocent people. They didn't have anything to do with the war brewing between Joe and the Captain. Unless they were bored and had nothing else to do, he doubted that he would be able to talk them into anything.
Joe finished explaining everything to Larry. The past nine years made for quite a long and sordid story. He started with their departure from Larry’s house nearly a decade ago and led up to meeting Jim’s people in Hazard, Kentucky. They sat and talked for nearly two hours, catching up on old times and reacquainting each other with problems both old and new. Larry had fewer issues with his people, but still had problems of his own to manage. His problems were pale in comparison to Joe’s. He didn't have an ex-military psychopath bent on taking over the country and killing anyone in his way, but he had complications nonetheless.
Curtis told about the Captain contacting Wagner and Mike with the satellite phones, and how the Captain had managed to put a spy in their midst. He gave Joe the story on how things had gone down after they left Camp Dawson. In return, Joe told Curtis about how the chopper was shot down, and how they’d lost Chris and Ogre outside of Lexington. Joe became briefly choked up having to talk about losing his best friend again. Time heals all wounds, but the fresh ones still st
ing. The Captain had managed to screw all of them over, each in different ways, except Larry. That opportunity hadn’t arisen yet, but it would only be a matter of time before the Captain showed up.
“So that’s the long and short of it, dude. I don’t know what the fucker has planned, but I really don’t want to give him the opportunity to do … whatever it is he’s going to do,” Joe said as he leaned back in his chair. After leaving the wall, they had all traveled back to the motel where Curtis had first woken up. The motel was the best way to keep all of Larry’s people in one area. It was an arrangement of security and convenience. The motel had over sixty rooms available, each one occupied. Larry kicked back as well, putting his calloused hands on top of his head.
“So what do you want from me?”
Joe was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do you want me to do? I'm all for helping you out. I'm in. Just tell me what you need.”
“I … I'm not sure exactly.” Joe frowned. “What do you have to offer?”
“Well, we don’t have much in the way of guns or ammo. We try to reload as much of our spent brass as possible, but it wears down after a couple uses. We don’t have a way to melt it down or anything, so it usually goes to waste after a while,” Larry replied.
“Well, how many guns and rounds do you have?”
“Not enough to repel a force the size you say he’s got. Even if we had the ammo, the guns we have are mostly hunting rifles, shotguns, and some pistols. The rifles are great for long range, but once they get in close, some scatterguns and a bunch of revolvers aren’t gonna cut it.”
Joe scowled again. “Shit, well what the fuck are we gonna do, Larry?”
“The trucks,” Curtis said, having an epiphany. “The LMTVs are still wrecked on the road into this place. They are loaded down with rifles, ammo, ordnance, all kinds of shit. I don’t know if it will take out all of ‘em, but it will make one hell of a dent in ‘em.” He directed his question to Larry. “Larry, how far is that from here?”
“Cornbread, where did you pick him up at?”
“Springville. Out near the old VDOT station. I can show y’all where it’s at,” Cornbread answered. “Once again, I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but how do we know that this ‘Captain’ asshole is even gonna show up?”
Joe grinned devilishly. “Because we’re gonna lure him out.”
Every man at the table exchanged glances; none of them, aside from Joe, knew exactly how they were going to do that. Each one pondered how exactly they would entice the Captain into town.
“How are we gonna do that?” Jamie asked finally.
Curtis finally realized how. “The sat-phone!”
Joe pointed to Curtis. “Bingo. We kill two birds with one stone. We go get all we can from the trucks. Once we do, we give that asshole a call – he won’t be able to tell Wagner’s voice from the rest of us – and he will come running for his precious supplies. We will set up this place to be as defensive as possible. We C4 the bridges leading into town, we put Claymores on the wall, facing out. We mine the roads. That fucker’ll never know what hit him.”
“Sounds like a solid idea,” Larry said slowly.
“Me, Cornbread, and Jamie will go to the trucks,” Joe fired off. He pointed to his son. “Rick, you, Balboa, and Curtis will stay here with Larry and coordinate the attack. I want you guys to figure out what goes where. If we can get all the explosives, then we’ll need to know where the roads need to be taken out. Even if we can’t get everything, then at least we’ll have the guns and ammo to fend off most of the Captain’s men.”
“You mean Wyatt, right? Shit, Joe, even you are calling him ‘The Captain’ now? This fucker is brainwashing y’all and you don’t even realize it,” Larry blurted out. “Sounds like we are gonna do the world a favor by taking this asshole out.”
Joe laughed. “Yes we are, Larry. Yes we are.”
“Well, I want in then. I want to go with you guys to take this douchebag out,” Larry demanded.
Joe shook his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Your people need you to be here for them. As far as most of ‘em know, we are just some people passing through. I’d rather it stay that way. That way, if something happens, they won’t be any the wiser.” Joe clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder. “We will be fine. I’ll give you as many rifles and as much ammo as I can spare. Give it to your people and don’t tell them anything. Just give them some story about us helping you out, if you want.”
Larry nodded slowly. He was a bit dejected, but understanding. “Okay. Go get your stuff. It sounds like we both have got some work to do.”
CHAPTER 23
After borrowing Larry’s truck, Cornbread, Jamie, and Joe headed out to the crashed LMTVs. Rick stayed behind to coordinate their attack, as Joe had asked.
Joe gave them a basic rundown of what he wanted to do. The plan left very little in the way of alternatives. From the basic knowledge that Joe had about the Captain, he could surmise that he had several vehicles at his disposal. If he didn't have several to use, then he wouldn’t have sent an LAV to Beckley to take out the ZBRA unit. If he had that kind of firepower to waste, then what he actually had for personal use would be nothing to fuck with. Joe concluded that he would at least have armored vehicles and well-stocked troops.
Cornbread drove along Route 460, heading east towards the crash site. They drove fifteen minutes to get to where the LMTVs were located. As Cornbread approached the wrecked-out trucks, he immediately noticed a problem.
“Fuck me. Why can’t it ever be easy?”
The crash the night before had attracted a plethora of visitors, all of the zombified persuasion. Over two dozen of the undead milled around the two military vehicles, most of them turning their heads toward the pickup as it approached. The snowball effect on the undead was evident as one bumped into another, which bumped into another, causing a domino-like effect that moved them together, much like a flock of birds that turn as a group. The zombies turned their collective attention to the truck as it rolled up. Cornbread turned the truck sideways in the middle of the road, giving the men some distance and cover between them and the undead.
Cornbread got out first, racking his shotgun – one handed, of course – and took aim at the closest zombie. The ghoul was about twenty yards away, slowly shuffling its way towards him. The creature raised its skinny arms and snarled at him as it walked forward, a black river of drool coming out of its mouth. Cornbread aimed the Mossberg at the creature. Joe and Jamie disembarked the vehicle as he was sizing up his mark.
Joe chuckled. “You ain't never gonna kill that thing with buckshot from that far. You better take a few steps …”
Joe was cut off by the roar of the shotgun; the target’s head blew apart shortly thereafter. The skull exploded like a blackened, rotted watermelon – complete with the squelching sound. Joe jumped, startled not only by the boom of the gun, but by the fact that Cornbread had managed to disintegrate the zombie at that kind of distance. Even the best twelve-gauge slug rounds were hard to aim at longer ranges, and they didn't do that kind of damage.
Joe took up a rest for his suppressed M4 on the hood of the Dodge and began taking out zombies one by one, occasionally interrupted by the ear-splitting boom of the Mossberg. After a couple of minutes of headshots and one magazine change for Joe, the area appeared to be clear. Joe walked over to the other side of the truck.
“What the hell kind of slugs do you have in that thing that does that kind of damage? That thing is one hell of a boomstick!” Joe said.
“Well, I reload my own shot shells just like everybody else. Problem is that I have plenty of shells and primer caps, but not enough wadding and buckshot, so I use whatever I can.” Cornbread motioned towards his obliterated zombie. “The one you saw there was a combination slug made out of hot glue with some BBs added in for a little weight. I use about anything I can get my hands on for slugs. I've used quarter-inch screws, brad tacks, and hell, I've even
used candle wax to hold ‘em together.”
“Well, whatever you're using, it works. I might see what I can scavenge for you out of our stash; see if you can come up with some other ones you might want to try out,” Joe replied.
“Sounds good,” Cornbread said.
“C’mon, let’s get this shit loaded up and get the hell outta here before we draw more attention to ourselves. Grab the rifles and ammo first; everything after that can wait,” Joe instructed.
Cornbread nodded quickly. The men approached the wrecked LMTVs cautiously. The two trucks had fallen together, locked in a deadly tangle of metal. The contents of both trucks were spilled over a fifty-foot-long swath of road. The armored trucks had gouged out large streaks in the asphalt leading up to their eventual resting place. Joe approached the pair of trucks and patted a cold hand on the front of it.
“It’s a shame we can’t get these things up and moving. I hate letting good equipment go to waste. We could really use these big fuckers.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Can ya give me a hand here?” Cornbread motioned to Joe and Jamie. He had a rack of M4s laid over in front of him, and was attempting to pick it up. Joe and Jamie went over to help pick up the wayward rifles. The rack was largely undamaged, as were the rifles, surprisingly. A broken set of hand guards on one of the M4s didn't make it unusable, it just needed a healthy set of replacements. Either way, they weren’t going to leave any of them behind.
Joe slung his rifle through his right arm, letting the three-point sling hold it in place in front of him. The rack had spilled out of the side of the LMTV, the roof ripped and the contents falling out. Cornbread grabbed the end on the road and hefted it up. Joe grabbed the other end and pulled it from the LMTV.
