by Joseph Coley
SIX FEET FROM HELL: UNITY
BY
JOSEPH A. COLEY
©2013 JOSEPH A. COLEY
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Cover design: Matthew Riggenbach – www.shaedstudios.com
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THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALTHOUGH PEOPLE AND PLACES DEPICTED IN THIS NOVEL REPRESENT ACTUAL PERSONS AND LOCATIONS, FICTIONAL LIBERTIES HAVE BEEN TAKEN WITH NAMES AND LOCATIONS. SO IF YOU LIVE THERE, DON’T GO LOOKING FOR YOUR HOUSE OR FAVORITE BURGER STAND. YOU PROBABLY WON’T FIND IT, AND YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO RUN INTO WHAT LURKS THERE NOW…
CHAPTER 1
April 17, 2022 – 1434 hours – Tazewell, Virginia
Joe finally had the target in sight. He had tracked it nearly all day, waiting for the moment where he could pull off a shot. He was tired, hungry and sweating profusely, even in the cool spring air. As he eased forward, a briar patch snagged his pants leg, slowing his pursuit. He hastily untangled the patch from his legs and looked back up. The target was gone, but he could still faintly hear it. The lush green surroundings had made it difficult for him to keep track of the objective. The underbrush was much easier to track in when it was dead and dry, the crunching of dead leaves and twigs gave away even the most elusive of prey.
Joe stepped forward slowly. The upside of the wet ground was that he made little noise as he crept. Slowly, heel to toe, one foot after another, he moved towards a clearing, praying that his intended mark was still there. The canopy above him rustled ever so slightly in the spring breeze, carrying the sweet smell of honeysuckle across his nose. The fragrant scent had a calming effect on him. It reminded him of better times. It prompted memories of springs and summers past. He’d spent most of his life outdoors in both good weather and, but the fragrant aromas that popped back up in the spring always made him feel like those years that passed had never left him.
Joe eased forward and made it to the end of the tree line. The lush, green rolling hills in front of him were overgrown from years of neglect. Nature had a beautiful way of reclaiming what once was. The area looked like farmland for growing and baling hay, but it was obvious that task had not been done for some time. Joe stepped out from the woods and into the open. As he gingerly dropped to one knee, he raised his shotgun – borrowed from Cornbread and loaded with a special shell he’d designed – and aimed. The head of his target bobbed ever so slightly as it moved slowly across the field. It wasn’t much taller than the grass that surrounded it, but Joe could make out the slight movement nonetheless. He brought the shotgun tight against his shoulder and slowly eased his right index finger on the trigger. He squinted against the sunshine as it peeked through the clouds ahead of him. The target’s head popped up once more, just above the grass, about fifteen feet away. It stopped and perked up.
Joe squeezed the trigger.
The shotgun boomed in the spacious valley. The turkey fell, its head gone from the top of its long, slender neck. Whatever Cornbread had loaded in the shell, it worked. The large bird fell where it had stood a few moments before, minus a head, and very much deceased.
“Bout damn time!” Joe said exasperatedly. He lowered the Mossberg and stood up.
Joe racked the next round, just in case, and threw the shotgun over his shoulder. Footsteps bounded behind him as they mashed down brush. Joe turned slowly to see Rick fast approaching. Joe had told him to hold position behind him until he could secure his target. Rick slowed his approach as he noticed Joe’s relaxed bearing. He carried Joe’s suppressed M4 at low ready, scanning back and forth in case of something a little more sinister than turkeys heard the shot. He stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. As he saw Joe, he slung the rifle over his shoulder.
“Haha! There’s gonna be some good eatin’ tonight! Good shot, dad!”
Joe grinned and walked over to where the dead turkey lay. He’d managed to take off the top six inches of the bird’s neck as well as obliterating its head. There was no mistaking the power of what Cornbread had loaded into the twelve-gauge shells. One of the ingredients of the shells glinted as he picked up the bird by the feet. Joe dragged the bird away from its original spot and handed it to Rick. Rick grabbed the bird by the feet as Joe’s attention was pulled towards the shiny, metallic flicker.
“What is it, dad?” Rick asked as he tried to look over his father’s shoulder.
Joe picked up the metallic sliver and showed it to Rick. “Dimes,” Joe laughed. “Probably about a buck fifty or so, I’d guess.”
“Well it sure as hell did the trick,” Rick laughed as he motioned Joe back to the woods. “C’mon, Curtis just hollered on the radio. He said Captain White is more unruly than usual. He’s bitching about being hungry again.”
Joe let out a deep sigh. Annoyed, he stomped back towards Rick. “Well, I told that one-legged fucker whenever he decided to talk we’d give him a little more to eat. It’s his own damn fault. Radio Curtis back and tell him we’ll be back in a little while. Tell him we got dinner, too.”
Rick grabbed the small radio from off his Load Bearing Vest and keyed it up. “Rick to Curtis, do you copy?”
“Yeah go ahead, Rick,” Curtis’ voice came over the tinny speaker.
“We’re on our way back with dinner. Dad says the usual. As soon as Captain White starts talking, we will give him whatever he wants.”
“Well he’s still not saying anything worth a shit. He said its inhumane how we’re treating him and some very unpleasant things about my mother. What did you guys bag for dinner tonight?”
“Turkey. And dad says Captain White can shove the Geneva Convention up his ass,” Rick said, winking to his father.
Curtis laughed over the radio. “I’ll relay the message. Y'all hurry back with dinner. Curtis out.”
Joe let out a healthy laugh as he grabbed the turkey from Rick and tossed it over his shoulder. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, bud. C’mon, let’s get this to somebody that knows how to clean and cook it. I'm starving.”
“We’d get back a lot faster if you would just ride one of the damn horses, dad. We got a half dozen of ‘em and you never seem up for riding one,” Rick said. He was trying to elicit an answer to why his father didn’t care for equine transportation. The stable of horses was always available for whoever wanted to take one out. Joe just wasn’t that anxious to ride something that unstable. The horses weren’t skittish around zombies, but you never knew when it would start to affect them.
“They’re just too loud for hunting. If we get a chance to go somewhere close by, I promise I will take one of ‘em out for a ride, but until then, I prefer to stay on foot or in a Dodge.”
“Sounds good, dad. Not to be the pessimistic one, but when do you think Captain White is gonna talk? It’s been, what, four months now? I figure if he ain't talked by now, he's not gonna.” Rick quickly changed the subject, catching his father off guard.
As Joe thought it over, he realized Rick was right. It had been a little over four months since they had captured C
aptain Marcus White a.k.a. “The Captain” and they were still no closer to finding out what Lieutenant Wyatt’s intentions or whereabouts were. There was an entirely likely chance that Captain White honestly didn't know where he was, but they had kept him prisoner since Christmas nevertheless. Joe had steadily decreased White’s food rations in an attempt to make him more pliable, but it was just pissing him off. Even though Captain White had been a Marine, it was only a matter of time before he cracked. Joe took the easier route of trying to get information out of him slowly instead of forcing it out all at once. Neither method had been successful so far, but he remained optimistic.
“I think that he will talk, eventually. He doesn’t have any other choice. His boys are obviously not coming for him and he has very little to bargain with other than information. Remember what happened when we he woke up after I’d shot him? I don’t think he’s as tough as he makes out to be. I think he’s just too goddamned hardheaded for his own good.”
Joe thought back to what had happened when they brought Captain White back to Tazewell. Shortly after Joe shot him, White had passed out from the pain. They brought him back into town to stitch him up and make sure that he would be a viable asset. In the heat of the moment, Joe didn’t realize that shooting him probably wasn’t such a great idea, or the best way to get information out of him. They had set up a sentry to watch him as he healed. It took nearly two days for White to wake up from his coma, and when he had, the first thing he’d done was bawl his eyes out. The pain was too intense for him to bear, he’d complained. Joe had ordered that no pain medications given to him, and that had sent the Captain into another crybaby session. Never mind they didn't have any pain medication other than moonshine, it had broken him nonetheless. His pain had turned to anger after a few days and he’d clamped up tight since then. The only time he spoke was to hurl insults at whoever drew the short straw of guarding him.
“You're probably right, but now that it’s gotten a little warmer out I think we should increase our security some more. I think that it’s time that we made the OP’s in Bluefield and Richlands. Even if his boys aren’t coming back for him, we need to prepare for ‘em anyway. It never hurt having at least a listening post on either end of the county,” Rick said as they trudged back through the woods. They were only about an hour away from the wall, but lugging the turkey around now made it seem like twice that distance.
Joe looked across to his son curiously. “And who is gonna take people out there? You?”
Rick walked in front of his father, turned and backpedaled as he continued. “I could if you’d let me. I just think that we’d be a lot better off if we had a little bit of a heads up, you know, in case the Peacemakers figure out where we are.”
“I’d rather someone else do it, honestly.”
Rick stopped abruptly in front of his father. “Why? You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
Joe let out another deep sigh and looked his son directly in the eye. “It’s not that I don’t think you can do it. I'm almost positive that you can, but I spent too long away from you and I'm not going to send you out without me, no matter what. I had to sit and worry about what was happening to you on that damned oilrig for nine years, son. I'm not letting you out of my sight for a good while.” Joe started walking again, past his son, and back towards Tazewell. “C’mon, Rick, people are waiting for dinner.”
Rick spun around. “Look, I understand that you don’t want me out of your sight, but I'm not a kid anymore. I don’t remember being one at all, to put it bluntly. I never liked the oilrig, and I don’t blame you for what Mom did. The difference between me and her is that I can handle the stress a hell of a lot easier than she can.”
Joe thought back to his estranged wife. She had left him in a crisis at a very inopportune time. It wasn’t her fault; she was simply looking out for herself. Joe couldn’t blame her for wanting to shed the fear and apprehension out of her life. Looking back, he would have done the same, given the chance. Instead, he had trudged on, doing what he did best – helping others. It had served him well thus far in his life, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Being the one to call when the shit hit the fan was his specialty. That being said, he still hadn’t heard from his ex-wife for over a year now. The last time they spoke, it had been uneventful and seemed a little abrupt to him. Perhaps she had found her center, maybe she had found someone else with a different take on what life should be like. Far be it for him to stand in the way of happiness, he hoped that whatever decision she had made, that she was happy with it.
“I know you think I'm being overprotective, but I'm just trying to spend what time I've got left with my family. I want to make the best of a bad situation. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that I'm not getting any younger, so I'm gonna make the best of what I've got.’
“Does that blonde that you’ve been talking to figure into that, too?” Rick nudged his father as he walked alongside.
Joe’s face went flush as he smiled. “I didn't think anybody had noticed that yet.”
Rick threw his head back and laughed. “Ha! Really? In a town that’s walled in and only populated by a little over a hundred people, you thought you could keep a secret?”
Joe feigned aggravation and waved a dismissive hand. “I know, I know. I didn't think it was such a hot topic for discussion.”
Rick patted his father on the back. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone deserves to be happy. And who am I to stand in the way of that?”
Joe glanced at his son and raised an eyebrow. “So you're okay with it?”
“Yeah. Why not? Don’t think that just because you don’t have divorce papers from Mom that you can’t be with somebody else. I'm sure she would agree with me. Besides, she's in Georgia and I don’t think she's looking to come back anytime soon,” Rick replied. “Life’s too short – especially nowadays – to not be happy.”
Joe hugged his son with his free arm. “Thanks buddy. I appreciate that.”
CHAPTER 2
April 17, 2022 – 1439 Hours
Joe and Rick approached the southeast side of town. As they neared the hospital, they could see the wall. The hill the former hospital stood on made for a good vantage point, but it hadn’t been secured, so it sat derelict. It was a creepy sight after so many years of nonuse. The once bright whites of the exterior walls were replaced with a film of dingy green slime. The overgrown grass and trees complemented the off-colored hospital, showing the world that it no longer needed man’s help. The hospital sat only a hundred yards away from the edge of the wall, but it might as well been a hundred miles. The workforce that it would take to move the wall around the building was just not feasible now. Between security for the workers, clearing the building, and physically moving the wall itself, it would be a massive undertaking.
As they walked by, Joe studied the hospital carefully. It would be a nice addition to the walled-in area of the town, if he could find a use for it. The motel was large enough to accommodate the residents, but it was getting a little crowded inside. Two and three people to a room were starting to grate on people’s nerves. The citizens were used to not having any privacy, but it still unnerved them. It wouldn’t be long before there would be a few more additions to the populace, with three of the town’s women pregnant. One was due in less than a month; the other two had just begun to show a small pooch, probably close to four months along.
There had been talk of stretching the boundaries of Tazewell’s wall since shortly after Joe and his team had arrived. The consensus was to leave it alone, but since the weather had begun to warm, the people were restless. There were only so many hunting parties, scavenging crews, and guard duties to keep residents busy. It was better to keep them occupied with a long-term goal then some immediate need.
The undead were less of a presence in the last few months. There had been few incidences with zombies at the wall and even fewer narrow escapes with them. No one had been bitten in the last four months, thankfully. The residents of T
azewell were not immunized. For reasons unknown to Joe and his team, the residents had not been vaccinated. Shortly after imprisoning Captain White, everyone received a checkup, with none having the “V” on their right arm. It was unsettling for Joe, but the rest of town seemed not to notice. It had been long enough since they became aware of what being bit or dying meant; they took all necessary precautions. Bodies were buried outside the wall, more than a mile away. As soon as a resident passed away, they received a railroad spike to the skull, and then taken away to the improvised cemetery. Graves were marked with whatever was available; usually two-by-fours nailed together did the trick.
Joe came to the threshold of the wall and looked for the sentry on duty. There was not one be found. Annoyed, he banged on the wall with his makeshift door code. After banging out J-A-C in Morse code on an aluminum trailer side, the guard appeared. He was a kid, maybe twenty, named Boyd. Boyd had a penchant for being a little overzealous when it came to his guard duty, so whatever had taken his attention away from the wall must have been interesting.
Boyd bounded up to the catwalk and darted his head left and right before seeing Joe and Rick standing about five feet away from the wall, about twenty feet away from him. Dressed in digital ACU camouflage from head to toe, including a patrol cap. Nearly every person in town had the same getup; camouflage was the fashion of choice in the post-apocalyptic world. You could dress it up how you wanted, but it still didn’t sway from the fact the most everyone had the same outfit. Boyd slung his rifle, a weathered Marlin model 336, over his shoulder. The lever-action 30-30 was a little worse for wear, but was deadly accurate nonetheless.
“Sorry, guys! Didn’t hear y’all coming! I’ll go get the ladder!” Boyd bounced back down the catwalk and yelled for someone on the other side to hand him the aluminum stepladder. Boyd grabbed it and slid the business end of it towards Joe and Rick.
