by Joseph Coley
“You mind movin’ your feet, asshole?”
White quickly stomped his feet on the floorboards, reached up to Boyd’s left shoulder, and snatched the large infantry knife that he had attached to the strap of his bag. Boyd never knew that he was in danger until Captain White was holding the edged weapon against his throat.
Joe saw the swift movement out of the corner of his eye, as well as in the rearview mirror. He slammed on the brakes, violently pitching everyone forward, minus himself and Captain White, who had anticipated the sudden stop. White had braced himself against the rear of the front seat with his other hand.
Joe spun around, drawing his .45 and cocking back the hammer in one swift motion. “Drop it White! Drop it or I will paint the inside this truck with your fuckin’ brains!”
Rick saw the commotion through the window and drew his own sidearm, pointing it through the partition. Curtis had his pistol pointed at the beleaguered captain as well. Three to one wasn’t the kind of odds that Captain Marcus White was used to.
Captain White slowly turned towards Joe, the knife still held at Boyd’s throat. Boyd sat with his hands up in surrender, already relegating himself to whatever White had planned, his eyes wide and horrified.
White slowly lowered the knife, spun it around, and handed it back to Boyd. Boyd, realizing what he’d done and what an embarrassment he’d been, snatched the large knife away from White. He fumbled with it, finally shoving it back into the Kydex sheath on his shoulder.
White held his hands up slowly as Joe continued to hold a bead on him with the .45. “Your boy here needs to not be so rude to me. Especially if I’m gonna be training little bed wetters like him.”
Joe eased the hammer forward on his .45 and slid it back into its holster. “Your job right now is to not piss me off. I have no qualms about leavin’ your ass on the side of the road with nothing but a hole in your head and a clear conscience. Your life expectancy depends on your usefulness right about now. I suggest you play nice.” Joe turned to Boyd, nodding back to White. “And Boyd, try not to piss him off, okay?”
“Asshole wouldn’t move his feet so…”
“Boyd, just keep your hands to yourself. White, the same goes for you too. I feel like it’s a goddamned nursery school in here.” Joe turned back around, resecured himself in the driver’s seat, and headed back out. He took a deep breath and eased the Dodge onto the main four-lane highway.
* * *
“You sure you don’t wanna go?” Balboa asked Cornbread as he helped secure the saddle on his horse. Cornbread, newly relieved from his guard duties, had accompanied Larry to the stables to give him a hand. The lack of guard duty let him go back to his normal duties as the de facto sheriff for the town, but nothing had come up yet.
Cornbread laughed. “Ha! You ever seen a one-armed man ride a horse? Besides, Jamie and I got something to work on today; I’d be better off helpin’ him.”
“No, but I wouldn’t put it out of the question. It could be done.”
“Yeah, and you can drive a car with your feet too, but that don’t make it a good fuckin’ idea.”
Balboa guffawed. “Fair enough.” He cinched the last strap on the saddle and directed his attention to Larry. “So how far out are we going? I’d like to be back for dinner.”
Larry shoved his rifle into the makeshift sidesaddle holster and came around to the front of the horses. “About eight miles or so. The horses make it go by quick, so it should only take us an hour or so there and an hour or so back. We’ll be back in time, buddy.”
Balboa nodded silently. He grabbed the saddle, put his foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself up. The horse – aptly named Beefcake – took a few steps back and grunted as he situated himself on the animal.
“Whoa, buddy. Been a while since I rode one of these things.” Balboa cinched the reins and lightly tapped them on the horse, signaling to the animal that he was ready to move. Beefcake moved forward slowly. He pulled on the left and right hand sides of the reins, directing him to move in the intended direction, which the horse obliged easily. He patted the horse on the back of the neck gently. “Alright, there Beefcake. You take care of me, and I’ll make sure you get an apple or some other shit that horses eat. Deal?”
The horse grunted.
“Then we have an understanding. Larry, you ready to move out? I’m following your lead on this one.”
Larry quickly hopped up onto his assigned horse – named Flex – and secured himself on the animal like a man who had plenty of practice doing so. He turned the animal to face Balboa, nudged its flanks, and eased forward. “Yep. Let’s ride!”
CHAPTER 9
April 18, 2022 – 1220 hours – Just outside Bluefield, Virginia
Joe had decided to take it easy along the route to the LMTVs, eyeing everything in sight. It had been nearly ten years since he’d traveled the path, and aside from the overgrowth of grass, trees, and the occasional wildlife, it had largely remained untouched. Undoubtedly, Larry had traversed most of the local area; taking in most of what little was available. Southwest Virginia was populated with ample amounts of gun stores, sporting goods stores, and other shops where one might obtain useful items, especially in the post-apocalyptic days. The first one they passed was a sporting goods store that specialized in hunting supplies and other recreational products. As Joe passed by, kayaks and fiberglass boats lay on the side of the road. The plastic kayaks had fared much better than the fiberglass “john boats” and were largely untouched. There were two lakes in and around Tazewell, but were used neither by Larry nor by the townspeople. The closest lake was a reservoir, situated just outside the town wall. In its heyday, it was primarily used as a tourist attraction. Miniature versions of the IronMan triathlon were conducted at the lake once a year and, excluding those competitions, the lake sat unused.
The second lake was four miles outside town, named Lake Witten. It had been scoured by Larry and his crews several times over the past few years. The lake was adequately stocked before the end of the world, and he’d made sure that it stayed that way. Fishing expeditions to the lake were regulated and kept track of closely as to not disturb the natural order. Lake Witten provided much-needed food and occasional fresh water when necessary.
Joe slouched in the seat of the Dodge Ram as they continued along slowly. The road was sparsely populated with other stores; a gas station here, a Virginia Department of Transportation (VDOT) station there, nothing worthwhile or useful remained. The area between Tazewell and their destination outside Bluefield didn’t hold much in the days before, and he was thankful for that now. Wearing out a path between the two towns made up a large part of the transports he did for Star Ambulance back in the day, albeit much less interesting than it was now. Most of the fast food places in Bluefield were things that they could not get in Tazewell. After dropping patients off at dialysis or the hospital in Bluefield, they would frequent the Taco Bells and Burger Kings in town and take a well-deserved few minutes off. After feeding their faces, it was back to the lonely stretch of highway leading towards Tazewell. He thought fondly of the mundane transports, wishing that it could be that simple again. He stayed lost in his thoughts until the first zombie bounced off the left-front bumper of the Dodge, smacking him back into reality as it did.
“Shit! Sorry, guys. Didn’t mean to do that,” Joe said.
“Not like you haven’t done it before, cowboy. That’s the third one you’ve managed to run over in the last five minutes,” Captain White absently replied from the back seat.
Joe’s brow furrowed. He looked to Curtis in the passenger’s seat and could immediately tell that his mind had wandered a bit further than he thought it had. “My bad. Just brings back too many memories drivin’ down this stretch of highway. Last time we came through here I didn’t get time to get sentimental, but now I kinda miss coming through here in the old days.”
“I can tell. You’ve looked like you were somewhere else there for a few minutes,” Curtis noted.
“Yeah, I was miles away,” Joe said. About a hundred yards in front of them lay the two wrecked LMTVs. Joe slowed the already pedestrian pace they were going and pointed to the trucks. “Here we go.”
Boyd and Captain White sat up from their lackadaisical positions in the back seat and peered through the windshield. Rick rose from his position in the bed as he felt the truck slowing to a stop.
Joe stopped the truck short of the LMTVs and gauged their surroundings. The vehicles were tangled together in a mass of metal and remained largely unchanged from four months ago. Joe knew there would be little in the way of supplies left on the trucks, as they had taken most, if not all, of the useful items off it when they raided it. They were there just for the remaining diesel and little else. The third LMTV in the East River tunnel was their best chance for a cache of weapons and everything else. With any luck, it would still be intact.
There was a large contingent of zombies near the trucks, and even a few tangled in with the canvas tarp that covered the trucks. The road stretched out in front of them for a half-mile before turning to the left and continuing on its way towards Bluefield. The straight stretch that was in sight had over two dozen, if not more, zombies along it. The undead shambled along the route as if competing in the world’s slowest marathon. The rumble of the Ram’s diesel engine caught the ear of some of the closest ones, and they slowly shambled towards the sound.
Joe pulled the Ram alongside the LMTVs and rolled his window down. He grabbed his suppressed M4 from the seat beside him and took two well-placed shots at the entangled zombies, dropping each one with a single shot. He brought the M4 back inside the truck and opened his door as the rest of his men exited the vehicle as well.
“Alright, looks like we don’t have a hell of a lot of time to do this, so let’s make it quick. Rick, stay on top of the truck and thin out some of those assholes down the road. Curtis, you and Boyd watch our rear,” Joe ordered.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do? Stand here with my thumb up my ass?” Captain White said indignantly.
Joe reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out the Jerry cans and a length of garden hose that held the tanks together. He shoved the items into White’s chest and smiled. “Nope. You’re the gas station attendant for the day.” Joe tilted his head towards the LMTVs. “Get to it. I’ll cover you.”
White looked down at the Jerry cans and sighed deeply. He grabbed the cans and the hose and walked to the first LMTV’s fuel tank. Fuck it, he thought, beats being locked up.
While White lumbered over to the LMTV, Joe took point at the front of the truck, walking the perimeter of the wrecked LMTVs. The canvas tarps that covered them were torn and lying around the trucks. As Joe reached the rear of the trucks, Rick began firing long-range rounds at the random zombies down the road. The first shot made Joe jump, as he was not expecting it, but the subsequent shots had little effect on him. He pulled his own rifle up, keeping the butt of the M4 at his right shoulder. He kept the rifle at low ready, scanning around him for any unwanted guests. Looking off to his left, he saw a trail of fluids leading from the second truck.
“White, get as much as you can out of that one, looks like the other one here has leaked out.” Joe walked up to the side-mounted fuel tank of the truck and gave it a kick. A hollow metallic thud echoed, confirming his suspicions. “Yep, this one is dry.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna get much out of this one, either. I got about one full can and not much else.” White screwed the cap on the Jerry can and hefted it into the back of the truck.
“Well let’s hope the other LMTV has some useable fuel. C’mon, mount up. We got about eight more miles of zombie-infested road to go.”
Rick picked up the bipod on his AR-10 and hefted the large rifle. The downside of the rifle was that it had no sling or any way to hold it across his back, so he carefully laid the rifle in the bed of the truck and had a seat. Kane sauntered over and laid his head down in Rick’s lap. The German shepherd had become used to the loud gunfire of Rick’s rifle and was no longer affected by the noise. Rick ruffled the dog’s head as Kane made himself comfortable in the lap of his master.
Joe stuffed his rifle into the truck, barrel down once again, and climbed in. Curtis did the same, as did Captain White and Boyd.
As Captain White got into the truck, he made sure not to place his feet near Boyd. He didn’t want to have to assert himself or prove anything to Joe and his people. His actions would speak for themselves when the occasion arose. He was a battle-tested US Marine, having served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, but he needed to make sure that Joe and his people felt comfortable around him. He couldn’t explain why his feelings on the subject had changed. Four months ago, he would have killed them and taken the entire town for himself. Now that he’d had the last few months to think it over, he couldn’t remember why he’d done what he had. The fear of being killed had haunted him for nearly twenty years now, and it was that fear that kept him alive in the worst combat situations and kept the undead from taking him since the world went to shit. He did what he had to do. He begged, stole, and borrowed his way across the south for the last few years after meeting with Lieutenant Wyatt outside Kessler AFB nearly nine years ago.
The base had been largely untouched since the beginning of the undead, and two weeks after the end, White had ran into Wyatt while making his way into Kessler. Teaming up with Wyatt wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but both men had been left out to dry by their respective command structures, and White’s rank was of no influence when it came to the lieutenant. Wyatt had decided to hole up in a motor pool on base and try to regain some of his lost men and assets. White did the grunt work while Wyatt did the think-tank. At first, they started doing small runs to gain supplies and food. After a year, they amassed a dozen Marines/soldiers that had taken to Wyatt’s ideologies. Captain White didn’t necessarily agree with it, but it kept him alive.
Two years and several more dozens of soldiers later, Wyatt ordered out small scouting parties throughout the southeast and mid-Atlantic states. The primary base of operations for him was moved to Fort McClellan, Alabama, to take advantage of the base’s large number of tracked vehicles. Tanks, LAVs, and APCs were ideal for driving through the post-apocalyptic countryside, and they had plenty at their disposal. Units were sent as far north as Ohio, and as far west as Missouri to round up more soldiers for their cause. White stayed with Wyatt for over six years at Fort McClellan, keeping his distance from the increasingly unstable Marine. Every so often, Wyatt would show up with a different rank on his collar, promoting himself whenever the mood struck him right, or when a unit reported in with good news. He pinned himself with 1st Lieutenant after the first raid that netted them a warehouse full of MREs. That was followed shortly by promotions to Captain, Major, and Lieutenant Colonel, each one about every two years. Once the units were in place, they began surrounding and pushing into Virginia. Wyatt pinned the first star on his collar when he realized that he must be the undisputed commander of all the forces that he had aligned himself with. Patriot groups, militia leaders, and others needed to know who was in charge.
Another sound of flesh-meets-metal drove away White’s daydream. He sat up and looked out the windshield of the Ram. More zombies littered the road and surrounding area, choking off several points of travel and forcing Joe to drive onto the shoulder and median. White propped himself between the two front seats as Joe continued swerving in and out of “traffic.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” Joe exclaimed as he tried to dodge the undead. Running over a few wouldn’t do much damage to the truck, but he wasn’t going to risk puncturing the radiator or getting a flat tire in their current spot.
Curtis clenched his rifle and sat up attentively, scanning back and forth and pointing out the zombies positions. “Two more on the left! Three top right!”
“Whatever is in those LMTVs better be fucking worth it. We keep this up too much longer
and we won’t make it back with our collective asses in one piece,” White commented.
“Stow it, White.” Another whump as Joe ran over a particularly fat zombie that was crawling like a slug down the highway, his entrails leaving a bloody, slimy, mess behind him. The fat zombie popped like a balloon full of Jell-O as Joe drove over it. “If Curtis got everything…”
“I did – at least everything that I could. Gear, guns, and ammo went in first.” Curtis said, not looking up.
“Then it will most definitely be worth the trip. The SF guys left us quite a bit of gear. There’s rifles, ammo, helmets, knee and elbow pads, gasmasks, the works. If we are going to train like soldiers, then we need to have the equipment to do it with.”
The road zombies finally started thinning out as Joe got closer to the East River Tunnel. The few that remained were slow in pursuit, and not as much of a threat. Small groups of undead weren’t uncommon, but large ones were another story. Single zombies were mostly ignored nowadays, but still posed a threat. It’s not that a single walker wasn’t a threat, but it would find another, and the two zombies would find others, causing a domino effect. Small packs were easily handled, like the one they had just passed, but drained resources as well.
Joe exited the four-lane road and turned onto the exit ramp for Interstate 77. Several random zombies littered the acceleration ramp. A large berm off to his right blocked the view to the tunnel, but he knew it was there from years of driving through. The East River Tunnel separated West Virginia and Virginia. They had been traveling in West Virginia for the last fifteen minutes, unbeknownst to most of the crew. The sign for the wild and wonderful state’s entrance was no longer there.
The zombies on the ramp began to notice their presence and shambled towards the rumbling sound of the diesel engine. They would need the LMTV to be in working order, or it would get ugly quick. As he made the turn onto the interstate, Rick began pounding on the top of the truck’s cab.
