Six Feet From Hell: Unity: 6FFH Book #5

by Joseph Coley

  The plan was in full effect now. No turning back.

  The deuce-and-a-half truck crawled closer, within a hundred feet of Jamie now. From where he stood, he could see the three men in the back of the truck stirring. They obviously saw the mass of undead in the middle of the road, about fifty feet off to Jamie’s left. The zombies were still gnawing away at entrails and limbs as the truck stopped. It was about forty feet away, off to Jamie’s right. Not nearly close enough to get a good shot off, and moreover, the driver and passenger in the front of the cab weren’t making any movements that suggested they were getting out.

  “Shit,” Jamie mumbled under his breath.

  Cornbread looked down, trying not to make eye contact. “We got about ten seconds before the shit hits the fan, Jamie. We need to figure out what we’re…”

  A shot cracked through the air. Scott had begun to fire a little too early. The recognizable report of the AK-47 immediately caused the three men in the back to get off the truck. They obviously saw where the shots were coming from and got out to return fire. The driver and passenger both jumped out simultaneously.

  It was an unexpected move that made Jamie snap to and realize an opportunity.

  He raised his M4 and stalked forward, mimicking the pursuit towards the truck. The five men that had dismounted the truck began firing off rounds as they moved forward. Jamie knew that Scott couldn’t take much of the gunfire in the cab of the truck. It had already been wrecked and shot all to hell; he didn’t know how much more it could take.

  As Jamie got to within twenty feet of the approaching gunfire, he changed the direction that he was aiming. With one swift move, he swung the M4 over and started taking shots at the Peacemakers. The first man fell with two rounds popping his skull open, and he immediately fell in a heap. Jamie made sure to take out the one closest to him so as not to immediately alert the other four to the fact that they were now the targets, and it worked. The second man never looked off to his left to see his comrade go down, and he took two rounds to the side of the chest and one to the head, an unintentional Mozambique from Jamie’s rifle.

  Cornbread waited until he got a decent shot and dropped to one knee to steady himself. He took his left arm – the one missing the hand that he desperately wished he still had – and steadied the shotgun. The shell was already in the chamber, ready to fire. He eased his finger on the trigger and squeezed. With a large boom followed by a grotesque exploding head, the third man was dropped. The round the third man caught to the temple was a mix of hot glue and ten-penny nails, a lethal slug and flechette combination.

  The few seconds that it took for the other two Peacemakers to realize that they were taking fire was just enough to get them killed. Before the second man hit the ground, Jamie had focused his fire on the next man. Jamie’s rate of fire quickened, causing his shots to sail wide and miss their intended target. The fourth man realized what was happening and quickly turned to Jamie once several rounds had zipped by him. As he swung his rifle, an old lever-action 30-30, Jamie dropped to one knee. The man was less than thirty feet away from Jamie when he brought the rifle to bear on him. He steadied the M4 and pulled the trigger once more.

  Click.

  The rifle had mercilessly jammed.

  Panic shot through his body like a bolt of lightning. He imagined the large 30-30 rifle round tearing through him, leaving a large hole too big to survive. He was too panicked, too distraught to clear the jam. A cold shiver ran through him. This was it. This was how he was going to die, taken down by some random asshole in the middle of nowhere for a group of people that he barely knew. He couldn’t bring himself to reach for the Desert Eagle in the LBV; it would be too late before he could even loose the handgun from its holster.

  The rifle moved in slow motion, as did Cornbread. The down side of having only one good hand was that his follow-up shots were slow. He had to rack the Mossberg one-handed, taking his attention off the target as he chambered the next round.

  “SHOOT, JAMIE!” Cornbread pleaded as the shotgun kicked out the spent shell and chambered a new one.

  But Jamie was frozen in place, mortified.

  Beads of cold sweat popped out on his forehead. There was nothing he could bring himself to do, no escape. His only hope was the shooter would miss.

  Two shots cracked through the air.

  Jamie nearly pissed himself.

  The fourth man jerked and spun around as two 7.62mm rounds passed through the middle of his chest. Blood sprayed out of the gaping holes, following the path of the bullets. He flailed and fired a round that sailed into the air as he fell backwards, mortally wounded. The entire moment seemed to last forever, but passed in a few short seconds.

  Cornbread brought the Mossberg to bear on the last Peacemaker, but stayed his hand.

  The fifth man had dropped his rifle, bringing his hands up in surrender. He quickly dropped to his knees and began blubbering away for Cornbread to spare his life.

  “Please! I’m sorry! I didn’t want to hurt nobody! They made…”

  Another shot cracked through the air from the man’s right side. The round passed through the surrendering man’s neck, severing his spinal cord. The round blew out a large chunk of vertebrae and sinew, as well as copious amounts of blood. His hands fell, as did the rest of his body, his body no longer receiving signals from his brain to do anything else. He was dead instantly.

  By the time the shots stopped echoing, the group of zombies haplessly munching at the “trap” were already in pursuit of the two living men. A dozen shambling, putrid corpses reached out, grabbing at air as they stalked towards Cornbread and Jamie.

  Cornbread realized that Jamie was still on one knee, motionless. He sped over and smacked his friend on the back as he passed him, trying to get his attention back. Cornbread knew that Scott had taken a hell of a beating in the semi, and the final shots had come from the ruined truck. He needed to check on their third gunslinger, and quickly.

  “Get up, asshole! Clear that goddamn jam and take care of the zombies! I gotta get Scott!”

  Jamie slowly fumbled with the M4. He dropped the magazine and haphazardly slapped at the side of the rifle until the jammed brass fell out. It wasn’t the proper way to clear a jam, but his head was still spinning, so he didn’t care how the damn thing cleared, so long as it worked. He slid the magazine back into the magazine well and pulled the charging handle, chambering the next round. Raising the rifle, he brought the ACOG sight on the group of undead and began taking accurate, calculated shots. Decayed brains and other indeterminable parts flew out from the zombies’ heads as they fell, one by one.

  As Jamie was taking out the mass of ghouls, Cornbread chugged across the road towards the truck. As he reached the driver’s side door, it opened. Scott fell out in a heap, bloody and clinging to life. Several bullets had done their damage to his chest, as well as a nasty-looking wound that had bloodied his face and taken a sizeable chunk of bone out of his right eye socket. Scott’s right eye was hanging slightly out of the socket and looked to be useless now. Not that it mattered; the three holes in his chest would soon seal his fate.

  Scott fell on his left side, the loose eye lolling across his nose. His breathing was ragged and gurgling, the blood quickly seeping into his lungs.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to stitch me up, buddy,” Scott said and coughed a spray of blood onto the pavement.

  Cornbread couldn’t help but laugh for an instant. For a person he hardly knew, it was difficult for the burly man to hold back tears. “Yeah, I think you’re pretty well fucked.”

  Scott reached up his right hand, and Cornbread took it firmly in his own. “You saved our ass, Scott. I can’t begin to thank you. It looks like we are gonna owe ya’ll another favor after all.”

  Scott blinked, but his left eye was the only one working now. “Just get Jim and the rest of the people from Camp Brown the hell out of here. They are all good people, and they deserve to have a better life than this. Just promise
me that you guys will take care of them.” Scott pulled Cornbread closer to his face. “And don’t you let me turn into one of those fuckers.”

  Cornbread squeezed the fallen man’s hand tightly. “I will…take care of you when the time comes, Scott. Your people will be safe, I promise. Thank you, brother.”

  Scott smiled, and with that, took his final breath.

  Cornbread waited for a few more seconds to make absolutely sure that Scott was no longer among the living, and then ended the possibility of becoming one of the undead.

  Jamie was still firing off shots. After a fresh magazine, he continued to splat zombie heads until he was satisfied there were no more. He blinked several times, his eye needing a relief from squinting through the ACOG. Cordite hung in the air and the barrel of his M4 bore the heat of nonstop firing. Quickly looking around, he noticed Cornbread kneeling over Scott’s body. He trotted over and surveyed the scene.

  “Is he…” Jamie managed out.

  Cornbread stood and brushed back a tear. “Yeah, and he ain’t comin’ back.” He paused for a moment. “He said he wanted us to get these people to safety. I say we don’t waste any time doin’ that.”

  “As much as I’d like to do that, it is gonna be dark soon. I say we leave at first light tomorrow morning. We can’t afford to have these people out at night; they’d die of exposure before we could get back into Virginia. They are in no shape to be travelling in the cold rain at night.”

  “Fair enough. How are we gonna explain this to Joe and Larry?”

  “Explain what?”

  “Where we’ve been, what we’ve done, who we’ve seen. Joe is gonna want to know about the Peacemakers. Wyatt has got more people up here; that doesn’t bode well for us.”

  Jamie breathed out a deep sigh. “Well let’s just hope they are in a good mood when we get back.”

  CHAPTER 21

  April 19, 2022 – 0127 Hours – Bishop, West Virginia

  Under normal circumstances, Jebediah Davis – known to most as just Jeb or J.D. – would be ecstatic to see the barbed-wire confines of Father Rife’s compound. The few times that he had got to meet the old man, he’d been treated to luxuries that just could not be found nowadays. Hot tub, sauna, extravagant food, and the few remaining women that were worthy of spending any time around were just a few of the pleasantries extended to him.

  The term “woman” meant little to Father Rife; most of the female company that he had was under the age of eighteen, some as young as thirteen. Father Rife had a fondness for procreating the world by himself – they didn’t just call him “Father” for being a man of the cloth – as he had judged himself the only worthy father to the future children of the world. Anyone who questioned his actions or refused his requests found themselves dumped to the bottom of one of the many mineshafts in McDowell County, often while still alive. He was a man who rarely minced words; when he spoke, others listened.

  Jeb was neither pleased with himself, nor with the news that he was carrying to Father Rife. Willie Stiltner was dead, as was Rachel, one of Father Rife’s concubines. The old man would not be happy with him, and he only hoped the distraction of the bad news itself would sway Father Rife from killing him. Jeb had always been a loyal soldier to God and to Father Rife, and he prayed that it would be enough.

  Assuming Father Rife didn’t find out what he and Willie were doing with Rachel.

  Most of Father Rife’s women stayed in the massive, three-story home that he had claimed. Before the end of the world, it had been owned by one of the many men who made a fortune off the coal mines in McDowell County, a man who would damn the torpedoes to get what he wanted. Father Rife saw it fitting that he be the one to take the house all those years ago. In the first few days of the apocalypse, he had taken the opportunity to gather his family – mostly cousins and children – to find a suitable place to hole up. The house seemed well fitted to survive the apocalypse; solar panels and deep-cell batteries assured the power would stay on when the rest of the world had long since gone out. Even the well pump was solar-powered, ensuring fresh water for many years to come.

  Amid the lavish furnishings and the sense of security of the house on the hill, he became accustomed to the extravagant surroundings and had his plethora of cousins go out and search for items to fortify the area with. He wanted to make it his personal Camelot. Several men never made it back to the compound, dying to get the supplies that he asked for, but Father Rife didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, weeding out the flock was a necessary evil. He couldn’t have too many men trying to nudge their way into his position of power. The wives of the fallen men – when applicable – would become one of his many servants either cleaning, cooking, or procreating.

  The compound itself sat on a large, steep mountainside. Nearly inaccessible from below, it served as a wonderful hilltop fortress. The small yard was enclosed with an eight-foot high fence made of four-by-four wooden posts. If a person – or zombie – managed to get past it, there was a chain-link fence with barbed wire intertwined. While not impenetrable it was damn near impossible to get by, unless you knew where to go. There was a small gate, guarded at all times by at least one armed man, which served as the lone entrance.

  Jeb Davis was now at the threshold of that entrance.

  He reached up and pounded on the heavy wooden gate.

  “Let me in! I need to talk to Father Rife! It’s a ‘mergency!”

  One of the guards came over to the gate. He didn’t like being startled, and he damn sure didn’t like being interrupted while he was fucking one of Father Rife’s women. He was still pulling his pants up when he opened the gate.

  “The fuck do you want, Jeb? Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to get my dick wet here?” The middle-aged guard looked back to the sixteen-year-old girl cowering near the makeshift guard shack, which was an old lean-to building, and then back to Jeb. She was naked and clinging to the few remaining bits of clothing that she had left. “Sixteen-year-old pussy is a fuckload more important than whatever the fuck you want!”

  Jeb was nearly exhaustion from his trip to Tazewell. It took him more than twelve hours to traverse the S-curve filled mountain roads between Tazewell and Bishop. Over ten miles of steep terrain had taken what little energy that he had left. Bishop sat on the Virginia/West Virginia line, far from what one would consider civilization. After the initial outbreak, there were few zombies that managed to get into the town. The people that lived in Bishop were largely unaffected by the undead most of the time. The town, unlike Tazewell, had no fortifications, just the naturally difficult accessibility that it had before the world ended.

  “I was in Tazewell with Willie Stiltner. They got ‘ol Willie right in the fuckin’ head, and I barely got out! Those sons’ a’bitches killed him bigger’n fuck!”

  “The fuck was you doin’ in Tazewell? Father Rife’ll kick your fuckin’ ass for goin’ that far and not bringin’ nothin’ back.”

  “I was chasin’ after Rachel. That bitch got away from me and Willie, so I had to go after her, ‘fore Father Rife found out!”

  The guard chuckled as he zipped his pants up and latched his belt back. The young girl took it as a sign that he was finished and started to get away from the shack. She was wrong.

  He glared at the girl. “Bitch, did I say I was done? Sit your little fuckin’ ass down ‘fore I stick it in your ass next time!”

  The girl did as she was told. One of the few benefits to being Father Rife’s guards was that they got the chance to have their way with a woman of their choosing once a week. It wasn’t much, but it kept the guards fairly content and docile. None of the men were allowed to bear a child with the women, and if she were found to be pregnant, she would be summarily killed.

  Which was a problem for Jeb.

  “You done knocked that bitch up, didn’t you?”

  Silence.

  The guard shifted his pants. “Gawddammit, Jeb. You know he’s gonna kill you for not killin’ her, right?”

 
“Don’t you breathe a fuckin’ word of it, Danny. Imma tell Father Rife that she escaped and I had no choice but to go after her.”

  The guard, Danny, snorted. “I don’t give a fuck what you tell him, but I don’t know shit. Besides, he’s sleepin’ right now, and if I have to go wake him up, he’s gonna be mighty pissed off at me for wakin’ him up.” Danny glanced back to the stately residence of Father Rife. “Tell you what, you g’wan up there and tell him yourself. If he asks me anything, I’ll tell him you wouldn’t tell me shit, that way if he gets pissed, he can take it out on your sorry ass.”

  “Thanks a lot, shithead.”

  “Hey, I ain’t the one knockin’ bitches up. You know he’s the only one allowed to do that. Get the fuck outta here ‘fore I change my mind about lettin’ you in,” Danny said, and stepped aside, allowing Jeb to pass.

  As Jeb was walking past the second fence, he could hear the young girl softly crying, and Danny laughing maniacally.

  Jeb was not comfortable talking to Father Rife about what had happened with Rachel. He and Willie Stiltner were unsure who had impregnated her, as they both had taken turns with her. Once she was pregnant, Jeb had decided to keep her out of Father Rife’s prying eyes and keep her for himself. He wanted to prove to Father Rife that he wasn’t the only one capable of reproducing decent offspring. In another life, Jeb had a wife and children, and both had turned out fine. He had lost both his children and wife to the goddamned zombies and wanted to start his family again. Once he was offered Rachel, he saw it as a prime opportunity to secretly create his own offspring. It was not a smart move on his part, but he never expected her to escape, either. Now that she had, and inevitably told her rescuers of what had happened in Bishop, it would only be a matter of time before the denizens of Tazewell took out their vengeance on them.