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

by Joseph Coley

  The residents of Tazewell had nicknamed his people terms like “Mountain men” and “Snake handlers” simply because they did not understand what the folks living in the mountains were. They weren’t a cult, at least not by most standards, but more of a brothel. Each resident took care of the others, albeit with strange customs. It was the Old West; you didn’t take another man’s horse or woman or cheat him out of anything. If you did, then God himself would not be able to take care of the shitstorm that would be brought upon you.

  Jeb realized that he was not in the best frame of mind to be talking to Father Rife. He had to get his story one-hundred-percent correct, or the old man would know something was amiss. All he had to do was tell it minus the getting Rachel pregnant part.

  His heart thumped in his chest as he opened the wrought iron gate to the house. It was a magnificent sight. The house was built about five years before the zombies came, and still had a fresh, new look to it even after the past near-decade of use. It was a three-story white structure with a large porch that encircled the entire house on the ground level. On the second floor, two balconies sat above it, and the third floor had a single balcony in the middle, giving the three porches a triangular appearance. The wrought iron gate was not meant to keep anyone in or out, but was there just for show, accenting the high-dollar nature of the place. A wide, gentle sloping stairway led up to the front door. The door itself was double-paned insulated glass, with a thick aluminum door behind it, also painted white.

  Jeb reached the front door and opened the glass door. He grabbed the large knocker on the aluminum door and gave it three quick hits. The sound the knocker made echoed through the large foyer behind it, and even from the outside, Jeb could hear it.

  Jeb stood and waited for the inevitable.

  Father Rife was not a forgiving man. Having been a man of the cloth for over twenty years in a primitive Baptist church had given him little to forgive people over. Most churches would speak the word of God and how Jesus loved all of his followers and how God loved his children, but not Father Rife’s Baptist upbringings. Instead of teaching of how to get into heaven, it was more like hell is hot, and here’s why you’re going, unless you change your ways and repent.

  It was nearly ten minutes of unbearable anxiety as Jeb waited for the door to open, but it finally did.

  Father Rife answered the door in a white-and-gold silk bathrobe, a stark contrast to Jeb’s mud-stained overalls and worn Carhart jacket. It was two sides of the same coin, however. Father Rife gleamed a sinister smile, one that made Jeb extremely nervous. It was a smile that he had seen before.

  Right before Father Rife had ordered someone killed.

  “Why, Jebediah Davis, you look like the devil! Come on in and we will clean you up a bit and get you something to eat. Danny tells me that you have some news for me. I’d sure hope that it is something very important to be waking an old man up in the middle of the night like this.”

  Jeb meekly nodded.

  “Yessir. I’m afraid we might have some problems soon.”

  CHAPTER 22

  April 19, 2022 – 0223 Hours

  Jeb had been treated to a quick, hot shower, one of the many luxuries he was not used to. The water had stayed hot for about ten minutes, and he let it cover him the entire session. He didn’t bother with the soap that Father Rife had, opting to just wash away the layers of dirt and grime with the hot water. He stood under the water for as long as it stayed warm. A man could get used to living in Father Rife’s home. Women, food, and hot water, the last of which he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  It felt magnificent.

  After showering and toweling off – leaving the towel as dirty as his clothes – there was a fresh pair of overalls, clean underwear, and a white, long sleeved shirt waiting for him on the bed as he exited the shower. Having not changed clothes in nearly a year, he welcomed the amenities given by Father Rife. The clothes were undoubtedly laid out by one of his many women. He got dressed.

  After donning the new clothes, he stepped out of the bathroom into a large den. The floor was sunk in the middle of the room, making a round sofa out of the space. Off to the right was a small wet bar, where Father Rife stood, now dressed in khakis and a black turtleneck. On his feet, he wore an expensive-looking pair of tan leather sandals. Jeb briefly wondered where all the old man’s expensive things came from, but then he thought better of it. There was no sense in trying to figure it out; men had been killed for less.

  “Scotch?”

  Jeb snapped from his daydream. Father Rife was holding up a bottle of liquor.

  “Yessir. Thank you, Father.”

  Father Rife poured two fingers in two small glasses and set the bottle down.

  “So what news do you have for me, Jebediah?”

  Jeb sipped the scotch. It was good; an aged single malt that was nearly twenty years old. Just another one of Father Rife’s pleasures.

  “My woman, Rachel, she escaped! She ran off towards Tazewell! Those bastards took her and killed Willie Stiltner!”

  “Willie was family, Jeb. You let one of my family get killed. Is that what you’re telling me? I assume since you’re here that it means you didn’t get her back. I also assume since you said there would be trouble, that the people in Tazewell now have her. Am I correct?”

  Jeb stopped sipping the scotch. “Yessir, that’s about the long and the short of it.”

  Father Rife walked over to Jeb, downing the scotch in one long gulp. Once he was within a few feet of Jeb, he sat the glass down on the back of the rotunda couch and stood before him. Jeb wasn’t sure how to proceed. He was getting the unmistakable vibe that he was about to meet a fate worse than death.

  “And what about the fact that she was pregnant, Jeb? Hmm? You plan on telling me how that happened, and why there was nothing done about it?” Father Rife’s voice escalated and had a tinge of aggravation to it.

  Jeb swallowed hard. How in the hell did he know about Rachel being pregnant? It didn’t matter now. Jeb genuinely feared for his life, and with good reason.

  “Finish that drink, it’s a twenty-year-old scotch. No sense in it going to waste.”

  Jeb couldn’t move.

  “I said down that booze, Jeb.”

  Jeb did as he was told and downed the drink in a single draw. He sat the glass down beside Father Rife’s. With reflexes that were uncommon for a man his age, Father Rife plunged a Bowie knife deep into Jeb’s upper abdomen.

  Jeb felt the pain, the tug at his stomach, and the warm feeling of blood spreading throughout his chest.

  Father Rife leaned forward and whispered in Jeb’s ear.

  “These are my people, and Tazewell will be my town. I have no room for a Judas in my flock. You will die and become one of the undead, I promise you that.”

  The words were like daggers piercing through his skull.

  Jeb staggered back, his hands reaching to stop the blood flow, but it was far too late already. The crimson spread throughout his shirt quickly, and he began to feel dizzy. Only one thought pervaded his mind. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back, only taking a deep breath, trying to speak. He only wanted to know the answer to one question.

  “Why? Why clean me up and clothe me if you only meant to kill me, you sumbitch?”

  “The scotch was to thin your blood out to make sure you bled out faster. And as for the clothes, well, let’s just say I don’t like killing a man without him feeling a little bit of relief and happiness. He should be clean for his trip to Heaven, or in your case, hell. There ain’t any sense in being filthy for the devil.”

  Jeb did not have the words, and so he died, quickly and silently.

  Father Rife dug out a small radio, and keyed it up. “Danny, come get this traitor. I don’t want him in my house when he turns.”

  “Yessir,” Danny said, his voice coming from the tinny speaker.

  A few moments later, Danny was dragging Jeb’s body out of the stately house. A few minutes later, Danny reappear
ed. Father Rife had one of his many women cleaning up the bloody mess. Father Rife was cleaning his hands with a small towel, wiping the blood from his hands.

  “Is there anything else, Father?”

  Father Rife threw the towel down at his cleaning lady, an eighteen-year-old girl dressed in a very short skirt and no top, her breasts swaying slightly with the movement of her scrubbing. She winced slightly as the towel hit her on the head.

  “Send for all of my people. I wish to address them. Get everyone from Bishop, Bradshaw, War, and have them here at noon, two days from now. Make sure every person we have is here, I have an announcement to make.”

  Danny nodded. “Yessir. What should I tell them?”

  Father Rife stared coldly into Danny’s eyes. He sneered another sinister grin.

  “Tell them it’s time we paid the sinners in Tazewell a visit.”

  CHAPTER 23

  April 19, 2022 – 0703 Hours

  The early morning light hadn’t yet fallen on the Tazewell County Jail, but the people inside stirred nonetheless. There was no sleep to be had the night before, not by anyone. Joe had dozed off for a few minutes at a time, but the non-stop moans of the undead could be heard through the thick walls of the jail. He grabbed his gear and headed to the main entrance.

  Each one of the nine men – and one dog – filed into the sally port of the jail. It had been decided that going out the sally port was the best move. The sally port doorway led out of town, but it was decided that they would climb to the top of the wall using a large stepladder. The ladder had been procured from an area near the wall the night before. Aluminum ladders were often used inside town to get to inaccessible areas of the wall, or areas of the wall too high to reach for repair. Luckily enough, there had been one less than twenty yards from the main entrance to town.

  The plan was for Balboa and Larry to go outside the wall, prop the ladder up on the exterior wall, and then take out the several undead who ha roamed to within proximity of the jail. Once they were satisfied that the area was sufficiently clear, they would signal the others to exit from the ground-level entrance and fire up the LMTV and Dodge Ram parked outside the doors. It was a bit of work, but they weren’t satisfied in just rushing out the front door. Every move, every situation had been discussed, and rally points had been established throughout town, just in case.

  They knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  The group looked like a mercenary team ready for war as they readied themselves at the sally port. Each man had a full supplement of twelve magazines, minus Reggie. Reggie had opted to keep his longbow and quiver, but changed into a fresh MultiCam uniform complete with knee and elbow pads.

  Balboa clanged the aluminum ladder against the floor, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

  “Most of ya’ll know that I don’t speak a whole hell of a lot, but when I do, I mean what I say. I know what a task this is going to be for us, so let’s just pray that we can make it through in one piece,” Balboa put forth. Raising his voice and smiling, “Can I get an amen!”

  “Amen!” The group voiced back.

  “Alright then.” Balboa hoisted the ladder over his shoulder. “Larry, I’m ready when you are.”

  Larry reached for the sally port door. Joe grabbed his hand. They hadn’t spoken much since their impromptu fight the day before. Joe didn’t have the words at the time, but he did now. He’d had plenty of time to think about their task and what needed to be done to save the town.

  “This is your town, your people, and where you chose to raise your family. I only hope that I can say the same for myself when we make it back.”

  Larry didn’t smile, didn’t move, and just looked at his friend’s face.

  “We gotta teach you how to punch. People in my town know how to fight.”

  Joe got the message. Apology accepted.

  Joe smiled and loosed his hand from Larry’s wrist. Larry raised the door, the metal clanging. It was by no means quiet, but they weren’t expecting any resistance on the other side of the door. As it reached the top and the men strolled out, rifles raised, they saw what was waiting.

  Nothing.

  Joe and Curtis split off to the left, Balboa and Larry to the right. The early morning light was just beginning to crest the top of the mountains. It was going to be overcast later, as evidenced by the gray clouds clinging around the mountaintops, but was fairly clear at the moment. The ground was still wet from the rain the day before, which worked to their advantage. The wetness would mask their movements a little better than dry ground would.

  Joe scanned back and forth, looking for anything to shoot at. Curtis did the same. When both men were satisfied there was nothing amiss, they gave a thumbs up to Larry and Balboa.

  Balboa nodded silently and crept towards the outside the wall. The wall was nearly twelve feet high at the jail, the tallest section around the town. Once he was satisfied that he was near the vehicles, he sat the ladder down and began the painstakingly slow process of extending it to its fullest length. The sound was like hammering an anvil, echoing more than he expected.

  “Well, there goes the element of surprise,” Larry quipped.

  “I’m tryin’ here!” Balboa hissed.

  Zombie growls and throaty moans could be heard as Balboa laid the ladder against the wall.

  “Here goes nothin,’” He said and climbed to the top rung.

  When he peered over the top of the wall, several zombies were milling about. Three of them were harmlessly scratching against the front door of the jail. Three more were aimlessly wandering near the back of the LMTV. The truck was parked about twenty feet away and off to Balboa’s left. He couldn’t see any other zombies other than the six in front of him, a good start to their endeavor.

  Balboa slowly took a few steps down and motioned to Joe and Larry.

  “We’ve got six. Three at the front door and three more by the trucks. How do you wanna proceed?”

  “Make a distraction, but not too loud. Get their attention and get ‘em near the wall and away from the door. When they have their back turned, we can rush ‘em and take ‘em out silently. The fewer that we attract to the jail, the better,” Larry answered.

  “Sounds good to me. All right, myself, Curtis, Rick, and Captain White will take the LMTV. Larry, you take Balboa, Kody, Boyd and Reggie and pile into the Ram. Remember to stay together and don’t leave the trucks until we split up. Once we get to the first building, you guys head to the hole in the wall and seal it off as best you can. We will start at the first building, which I think is the old school by the sheriff’s office. We aren’t gonna take too much time with the buildings until we can get the town sealed off first,” Joe instructed.

  Balboa climbed back to the top of the ladder, and then looked down to his friends. “Well then, let’s get to it.”

  Joe nodded. “Rile ‘em up, Balboa. Once we get all of ‘em, you haul ass back to the entrance and mount up with Larry in the Ram. Everybody else, let’s head to the front door.”

  “Hey, you smelly dead fuckers! Yeah, you rotten pieces of shit! Come on over and let Balboa take care of ya!” Balboa yelled, referring to himself in the third person. He beat his fist against the ladder, and it clanged loudly. The noise did not go unnoticed.

  The three zombies near the trucks were the first to become aware of Balboa’s noisy introduction. They collectively looked around, trying to spot the source of the sound. The three undead at the front entrance to the jail provided them with something to follow, as they shambled from their position in front of the door. The three clueless zombies soon became wise to the sound.

  Balboa rattled the ladder again. “C’mon you bloated sacks of shit! I’ll break your arms off and beat you to back to death with ‘em!”

  Six shuffling corpses were soon scratching away at the wall. They harmlessly pawed at the reinforced barricade, unable to make a dent in it.

  Balboa continued berating them with as many insults as he could come up with.

 
Meanwhile, Joe and the rest of the men had made it to the main entrance. Joe stood at the door, waiting for the scratching sounds to stop. Once they did, he quietly unlocked the door and eased it open. The three zombies on front of the door were now joined with the others that had been near the truck and were raising rotten, decayed arms at Balboa as he continued to hurl insults at them.

  Reggie stepped forward as Joe pushed the door open a little more, eyeing the targets. He had already drew an arrow from his quiver and held it in the homemade longbow he carried. He nudged Joe as he peered through the open door.

  “I can hit all six of ‘em from here. No sense in getting that close to ‘em if we don’t have to,” Reggie whispered.

  Joe paused momentarily. He was used to doing the dirty work himself, but Reggie brought up a good point. Half of his crew wasn’t vaccinated, and a single bite would mean death for the person that was unfortunate enough to receive it. Joe politely stepped aside, silently opening the door all the way as he did.

  “All right, have at it, Reggie.”

  “Twenty bucks says you miss one, homeboy,” Captain White quipped, his comment tinged with racism.

  Reggie knelt and drew back the first arrow.

  “I’ll take that bet, asshole,” Reggie said, and let the arrow fly.

  Before Joe could grab his tomahawk from his belt, Reggie had already pegged two of the zombies in the back of the head. His aim was flawless, as was his form. Each time he reached back for another arrow, his fingers found the feathery tip. Ten seconds later, the other four zombies were lying in heap, none the wiser that their comrades had fallen.

  Six arrows, six dead zombies.

  Balboa climbed down from the ladder, having a thought as he did.

  For a hippie, that motherfucker is hardcore!

  Reggie trotted over to the heap of zombies felled by his arrows and recovered his reusable ammo. Six arrows were fired, and only one was not reusable, the shaft broken as the unfortunate creature fell with it protruding from its left eye.