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

by Joseph Coley

  “C’mon Uncle Nathan! Come get some!”

  Uncle Nathan charged, grabbing for Boyd as he leaped forward. Boyd swiftly stabbed him in the guy, just below his ribcage, and jerked up, creating a large hole. He grabbed the pin on the grenade with his teeth and pulled it out, shoved it into the gaping hole, and spun Uncle Nathan around. Boyd gave him a hard shove into a half-dozen more zombies shambling towards him. Boyd grabbed his ears and ducked down as Uncle Nathan stumbled forward, unintentionally tackling four more zombies. The group hit the ground in a heap.

  “Fire in the hole!” Boyd yelled.

  And then they exploded.

  Brains, blood, guts, and gore burst out in all directions like a grotesque, blooming meat flower. Boyd couldn’t help but admire his handiwork as he raised up. Bits of flesh and brains were still raining down as he took his fingers out of his ears and looked to his cohorts. They were still too busy trying to take care of the incursion of at least two dozen more zombies on the other side of the Ram. Boyd wiped the raining blood from his face and jumped into the back of the truck to help his friends.

  Then he saw something in the distance, something that he wasn’t prepared to see.

  He wiped his face again, one time with each hand.

  “Guys?”

  Kody was unloading rifle rounds into several zombies that were shambling towards then, about twenty feet off, oblivious.

  “Guys?” A little louder, with more urgency.

  Larry dropped his pistol magazine, out of ammo for it. He began swinging the end of an M4 at the undead banging against the truck.

  “GUYS!”

  “What, Boyd?” They all yelled simultaneously, except Reggie. Reggie had been pulling back an arrow to fire when he saw what Boyd saw.

  “I think ya’ll ought to see this!” Reggie yelled.

  Boyd raised a bloody finger and pointed.

  “Oh shit! What the fuck is that?”

  CHAPTER 25

  April 19, 2022 – 0731 Hours

  Joe climbed into the driver’s side of the LMTV. He had directed Captain White and Curtis to do a quick look-around near the large, abandoned schoolhouse and check for any stragglers. He’d heard three shots from the time they had disappeared around the building until now. Curtis came around to his left and Captain White to his right.

  “All good?”

  Both men gave thumbs up.

  “Good. Let’s head towards Larry. I hear a ton of gunfire coming from that end of town. I hope that he…”

  Joe was interrupted by an earthquake-like rumble beneath him. It wasn’t the rumble of the truck, this one felt like an impact tremor. It was a quick, thunderous, rumble.

  “Whatever is going on down there doesn’t look or sound good. I can see more of the slugs turning that direction, heading towards him. The fast ones have been pouring over there for a few minutes, but I can’t get a shot on any of ‘me, it’d just be wasting ammo,” Rick said, pulling the Leupold scope away from his eye.

  The radio on Joe’s vest crackled, filled with the staccato of gunfire and crackle of a bad connection. Larry’s radio battery was dying, but what he could hear didn’t sound good.

  “Get down here! …me…and…up…help!”

  “Larry? I can’t copy! Repeat your last!”

  Static greeted him, followed by much more gunfire in the distance.

  “What’s the problem?” Captain White asked.

  “Larry needs help. Get in and take out what you can, but save your ammo. It sounds like he’s got a hell of a lot to deal with down there.”

  Several more gunshots.

  Then silence.

  “Get in!” Joe yelled.

  So they did. Captain White did as he was told and got into the back of the LMTV, ready to take out more of the undead. Curtis was already setting his rifle down and loading up the Ma Deuce, their .50 caliber heavy machine gun.

  “What’s the problem?” Curtis asked, feeding the linked rounds into the massive gun.

  “Can’t you hear it?”

  Curtis paused momentarily. “I don’t hear shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Larry’s in trouble,” Rick said.

  Curtis racked both handles on the Ma Deuce.

  “Then let’s roll!”

  Captain White pounded on the top of the LMTV’s cab, signaling Joe.

  Joe pressed the large “D” on the pushbutton transmission, and revved the engine. The truck lurched forward, spewing out black smoke as it did. The truck sped forward, towards the other end of town with purpose. Joe tried keying the radio again, but to no avail, the battery on Larry’s was most definitely dead. Things were not looking up.

  * * *

  As Joe neared the other end of town, the number of undead that he saw grew exponentially. The sound of the constant gunfire was drawing nearly every zombie out of the woodwork towards Larry. Joe wheeled the LMTV towards a singular zombie aimlessly wandering in the middle of the road.

  “Out of the way, fucker!”

  The LMTV’s high profile bumper caught the walker square in the forehead as it turned towards the sound of the diesel engine. The effect the bumper had on it was similar to hitting a rotten pumpkin with a cinder block dropped from fifty feet.

  Shit went everywhere.

  The black goo speckled the windshield as Joe drove on. Within a few more seconds, he was cruising at 35 mph through the middle of town. As he neared the motel, he could see the mass of zombies that Larry had mentioned. It was unfortunate there were so many of them, but it had a silver lining in most of the ghouls were heading to one place, making it much easier to take them out wholesale.

  As Joe began running over more in the road, he could hear the Ma Deuce thundering behind him. The ones that he missed hitting were being mowed down as the truck rumbled past them. Curtis was working the butterfly triggers on the fifty cal like the seasoned pro that he was.

  The chatter of rifle fire picked up as Joe rolled by the motel and made the left-hand turn towards the chow hall and the breach in the wall. The fire was a good sign; at least there was someone left at the end of town to make the racket. Joe feared the worst, however. He didn’t want his decisions to affect more lives, cause more death, or lose any more people than he already had. The hindsight of crashing the wall to save a few instead of not saving any was weighing heavily on him. Had he made the right call? Not that it mattered now, but the fact was that over half the residents of Tazewell were either dead or turned. Saving thirty out of nearly a hundred wasn’t great odds, but he was trying his damnedest to make sure there would be no more casualties. Getting to Larry was the best way to do that.

  As he neared the breach in the wall, he noticed something, something that wasn’t supposed to be there. His heart thundered in his chest as he drove on, the fifty cal booming behind him. The hole in the wall had been plugged, but with something that he didn’t quite understand how. There was no rational explanation. As he pulled up, the Ram was parked off to the side.

  And a large, green two-and-a-half-ton military transport truck was in the hole.

  What the hell? Where the fuck did that come from?

  It took him only a matter of seconds to figure out, especially once he saw who was assisting Larry and his team.

  Cornbread and Jamie were hammering the undead, firing from the top of the large military truck.

  With over two dozen others, not including Larry, Kody, Balboa, and Reggie.

  Joe spun the wheel of the LMTV around, aiming the rear end of the truck to catch the remaining zombies in a massive crossfire. Jamie, Cornbread, Larry, and the others fired with their backs against the wall, literally, and the rear of the LMTV aimed perpendicular to them.

  Curtis rolled onto his side, not able to keep his balance. He quickly got up and peered around to the front of the truck.

  “What’s the big deal, Joe?”

  Joe flung open the door and pointed to the bedlam. There were still over fifty undead bastards trying to claw at their frie
nds in the Ram and the deuce-and-a-half.

  “It’s Jamie and Cornbread! Mow the rest of these motherfuckers down! Send ‘em back to hell!”

  Curtis spun around and grabbed the butterfly triggers on the Ma Deuce. Indeed, there were several dozen more zombies clawing and fighting their way to Larry and his team. They were swinging the ends of rifles at the horde, trying desperately to thin out the pack, to little avail.

  “Those crazy bastards are alive? Fuck me!” Captain White screamed. For the first time in a long, long while he felt an emotion that he hadn’t felt.

  Joy.

  He raised his M4 and started taking shots at the closest zombies to the Ram. “Curtis! You take out the horde, imma take care of the close ones! I don’t want you firing any closer than ten feet from the Dodge!”

  “Got it!” Curtis said, and unleashed the fifty. The barrage of lead ripped through the horde like a hot knife through butter, popping heads and dropping zombies left and right. “Haha! Get some!”

  Rick was shouldering his rifle as well, trying to get a bead on the high-percentage shots that he knew he could make. There was a particularly nimble zombie that had climbed up on the bed of the Ram, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting Balboa. Rick leveled the rifle and squeezed the trigger.

  One less zombie.

  Balboa felt the spray of blood hit him in the back of the head, and heard the crisp snap of the round as it passed through the would-be attacker. He quickly wiped his face and saw where the shot had come from.

  He saw Rick look over top of the AR-10 with a huge grin on his face. Rick gave a thumbs up from a distance.

  “Hell yes! Guys! Joe and the rest of the crew are here. Get down and let ‘em finish these fuckers off!”

  Kody turned and looked back, seeing the fifty cal mowing down the horde. He too, raised a fist in exaltation.

  “Fuck yeah! Kill ‘em all, boys! Let God sort ‘em out!”

  The Ma Deuce thundered, rifle shots cracked, and hot lead was thrown at the mass of zombies. Red mist flew out like fog, and bone fragments were thrown all over the place as the gaggle of ghouls were whittled down, one by one. Spent brass was flung, hot lead was fired, and the town of Tazewell was taken back by those who had worked so hard to make it what it was.

  It was home.

  Within twenty seconds, the entire pandemonium of killing was over. Cordite hung in the air, along with the smell of hot metal and blood. As the smoke cleared and the zombies ceased to move, the disgustingly large pile of bodies was evident.

  Joe got down from the LMTV, keeping his rifle at low ready, just in case. He waded through the mass carnage of bodies, stepping over rib cages, intestines, shattered skulls, and rivers of blood and black ooze until he got to the Ram.

  The men in the Dodge slowly got to their feet. Larry was first to get up and get out of the truck bed. He too, had to navigate through the pile of blood and bones. He walked until he stood face-to-face with Joe, a coy look on his face.

  “What did I tell you about calling for backup, you crazy bastard?” Joe asked, and then burst into laughter. He hugged his friend for a brief moment, and then looked behind him at the people exiting the vehicles. Most of the Hazard crew was very worn, bedraggled, and very malnourished-looking.

  Larry looked back at the people, then to Joe.

  “Jamie and Cornbread are here, and they have some more guests – friends of yours from Kentucky, actually – that would like to live in our town.”

  Joe smiled, but furrowed his brow.

  “Kentucky? They went and got the Hazard folks? I’ll be damned! Could have picked a better time to leave, but damn!”

  Joe turned and started walking back towards the two-and-a-half-ton truck. He laid his arm around Larry’s shoulder as the two men strolled over.

  “Wait, our town?”

  Larry looked to him and smiled confidently.

  “Yeah, our town.”

  CHAPTER 26

  April 19, 2022 – 1031 Hours – Anniston, Alabama

  Captain Michael Styles had bad news.

  It was news that he didn’t want to deliver himself, but his subordinates were unfortunately otherwise occupied. He never relished giving the General bad news. The General had a funny way of taking it, and that fact was not lost on him. The old adage of don’t kill the messenger never fit with him. In the past few years, whenever bad news had been delivered, it had occasionally been met with corporal punishment and, in extreme cases, death

  Captain Styles hoped it would be neither.

  He trotted down the hallway, mulling over the possibilities of his assignment. Maybe he could pass the duty off to the secretary; she was always on the General’s good side. Of course, she gave him almost daily blowjobs to keep him that way, something that Captain Styles would prefer not doing. She could salve the wound a little better than he could, but something told him the General would want to know firsthand from him as opposed to her. He needed to convey the communications message they had received to relay the importance of the message. His voice, the inflection in it, and the manner in which it was delivered would be paramount.

  The communique in question had been received only twenty minutes ago, but it was the disturbing nature in which it had been delayed that bothered him. Apparently, it had been nearly four months since a particular unit in northeast Tennessee had been heard from. It was not uncommon for the units to have sparse communications with the home base, but four months was pushing it. The commander of the unit in Tennessee had been with the General since the beginning and was known to be one of the best officers he had at his disposal. He was well trained and rarely complained about anything. He was the ideal officer.

  Captain Marcus White was a damn good Marine.

  And so was General Andrew Wyatt.

  Captain Styles’ heart rate picked up as he got closer to General Wyatt’s office. The General had set up in the former Post Commander’s office for Fort McClellan, and rightfully so. Without the General’s guidance and strict rules, the small section of the military that they controlled would have fallen apart long ago. There was no room for traitors, bleeding hearts, or individual policies. The rules that were set forth were ironclad and unbreakable.

  And God help the man that broke those rules.

  Captain Styles knocked on General Wyatt’s door. He was given permission to enter.

  He came to attention at General Wyatt’s desk, and raised his right hand in a perfect salute. So far, so good, he thought.

  General Wyatt’s secretary was sitting cross-legged on the corner of his desk, dressed in a skimpy skirt and tube top. The General was running his hand on her thigh as Captain Styles snapped his salute down.

  General Wyatt was a prominent-looking man. Even though Captain Styles had many meetings with the man, the incredible confidence and leadership ability that he exuded was remarkable. A cutthroat at heart, the attitude that he put forth was steeled and unwavering. He looked good for his age, all things considered. He kept the military high-and-tight haircut throughout the apocalypse, another sign of his incredible dedication. When he spoke, motherfuckers listened.

  “Sir, we have some news.”

  “What kind of news?” Wyatt answered, not looking up to address Styles.

  “Not good, sir.”

  General Wyatt snapped his gaze to Styles, and then back to his secretary.

  “Leave us for a minute, bitch.”

  The secretary paid no mind to the General’s snide comment, and simply did as she was told. After she had left the room, Wyatt stood and addressed his fellow officer.

  “What’s the problem, Captain Styles?”

  Styles swallowed hard. “Sir, we have not had communication with Captain Marcus White in Tennessee for nearly four months now. We are afraid that something might have happened with his unit. We understand that it is difficult to get a signal in the mountains, but at this time, we think that another incident may lead to the conclusion that they have been overrun. Specifically, they might have
been overrun by locals and not Zulus.”

  “And why do you fucktards think that the locals took them over, hmm? Did you idiots think to track the sat-phone linked to Captain White?”

  “Yes sir, we did. I’ll get to that in a moment, sir. We had a separate incident with a unit near Lexington, Kentucky that might explain both.”

  “My patience is wearing very fucking thin, Captain Styles. Get to the fucking point before I lose my cool!”

  Captain Styles swallowed hard again. This was the part he didn’t want to have to relay to the General. It was an insult, and a gross one at that.

  “Sir, the Lexington unit reported that they didn’t have their nightly check-in from a squad outside Hazard, Kentucky. When they got to the building where the squad had set up command, they found it to be empty.”

  “Empty? Did the little traitors leave any messages as to why they would want to sign their own death certificate?”

  “Well, sir, the Lexington unit reported several destroyed vehicles, spent brass, and about a dozen dead Zulus at the site.”

  “So the squad bugged out and had to reassign. Give them another twenty-four hours and then we will decide if it is worth pursuing.” Wyatt waved a dismissive hand and sat back down in his plush, leather chair.

  Captain Styles sat in a chair in front of the General’s desk. “Someone took a shit on the CB.”

  Wyatt was briefly bumfuzzled. “You mind repeating that, Captain?”

  “The Lexington unit went inside and didn’t find anything. They said the only thing that they found was that someone took a huge, steaming shit on the radio. I think it’s a message, sir.”

  Wyatt bolted up. “No shit! How am I supposed to get this shitstain of a country back on track if the goddamned natives won’t fucking behave like human fucking beings?”

  “We have a lead though.” Styles grinned. “It’s not all bad news, sir.”

  “And what might that be, asshole?”

  “We did track the sat-phone and we’ve narrowed it down to a town in Virginia. It’s about three hours from the Hazard squad and an hour from where Captain White last checked in.”