Six Feet From Hell: Crisis (8 page)

CHAPTER 9

DECEMBER 2
2, 2021

The next morning Rick woke to the most incredible hangover. He was the first one up, and, not being familiar with the ‘morning after’ feeling, had immediately shot up off the couch. The intense pounding in his head immediately crippled him, shooting pain throughout his temples and almost literally knocking him down. He grabbed both sides of his head and slowly sat back down, surrendering to his thumping headache.

“
Ohhhhh, dammit,” he said softly.

Joe, Jamie, and Balboa slowly woke as well, each one apparently oblivious to the menacing hangover that Rick had.

Rick frowned. “How in the hell do you old fuckers not have this shit goin’ on this morning?”

Joe laughed. “Years of practice, my son. You gotta drink water while you’re
drinkin’ the booze or else – well, you see how it ends up.”

“Yeah, I was wonderin’ why y’all were
sippin’ on those CamelBaks the whole time. I guess I got so drunk that after tossin’ a few back I really didn't care,” Rick replied, squinting to avoid as much light as he could.

“Yeah, dehydration and alcohol ain’t real good bedfellows.”

“Hey, guys, c’mere and look at this. I think we might have a problem.” Jamie stood at the back row of windows, motioning them forward. As soon as Joe looked towards him, he knew what was coming.

“Holy shit. How much is out there already?” Joe said as he strolled over to the window.

“I’d say at least five or six inches, and the way it’s coming down I’d say more than this is on the way,” Jamie replied.

Balboa and Rick came over, pulled away a curtain from their respective windows, and gazed out. A sullen look crossed both of their faces as they looked about.

The snow that had been lazily floating down was now in a full-on whiteout. Jamie had guessed correctly. There was six inches of wet snow blanketing the entire area. The large flakes were still steadily coming down as well, further covering the area in cold precipitation. The long, unkempt grass was barely visible under the snow; the tall blades of Kentucky bluegrass were peeking out of the top. The limited weather reports they had received earlier were correct – snow, and plenty of it, with more on the way.

“Damn. This is gonna slow us down somethin’ fierce,” Joe finally managed. “Got any bright ideas, guys?” he said as he let the curtain fall back in place.

“Well, first and foremost, we are gonna need some extra padding. Start looking for some pillows, comforters, anything with that poly-fill crap or down in it. If we can find a needle and thread, then we can sew the bottom of our field jackets once we fill em up with a little extra cushion. If we have enough left then we can do the same with the kneepads and pockets of our ACU pants and boots. On second thought, might wanna do the boots first. Sound like a plan?” Rick said as he tried to rub away his throbbing headache.

The hangover hadn’t affected his thought processes just yet. It was a solid plan to keep them warm and alive if they decided to move from their current spot. After Joe explained to them that Curtis would be leaving in a few hours to make their rendezvous in Tazewell, they had a destination in mind.

“Shit, I’d forgot all about the infamous ‘Plan B’ because I didn't think we’d ever have to use it. I kinda just figured if we ever had one of those missions where we didn't make it back that it meant we’d be dead and it wouldn’t matter.” Jamie sat down and stared out into the snow glumly.

It had been a long time since Jamie had been home, at least to his
real
home. He was the only one of Joe’s initial group that was originally from the Tazewell area, and he desperately missed home. He thought back to the evening that he had left with Joe, Andrew, and Donnie. It had never crossed his mind how homesick he would become once he left. He’d had no ties to the area or any of its people, but still longed to see the place that he’d called home for the first forty years of his life. He never thought that he would live long enough to miss the area he had grown up in. Throughout the vicissitudes and peril that he and Joe had endured, Jamie had figured he would be long dead by now.

“So, lemme get this straight,” Rick said, interrupting Jamie’s thoughts. “If you guys are gone for twenty-four hours with no contact with Curtis, then we head to Tazewell? Whose jackass idea was that?”

Joe playfully smacked Rick on the back of the head as he walked behind him. “That would be
my
jackass idea, buddy, and it wasn’t our first backup plan. The original idea was to go to the next closest ZBRA unit and regroup, but seeing as how the only one left near us is Beckley, we’ve gotta head back to Tazewell. I know it doesn’t sound like much of a plan, but I figured if for whatever reason we couldn’t make it back to a ZBRA unit, then at least we could go somewhere that was familiar. That way we could at least have a chance at finding something useable, if there is anything useable left.

“If for some reason Tazewell is uninhabitable, then we search around the area and see what we can do. There are plenty of towns nearby that we can scout. As I said, it helps being in a familiar area. If there isn’t anything in Tazewell, then we go to Bluefield, Richlands, Wytheville, anywhere that we can. Let’s pray that there’s something left.”

Rick stared away as Joe spoke of actually going towards home; his childhood home of Rural Retreat was not far from where they would end up in Tazewell. He sat down as Joe continued talking about his plan to get to Tazewell. Rick drifted off into daydreaming about going back to his home – his
real
home. It had been nine years since he had seen the small creek that ran behind his house, the open field across the creek where his father had taught him to shoot, and the generally serene atmosphere that could calm the most frayed of nerves.

His travels since he’d left home unwillingly had included a myriad of adventures and locales. He had been with his father and mother as they raced to the Gulf Coast. He remembered losing Ronnie and Lori. He’d nearly lost his father after he was shot by Lieutenant Wyatt, and he had lost his mother not to death, but to his nephew Dakota. His mother, Buffey, had decided to become the child’s permanent guardian and keeper. Buffey and Ashleigh had decided that it would be their task to take care of the child. Buffey was nearly fifty and had quickly taken to being a grandmother and mother to the child. They remained on the USNS
Comfort
near Kings Bay, Georgia, far from the dangers and horrors of life in the mainland United States.

A sound jolted Rick from his daydreaming. Neither he nor the others had heard a sound like it for quite some time, but it was an oddly familiar one nonetheless. Rick stared in the direction of the street in bewildered amusement as his brain caught up with his hearing, identifying what he heard. He grabbed his rifle, walked towards the door of the stately residence, and stared out the peephole.

A straggling few undead were milling around outside. Their black, decayed look was in stark contrast to the pure, white snow that still fell. A light wind carried the powdery white precipitation against the front of the house, blowing the stench of the dead with it. The sound of the dead as they clumsily banged against the hulk of the wrecked chopper was not what had drawn Rick over. He strained his ear, pushing against the door.

“What is it? I hear the zeds outside. Is there somethin’ else?” Joe crept over to the door, rifle in hand.

Rick listened for a second more. He turned to Joe with a knowing grin.

“It’s a dog.”

“A dog? Are you sure? Could just be one of the dead grunting and snorting,” Joe replied, inching closer to the door.

Before Joe could get a reply, Rick had opened the door a few inches and peered out. At first there was no indication of a dog or, in fact, anything living outside. Rick opened the door a few more inches and watched the white flakes fall slowly. The snow was coming down nearly an inch an hour and showed no signs of letting up. Rick was caught up in the moment so much that he did not hear the scratching sound coming from inside the chopper. Before he could figure it out, a black and tan German Shepherd bolted from the chopper and ran inside the house.

“Whoa! What the fuck!” Joe scrambled to aim his M4 at the animal, but Rick placed a reassuring hand on the rifle. The dog sniffed around casually, looking over the group one by one. When he reached Jamie, he turned his head quickly about.

“Hang on. It looks like he’s after something.” Rick watched as the dog made a beeline for the couch that Balboa was sitting on. The dog immediately started pawing at the cushion beside him. The dog sniffed at it and whined ever so slightly.

Rick came over and peered down at the couch. “What is it, boy?”

Balboa reached down and touched the edge of the couch. The dog buried its nose deeper into the cushion as Balboa moved his hand. Balboa grabbed the cushion and moved it out of the way. He glanced down into the empty space and reached in, lifting out a small plastic bag.

“You have got to be shitting me.” Balboa held the bag up for the rest of the men to see.

It was marijuana.

“Well, now we can
really
party!” Balboa said, opening the baggie.

The rest of the men looked on in awe as the dog sat silently. It gazed around towards Jamie, Joe, and Rick, waiting for his reward. A small token, about the size of a silver dollar, dangled from a choke chain around the dog’s neck. The chain had worn away the hair around the dog’s neck. Rick knelt down and grabbed the small object. He brushed away the grime on the tag.

“It just says Kane, LPD K9 #17. It would appear our furry friend here was a drug dog.” Rick got to his feet and ruffled the dog’s head. “Maybe we’re finally in line for some good luck.”

Joe chuckled. “Here’s to hoping that Kane didn't kill Abel.”

CHAPTER 10

Curtis fired up the LMTV. The Sta-Bil supply and the bottle of diesel anti-gel that he’d put in the fuel tank caused a momentary cough and sputter. The engine spewed forth a plume of white smoke and turned over, roaring to life. Wagner did the same to his vehicle, as did Mike. The three military vehicles rumbled in unison as they sat. All three had been loaded down the night before with food, water, ammo, and weapons. Everything they were capable of taking was on board. If it wasn’t nailed down, it was now on the trucks. Each one was outfitted with a makeshift brush guard. The brush guards had been made a few months back by Ogre in his spare time.

In optimal conditions, the hulking vehicles could make the trip in about six hours. The weather, plus the poor road conditions caused by nearly ten years without upkeep, would slow them down considerably. Curtis had guessed that it would take them about two and a half days to reach the area where the team should be. They had plenty of fuel and Sta-Bil for the engines. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they would reach their intended destination in one piece.

Curtis hopped down from the cab of LMTV #1 and walked around to the back of it. Wagner was standing there, eating the remnants of an MRE.

“Where is the other guy? What's his name, Mike?”

“I think the MRE ain't sittin’ real well with him. He went to take a shit over by the pond right quick. No sense in ridin’ all this way prairie doggin’ one,” Wagner replied, snickering.

“Well, tell him when he gets back over here we ain't got all damn day. With this weather and the roads the way they are, it'll be a miracle if we make it in one piece,” Curtis said as he walked back to his truck.

A nagging feeling pursued Curtis as he got back into his LMTV. The way that the last twenty-four hours had played out gave him concern over the mission at hand. The ZBRA team in Beckley being overrun, Joe and the crew MIA, and now he had to traverse across the wild and wonderful state of West Virginia. In the nine years that he had traveled with Joe and his cohorts, they’d never had an instance as they did now. Throw in a snowstorm for good measure and the whole mess was truly unbelievable.

Mike appeared a few minutes later. He adjusted his pants as he got back to the LMTV that he’d been assigned. The knot in his stomach was growing larger, and he wasn’t sure why. It
could be the food, the abysmal situation, or just a general lack of knowing what was to come that had put him on edge. He’d had strict orders from the Captain about the Camp Dawson ZBRA group. He hadn’t spoken to the Captain since arriving there, and was hoping that the psychopath would lose track of him. He originally hadn’t thought much of Joe after being dragged out to meet him in Beckley, though he was warming up quickly after being fed, clothed, and generally taken care of like a human being, not just some soldier in a war that might never happen - a soldier conscripted into service for a sociopath that hungered for more power. The fact that the Captain answered to a higher authority was even more terrifying. Another power-hungry corrupter of the desperate and naïve.

“Get your shit in gear, Mike! We got a lot of ground to cover!” Wagner hollered from the driver’s side of his LMTV.

Mike nodded and waved to Wagner. The big linebacker ducked back into his LMTV. Mike climbed into his rig as Curtis signaled, waving his index finger in a circle.

Time to hit the road.

* * *

Joe stuffed his MultiCam field jacket. The couches that served them so well and gave comfort were now being used for the poly-fill that was inside them. Joe stabbed into the pillows and cushions of the svelte loveseat he had slept on the night before. The billowy, white stuffing
poofed out as Joe continued to rip open the cushions. Jamie did the same for the La-Z-Boy that he’d previously occupied.

The temperature outside was not bitter cold, but the snow still fell. Another inch of snow had fallen in the past hour. Joe hadn’t come up with a solid plan to get away from the Lexington area yet and it bothered him greatly, having prided himself on being the prepared one in all situations. Fortunately, Rick had thought to stuff their clothing, especially jackets, with the poly-fill in the couch and cushions. The added few minutes of preparation and thought might give him a few more moments to plan an escape. When he’d left Virginia, there was the train. When they needed rescue in Alabama, there had been the U.S. Coast Guard. Now there was neither.

Rick, Joe, and Jamie continued raiding the couch cushions for down. Jamie helped Balboa with his gear, since Balboa’s arm was in a sling held close to his chest. Jamie took Balboa’s rifle across his back. The rifle was too good to waste, and all four men had agreed not to leave it idly by.

Kane sat patiently, occasionally licking his lips and wagging his tail. The dog had sat quietly for the last thirty minutes, patiently awaiting orders from his new masters. Before the dead began to rise, Kane had been the prize possession of the Lexington Police Department K9 Unit. He’d started his training at only six weeks old, continuing his training for the next year. His handler – a Lexington PD Sergeant – was overrun during the initial deluge of undead over nine years ago. The sergeant had had the foresight and compassion to use his remote door opener to let Kane out even as he was being attacked. Kane initially came to the aid of his fallen partner, attempting to remove the undead from the officer, but to no avail. The sergeant’s last words before perishing released his canine partner from all responsibility.

Leave it! 

Kane reluctantly did as he was told, forging off on his own. The dog was now somewhat emaciated, and lacked the shine and health that he’d had nearly a decade ago, but was still loyal to his orders and those who gave them. He’d been taught to ignore other animals in his training, and abided by that training nearly a decade later.

Rick noticed that Kane hadn’t moved during their work to pad their jackets and clothes. He tossed his poly-filled jacket on and zipped the front, patting the pockets to even out the overstuffed parts. As he patted the right front pocket, he felt part of a pack of MRE crackers. Rick looked down at Kane with a knowing grin. He grabbed the crackers out of his pocket and offered them to Kane on the palm of his hand. The German Shepherd quickly ate the dry crackers, then licked the bits of crumbs that had fallen on the floor. Rick reached down and ruffled the dog’s head.

“Good boy. You're gonna make sure those dead fuckers don’t sneak up on us, aren’t you?” Rick said as he knelt down and scratched the dog’s ears. Kane licked Rick’s hand in acknowledgement.

“You guys ready to head out? I’d like us to try to find some transportation before it gets dark. Balboa, do we still have some Sta-Bil left in the chopper?” Joe asked as he put his LBV on.

“Yeah, I think so. I really don’t wanna have to go back out there, Joe. We never did bury Chris.”

Joe looked forlornly at his friends. He didn’t want to look in the chopper, either. The aftermath of disaster was another thing in a long line of tasks that he normally handled alone. That decision was for the greater good, a decision that would haunt him for the remainder of his days. He didn't want to look at one of his best friends lying in there, dead, cold, and mangled. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“I’ll do it. None of the rest of y’all need to see it again. We’ve all lost too many people close to us. There’s no sense in having to look at him again, and unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of burying him. The ground is too hard and we can’t afford to burn the calories we have left doing anything but working our way home. You guys go and check out those two assholes we shot yesterday. Maybe they have something of use. I’ll get the maps, Sta-Bil, and anything else we can use from the Yankee.”

Each man silently nodded in acknowledgement. They all knew that Joe was merely doing what he had done for the last nine years. He was protecting and taking care of the people that meant the most to him, and he could ill afford to lose them now. He needed them as much as they needed him, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure they made it home.

Wherever home may be now.