The Scott Pfeiffer Story (Book 2): Sheol

by Woods, Shane

  The interior cabin leapt to life with a rush of heat and light as the spilled liquor took control of the blaze, breathing it into being in a flash and woosh.

  “FIRE!” Jennifer exclaimed, stumbling away from her protective doorway. She brought one foot forward but the other caught on the bulkhead and she fell face-forward where she lay for a bare moment before crawling behind a seat for concealment.

  “Keep shooting!” I shouted to Dave and Tony as I moved past my wife, telling her, “Take the wheel!”

  I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the side of the wheelhouse, pulled the pin, and aimed a stream of dry chemical toward the floor of the compartment, quenching the first of the blaze.

  “Yahtzee!” I heard Tony shout as he fired, then another burst erupted from Dave’s AK.

  “I finished him, doesn’t count!” Dave returned, as his rifle continued to buck in his hands.

  By this time, Jennifer had begun to turn the boat around a small right-hand bend. I got the inferno under control and stepped out of the small cabin. My throat burned like hell itself, involuntary coughs making it feel as if it were tearing open, but my rage took over.

  Not the slow-building rage of frustration, but a white-hot flash of pure thermite had raised itself until it came forth in, perhaps, too ballsy of an open display to be considered safe.

  “PARKERRR!!!” I bellowed, my throat threatening to turn itself inside-out as I shouted. “YOU JUST MADE AN ENEMY WITH THE WRONG MAN!!!”

  I opened fire, the rifle coming back to life with rejuvenated vigor as I sent everything I had in their direction.

  Then, it hit me. Just as we were disappearing around the bend. Not an idea, not a realization, but a freaking baseball bat. I whirled to face my friends, the shock on their faces apparent as I felt something warm on my shoulder. Looking down at my shirt on that side, I could already see what was very clear to me to be blood. I said the only thing that came to my mind.

  “Oh no,” I stated, somewhere further away from myself than I was previously. “Where did that come from?”

  “Oh baby, no!” Jennifer spoke as she rushed to my side.

  Placing my hand in the blood on my neck, I traced its pathway upwards until I felt what seemed to be a bit of raw bacon hanging from a spot just above and behind my left ear. A hair higher, and I felt something that kind of struck me as the texture of wet chalk.

  “The wheel!” I heard myself tell Jennifer and watched as she turned to Tony.

  “You drive!” she instructed him, then, “Dave, find me a med kit and a couple bottles of water!”

  “Find her the meds,” Dave told Tony, gripping his shoulder and pulling him back to take his place. “Last time you drove, we ended up inside an apartment building!”

  Tony began to protest, and Jennifer barked at them both to get things in motion.

  “Trauma pack,” I spoke to her. “Left cargo pocket.”

  Jennifer retrieved the pack and ripped it open, spreading the contents on the seat next to her with one hand, leaning me over on my side with the other.

  “This is gonna suck,” she stated firmly as she punctured a small hole into the lid of one water bottle and began squirting the liquid into the wound.

  Instantly, reality lassoed me back to Earth as a deep stinging burn spread out across my entire skull, causing me to call out in pain. I was quickly met with immense pressure as she pushed a clotting gauze onto the wound with both hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Jesus fuck woman!” I blurted as she renewed pressure with a new Quick-Clot bandage.

  “You’ll be fine,” she stated hurriedly. “Head wounds bleed a lot. I think, I think you’ve been shot.”

  “I sure as hell would hope so!” I told her, seeing the confusion on hers and Dave’s faces and adding, “Because if not, we’ve got one big fucking mosquito problem.”

  “A mosquito with a 5.56mm sucker,” Tony noted as he handed a small pack to Jennifer, from which she produced a Celox syringe filled with the powdered clotting agent. I braced myself as she removed the gauze and did her best to pack the wound with the powder before pressing the gauze back into place.

  “Okay,” she stated, “we’ll get some tape in place to hold this, the bleeding should be pretty much over until we can get this taken care of.”

  “We’re here,” Dave informed us as I felt the boat slow.

  Coming around one final left-hand bend in the river, we approached the Hashman compound. Their sentry was clearly on duty, as no sooner had we come into view did the turret they kept for the river swing in our direction. Upon recognition, the barrel of the machine gun sought the sky as its operator released it and returned Dave’s broad wave. Moments later, we were pulled alongside and throwing ropes to the shore to be pulled in and secured in place.

  Jason, Hashman’s right hand man and constant river sentry, dropped down out of their short guard tower. The stout wood frame supporting an MCTAGS armored vehicle turret had practically been his home through the end of days. He took note of my blood and bandages and doubled his pace, speaking into his radio for Hashman to get his ass down here, Scott’s hurt, and a series of other short orders.

  “Fuck dude, what happened to you?” he approached, halfway out of breath already. “Are there others injured?”

  “No just me,” I replied to him, wincing a bit as the world threatened to go dark with the movement of departing our vessel. Jennifer and Dave stuck fast to my side, helping me up onto the short concrete pier along the river.

  “Do you need a medic?” Jason inquired, and before I could give my compulsory ‘No, I’m fine’, Jennifer jumped into the conversation.

  “He does, he needs this cleaned out and patched up,” She informed. “He was shot.”

  “Shit man!” Jason exclaimed, reaching for his radio again and barking more orders into the device.

  “It was kind of a hit and skip,” I explained. “My reward for visiting a new friend on our way here. I’ll explain once we get settled here. You all need to know about these guys.”

  “Can’t take this guy anywhere without him causing problems,” came Hashman’s voice from behind me as he made his way down the stairs to water level to greet us, his hand outstretched and taking mine in a shake. He paused for just the barest of moments and I watched his eyes widen slightly at the sight of my wounded head.

  “Some of the supplies were lost,” I began, and then seeing the damage and number of holes now littering our watercraft from the exchange, “we were ambushed along the river.”

  “That’s no good,” he replied thoughtfully and began ordering the men that followed him down to start unloading and cleaning our boat.

  “No, it’s not,” I answered, then began getting him up to speed on the Colonel.

  “Jesus man,” was all Hashman stated at the end of his informal briefing on the subject by the three of us, Tony having stayed back with Jason and the .50 cal, likely trying to catch a free buzz and skip anything that might be considered work.

  We crested the top of the stairs and onto the open field that Hashman’s commandeered housing complex encircled. The horseshoe of cookie-cutter homes encircled a large open area, which was lined now on each side by makeshift housing as Hashman’s population also grew.

  What else occupied the space was something I didn’t expect. Row after row of brand-new Ford and Toyota vehicles of various types sat positioned carefully, so as to be able to fit so many vehicles here.

  “Starting a business, Mike?” I asked him as he chuckled in response.

  “Dealerships,” he intoned, motioning across the rows of cars, trucks, and SUVs. “The Toyota dealership was nothing. Walk in, fill up with fuel, jump batteries, and drive away. We had issues with infected, even lost a guy. Fucking runners, man. There was a dozen of them that surprised us in the back lot.”

  “And you said the Toyota spot was the easy one. What about the Ford dealer?” I asked, wondering what sacrifice could have made losing a guy in a runner ambush
the easier option.

  “The old general manager,” he answered, already pinching his nose and beginning a hearty laugh, “It was the big dealership over on 18 out near the mall, ya know? Okay, so check it out.”

  “What’s so funny?” Jennifer asked as Hashman broke into more laughter, joined by the Marine that was walking with us; Mason, if I remembered his name correctly.

  “This dude was fucking cracked, bro!” Hashman exclaimed, letting out another big laugh before explaining, “Okay, we were a lot quieter going into this place, but I don’t think he’d have heard us anyway. Or seen us, bro, he had all the dealership windows blacked out with like some latex paint, you know?”

  “Yeah man, for sure,” I assured him, already a little weary. Hashman was a good man, but he had the energy of a speeding tanker truck and loved to talk. That’s fine, though, not like we had many places to be these days.

  “Yeah so we figured it was occupied and snuck in around back and popped the back door,” He continued, only taking enough of a breath to suppress his laughter and begin the story again in spurts. “Mason hangs a blackout curtain over doorways so if we can get in quietly, we don’t make a big light show, it’s helped before, ya know? Real slick shit, right?”

  “Mike,” I nudged, mild impatience seeping in.

  “Right! My bad brotha!” he snort-laughed and began anew. “So we snuck in. Dude had generators running and some of the lights were on, and on every surface, like, even computers and desks and shit, he wrote ‘Jeffy is a good boy!’ Like, fucking everywhere bro. It was intense, like some creepy movie shit. So, we hear old music playing, some old swing, ya know? Anyway, we sneak to a corner, and this motherfucker is ballroom dancing in the showroom, completely alone!”

  “What the fuck?” Dave spoke up as we all began laughing along with Hashman.

  “I know, right? But it gets better!” he continued. “He was dancing with a pillow. Like, one of those Japanese cartoon girl pillows, dude. He was all kissing it and shit, so Johnson threw a bottle in his direction. Dude heard the bottle and looked straight at us instead. Then he pulled a knife and, like, fucking rushed us, dude.”

  “Oh!” I interjected. “Nobody get hurt, or did he get one of you?”

  “We just moved aside.” He laughed yet again. “Like, we stepped aside and he kind of fell through us, slid across the floor, and knocked himself out. So, a couple of the guys tied him up and he stayed asleep for most of the time we got vehicles ready to leave with.”

  “What did you guys do with him?” Jennifer asked, curiosity not at all hidden.

  “We…well, shit,” Hashman stated nervously as he whispered to Mason, who then departed. “Some of my guys are going back to untie him right now.”

  “You forgot?” I chided.

  “Yeah, shit just gets so busy, I don’t always remember-” he was cut off as another man clapped a hand onto his shoulder.

  “Mike here took us once to take a fuel truck,” the man began, “we loaded up on gas station foods, and left without the fuel truck.”

  I said nothing as Jennifer and Dave hid their laughter. Instead I just looked on. I watched Mike Hashman nearly visibly squirm from the ribbing while he kept his composure outwardly. He was too good of a guy for me to let this go on for very long.

  “Hashman here,” I returned, “he was also the first one to jump to our aid with the gang bangers not too long ago. Risked his own life and that of his people to help our new world lose another problem. I don’t recognize your face though, have we met?”

  “No, no we haven’t,” he answered, taking my hand. “Wilson. Ray Wilson.”

  The guy was huge. I was an inch over six-foot, and Ray Wilson had an entire head and neck on me. He wasn’t in shape, not in the least, but he was still built like a freaking double refrigerator. His hand enveloped my entire hand as he shook it.

  “Well, Ray,” I replied. “Your boss man here is good people. He’s given more than I could ever ask for, and I don’t even have a clue who you are. So why don’t you back off a little bit?”

  “Talk to me like that again…” Ray spat as he crept closer to me.

  I stood my ground but caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was the motion of nearly every person present in our small group leveling their firearms, but all pointed at Ray. Everybody but Hashman, who clapped Ray on the shoulder in return.

  “Keep it up, big guy, and I’ll send you back with them to shield the bullets in the next ambush,” Hashman said, softly but dead serious. Ray turned and stormed out of the area. I had assumed he was going to find a small village to terrorize, or city to eat.

  “He’s been here a week-and-a-half,” Hashman explained, “and a problem since day one. Always at odds or in an argument with one person or another. He’ll be finding his own path soon; sooner if he keeps his shit up.”

  “Where to?” Dave and Jennifer questioned nearly together.

  “Fuck, I don’t know,” Hashman shrugged. “Anywhere but here. Big man is bad for morale. Even when he’s trying to get along, he still comes across as a dickhead. Bad juju, man. Anyway, shall we?”

  He motioned forward and led the way to the smaller outdoor structure near the middle of the field. The building looked like a Viking longhouse made out of modern scrap materials. We walked inside at Hashman’s request, and after a few moments of idle conversation, several more people, most of whom I’d recognized, entered the space and took up seats at the same long table as us.

  Mike Hashman and his people had adopted the same council-driven form of politics as we had. A representative from each department of sorts.

  This was also the group which surrounded us now and listened as we recounted everything we knew, and every time we encountered Colonel Parker. They sat, listened, asked questions, and even took notes.

  Wasting no time, we got into the details about our encounters with Parker thus far.

  Then the questions came spilling in. What did we intend to do about this? What should we do? Where is he now? Does he have a base of operations? How well set up are they? Does the Bradley even work? All this and more flew at us from across the table, and we did our best to keep up. I will say, though, I appreciated the repeated use of the word ‘we’. Not ‘you’, but ‘we’. We’d helped them by giving what we could out of our scavenging supplies, in part to offer assistance, and in part to offer repayment for helping with the group at the old high school.

  “But you guys haven’t seen them?” Dave questioned. “They haven’t bothered you this far up?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen ‘em,” said a squat, older gentleman with graying hair. He’d been introduced as Seely. Pete Seely, and we were told he was basically the gate guard captain. He ran the gates and kept the walls clear and safe for the entire complex.

  “That’s good,” I stated flatly. “If they haven’t come into contact with you guys, they might not know about you just yet.”

  “That works then!” Hashman interjected. “They don’t know you guys got reinforcements up the river!”

  “I’d rather keep you guys upriver though,” I intoned. “I’ll send some people out here and there to look for these guys, get a feeling of their capability, but if they are all I think they are…”

  “Do you think we can take them?” Jennifer asked me directly.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” I answered. “I’d just as soon load up our shit and send it up here until they get tired of us. But I doubt that will happen; these bandages tell me this fucker wants to fight.”

  “Well, we’re down to help where we can,” Hashman offered. “I know my guys agree with me. You dudes have been more helpful than I ever asked for, we got you bro!”

  We carried on conversing, lightly, and hashing out a few basic plans. I couldn’t tell if we were in that tent for only twenty minutes, or for three hours. At some point, we were interrupted by a man in his early to mid-twenties as he casually opened the door at the end of the large tent. He had dusty blonde hair and wore tattered fatigues
under a medical coat that was one size too large.

  “Mr. Pfeiffer?” he asked upon locking eyes with me.

  “Ahhh…” I started, “are you a bill collector?”

  “Funny,” he said as he made a beeline straight to me and began checking my head. “You know, usually when I get a call for medical, I don’t find my patient taking walking tours and hosting meetings. Especially not when they’re leaving a trail of blood behind them.”

  “I stopped bleeding a while ago, didn’t I?” I asked, before looking down and realizing I was sitting in a large spot of my own blood. It must have gone unnoticed by the others because of how much of my own fluid I already wore.

  “Doesn’t look like it. Corpsman!” he called to the open door of the tent, and another young man pushed a wheelchair through the door.

  “I’ll walk,” I stated flatly as both the doctor’s hand, and Jennifer’s glare, set me back into my seat.

  “I’ve got no clue how much blood you’ve lost and neither do you,” he explained. “You’re rolling, not walking. If you pass out, I’m not picking your big fucking ass off the ground.”

  “I’m not that big!” I began to argue, but the chair had reached where I was seated and grudgingly, I allowed myself to be seated in it.

  “If you’re taking me out on the town, I demand to know your name at least,” I offered. “My mother told me to never accept a ride from a stranger.”

  “It’s Keane,” he stated, then turned to my wife, “Is he always a pain in the ass?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” She grinned in return.

  Outside of the tent we were immediately enveloped once again in mild sunshine, and the smell of several wood fires burning at once. Somewhere in the mix was a hint of some kind of meat cooking nearby, the scent wrapped in spice and hardwood in its delivery.

  Keane went on briefly berating me for being a poor patient. I should have stayed put, blood loss this and that, and, much to her dismay, mildly berating Jennifer for having allowed me to be so mobile. Dave chuckled, and was met with his own end of the conversation.