As Joe gained a little more of his bearings, the Abrams that they stood upon had fared much better than the one pursuing them. Their Abrams had a large section of what looked to be an axle laying across the back of the tank. A large blackened spot was visible on the rear of the tank, as well as small fires burning right behind it. As Joe and Rick jumped down from their Abrams, they looked at the tracks, now mangled and useless.
“Shit! Looks like this one is toast!” Rick yelled.
“Yeah, but at least the other one is, too!” Joe yelled back, still shaking off the ringing in his ears.
As they further surveyed the damage, nearly a thousand body parts lay all around them. The force of the explosion was so great that almost every zombie within sight was destroyed. Arms, legs, heads, and torsos lay all about, looking like the most disturbing slaughterhouse ever created. Not to be outdone, the undead were still following from behind the pursuing Abrams. There was a hell of a lot less of them, but they were still a force to be reckoned with. The world smelled of rotting carcasses slow roasted over a diesel fire.
“Come on. Let’s check the other tank. I want to make one hundred percent sure that sonofabitch is dead. If he’s not, I’m gonna beat his ass to death with my bare fucking hands!” Joe yelled, slowly trudging towards the disabled tank.
The pursuing Abrams – the one Wyatt commanded – looked like it had been blown up by a Looney Tunes character. The barrel was bent in an unnatural way, the tracks were absent, blown all to shit by the force of the blast. They were nowhere to be seen, and Joe had a sneaking suspicion they had simply been disintegrated by the explosion.
Rick grabbed his father by the sleeve of his shirt. At first, Joe was nearly ready to turn around and clock him, but he stayed his hand. The look on his son’s face told it all. He wasn’t worth the time. Even if Wyatt wasn’t dead, he soon would be, surrounded by death and destruction. Joe gently placed his hand on his son’s, a reassuring look coming across his face. He pulled his son close, hugging him. He spoke directly into Rick’s ear.
“Not this time, son. No more mercy. No more mistakes.”
Joe kissed his son on the cheek.
And then drew his Glock.
CHAPTER 22
ZBRA unit 343 was a big son of a bitch. The CH-47 Chinook was the helicopter of choice for troop transport. The twenty-five-thousand-pound chopper was capable of handling between 35 to 55 troops or 24,000 pounds of cargo. When it came to getting a large force in a tight area, the CH-47 was the mode of transport used to do it. In service in the United States military since 1962, there were a dozen different variants, but all served basically the same purpose, to pick up troops and transport wounded.
ZBRA Unit 343 was no exception.
Piloted by CW4 Hawkins, the helicopter was a little more than fifteen miles away from their intended destination, but there was something going on in Tazewell, Virginia. Their limited radio contact with people on the ground led them to believe that the situation was dire, but to what extent was hard to tell. The people on the ground in Tazewell had said something about being under attack from all sides, two of which were human enemies. Whatever hell they had brought down on them was beating down their door.
The coordinates they had given the pilot led them to a hospital on the edge of town. While the traditional helipad used for medevac wouldn’t be nearly big enough, the parking lot would. Due to distance back to Fort Bragg, they would have just a few minutes on the ground. It was stretching the distance they usually traveled, but they had brought extra fuel for the trip. Along with Unit 343’s CH-47, a UH-1Y was flying alongside them to provide cover fire if necessary, as the Chinook did not have any armament. The UH-1Y’s callsign was “T-Wolf” while Unit 343 went by the callsign “Brooklyn.”
Unit 343 approached Tazewell with caution. As they neared their landing zone, the scope of what was happening was clearly visible. From the air, CW4 Hawkins was able to get a good lay of the LZ. There was plenty of room at the hospital parking lot, but that wasn’t was concerning him. The billowing smoke and the two M1 Abrams tanks along with hundreds of undead were of greater concern than the size of the LZ. As the CH-47 banked left, CW4 Hawkins got a better view of the undead infestation. It looked like there were several hundred of them scattered around the tanks and source of the smoke. Whatever was going on, it was still happening.
“T-Wolf, you see this? What the hell have these people brought down on them?” CW4 Hawkins said.
“Yeah, Brooklyn, I see it. Get down there and get those folks outta there. I’ll provide cover for you, but honestly, it doesn’t look like they’re gonna need it. We may be too little, too late,” T-Wolf’s pilot, Logan Moore, said.
“LZ is clear, T-Wolf. Those big fucking Abrams better be disabled, or we are gonna have a lot bigger issues than a clear LZ,” Hawkins said.
“Copy that, Brooklyn. Good luck.”
“You know I hate it when you say that,” Hawkins chuckled.
Yeah, but it looks like you’re gonna need it, Brooklyn. Logan didn’t say it aloud over the radio, but he knew they were about to get into a fight.
* * *
On the ground, Joe could hear the approaching helicopters. The sense of finally being rescued was starting to sink in with him. After spending the majority of his adult life doing that very thing for others, it was reassuring to know that there were others out there that would do the same for him. There was some good left in the world, despite everything.
There was just one more loose end to take care of.
The world around him had gone to shit, and not speaking of the world in general. Of course the world had gone to shit. Zombies outnumbered living humans by staggering numbers, and good humans were outnumbered by those who meant to do harm to others by an equally staggering margin. It was a microcosm of a prison. A few good souls had to keep the wolves away from the sheep so that the sheep could sleep better at night. It always came down to a few to protect for the greater good.
The world around him started to fade away. Joe had one goal and one goal only right now. Like he’d told Rick: no more mercy, no more mistakes. It was time to put Lieutenant Andrew Wyatt away once and for all.
Ten years of fear, ten years of running, ten years of paranoia were going to come to an end.
The hulking wreckage of the Abrams should have given a good indication of what lay inside. With the turret bent, the tracks destroyed, the armor bent and dented, whatever was inside should have been dead – obliterated beyond recognition.
But Andrew Wyatt was a persistent bastard.
The hatch opened on the Abrams, spilling forth more smoke. Slowly, a hand pawed at the top of the opening, unsure how to proceed. Joe lead with his Glock, climbing the wreckage. Once he arrived at the top, he could see the hand and arm of someone desperately trying to get out of the destroyed tank.
“Not today, motherfucker. Not today,” Joe growled at the disembodied hand. He grabbed the wrist of the exposed hand and yanked as hard as he could. If Wyatt was still alive in there, he was going to have to face him with a dislocated shoulder. Sure enough, the arm gave way with a sickeningly loud pop. Joe yanked again, trying to pull the body out. Instead of coming away with the body of Andrew Wyatt, he found himself falling backwards, a severed arm lying across his chest.
“What the fuck!” Joe yelled. He scrambled on top of the tank, trying to get the bloody arm away from him. He grabbed it by the wrist and flung it onto the ground, splattering blood across his face. Quickly, he wiped away the crimson spray from his eyes.
When he looked up again, former USMC Lieutenant Andrew Wyatt was standing over him.
“You fucking bastard! You’re going to fucking pay for that!” Wyatt yelled, and pounced.
The disembodied arm did not belong to Wyatt, as Joe noticed that he still had both of his. In a flash, Wyatt was on top of him, choking the life out of him. Wyatt squeezed tight, wanting to watch the life fade away from his enemy’s eyes. Joe wasn’t having any of that.
> Joe reached up with the Glock and pressed it to Wyatt’s temple.
“Fuck you!” Joe hissed, and pulled the trigger.
Wyatt was too quick.
Wyatt head-butted Joe square in the nose as the gun went off. Before Joe could fire a second round, Wyatt’s arm was around his gun hand. The Glock wedged in Wyatt’s armpit. Wyatt swiftly turned his shoulder, dislocating Joe’s wrist and dropping the gun away. It clattered on top of the Abrams and onto the ground. Joe howled at the searing pain in his right hand. With his left, he swung with all the energy he could muster, landing a solid blow to Wyatt’s temple.
Wyatt’s chokehold released.
That was all he needed.
Joe brought up his knee into Wyatt’s back. He grabbed Wyatt by the shirt collar and flung him over his head, landing with a thud on the asphalt below. Joe rolled over, holding his injured hand against his chest, and climbed down from the tank. Dizzy from fatigue and the aftereffects of the explosion, he wandered over to where Wyatt had hit the ground. His Glock was not far from Wyatt’s body. As Wyatt stretched forth, trying to grip the gun, a boot came down on his wrist, holding it in place.
Rick stood over top of him, his AR-10 aimed squarely at Wyatt’s forehead. “I don’t think so, asshole.”
Joe shuffled over to his sidearm and pulled it away from Wyatt’s reach. Unable to use his right hand – his shooting hand – he shakily held the Glock in his left. No matter, from this distance he wasn’t going to miss. Joe pointed the Glock at Wyatt’s head, and then lowered it to the center of his chest.
“I could end him, Dad! I can do it right now! He doesn’t even deserve what I’m wanting to give him, but we can end this now!” Rick yelled, tears in his eyes.
“No,” Joe said. “He doesn’t deserve death. Death is too good for him.”
Joe knelt down, having to catch himself with his gun. Regaining his bearings, he crawled over to Wyatt’s unconscious body and aimed the gun straight into his chest.
“And he won’t get death. When he wakes up, wants to die, and can’t…then he can feel the pain of every person that he’s fucked over these last ten years.”
“Dad, he’s vaccinated. He won’t come back,” Rick said.
Joe looked up to his son, and then over his shoulder. Dozens more zombies, undoubtedly from Father Rife’s people, were shuffling towards them. They were freshly turned, still wearing most of their clothes and not looking nearly as weathered as the rest. They also moved a bit faster. Joe grinned.
“Then we’ll bleed him slow and the fucking walkers can have him,” Joe said. He planted the Glock firmly in the middle of Wyatt’s chest. “Goodbye, motherfucker.”
Wyatt raised up and grabbed Joe by the shirt.
“This ain’t fucking over!” Wyatt screamed.
Joe returned the headbutt, cracking Wyatt right between the eyes. He lost his grip on Joe’s shirt and covered his nose, blood gushing from between his fingers.
“Oh yes it fucking is!” Joe yelled, and pulled the trigger three times.
Two shots landed directly in the middle of Wyatt’s chest at point-blank range. The third trigger pull simply clicked, and the slide locked back. Out of ammo. Wyatt fell back, lifeless.
Rick raised his AR-10 and fired five quick shots, taking Joe’s attention away from Wyatt.
“Dad, they’re getting a little too close for comfort! Come on!”
Captain White – who had been watching the whole scene unfold – grabbed under one of Joe’s arms while Rick got under the other and the two men hefted up their leader. White patted Joe on the back as the three of them shuffled forward.
Captain White smiled at Joe. “Now we can leave.”
CHAPTER 23
Angel watched with tears in her eyes as the giant CH-47 Chinook slowly descended towards the parking lot of what used to be Tazewell Community Hospital. She’d seen the damage caused by the LMTV, the struggle between Joe and Wyatt, and saw Captain White and Rick lift him up, very much alive. She’d sent Kody and Curtis down the hill to help get Joe up to the top, and now all five men were trudging up the hill. They had lost nearly everything, but there were still some reasons to be pleased. Not many, but they were there.
The wind picked up as the dual-rotor Chinook got within fifty feet or so of landing. Dirt, trash, and other detritus whipped around as the helicopter eased down, inch-by-inch. Angel covered her face as it landed. As soon as the wheels touched the ground, the engine slowed and the back ramp opened up. A man in a flight helmet and a faded navy blue flight suit emerged, waving the survivors of Tazewell, Virginia to come aboard.
Angel trotted over to the man as the rest of the survivors filed into the chopper, one by one. The man in the flight suit patted each one on the back, keeping count of how many were coming aboard. He noticed Angel coming to talk to him and stopped the procession of people.
“How many total?” Flight Suit Man asked.
“Twenty-five, not including those boys coming up the hill,” Angel yelled over the roar of the chopper.
“We’ll take all twenty-five. You and those five fellas can ride with T-Wolf,” Flight Suit Man said, waving the rest of the group aboard.
“Why can’t you take us all?” Angel yelled, a small bit of panic in her voice. Now was not the time to be stranded.
“Less people means burning less fuel, ma’am. We have extra on board, but we have to balance fuel with weight,” Flight Suit Man said. “Don’t worry; T-Wolf can hold all of you guys that don’t make it on board with us.”
“What’s wrong, Angel?” a familiar voice yelled. Angel turned around to see Reggie standing behind her.
“You guys go ahead. They said they have to balance fuel with the weight of the passengers,” Angel replied.
A pained, concerned look crossed Reggie’s face. Before he could say anything, Angel stopped him from doing so.
“I’m not leaving without Joe and Rick, Reggie,” Angel said, and smiled. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine.”
Reggie tried his best to contain his emotions. He’d been so obsessed with being independent from the rest of the town for so long that it pained him to be so close to them now. If only he had been more outgoing with the people of Tazewell, he could have many more memories to share with the people that had brought him in and befriended him, despite the fact that he’d been such a dick to them for so many years. He hugged Angel without warning, giving her a quick squeeze.
“Thank you for taking me in, Angel. I know that I’m not the easiest to get along with, but…”
Angel kissed Reggie on the cheek, cutting him off. “Don’t think anything of it, Reggie. G’wan and get inside. We can talk when we get to North Carolina.”
Reggie just smiled and got into the Chinook, pulling up a seat beside Laura.
Flight Suit Man came outside to Angel as Reggie got in. “I’ll tell Chief Hawkins to have T-Wolf come in behind him and land. You guys all right? Anyone need medical attention?”
“My husband might. He looks a little worse for wear,” Angel said, watching Joe, Rick, Captain White, Curtis, Kody, and Keith come up the hill. Joe was dragging a bit, but still stayed upright and looking ahead. The sight of the Chinook brought a crooked smile to his face as they drew closer.
“Ma’am, we’re taking off now. Hang on for another two or three minutes and T-Wolf will land and we can finish getting you guys out of here,” Flight Suit Man said, but Angel didn’t hear him. She was enamored with the scraggly, beaten, and bloody man walking towards her.
“I didn’t miss the boat yet, did I?” Joe said. He freed himself from his helpers and enveloped Angel in a hug. Even though the wind from the chopper was whipping around them, he could still smell her. It must have been the sweet smell of love, because she didn’t wear any perfume. Nevertheless, he enjoyed it, whatever it was.
“I thought we’d lost you! Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” Angel said, crying.
Joe let go of his hug and looked her in the eyes. With a crooked, bloody s
mile, he greeted her. He glanced over her shoulder to the Chinook, seeing the ramp raising up and closing up the back of the helicopter. A pang of fear crossed him. He started to move towards the CH-47, but Angel held him fast. He looked at her with a face of great concern.
“There’s another one landing right behind him. They said they have to watch their fuel and cargo weight. Last thing we want to do is get stranded in the middle of nowhere in a helicopter with no fuel,” Angel explained.
Joe nodded. He looked up for the second chopper. After a few seconds, the bird appeared, circling from behind them. A wash of relief came over him. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Maybe we ought to change that to get the hell out of Tazewell. Something tells me Dodge City ain’t got shit on what happened here.
Joe turned back to his destroyed, smoldering town. There were several fires burning out of control at the bottom of the hill, especially near the tanks. The diesel and other petroleum-based products leaking from the two Abrams burned black, covering the area in a dark fog. The undead hadn’t fared much better than the tanks, but there were still plenty of them to go around. Near the bottom of the hill, several groups of zombies were busy munching away on whatever they could find.
Joe absently looked for the disembodied arm that he had flung on the ground, wondering who exactly it belonged to. It didn’t matter now. The town may have been destroyed, but Wyatt was dead and the Peacemakers would crumble under the lack of leadership, not that they were the epitome of a good chain of command to begin with. With Wyatt dead, they would be a hell of a lot less effective. For once, the good guys had won a decisive battle in the war for humanity. Joe watched the tanks burn as the Chinook started to take off behind him, the dust and dirt flying all around.
As he watched, something happened.
The turret on the Abrams they had commandeered started to move.
And it was moving towards them.
Six Feet From Hell (Book 6): End Game Page 13