Six Feet From Hell: Crisis

by Joseph Coley

  Hold. Wait for me to fire.

  Rick shuffled nervously as he continued to hold Kane back. He wanted nothing more than to let the dog loose and see if the K9 officer inside would take over. The dog was obviously well-trained. He waited as patiently as his newfound friends did, although his hackles were raised and alert. He made no effort to take off from Rick’s grip, nor did he make any sound aside from the occasional snort or barely audible growl.

  The approaching vehicle was nearly in view now, and then suddenly its wide-bodied outline poked through the whiteout of snow. The rumble of the diesel engine and the shape of the vehicle alerted Joe to what it was.

  It was a Humvee.

  “Shit,” Joe mumbled under his breath. A Humvee meant paramilitary. Paramilitary meant more assholes that wanted to kill them. Joe might have been ready to die, but he was going to do it on his own terms, not taken out by some random asshole.

  The familiar reverberation of diesel was nearly on top of them now. Joe peeked out from the corner of the garage and looked. It was a Humvee. The vehicle was painted an amalgam of colors, mostly brown and green. The vehicle looked as if it was supposed to be camouflaged, but Joe couldn’t tell what it would blend in with; maybe a bad case of the shits would mirror it well. The Humvee came to an abrupt stop, its brakes squeaking ever so slightly, and Joe could hear the click as the transmission was shifted into park. The vehicle idled for a few seconds, then the engine ceased and it became deathly quiet again.

  Joe’s heart galloped in his chest. Had they been spotted? Did the people in the Humvee see their tracks? Would they have to shoot first and ask questions later? Joe gripped his M4 even tighter, a white-knuckled command on the rifle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jamie raise his rifle. Joe reiterated his point, pushing his hand down vigorously.

  The clank of doors opening and the crunch of snow signaled the occupants leaving the vehicle. Joe pulled back into the garage and eyed Jamie.

  Jamie signaled Joe as he looked over, pointing two fingers towards his eyes and holding the same two fingers up. I have eyes on two. Jamie watched as Joe held his fist up, indicating that he wanted Jamie and Balboa to hold for the time being.

  The sound of snow crunching and feet shuffling came from about twenty yards away. Joe listened for a few seconds. The sound of a shotgun racking raised the hairs on his neck. He looked back once again to Jamie. Before he could make another signal or say anything, Kane growled a little louder than Joe would have liked. He heard muffled voices and a whispered argument for a moment, then silence.

  “Look, if there’s anyone there, we ain't here to hurt you. If y’all are the ones from the crash, then we can help you.”

  How the hell do they know about the crash? Joe’s mind raced with possible outcomes to any action that he could take. On one hand, he could release the dog and hope that it distracted the two men long enough to get clean shots. On the other hand, if their intentions really were benign, popping out from around the corner with their weapons raised could end up like the O.K. Corral. Neither situation boded well.

  Joe signaled Jamie. Joe pulled an imaginary hood over his head, and then pointed to himself. Cover me. Jamie nodded and counted on his fingers.

  One.

  “Look, we really don’t mean any harm. We got food and medicine,” the second gunman said.

  Two.

  “There’s no reason to be afraid. We’ll put our weapons down if you come out,” Gunman #1 said.

  Three.

  Joe pushed his rifle behind him, the sling holding it in place on his back, and stepped out slowly. He raised his hands in surrender so as not to spook his new colleagues. Rick inched forward, holding Kane at bay – barely. The dog sensed the heightened state of his handler, and the hairs on his back prickled up. Kane was ready to take a chunk out of someone if ordered, and Rick was ready to let him.

  Jamie moved to his left and steadied his rifle on a countertop, peering through the ACOG scope. He was far enough back in the building that the two men could not see him, thankfully. He wanted to trust them, but he maintained the crosshairs on the one nearest to him nevertheless.

  Balboa reached for the underbarrel attachment of his M4, an M203 grenade launcher. He steadied it on the counter to Jamie’s right and gauged the distance on the weapon. Too short, and it might not have time to arm itself. Too long, and it would sail over the intended target. Even with his shoulder throbbing, he focused on blasting the Humvee if necessary.

  Joe walked out slowly, arms raised. Gunman #2 spotted him first and raised his shotgun, an old Mossberg, and aimed it at Joe. From that distance, the shot probably wouldn’t kill him, but the gesture made him stop nonetheless. Jamie’s grip on his trigger finger tightened at the sight.

  “What the fuck, man? You invite me out here to talk to you and now you're gonna throw down on me?” Joe hollered at Gunman #1.

  The man swiftly looked at his cohort. “Put your damn gun down, Scott!” The man with the shotgun did as he was told. He looked to be in his early thirties, and was dressed in tan work pants and a black Carhartt jacket. A black knit cap covered what looked to be a nearly bald head, while an auburn-red beard shielded the lower half of his face.

  Gunman #1 turned back to Joe, hands out in front of him. He put his right hand out for a handshake, sporting a nervous smile. “Sorry, brother. You kinda just caught us off guard is all. Name’s Jim, Jim O’Malley.”

  Joe hesitantly walked forward, lowering his arms as he did so. “I just want you to know that I got my rhythm section covering my back. You got three rifles aimed at you, and one hungry-ass police dog. For now they aren’t gonna do anything, but make no mistake, if you harm me in any way my boys will make it so they’re gonna have to scoop you up with a shovel. Cool?”

  “I believe ya, brother. We’re just here to help. We heard the commotion yesterday while we were out scouting. Those miniguns ain't very quiet, if you know what I mean. We got a camp a couple miles away. We’d love to bring y’all in and give you a hand if you need. I wasn’t lying; we got food and a little medicine,” Jim replied.

  Joe dropped his arms to his side and approached Jim. He appeared to be around fifty, with gray hair popping out of a fur-trimmed trooper cap. Like his companion, Scott, he sported a full beard, but his was as gray as his head. Joe held out his hand and gave the weather-beaten man a handshake. Jim accepted and gave a vigorous shake in return. Joe loosed his grip and turned back towards the hiding spots of his men. He gave a loud whistle and waved them out.

  As soon as Joe whistled, Kane came bounding out, vaulting over the top of the snow as he did. Joe got down on one knee and met the dog, patted his sides reassuringly and rubbed his furry neck.

  “This gentlemen, is Kane. He’s not been with us very long, but I can tell you that he is very good at what he does.” Joe thought back to the baggie of weed that Kane had discovered earlier. The dog hadn’t lost his sense of smell – that was for sure.

  “Well, like I said, we mean no harm. Those Peacemaker assholes ran us out of the outpost in Lexington about a month ago. We’ve been on the run ever since. We finally got set up at an old farm down the road a couple miles. There’s about thirty of us there now. If y’all would be so kind as to hop in we could give ya a ride,” Jim explained.

  “We’d love to, Jim,” Joe answered. “Jim, this is my team. The older fella over there is Jamie.” Jamie gave Joe the finger. “He’s a little cranky right now. Hasn’t had any coffee for a couple days. The big one with his arm in the sling is Balboa; the young kid is my son, Rick. And of course, you’ve met Kane. My name is Joe; that should suffice for now.”

  Scott threw his shotgun over his shoulder. “I'm Scott. Sorry about the mix-up earlier. We don’t usually find people worth talkin’ to very often. Just had to make sure y’all were on the up and up.”

  Jim turned and opened the door to the Humvee. “Well, now that introductions are over, what say y’all get some food back at camp? We got some venison and a little bit o’
ham left.”

  Joe waved his men to get into the Humvee. Jim seemed like an honest enough sort, especially compared to his past encounters with strangers. As Jim went back to the Humvee, Joe noticed a hitch in his giddy up, along with some shakes in his hands. Jim looked as if he had survived the zombie apocalypse, only to be taken by Parkinson’s disease.

  Scott helped Balboa into the back seat as Rick held Kane on the center console. Joe got into the driver’s side rear as Jamie squeezed himself in between the front passengers. It was by no means comfortable, but at least it was infinitely warmer than the outdoors. Joe’s mind raced with more questions, actions, and outcomes like a calculator on overload. He had become so engrossed with trying to figure out what Jim’s motives were that he’d missed a key piece of information. A piece of information that he needed. Jim put the Humvee into gear and headed out. Joe leaned forward in the seat and tapped Jim on the shoulder.

  “Jim, what the hell is a Peacemaker?”

  CHAPTER 13

  The world slowly passed by as Joe, Jamie, Balboa, and Rick watched. The once proud and well-to-do area of Lexington that surrounded them looked like a shell of its former self. The remains of houses here, the burnt-out shell of another there, all wasted buildings now. Most of them did not have a roof nor windows, their weak points exploited and hammered by Mother Nature for nearly a decade. The snow continued to fall in droves, obscuring the way forward at times and blowing through the derelict houses like confetti for a party long since gone.

  Traveling down the lonesome highway, Joe was reminded how much he missed life before the undead. Having fought his way across half the country, he was beginning to wish that he’d just stayed at the house in Rural Retreat. Virginia seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime that had been divided into before and after parts. The before part involved working forty hours or more a week and coming home. Home was a well-defined place, not where you could just lay your head for the night, with a roof over you providing cover from the elements. Such simple things had evaded him for the last nine years. ‘Home’ such as it was now, was that exact thing: merely a roof over your head and protection from the rain, snow, wind, and heat. The after now consisted of scavenging, fighting, and generally surviving from day-to-day.

  Joe waited patiently for Jim to answer him as the Humvee scooted along slowly. After a few seconds, he did.

  “What, y’all haven’t had any run-ins with those assholes? Damn, son. Y’all are lucky, that’s all I gotta say,” Jim answered, shifting in his seat. “They’re just some merry bunch of idiots that think this world has reverted back to the Old West. They are the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind. We never had a problem with ‘em ‘til about a year or so ago.”

  “A year ago? What happened then?” Joe asked curiously.

  Jim wheeled the Humvee down what was once a four-lane highway. “About a year ago they came by the outpost in Lexington. They didn't want to trade much and didn't offer much whatsoever, so we didn't think anything of it. They came by a couple times and asked us if we still believed that the United States government was gonna come and save us all. Of course, we had given up on the government a long time ago, just like everybody else had. They wanted to know if we considered ourselves ‘patriots.’ We told em ‘of course we do.’ Once they heard that, then all of a sudden they wanted to be all buddy-buddy with us. They said that they were rounding up all the patriots left in America.”

  “Rounding them up for what?” Jamie asked from his uncomfortable position in the middle of the Humvee.

  Jim looked back at Jamie. “That’s what we wanted to know. They said they wanted good, strong, able-bodied men to join up with them to take back Washington D.C. and ‘restore the nation,’ as they put it. Of course, some of our guys were all for it. They offered food, protection, and the promise of great rewards for anyone who joined up with ‘em. I could see through their bullshit, though, and turned ‘em down. I told ‘em that an old man had no place in fighting anything other than to keep his family safe.”

  “So what happened after they got some of your people?” Joe asked.

  “Well, they stayed gone for a good while. Probably didn't see ‘em again until about three months ago. I told ‘em that we didn't have any more people willing to join up with ‘em and that they should just go about their business. They didn't like hearing that. They camped outside of the outpost in Lexington for a couple hours. We couldn’t tell what they were up to until we heard the helicopter coming in. By that time, it was too late. Once the chopper got there, they assaulted the outpost. We tried to hold ‘em off as best we could, but we were no match for the hardware they had. Military-grade stuff: grenade launchers, machine guns, and the like.”

  “Let me guess, they were led by a man that calls himself ‘The Captain.’” Joe shook his head and came to the realization quickly who these supposed “Peacemakers’ were. “So after that is when you guys took off from Lexington?”

  “Yep. We were on the move for about a month or so, trying to find somewhere to fortify. They said something about their leader; if I'm not mistaken, that’s what they called him. Some one-legged guy that cut his own leg off to survive. Said something about getting shot years ago.”

  Joe grinned a little at the mention of the Captain being shot. He was nearly certain during the exchange of gunfire in Monroeville, Alabama that he’d hit the bastard at least once. He may have been shot, himself, but at least some good had come from him being wounded. As Jim continued the story of his plight, Joe thought it over. Moving around two hundred people would have been difficult, especially if any were wounded or sick. Add that in with not having anywhere for them to stay, and disaster was inevitable. “How many did you lose before you got to where you are now?”

  Jim looked down slightly, sullen. “Over half of ‘em didn't even make the trip out of Lexington. We only got two vehicles, and the other is barely running. We tried packing in the sick and injured, but all of our medical supplies were still in Lexington. Hell, we’d lose two or three people a night sometimes.”

  The words Jim spoke hit Joe a little harder than he expected. While he and his team had ample food, supplies, medicine, and ammo, there were many more people considerably less fortunate. Joe lamented losing his people, even as few as he had. He couldn’t imagine losing a couple people a night.

  “So,” Jim continued. “We are currently squatting at an old UPS package center. It’s not much, especially compared to what we had before, but it’s spacious enough for thirty people and it has a barbed wire fence that is still intact. We’ve done a little reinforcing on it here and there, but it should hold up against a few dozen deadheads if need be.”

  Jim drove on for what seemed like an hour or more. They casually passed by several zombies over that time. Most of the undead were mired up in snow – sluggish and nearly immobile. Several times the Humvee had to dodge into the median - not because of zombies, but for wildlife. The animal population of Kentucky was more than ample before the end of modern civilization, and now it was booming. They passed black bears, deer, and a lone mountain lion as they made their way down the road. From what Joe noticed, they were heading south by southeast. The exit and route signs that still stood were indicative of their direction of travel. Good, in spite of everything else, at least we are headed in the right direction, he thought.

  The day waned on to late afternoon. They traveled off the main interstate and onto a limited-access highway. Jim and Scott kept quiet, as did the rest of the passengers of the Humvee. The only noise came from light snoring on the part of Rick and Kane. The dog had not exactly fallen asleep, remaining vigil throughout the trip, but he occasionally nodded off. He would sporadically snort and wake up, typically due to the poor condition of the road. Joe noticed the tire tracks in the snow as Jim slowed his approach.

  “Here we are, boys. Welcome to Camp Brown. It ain't much, but it’s home.”

  Jim rolled the Humvee off the main road, making a left turn towards a chain-link
gate. Two men stood guard at the gate with weapons. The one on the left carried an old hunting rifle, and was dressed in dirty coveralls and an oversized filthy jacket. The one on the right rested his hand on an old revolver. He was dressed in old woodland camouflage from head to toe, complemented by a matching military patrol cap. Both men looked weary and dirty, sporting full-length beards similar to Jim and Scott’s. The snow piled on their shoulders as they stood there. It looked as if they had been out in the cold for quite a while. As Jim turned the Humvee, the man on the right cautiously looked around before opening the gate. He grabbed and slid the gate towards him, the task being made all the more difficult by the heap of snow underneath it.

  “Why name it Camp Brown?” Joe wondered aloud.

  “Well, it was an old UPS distribution center, so ‘What can brown do for you’ just kind of made us think about the color. The name stuck,” Jim answered as he pulled through the gate. The woodland-camo guard pushed the gate back closed and resumed his position.

  Joe leaned forward and had a look at Camp Brown. The building was solidly constructed brick from top to bottom. It looked as if it had been painted UPS brown and tan during its heyday long ago. The building was now a tall, two-story monument to dirt and grime. It was still brown, but for a different reason, and not all over. Bits of green and black poked through the chocolate-colored façade. It stretched as long as a football field. The section ended in a squared building that jutted out into a turnaround and what was once an office area. The main part of the building was obviously used for shipping and receiving. Two dozen roll-up doors marked that area.

  “As y’all can see, the office area’s roof collapsed a long time ago. The shipping bays are much better built, but they ain't much for warmth. We went through the packages and used what we could out of ‘em. The mice got to quite a bit of it, but what they didn't destroy we put to good use. We found everything from knives, axes and swords, to clothes, lighter fluid, and a couple cases of MREs. Unfortunately, the MREs didn't last long with thirty hungry people to feed. Everybody ate well enough to get some strength back, which we needed more than anything.