Six Feet From Hell: Crisis

by Joseph Coley

  Mike swallowed hard and tried to compose himself as best he could. Despite the cold temperature, a bead of sweat broke out on his brow. “Because I was in on it too.”

  Curtis was now the one unsure how to react. “What the hell are you talking about? And give me that goddamned gun; I don’t trust either one of you fuckers right now.”

  “I'm not giving up shit until this asshole admits that he was in on it, too!”

  “I'm not doing shit for you right now, you lyin’ fuckrag!” Wagner said emphatically. “Curtis, I ain't done shit but help you since I got here. This motherfucker,” he said, pointing to Mike, “was the one that we caught with the Captain before!”

  Mike smiled knowingly. “Well, what about this shit then?” He reached into his jacket and threw down the remnants of his sat-phone, the black plastic parts standing out against the pure white snow. He put his other hand back on the gun.

  “What the hell is that, Mike?” Curtis asked. He kept his .45 aimed at Mike.

  “It’s a satellite phone. The Captain gave me one when I was left at Beckley. He said he would contact me with further instructions,” Mike said, not taking his eyes off Wagner.

  “What did he tell you?” Curtis wondered aloud.

  “He wanted me to get recon on the ZBRA unit and report back to him. I never called him back, but right before we left he called me and told me that he knew about the trucks leaving for Tazewell. I hadn’t told him shit yet, so I figured this fucker was in on it too. Think about it. He was the only survivor? Yeah, my fuckin’ left nut. He gave one to Wagner in case I reconsidered. Truth is, I never intended on screwing you guys over as long as you got me away from that fucker. I got in on his good side, lied to get in on the recon, and waited until I could get away.”

  Curtis stood, completely shocked by what he was hearing, but putting the pieces together nonetheless. “I didn't rat us out to the Captain, either.” Curtis slowly moved his .45 from Mike to Wagner’s chest. “Wagner, no disrespect, but I'm gonna need to look in your truck.”

  Wagner’s expression changed from disbelief to hatred nearly instantly. “What the fuck, Curtis? You're not gonna sit and listen to this shit are you?”

  “I’d feel a lot better if you’d just cooperate and let me see in your truck before I have to detain you instead. You either let me in, or I zip-tie you to that guardrail over there and do it myself,” Curtis said, gesturing to the guardrail behind Wagner.

  “Fuck both of you!” Wagner screamed suddenly. He kicked up a large pile of snow at both Curtis and Mike, causing both men to duck and momentarily lose sight of him. Wagner swiftly drew his own .45 from behind his back and fired three shots wildly at both men.

  Curtis instinctively fired a shot in Wagner’s direction as he ducked away, rounds whizzing by him close enough for him to hear the reverberation. He ducked down and turned, bracing himself with his left hand and losing his balance for a moment. He lunged forward and tried to catch himself, to no avail. He hit the ground hard on his left shoulder and quickly rolled over.

  Wagner was gone.

  Curtis swiftly got to his feet in just enough time to be knocked back down. The front of the LMTV clipped him as it rolled forward with Wagner behind the wheel. Curtis hit the ground again, hard. The LMTV trundled past him, black smoke spewing forth, engine rumbling along. Curtis got up on one knee and fired the rest of his clip at the fleeing vehicle. Seven rounds pelted the back of the LMTV, uselessly bouncing off the hardened steel armor. Curtis looked at the slide of his .45, locked back and out of ammo.

  “Shit!” He thumbed the release and the slide slammed forward. The LMTV rumbled across the median of the interstate, headed towards the onramp marked Exit 1 – Bluefield. Curtis slid the .45 back into the holster. “C’mon, Mike! We gotta get that asshole!”

  Only silence and the fleeting sound of a diesel engine answered.

  “Mike! Mike! Come on!” Curtis shouted once again, to no avail. He ran over to where Mike had previously stood and was met with a horrible sight. One of the rounds Wagner had fired had caught Mike squarely in the temple, killing him instantly. Curtis grabbed his mini Maglite and shone it on Mike. The blood and gray matter had splattered in a straight line out from what remained of his head. Curtis shoved Mike’s body out of the path of the next LMTV. “Sorry, brother, but I gotta catch that sonofabitch.”

  Curtis crossed himself, then left Mike’s body lying where he had shoved it. It was an unceremonious way to leave his fallen friend, especially considering that he may have just saved his life, but Curtis had bigger fish to fry. He sprinted to what had been Mike’s LMTV. With one swift motion, he grabbed the door of the truck, planted his left foot, and swung himself into the cab. He fired up the 2.5-ton truck and pressed the “D” button to throw it into drive. Curtis stomped the gas and the LMTV lurched forward quickly. He swung the steering wheel and bounded across the median, just as Wagner had not thirty seconds ago. The truck roared across the interstate and made a beeline for the exit ramp. The copious amount of snow made gaining traction more challenging, but the tires soon met grip and Curtis found himself sliding the big truck around the cloverleaf and onto the main road.

  Wagner evidently thought that he'd made a clean getaway as Curtis thundered down the road. The other LMTV was less than a quarter-mile ahead of him as he made his way onto the secondary route on 460 West. Curtis hadn’t bothered to turn on the driving lights on his truck. The thought to turn off the lights evidently had not occurred to Wagner. The red taillights glowed in the distance ahead of Curtis as he gained on the other LMTV. There was just enough moonlight peeking through the light snowfall to give him the element of surprise.

  Curtis gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckle hold. Wagner had not only killed Mike, a travesty in and of itself, but was planning something infinitely more sinister. The fact that he was colluding with the Captain was more disconcerting. What did Wagner tell him already? The Captain was obviously well aware of their exodus back to Tazewell, but what was his exit strategy? The supplies that were within the three trucks were more than worth the trouble of killing a pair of travelers. Where in the hell was the Captain coming from? He didn't have to be close by if Curtis and Mike were supposed to be dead, but he wouldn’t risk Wagner taking the assets for himself and taking off with them. Curtis sure as hell intended on finding out.

  He raced down the road until he was within fifty yards of Wagner. The lead LMTV started swerving between lanes, kicking up plumes of dry, white snow, creating an effective smokescreen. Curtis stayed his course behind Wagner despite the poor visibility.

  “Come on you son of a bitch!” Curtis yelled and punched the accelerator. His LMTV caught up to Wagner, only a few yards behind. “Remember me, asshole?!” Curtis’ truck lurched forward the few yards and closed the gap. He hit the back end of Wagner’s truck, jostling the vehicle back and forth. The short wheelbase of the truck made it difficult to control, but he pressed forth, ramming the vehicle again.

  “Curtis, you goddamned asshole!” Wagner screamed at the top of his lungs. He looked over to his left as the other truck pulled alongside. He glanced just long enough to see Curtis turn on the interior light, just to flip him the bird. “No, Curtis, FUCK YOU!” he yelled, and swerved his massive rig, colliding with the other LMTV with a dull metallic clang.

  Curtis’ truck rattled back and forth, losing a bit of ground to Wagner. The truck bounced off the cement wall to his left, nearly crashing him. “Goddammit, Wagner! You're gonna pay for that!” Curtis floored the accelerator once more and pulled alongside Wagner. He drifted over to his left and came at the opposing truck hard. Both trucks hit with another thundering boom of metal-on-metal racket. The trucks quaked but didn't recoil from one another, sticking to each other in a steel embrace.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Wagner hollered as he realized that his truck was caught on Curtis’ machine. The mechanical clinch didn't last long, however, as both trucks smashed into the concrete barrier to their left. Sparks
and a metallic screech filled the frigid air. Wagner’s truck inexplicably spun around, pulling the other LMTV with it. The combination of a short wheelbase and the fact that the truck was not meant to travel sideways became immediately evident. Wagner’s truck started tipping, pulling the other with it. Both trucks teetered as they slid sideways, finally giving into gravity and falling over.

  Both trucks crashed with a grinding thud, falling on the snow-covered pavement in a heap of clattering metal and breaking glass. The hulking LMTVs slid for a short distance before coming to a merciful halt.

  Wagner stirred first, quickly climbing over broken radio equipment, scattered pieces of glass, and the general state of disarray inside the cab. He stood up on the passenger’s side door and looked up above him. He’d injured himself in the crash, but nothing that was going to keep him from getting out. He searched around until he found his .45 lying below him. The gun had survived the crash nearly as well as he had. Wagner, woozy and disoriented, stumbled as he bent over to retrieve the gun. As he did, he noticed the windshield had been dislodged from the front of the truck. Wagner sat down heavily and kicked at the glass. After a couple of hefty boot strikes to the glass, it gave way and Wagner scurried out.

  Curtis had not fared as well as his adversary. He lay half-out of the windshield of his LMTV. As the truck made impact with the ground, the windshield had been forcefully ejected off the truck. It now lay on the ground a few feet away from him. Curtis rolled over onto his back, dazed by the impact. Stars passed through his vision, mixed in with the still-falling snow. It was a remarkable sight as he neared the edges of his consciousness. Curtis took shallow, ragged breaths, made all the more difficult by the broken ribs he had suffered. He closed his eyes as he heard the footsteps approaching. The crunching of snow came closer. Curtis struggled to regain what consciousness he had left. The footsteps shuffled nearer, coming to a stop beside him.

  “I told you not to fuck with me, Curtis.” Wagner stood over him, the .45 in his right hand, his left hand holding his ribs. Wagner raised the .45 and cocked the hammer back. The sound of far off moans of the undead made for a macabre landscape in the still of the night. Wagner looked out towards the sound, a disturbing expression growing across his face. “Too bad you won’t turn, but the dead will eat you alive, literally. The Captain wanted me to keep you alive until he got here from down the road.” Wagner drew his attention back to Curtis. “Oh fucking well.”

  Curtis closed his eyes and said a silent prayer as he readied himself for whatever waited for him in the afterlife.

  He was at peace.

  Boom!

  He was covered in blood.

  Wagner fell forward, minus a large portion of the right side of his face. His right eye flopped out and bounced forward, landing inches away from Curtis. The blood and gore from what remained of Wagner’s head coated the LMTV and Curtis’ face. He didn't know who his guardian angel was, but the shot had come from less than fifty yards away, the sound reverberating through the quiet mountain night.

  Curtis turned his head to one side, the frozen precipitation lightly falling on his face. Sounds came and went, as if the world was in a barrel. His sight faded in and out. The smell of copper and the stink of gray matter permeated the air around him, a forsaken miasma of a world gone to hell. The world was nearly absent from his mind until he heard the snow crunching again, this time someone running towards him. Curtis smiled and slowly exhaled. His guardian angel had arrived at last.

  The figure approached Curtis and checked his breathing and pulse. It was thready and weak, and his breathing ragged, but he was alive.

  “Hang in there, buddy. I’ll get you some help real soon.”

  * * *

  Joe finally managed to settle in for the night. As the night’s true darkness fell, he laid on the makeshift bed Jim had been so kind to fashion. A couple of flattened cardboard boxes and a meager amount of bedding on top wasn’t much, but it would do for now. The day had been a long one. No, it had been a time-consuming jumble of overwhelming scenes. After spending the last three years settled down at one spot to call home, it felt weird to be sleeping around complete strangers. He shifted uncomfortably on his ‘bed’ and tried to gain a more peaceful position. He didn't plan to get a good night’s sleep, but any rest at this point was better than none at all. The alcohol-induced near-coma that he'd had the night before was great for loosening up some of his much-needed tight muscles, but he hadn’t got much in the way of restful REM sleep. He pulled his meager covers tight to his chin and rolled to his left side.

  Rick was asleep not far from him, snoozing on the same improvised bedding. Kane was asleep beside him, Rick’s arm draped over the German Shepherd. Joe watched him sleep for a few moments. Rick looked at peace with Kane. The two had formed a fast friendship, moving and acting as one very quickly. The dog was now part of Joe’s family. It was not a family of blood, but one made through a combination of life events and chance. Joe had been close to the men in his group before they’d formally formed as a unit, but now their bond was inseparable. Each man was willing to risk his life for another. Each devoted to the notion that there was still some good left in the world. Each dedicated to making it safe for the future of mankind.

  As Joe finally fell asleep, many thoughts permeated his mind, but none more prevalent than one:

  How was Curtis holding up?

  CHAPTER 18

  DECEMBER 23, 2021

  The hustle and bustle of Camp Brown started early in the morning. Joe, and for that matter, the rest of the team, was wholly unfamiliar with being woken up by other human contact. They were used to sleeping as much as they cared to, only to be woken up by the call to duty or the smell of food. It wasn’t until the denizens of Camp Brown started their morning routine that the team realized how good they’d had it at Camp Dawson.

  Joe pulled the covers over his head and tried to drown out the sounds of the camp coming alive, but he couldn’t. What finally got him off his duff wasn’t the noise, but a smell; a familiar smell, but one that he hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

  Coffee.

  In lieu of having a Monster or Red Bull first thing in the morning, a cup of java was the next best thing. He missed the caffeine jolt and sugary wakeup call of energy drinks, but under the circumstances, a cup of coffee would do just fine. He tossed his covers aside and let his nose track down the sweet smell of breakfast. He reached down and laced up his boots, grabbed his rifle, and started the day.

  As Joe walked through the camp, it was evident that the word had gotten out about Joe and the crew. As he passed by several of the men and women, they gave him a much more cordial welcome than the day before. Smiles, nods, and waves were directed his way as he kept his pursuit of the delicious-smelling java. After walking another thirty seconds, he found the promised land.

  “Good morning, Joe! How the boys doing?” Jim said as he approached with two steaming mugs. Joe graciously accepted and sniffed the beautiful aroma.

  “I think they might be coming around soon. Especially Jamie; he’ll go nuts over some coffee.”

  “Well thankfully it was vacuum-sealed and there is plenty of it. It might be a little on the old side, but it’s still coffee.”

  “I'm sure he won’t mind,” Joe said as he sipped some of the black drink, the bitter taste awakening his thought processes. “What, no sugar?”

  Jim laughed as he drank some of his own. “We’re good, but not that good, at least not yet.”

  * * *

  Joe swirled the cup under Jamie’s nose. The big man didn't take long to stir once he caught a whiff of the java. He moved slowly at first, blinking away his sleepiness and lethargy. His eyes opened slowly and he grinned at Joe.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Damn straight it is. Get the boys up and get ‘em moving; we got some work to do today.”

  “As long as you let me have some of that, I’ll whistle ‘Dixie’ while eatin’ crackers and covering one eye.”r />
  Joe snickered. “Well, let’s get to it.”

  After a short wakeup for Balboa and Rick, the four men stood around the hood of the Humvee, contemplating. Each one stood with a steaming hot mug of liquid breakfast, pointing out what exactly they wanted to do about procuring their wheels. The trucks around the back of the UPS center were enclosed like the rest of the facility. Six semis with trailers occupied the area. The space as a whole was around fifty feet squared and utilized the same chain-link fence with barbed wire that the rest of the facility did. Thankfully the trucks were parked facing the exit of the section, but the gates were shut and locked. On the up side, the trucks should have no problem bashing through it. On the down side, however, it meant that any zombies that were not taken care of would immediately escape, creating a bigger issue. Joe did not have it in him to just bash open the gates of hell and release the ghouls. The people of Camp Brown deserved better. Each man had plenty of ammo to take care of the threats. Despite their need to leave for Tazewell, they would neutralize all hostiles before doing so. They would still most likely have to bash the gate in, but at least there would be no adverse side effects from doing so.

  Joe explained the intricacies of his plan, of which there were few. He, along with Rick and Jamie, would take a service ladder to the roof. Once they were there, Joe and Jamie would take out all of the undead visible to them. Rick would be lowered down onto a trailer and make his way to the front of the truck. Joe and Jamie would take up flanking positions on the roof, keeping Rick in their sights. Rick would take only his sidearm and a backpack with Sta-Bil so as not to be weighed down. Once Joe and Jamie took out the walkers, then Rick would drop the Sta-Bil into the tank – assuming it still had fuel – and give the all clear for the area. Jim would bring around the Humvee and jumpstart the truck. Assuming everything went to plan, they would be done in ten minutes or less.