Six Feet From Hell: The Lost Chronicles (Book 1) (4 page)

They neared the hangar. Nothing spectacular about their approach signaled danger. The ever-present smell and sound of undead was nothing to get excited over – at least not yet.

“Owens, you take left, Fox go right. I’m going to make contact.”

“Roger, moving,” Owens said.

“Roger,” repeated Fox.

Moose moved to the main door to the hangar. Staying to the left of the door, he hugged the wall and reached for the doorknob. Turning the handle slowly, he waited for the latch to disengage.

The door clicked softly and swung open.

Moose brought up his rifle and swung into the doorway quickly. Sweeping the LaRue Tactical OBR in first, he made his way through the door.

“Thank God you’re here!” A voice cried out.

As Moose entered the hangar, he could see several people standing near a C130J Super Hercules parked in the hangar. Two more men clambered out of the back of the massive aircraft as he stalked forward, his rifle still aimed ahead. He pulled his balaclava down and surveyed the survivors. He counted six adults and one child. They were dirty and bedraggled, but alive.

“Well it’s about damn time! I was beginning to wonder if you guys had heard me!” A second voice called from the back of the plane. The second voice had come from a man in uniform, dressed in Army ACUs and carrying an M4.

Moose lowered his weapon. “Captain Travis Myers, United States Air Force pararescue. We got your distress call. Is anyone hurt?”

The soldier jogged up to Moose and threw up a hasty salute. “Sergeant Benjamin Marcus, Mississippi Army National Guard. Nice to meet you, Captain,” Sergeant Marcus greeted Moose. He had a thick Southern accent and looked dirty and tired, but otherwise unharmed.

Moose lowered his rifle and eased himself a bit, letting his muscles relax. He hadn’t realized that he had been keeping himself so tense the last few minutes. “Likewise, Sergeant Marcus. How many people do you have?”

“Myself and eight others. Do you have room for all of us?”

“Roger that, sergeant. I can take all of you, but we have to wait for additional support from the USS
Nimitz.
They have a Chinook on standby to transport. Give me a second to radio Chief Shupe in the Seahawk, and we will be out of here in twenty minutes.”

Sergeant Marcus grinned from ear-to-ear. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll get my people ready and we can get the hell out of here. Radio your people and I will get mine squared away.”

Moose nodded and keyed his throat mic. “Moose to Nightingale Seven.”

CW3 Shupe answered.
“Go ahead, Captain Myers.”

“Get that Chinook on station to head our way. We have a Mississippi National Guard NCO and eight more survivors. Recommend that you take Swamp Thing and circle to provide cover while we wait. What’s our situation on Zulus?”

“Copy that, Moose. MA2 Hale is on the horn with the
Nimitz
right now.”
A long pause, then:
“ETA for exfil is eighteen minutes. We will take off and hold at five hundred feet to provide air cover. Situation on Zulus unknown. We will holler back once we get airborne and keep you informed. Nightingale Seven out.”

“Owens, Fox, you guys copy direct?” Moose asked. He quickly looked at his watch and noted the time. Eighteen minutes was a hell of a long time to wait.

“
Copy
,” answered Owens.

“
Copy, Moose
,” answered Fox.

“Okay, both of you fall back to the front of the hangar in ten mikes. ETA for exfil is eighteen minutes, so we need to stay sharp until then.”

“We have a few cuts and lacerations, nothing major as far as injuries go, Captain,” Sergeant Marcus said. “One looks like it could use some stitches.”

Moose slung his rifle and opened a drop-leg holster with medical supplies. “Let’s have a look.”

Sergeant Marcus waved a man over who had his arm in a makeshift sling. Blood was seeping through the hasty bandage applied. The man stood before Moose for a brief moment.

“Have a seat, mister…”

The man sat down in front of Moose, gingerly moving his injured arm as he did.

“Richardson, Martin Richardson. Are you a medic, Captain?”

Moose removed the dirty, bloodstained sling from the man’s arm, carefully pulling it over Martin Richardson’s head. He removed an Israeli bandage from his drop-leg holster and started to re-wrap the injured arm. “Being a medic is one of my many talents, Martin. Once a PJ finishes the pipeline, he is a jack of all trades and…”

“Master of none?” Martin said jokingly.

Moose fashioned a new sling and made Martin’s arm more comfortable. “Nope. Master of all,” Moose said, lightly patting Martin on the shoulder. He let another rare smirk cross his face. “When a man finishes ‘Superman school’ he can do damn near anything.”

Moose turned back to the group of people to explain their next few hours. “Sergeant Marcus, if you could get all of your people together, I will explain what we will be doing.”

Total count on the survivors was six men – including Sergeant Marcus – two women, and one small child who looked to be about seven or eight years old. They gathered around Moose, desperate to hear some good news.

“If I could have your attention, please. For those of you that didn’t hear, my name is Captain Travis Myers, United States Air Force, but most of my men call me Moose.”

His nickname drew a couple snickers from the group.

Moose continued. “I have called for a SAR chopper on the USS
Nimitz
which is about fifty miles off the coast. We have roughly eighteen minutes until it arrives. It will take you to the USNS
Mercy
, a hospital ship also out in the Gulf of Mexico. Once you are cleared from there, you will be taken to another Coast Guard or Navy ship, or you may go to one of the many oil platforms in the gulf. They are being used as floating cities for the time being, and our best option for a stable place to stay. Now, when the chopper gets here it will be very loud, so listen carefully. I will lead, and you will follow. Do not go ahead of me, and do not fall behind of my last man. I have two other sailors outside keeping watch; they will bring up the rear. Do not fall behind either one of them, or you could be left behind. Are there any questions?”

“Why can’t we just ride in the helicopter that you brought with you?” A female voice asked. She was apparently either the mother of the small child, or the guardian. She had obviously been crying for some time; the redness in her eyes was indicative of that.

“The Seahawk only seats eight, and there are seven of us,” Moose answered. “It wasn’t meant to hold any more passengers. I’m afraid that we wouldn’t have enough fuel to make it back to the ship. Any more questions?”

A series of glances and heads shaking
no.

“Outstanding, now…”

“
Nightingale Seven to Moose. Contact to your twelve o’clock. You have a massive amount of personnel heading your way. Possibly irradiated Zulus. Recommend you get out of the hangar and head to open ground on the runway. We will cover you as best we can.”

“Owens, Fox, do you have eyes on our guests?”

“
Negative, sir. We can hear ‘em, but we do not have visual. Recommend we take Nightingale Seven’s suggestion and head to the open area on the runway. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to engage targets out in the open instead of cramped up in that hangar,”
Owens answered.

“Copy that, Owens. You and Fox beat feet back to the front of the building ASAP.” Moose glanced down at his watch. “We still have fifteen minutes before the bird gets here, so…”

The unmistakable roaring sound of the GAU – 17/A minigun on the Seahawk echoed through the large aircraft hangar. The chopper had started engaging some of the irradiated undead, which meant Moose and the team had precious little time.

“Sergeant Marcus, I think that’s our cue. Let’s get outside and get your people away from the irradiated Zulus,” Moose said, then turned to address the entire group. “Whatever happens, stay behind of myself and my men. We will protect all of you as best we can.”

Or die trying.

Moose grabbed his LaRue Tactical OBR and darted for the hangar door. As he reached the aluminum door, he heard the minigun spin up once more.

“Fox! Owens! What’s our status?” Moose asked, grabbing the door handle and ushering people outside.

“We got a shitload of company coming, Moose!”

“Copy,” Moose answered. “Go! Go! Go!” He said, steering the group out the door.

Once the last person was in the open, Moose stepped outside. As soon as he did, the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh and decay hit him like a ton of bricks. As he trotted away from the hangar, he glanced back to see that the GAU – 17/A minigun had caused a vehicle to catch fire behind the hangar. Flames licked the side of the building and threatened to light ablaze the entire area.

The roar from the minigun was interrupted by single, intermittent shots coming from either side. Owens and Fox both appeared simultaneously from their respective hiding spots, stopping briefly to fire behind them at the approaching undead.

What Moose could not see was the crumpled fence had gave way and collapsed, spilling hundreds of zombies through the gaping hole in their perimeter. He continued to usher the survivors into the open area where the Seahawk had landed, praying that they had enough time and ammo to hold off their intruders. He glanced at his watch.

They had twelve minutes left.

“Nightingale Seven, you need to get on the horn with transport and tell them to haul ass. We are gonna get overrun before we can make a dent in the Zulus.”

“Copy, Captain. Transport advised they are nearing VMO speed as we speak. ETA is still roughly eleven minutes. Hang in there, Moose. Nightingale Seven out.”

“Shit,” Moose mumbled under his breath.

“What the problem? Are they coming?” A man asked, his voice becoming more high-pitched as he spoke.

Moose wanted to tell them it was going to be all right. He wanted to say not to panic, that rescue was coming shortly, but he didn’t want to lie to them. Every fiber of his being told him that it was going to be hell for the next ten minutes, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell them that, either.

“The rescue chopper is maxing out speed to get here as fast as they can. My men and I will hold off damn near anything until they do.”

Owens and Fox came sprinting up to the group. Both men stopped for a brief moment, and then changed magazines. The pair seemed to do everything in unison. Owens smacked the side of his M4, slamming the bolt forward and chambering the first round.

As both men reloaded, Moose approached. “Gimme a SITREP on our Zulus.” SITREP was short for SITuation REPort, the military way of asking
, “What is going on?”

“I took out over a dozen on my side,” Owens said.

“Same on mine, but there is a shitload more coming, Captain,” Fox answered. His hands were shaking as he fumbled the next magazine into the magazine well of his M4.

Moose saw how scared shitless Fox was. He reached his hand out and steadied the young corpsman’s arm. “Calm down, Fox. SAR bird will be here shortly.”

A high-pitched scream emanated from behind. All three men turned quickly to the group behind them. The woman with the small child was pointing to the hangar with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The young girl was clung to her side, crying and desperately holding onto the woman. Two more men on either side of her stood with panicked faces.

Before he turned, Moose could
hear
the undead approaching. As he faced his enemy, his heart sank.

Zombies poured out from either side of the hangar.

Moose glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. There was no way in hell they were going to survive. Not with these odds. Zombies were scattering out, about fifty yards away. The undead were spreading out as they rounded the sides of the hangar, forming a decayed procession headed right toward them.

The Seahawk, which had made a wide sweep on the left side of the hangar, swung back around behind of them, swooping into position, the minigun erupting once again. Hot lead flew at the oncoming horde of zombies, ripping, tearing, and exploding various body parts and bespattering the alabaster walls of the hangar with crimson splatter.

The brass from the minigun plinked behind them, scattering spent shell casings as the electric Gatling gun worked its magic.

And then the roar of the GAU – 17/A stopped.

The undead did not.

A rolling tide of zombies crawled, dug, and lumbered their way over the bodies of their deceased cohorts, and continued to move en masse toward Moose and his crew. Owens did not wait for an invitation to begin. He started taking well-placed shots at the oncoming multitude of Zulus. Fox hesitated for a moment and then followed suit, squeezing off rounds. Sergeant Marcus even stepped forward and began to line up headshots.

No sense in the kids having all the fun,
Moose thought absently, and brought up his rifle. It took him three seconds to zero in on his first target, a man in khaki shorts and a bloodstained t-shirt. Fresh blood dripped from its mouth as he eyed him through the ACOG scope on his rifle. Moose lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger. The zombie fell, and he moved to his next target.