Six Feet From Hell: Crisis by Joseph Coley Page A

units had been taken care of; most of them were working – whether they realized it or not – for the COG, or Continuity of Government. The COG was set up in the event of a cataclysmic collapse to keep order in the United States.
    It had failed miserably.
    The Captain and the people he represented were all in favor of a central government, they just wanted it to be the way they wanted it. The men who upheld the Constitution were the ones who didn't abandon their posts in time of crisis, and it was time they were rewarded. Word had spread throughout the outposts and colonies of people that the Peacemakers were in line to take over the country and restore order the way it was intended.
    By force.
    His superiors wanted to march straight down Pennsylvania Avenue and up to the White House, take it over, and make it their own. Not that it mattered; the White House had long been abandoned, its personnel moved to Cheyenne Mountain in Wyoming and Mount Weather in Virginia. The remains of the organized government would be at both those places. But he knew that taking back Washington D.C. was the best symbolic gesture they could come up with. They knew that a country that was going to come back from the brink needed a familiar symbol to look upon. They intended to be that symbol.
    They’d already started the conscripting long before making a run into Virginia, but it was not working as well as they had anticipated. The Captain knew that there would be some resistance to it initially, but he had to hold firm in order to make it work. No longer would the liberal pansies dictate whether they needed to fight. Either they would fight, or they would die. It was that simple. There were no more conscientious objectors, no more bleeding-heart pussies, no more leaning on the government. The government would help you, but first you had to help it, not the other way around. It would be the beginning of a stronger, better nation. However, they needed to pave the road to D.C. first, and it would be paved in blood.
    The Captain slowly climbed down from the top of the LAV, using his good leg in the process. His right leg from below the knee was gone, amputated years ago after taking a rifle round just below the knee. After the first few days, the injury had set up with gangrene and he’d had no choice but to cut it off. He’d used his belt as a tourniquet, got drunk, and cut it off with his Ka-Bar. It had not been an easy task, but it had immediately made an impression upon the men that found him. They were amazed that he’d had the balls to do it himself. They were a bunch of weak-minded, easily impressionable ‘weekend warriors’ that needed a leader. He was that leader.
    He had managed to find a medical prosthetics shop after he had amputated his leg. He then spent nearly a decade roaming the South, looking for anyone that would join their cause. They first started with the known ‘Patriot’ groups in the South. The liberal media had portrayed them as radical right-wing nutjobs, when in reality they were honest, hardworking people who were misunderstood. However, fewer joined than he’d anticipated, since most of them were well prepared to live off the grid, and the majority of them were real patriots. They’d refused to surrender to the Captain and his people, so he had them killed. There were many firefights with the Patriots, men lost, men gained, but the cause always continued on. After that came the conscripting. Any man over the age of sixteen that could hold a rifle was taken. If they refused, they were considered against the government and were killed for treason.
    * * *
    “Shit. Fuck ‘em. I don’t have all damn day to wait on ‘em. Head back to me at the Virginia/Tennessee line. We took over the Bristol Motor Speedway. Just land it in the middle of the track and don’t lose any more of my men. I’ll have your fucking head if you do!” the Captain angrily spat at the sat-phone.
    A shaky voice stuttered and answered. “Uh