by David Rogers
He was fucking tired. They all were.
“What about the bus?” Dorne asked, stopping and turning to call back as quietly as he could. Peter blinked again, then forced his eyes to focus properly as he looked where the soldier was pointing. They were just north of Baker Street, about a block back from where they’d left the latest concentration of zombies behind. Peter figured without even turning to look the hungry fuckers had probably merged at the intersection to the south and were starting to come after them.
Courtland had an exit down to the Connector that merged in just ahead of the Baker/Courtland intersection. Dorne was pointing to the west, down where the exit peeled off from the Interstate and started curving up to the Downtown streets. About fifty, maybe sixty, yards after the exit diverged from the Connector he saw a Marta bus skewed across the two lanes.
“What about it?” Peter asked.
“Maybe it’s running.”
Peter shook his head, and took several moments to make sure his voice was calm when he spoke. Tired, definitely, but calm. Yelling and snapping and throwing anger at people was not needed right now. “If it’s not, we’re risking getting boxed in.”
“What?”
Peter hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The ones behind us would follow down there, unless you want to try and detour off several blocks, try to lose them, pray for no others to pick up on us, then circle back here just to go down and check on one bus.”
“Maybe the Connector isn’t as full of zombies as it was earlier.” Dorne said, but Peter heard the wish in the response.
“You willing to bet your life on that?”
“Fuck.”
“Right.” Peter nodded. Dorne turned his back and started north again. Peter rolled his head around once in each direction, then worked his shoulders in sequence. Left, then right. Squeeze the muscles, then relax. Then he worked each arm, up, around, down, around again; then forward, and finally back. The stretching boosted his circulation a little, and the rush of blood flow helped drive away just a touch of the fatigue. It wasn’t enough.
Peter finally did look behind himself. Sure enough, the horde from Baker street had merged and was trailing after them. The unit was moving just fast enough to add to its lead, but hours of walking and running had sapped away any chance of the brisk walking that had enabled them to reliably pull away from previous zombie packs.
They were down to only seventeen now, and one of those, Jenkins, was able to walk only with someone supporting him. His left leg had caught a bullet back at the hotel next to Spring and Linden. He had gamely hobbled along with them as they tacked back and forth through Downtown, never uttering a single word of complaint. Peter admired the soldier’s fortitude, but even, or perhaps especially, Jenkins’ ability to keep moving was finally flagging.
No one’s adrenaline was unlimited, and willpower and determination only went so far. Peter had always prided himself on his levels of the last two qualities, but he was also in his fifties. If the ‘kids’ among the Guardsmen who were in their twenties were beginning to stagger from fatigue, then he had to take it as a warning sign. Even if he was able to deny his body’s need for rest right up until the moment he fell over, the others might not be as gung ho.
Peter hated it. The thought of stopping somewhere terrified him. He’d seen far too many hordes and packs this night. The streets of Downtown were covered in zombies. The numbers had to be in the tens of thousands. Time and time again they’d been chased by groups that filled the space between buildings shoulder to shoulder, rank after rank deep, all hungry and eager to seize the living.
But unless a way out presented itself sometime in the next few minutes, which didn’t seem likely, it was time to circle the wagons somewhere and hole up. Rest, recuperate, and try to figure out a plan. He had no idea what that plan would be, beyond what had basically been the strategy so far. And that wasn’t working. Logic and reason dictated he should go with something else, but he couldn’t think of what. Maybe some time off his feet, off the streets, would shake something clever loose out of his addled mind.
He was just scared as hell that once they stopped, a couple thousand of the wandering zombies would collapse around wherever they went to ground at, and they’d be trapped with no way to get out. But if they didn’t stop soon, they’d collapse and be caught in the streets too tired to run any more.
As they crossed over the Connector for about the tenth or twelfth time Peter did take the opportunity to look in each direction with his binoculars. There was a rather large tangled mess of a wreck visible to the southeast, just past the Baker and Piedmont overpass, but northwest looked mostly clear. Except for the zombies he saw in each direction, probably an easy couple hundred both ways. All it would take would be a single scent, or whatever they used, of the living and the zombies would coalesce into a pursuit horde.
They were blocked off from going east as they crossed the Ralph McGill/Courtland overpass by mass of zombies. West was deeper into Atlanta, and they’d been through several streets off in that direction recently anyway. But a block further north on Courtland he spotted something that looked pretty good. Not as good as an escape route, but almost as good. He hoped.
It looked a lot like part of the continuing wave, small but persistent, of redevelopment Atlanta had been experiencing ever since the ’96 Olympics. The entire block had been converted into apartment style townhouses or condos or whatever. There looked to be a couple hundred units in it.
They screamed their newness, looking better and more modern than just mere good maintenance could have explained. If nothing else, the pavement of the parking lots and drives he could see gave it away. Tightly fitted red brick and lacking either the wear or stains that would inevitably have affected something that was older.
But the thing that drew his attention, beyond all that, better than all of that, was the fence he saw bordering the property’s surrounding sidewalks. The fence was black metal with its posts sunk into the concrete. Peter was too tired to quicken his pace, but when his feet finally got him close enough he reached out and experimentally tugged on it.
“Stopping.” he called, turning his head to make sure his voice projected to Dorne’s fireteam. He saw the soldier glance back, then stop. Peter gestured for him to come back, and pointed at the townhouses when Dorne’s face showed confusion.
“What’s the plan sarge?” Whitley asked. Peter turned to see her standing with her back to him, barely two feet away, surveying their surroundings. To the south, in the direction she was covering, he saw their latest zombie pursuers were being reinforced by new additions from Ralph McGill. The combining mass of the bastards were distant at the moment, but would inexorably stagger close enough to be a problem. They always did.
Peter looked away from the zombies and focused on the Guardsmen clustering around him, too tired and rushed to even reprimand those of them who forgot to cover the various arcs they should have been. “Mendez, you look like you’re in good shape. Can you climb this without help, or are you too tired or something?”
The soldier, the tallest in the group, sized the fence up for a second, then shrugged. “Probably, why?”
“Because we’re going over, and if you can do it without aid then you get to help boost the rest of us sad sacks up.” Peter said, gesturing over his shoulder at the fence.
“Thanks a lot sarge.” Mendez said, but he managed to accompany the seeming complaint with a brief grin.
“Clean living will get you killed.” Peter agreed, glancing at the southern zombie pack. “Let’s go, quick like bunnies. Smith first, then Candles.”
“Actually, I should help boost people.” Candles said, stepping up beside Mendez who was settling himself into a crouch next to the fence.
Peter opened his mouth, then shut it. It didn’t matter, and they had no time to argue about it. “Fine.” He pointed at Dorne instead, who nodded and started slinging his weapon.
Smith was already stepping into Mendez’s linked hands, who
straightened up and pushed as Smith reached for the top of the fence. The vertical rails that made up the fence – much more decorative than mere chain link – were thankfully square topped, not spiked. Smith grunted as he levered himself high enough with Mendez’s help to get his left boot planted on the top of the fence, then stepped over and dropped down on the far side.
It was only a seven foot ‘fall’, and was on grass, but Smith grunted heavily and staggered like he was dizzy when he came down. He shook his head twice, once as if to settle himself, and a second time to forestall any questions as Peter started to ask if he was okay. “I’m fine. Next man, hurry up.”
Dorne managed to edge over the fence and sort of climb down using his hands, almost rappelling the short distance. The two of them positioned themselves opposite Mendez and Candles, ready to ease everyone else over.
“The next man ain’t a man.” Crawford said as she stepped into Mendez’s linked hands and reached for the top of the fence.
“Whatever.” Smith said, ready to catch or assist when she got to his side. Roper was going over with Candles’ help a few feet away. Peter eyed their progress for a moment, then shucked off his ILBE and stepped back several steps from the fence. With a grunt of effort, far more than it should have cost him, he swung the pack down then back up and released it. It sailed over the fence and landed in the grass on the far side.
“Double time, double time.” Peter said, glancing south again. The zombies were doing their thing, inevitably getting closer and closer. There was about half a minute before they were here. “Jenkins, there’s no way this isn’t gonna hurt.” he said, looking at the wounded soldier as he stood with his weight on his good leg and watched the progress of the climbing.
“Don’t matter.” Jenkins said, shrugging. “I’ll leave the leg here on this side if it comes to it. I ain’t getting eaten.”
“Good man.” Peter said. The fence crossing continued in rapid order, fast enough that Peter was pretty sure Nailor might be limping for a while, but that didn’t matter right now. When it was down to just Peter and Jenkins, Peter helped Candles and Mendez lift Jenkins up so he could get his hands on the fence top.
It had to hurt. Peter couldn’t believe Jenkins didn’t even grunt, only breathed a little faster and harder, as he effectively bore his weight on his wounded leg while he got his right boot positioned. But he didn’t say a word, just hung on while they supported him, then tumbled down on the other side into the waiting hands there.
Peter looked south again, then stepped into Mendez’s hands. The zombies there were close, uncomfortably close. Figuring there was no more time for delicacy, Peter stepped from Mendez’s hands to his shoulder, then to the top of the fence. He dropped down on the far side between Smith and Roper, landing heavily enough to stagger all three of them.
But the clock in his head was ticking, and he turned to gesture at Mendez almost immediately. “Come on, hurry up.” Peter said, jamming his knee through the bars to serve as a stepping point. Mendez looked south as well, then used Peter’s knee to start his climb.
Candles just unslung his M-16, checked the safety, then tossed it over the fence as he stepped back about ten feet. He breathed in and out twice, puffing fast and audibly, then ran at the fence and jumped. His hands closed on the top of the bars as his feet came up to catch his weight before his body slammed into the fence. He hung there for a moment, then kicked against the fence strongly with both legs.
The man flipped over the fence, rotating in mid air as he used only one hand on the fence to stabilize himself. Hernandez and Swanson, who had been moving to help him, hastily got out of the way. Candles came down lightly on the other side like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“The fuck?” Hernandez asked.
“I free run as a hobby.” Candles said, shrugging as he picked his M-16 back up.
Peter barely noticed, his attention focused on Mendez and the zombies. The tall soldier was still clambering down the inside of the fence. The leading edge of the pack was only feet away, arms outstretching hungrily. “Let go, now!” Peter said sharply.
Mendez hesitated for one brief instant, then let go of the fence top with both hands. Peter grunted as the man’s weight came down on him, and he fell back with Mendez atop him. He managed to twist and shift a little before he hit, angling a little so Mendez went somewhat left rather than straight down, but it still hurt when the man’s weight sandwiched Peter against the ground.
“Shit!” Whitley blurted as Peter’s breath wheezed out. His vision was blurry, spots dancing around the edges, but he raised his head. Zombies were right on the outside of the fence, already reaching in. Peter felt hands grabbing his feet, then more hands were suddenly lifting and pulling at his shoulders. He and Mendez were slid away from the fence enough to be safe, and Peter was only able to nod his thanks as his vision cleared enough for him to recognize Smith and Crawford as having done the pulling.
“You guys okay?” Smith asked.
Mendez rolled off Peter. “Fine. Sarge, you gonna make it?”
“Sure.” Peter gasped. “Just. Need. Breath.”
“Come on, you can rest inside.” Smith said, hauling on him. Peter staggered upright with Smith’s help, leaning against him for a few seconds.
“Right. Inside.” Peter wheezed, looking around for his pack. He pushed away from Smith and managed to walk upright under his own power to where his pack lay in the grass. Carrying it by the top grab handle in his left hand, Peter gestured at the nearest of the townhouses. “That way, second floor.”
“Right.” Dorne said, gathering up his team and moving off. Peter tried to keep his eyes moving, studying the grounds of the development, but he was mostly occupied with trying to catch his breath. It felt like he had a collapsed lung or something, and it was really all he could do to keep moving and not double over.
Dorne led the way over to the closest building. It was eight units, four down and four up, with a single stairwell of decorative metal railing enabling access to the second floor. When Peter got up the stairs near the back of the pack, leaning and pulling heavily on the railing, he found Dorne and Mendez studying the doors.
“So, shoot the lock out?” Mendez asked quietly?
“No.” Peter said, his voice hoarse but more or less even. “Too loud. Try to kick one in.”
“The zombies already know we’re in here.” Swanson said.
“Yeah, but the shot will be heard for blocks and blocks. I don’t want to wake up to find they’ve enveloped the entire fence line.” Peter said.
“Well, these look like security doors sarge.” Mendez said, knocking on the nearest experimentally. Peter blinked at the solid sound. It might even be a metal reinforced model, and even if it wasn’t it was surely solid hardwood. “Not sure we’ll be able to get one open without a ram or shots.”
Peter frowned, still trying to fully get his breath back. He was saved from having to come up with something when Swanson spoke up again.
“Look, the complex office should have a key box somewhere. One team can retrieve the ones we need.”
“You idiot.” Crawford said quietly. “How is that door gonna be any easier to get through than this one?”
“Because it’ll be the damn office.” Swanson said testily. “There’s probably glass and stuff to make it pretty and useless, like you.”
“Fuck you, I’m more use than you’ll ever know.” Crawford shot back.
“Whatever. Go on, go look. We ought to be okay for a few minutes.” Peter said. Hernandez, who was Swanson’s team lead, nodded and gathered up Crawford and Barker by eye.
“Mendez, you and your guys go take a fast turn around the inside of the fence, okay?” Peter continued.
“Make sure it’s intact?” Mendez asked, unslinging his weapon.
“Yeah.” Peter nodded. “I’d go but frankly I’m too damn old and you’re too damn heavy. Just one lap, but a good one. If the fence is intact all the way around then we’re in good shape.”
“Relax sarge. We got it.” Mendez said.
“Good. We’ll hold here unless there’s shooting. Well, ’16 fire anyway.” Peter amended, considering. Each team had at least two side arms, which were different from the distinctive sound the M-16s made.
The two fireteams left, and Peter sat down at the top of the stairs to finish catching his breath. He kept his AR-15 out and across his knees though, and his position let him cover the stairs against anything approaching. He wasn’t goofing off, he was watching. He kept telling himself that as he struggled to even his breathing out and tried to look alert.
The others scattered around the landing, a few standing behind or near him so they could also watch, with the rest either flanked out to the side, or at the landing railings to keep watch from there. Most of them didn’t even bother to pretend they were doing anything other than resting, though there were enough eyes open that it wasn’t a problem. There was only the one stairwell up anyway.
Mendez got back first with his team, making a thumbs up sign to indicate everything was good on the perimeter. Peter nodded tiredly, and was otherwise content to say nothing. A few minutes after that, Hernandez’s team returned with a metal box that had bits of painted drywall sticking to one side.
“What, you guys just ripped the bastard off the wall?” Roper asked, sounding amused.
“Why the hell not?” Swanson said, setting the box down and kneeling in front of it. “We might want to change units for some reason. This saves us another trip.” Metal jingled and clinked as he rummaged through the box, then he came out with a cheap wire ring that bore a single key and a small plastic tab with the door number on it. Peter, on his feet again, took it from him and handed it to Whitley.
