Apocalypse Atlanta

by Rogers, David

  “Dennis, something’s wrong at my kids’ schools. It’s on the news, something medical. I have to leave.” Jessica said, still managing to keep her voice mostly normal despite the panic she felt. “I’m sorry to leave you short handed–” she started to continue, but he was waving one hand at her as he swallowed enormously and shook his head.

  “No, no, go.” He said seriously. “We can manage.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Jessica said, turning to leave, relieved and eager to get going.

  “Jessica!” he called as she took a step. She paused, then slid back so she could see him again.

  “I hope everything’s okay. Call me if there’s anything I can do.” Dennis said in a serious, concerned tone. His face showed compassion and understanding as he met her eyes.

  “Thank you.” Jessica said, feeling grateful even though she was sure the numb feeling that was starting to spread through her was keeping her from sounding like it.

  “Go.” he said again, and Jessica did. She strode rapidly through the office, out through the waiting room, and into the hallway of the medical building. Her finger jabbed at the call button when she reached the elevator lobby. While she waited, she opened her purse and dug out her keys, and her phone. Swiping her finger across the screen to unlock it, she scrolled through the contacts and dialed the high school just because she came to it first on the list.

  She held the phone up to her ear, waiting. After a moment, she heard a busy signal. “Jesus.” she muttered, taking the phone away from her ear and tapping to end the call, then redialing the same number. A few seconds passed, then the busy signal sounded again. Biting her lip, she scrolled through the contacts again until she found the entry for Candice’s elementary school. The number dialed, and after a few moments started ringing.

  She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear as she jabbed impatiently at the elevator button again. “Come on, come on.” she muttered as the phone continued ringing. The elevator light lit, and the soft tone sounded to alert those waiting that the elevator was about to arrive.

  Jessica silently cursed the slow elevator as she waited for it to finish settling itself behind the doors. When they finally started opening, she squeezed sideways through them and stabbed her finger on the close button, followed by the button labeled “1”. She repeatedly pressed the close button as the phone continued ringing.

  The elevator finally took the hint, and started its glacially slow cycle of closing the doors. Jessica realized the phone was still ringing as they finished closing, and the elevator started downwards. She took the phone off her ear and looked at the information on the screen. Yes, she’d dialed Lawrenceville Elementary. But no one was answering. She ended the call, redialed, and put the phone back to her ear as the elevator continued its maddeningly slow progress.

  By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, she was still listening to the unanswered ringing at Lawrenceville Elementary, and gave up as the doors began opening. She dropped the phone into her purse and squeezed out of the elevator as soon as the doors had parted enough to permit her. Now she did run, startling the building’s security guard behind his desk as she went past him with loud clicks of her heels on the polished tiles of the lobby floor.

  She eschewed the revolving doors in favor of the normal ones off to the side, one of which she hit with both hands at full speed. It flew open and slammed against its hinges with a rattling crash. She ignored it as she hurried down the building’s front walk and into the parking lot. One good thing about her schedule was she always got a space at the front of the lot, and she was at her Honda in seconds. Jessica saw her fingers shaking as she fit the key into the door lock, and took a deep breath as she got in.

  The engine roared to life when she twisted the key in the ignition, and she made herself take the necessary seconds to put the seatbelt on. Then she glanced behind her briefly as she shifted into reverse, before backing quickly out of the parking space, shifting into drive and heading for the exit.

  She went rather faster than was necessary as she skirted down the edge of the parking lot, and slowed only slightly as she approached the road. Glancing in both directions to ensure it was clear, she squealed the tires as she took the turn very sharply, already accelerating as she straightened out.

  The speed limit on the street that bordered the hospital and surrounding medical office buildings was twenty-five. Her Accord managed to hit fifty before she reached the four-way stop located almost directly in front of the hospital. She looked in both directions, saw a car on the right coming to a stop, and took the right turn with more tire squealing. The next intersection was only fifty or so yards away, and was clear at the moment, so she blew that stop sign too, turning left and keeping most of her momentum. As the car built speed, she reached with quick glances to turn the radio on and find the news station on her presets.

  “… we’re on the corner of Charles Allen Drive and 8th Street, Sabrina. Authorities won’t let us any closer than that. All the streets bordering the school have roadblocks in place by City of Atlanta and Fulton County Police. The scene here is a little alarming.”

  “What’s going on at the school, Sandra? What can you see?” the host asked.

  Jessica was pressed into her seat as she took the broad curve around the back of the large shopping center and bore down on Highway-124. She gripped the steering wheel tighter as she listened, her eyes looking ahead to the traffic light, willing it to turn green.

  “There are a number of ambulances here, and fire trucks as well. They’ve all got their lights on. Some of them are parked in the street, which is very unusual. The police officers manning the roadblock won’t let us past, but they did say there are responders here from two different local fire stations, and–” the reporter’s words were drowned out by a loud siren.

  Braking sharply, unwillingly but equally unwilling to blow through four lanes of busy cross-traffic, Jessica brought her car shuddering to a stop at the traffic light and immediately reached to turn the radio up. The siren coming from the speakers sounded like an ambulance, she wasn’t sure, but she was reasonably certain it wasn’t a police car. After a few seconds the sound of the siren faded somewhat, and the reporter’s voice could be heard again.

  “That was another ambulance coming through. In addition to the rescue vehicles, from our position here we can see people moving about in the vicinity of the school. There are hundreds, and some are on stretchers, or lying on the street. Whatever’s happening, it has apparently completely disrupted classes.”

  Jessica jerked as the light in front of her turned green, and she hit the gas. She held on as the car powered through the left turn to head north on Highway-124. She almost immediately had to slow, then stop again, as the cars ahead of her blocked off both lanes, at the next intersection with its red light. She switched her attention back to the radio as she tried to shove the swirling anxiety far enough back down within her to stay focused.

  “Okay, keep us updated Sandra.” the host was saying. “Staying with the breaking story, we’ve got a spokesperson from the DeKalb County School Board on the phone, Steve Sorrin. Mr. Sorrin, there are a lot of schools around the metro area that are having problems right now, and I know there are a lot of anxious parents listening that want to know what’s happening. Our calls to the schools we know are affected are going almost completely unanswered, and only some are busy; a lot of them are just ringing without being picked up. What can you tell us about what’s happening?”

  “Sabrina, I can only address what’s happening in the DeKalb school system, but I think speak for all the metro area school boards when I say the safety of students is our number one priority.”

  The light turned green, and cars starting moving. Jessica followed them through the intersection, then put her foot right to the floor and swerved the Accord into the right hand turn lane. She roared past seven cars before cutting back into the travel lane, pressed back in her seat as the Honda’s engine responded with surprising
acceleration.

  “We started getting reports from various schools just before eleven thirty.” the school board spokesman was saying as Jessica flew through the next intersection and went around the normal traffic by using the turn lane again. This time she cut off a car that was turning out of the cross street, earning her an angry horn honk she completely ignored as she gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused on her driving.

  “What we’re hearing is a number of children are sick.”

  “Sick, in what way, Steve?” the host interjected.

  “The ill children appear to be almost catatonic.” Steve said. “They’re not talking, they’re almost completely non-responsive.”

  “Children are collapsing?”

  “No, that’s what’s so strange. They’re still mobile, but they’re not acting normally. We’re hearing that some of them are being very disruptive.”

  “In what way?”

  “Grabbing fellow students, even teachers.” Steve said. Jessica used the last bit of turn lane available to her to again pass a block of vehicles that were driving normally. She was up to seventy miles per hour, and knew the next stretch of 124 was less developed than the commercial section she was in now. She really hoped she wouldn’t get blocked off by traffic. She was out of turn lanes. “Some of these assaults have resulted in injuries.”

  “What kind of injuries?”

  “Well, there’ve been some bites, some scratching. Some of the assaults have knocked people over and there’ve been bumps and bruises from falls, folks hitting stuff when they fall, that sort of thing.”

  Jessica shook her head as she listened and started weaving between both northbound lanes, threading through the cars ahead of her. More horns were sounding behind her, which she continued ignore, as she cut several people off by squeezing her Accord through spaces barely large enough for it to fit.

  “And this is happening at all the schools?” Sabrina was asking on the radio.

  “Well, again I can only talk about what’s happening in DeKalb, but yes, all the schools we’ve heard from are basically saying the same things are happening.”

  “So this probably isn’t some sort of environmental issue?”

  “We just don’t know.” Steve said.

  Jessica again reached the front of the latest block of cars, and had nothing but clear road ahead of her. She accelerated sharply, barely noticing when the dashboard’s engine rpm gauge began threatening its red zone as the speedometer hit triple digits. She stopped listening to the radio, ignored the scream of the engine, and kept her eyes on the road and her foot on the floor.

  * * * * *

  Peter

  “Honey?” Peter called as he opened the door leading in from the garage. “I’m back.” Silence greeted him, and he frowned as he glanced behind himself. Amy’s Accord was right where it’d been when he left earlier. “Amy?” he called, stepping into the kitchen and set the bag from the grocery store on the counter.

  The house was still quiet, and he moved into the living room, glancing in at the dining room as he passed its doorway. It was empty, as was the living room. He hastened through the house, not quite hurrying, but moving more quickly than normal, as he headed for the bedrooms at the back. Amy knew when he liked to take lunch and typically was waiting when he came through the door. Her absence whispered, faintly, a bit of concern.

  The television in the master bedroom was on, tuned to HGTV and showing some telegenic landscaper discussing the right types of flowers and bushes to go in the front planting beds for some house. Peter ignored the asshole, who wouldn’t be doing any of the work he was talking about once the camera had gotten footage of him lovingly planting the one ‘example’ bush or flower or whatever.

  Their closet was open, and there was a pile of fresh laundry in the middle of the bed. Unfolded. Peter’s face blanked, and he made himself check the bathroom as a way to calm himself. Amy never left laundry unfolded, she was even more of a neat freak than he was. He’d married her before he knew what kind of house she kept, and had been away on base or assignment for long stretches of their marriage, but her housekeeping certainly complimented his natural preferences nicely.

  The bathroom was empty, even the tub when he stepped over to it and checked behind the shower curtain. He went back into the bedroom and checked the floor on the far side of the bed, then in the closet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to find her lying there, or not, but he couldn’t not check. His wife was not there. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  Going back into the hall, he looked in the two spare bedrooms, which were also empty, then headed for the basement door, still not quite hurrying. There was, however, more energy in his movements than there had been thus far in his search. When he opened the door down into the basement, he saw the lights were on and relaxed a little.

  “Amy? I’m home.” he called down the stairs.

  There was silence for a long moment, then he heard something, someone, moving. No voice answered him, and he couldn’t help the cold chill that ran up his spine as his mind supplied a scenario that involved a burglary or home invasion, with the perp still down there. His hand reflexively went to his belt, but he wasn’t wearing the sidearm he’d become accustomed to having at the ready when he was in the Sandbox.

  He had his backup piece, the one he had let Amy ‘forget’ he wore around, but as he considered drawing it, he decided he was probably overreacting quite seriously. This wasn’t the third world, and he wasn’t in a combat zone. Calmly. Proceed calmly.

  “Who’s down here?” Peter said loudly as he took the stairs rapidly. He wasn’t concerned about quiet or surprise so much as he was answers. He had a typical Marine’s confidence in his ability to handle anything that might come up. His concerns at the moment were centered around what was going on and where his wife was.

  Still, there was no answer. He looked around quickly as he reached the bottom. To the left, he saw the boxes of old junk and mementos they still hadn’t found places for upstairs, including the old lawnmower he kept meaning to fix. On the right, he saw the washer sitting with the lid down, the dryer next to it with its door open.

  And a slight figure with long graying hair tied back at the base of the neck wearing a faded housedress standing off to the side near the high, narrow window up near the ceiling. She seemed to be looking out the window, which didn’t show anything beyond a bit of one of the bushes. And was too small for anyone except a contortionist to get through.

  “Amy?” Peter said uncertainly. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  The figure turned, and Peter saw a blank look on his wife’s face, rather than the smile, or occasionally the frown, he was accustomed to seeing. The smile was for normal times, the frown she reserved for when he’d screwed something up, in her opinion. But neither expression was in evidence now, only an emptiness that didn’t look like her at all. And her eyes, normally so alert and alive, looked even more vacant. They fixed on him immediately, and she stumbled towards him. Other than the scrape of her slippers on the bare concrete, she was silent.

  Peter stared at her in shock. In addition to her complete lack of recognition, of him, her husband, she was so incredibly pale. The skin on her face and neck was so white it was almost translucent. “Amy, what’s wrong?” Peter asked as her arms came up when she was almost to him, her body wobbling as if she were having trouble staying upright. He reached for her automatically. Her hands closed on his work shirt with surprising strength, and she pulled, hard.

  “Sweetheart!” he blurted as he stumbled off balance, colliding with her. His wife toppled over backwards, still gripping his shirt, and he half bent even as he reached for her arms to stop her fall. He noticed, almost absently, her hands and forearms did not share the pale color on her face; they were bluish-purple and seemed bloated. And the flesh beneath his fingers was not only unnaturally . . . squishy . . . but it was cold too.

  She still made no sound, not even a grunt or a gasp as she crashed to the grou
nd, though he grunted as her weight hung from him. “God, are you alright?” he exclaimed, as a feeling of panic, deeply uncertain panic, started bubbling within him. Her head came up, and he searched her face looking for some sign, any sign, but her eyes swept across his face almost like he wasn’t even there. They fixed on his hands, gripping her arms just above the elbows, and she bent forward, up really, abruptly.

  Peter yelled in surprise as he realized she was about to bite him, and released her, snatching his hands away in an instinctive reaction. He felt, actually felt, her teeth scrape across the skin of his left forearm as he stepped back. She collapsed to the floor as his hands stopped supporting her, and he stood staring in shock at his wife. A moment later, she started trying to sit up. She moved slowly, hesitantly, like her body wasn’t working correctly.

  “Something’s wrong.” he whispered, trying to quell the panic bubbling within him. His hands were cold, cold from contact with her flesh. She shouldn’t be cold. He and Amy had been married for over thirty years, and he’d deployed to active warzones five times during his career. He’d seen death, he’d seen injury, and he’d killed people. Not often, not even as often as a Marine who was tasked with front line combat, but he’d done his share.

  None of it had prepared him for this, the feeling of helplessness and fright that gripped him as he watched his wife loll about on the floor in utter silence, without the faintest sign she recognized him or even knew who she was. Strangely, that complete lack of recognition in her eyes scared him more than any of her other physical . . . symptoms, at the moment. That she could look at him and not react like the Amy who knew and loved him, even if she did occasionally call him an idiot who should listen more and talk less.

  His training took over. Unless it was critical, only if there was no other course of action available, the correct procedure was to call for the right personnel to handle a situation. There was always someone to handle whatever came up, even if it was an officer you merely dumped the responsibility on. This seemed clear enough though, and he stepped back, to the stairs, as he reached into his pocket and all but ripped his phone out.