Peter had used that word a few times, and he wasn’t the only one, though the majority of the Guardsmen continued to employ the euphemisms that were starting to wear thin. Peter was sure some of the objectors to the Z word knew someone, or had heard of someone they knew, who might be one. It didn’t matter. Whatever you called them –the sick, the diseased, victims, the zombies – they were showing up everywhere.
Wandering on the highway, drawn by the activity. Trapped in vehicles, having been missed in the triage driven haste earlier emergency responders had taken to focus all efforts on the living. Trapped under the wrecks, having been thrown clear during the accidents before something else, a car or truck or whatever, rolled or skidded in atop them.
Nearly all of these zombies, particularly those who were under rather than in vehicles, sported grisly and often horrific wounds. And far beyond simple lacerations and broken bones, and beyond even enough visible blood to make a trauma surgeon take pause. There seemed to be no shortage of caved in faces or broken skulls or missing limbs. Worse still were those unfortunates who had been burned, or who had suffered injuries that caused gaping wounds in their body cavities.
Peter considered himself a tough guy. Just hours ago, even as recently as late afternoon, he would have described himself in such terms. He had seen wounds before, even bomb victims. He’d thought nothing could ever be worse than assisting the survivors of an IED or suicide bomber attack; Marines screaming in agony from burns scattered amid the heat and blast mangled bodies of their comrades would have been his previous top choice of most horrible thing ever.
If he could handle that stoically and without veering off task, he could handle anything. He’d found out he was wrong.
Men, women, even children, with various previously internal organs now not only exposed, but dangling fully outside their bodies. Someone whose heart or lungs were not only visible but actually protruding from them should not be calm and silent about it. They certainly should not get up and stagger towards you, eager to grab hold and start chewing. And even allowing for the injuries or the mobility problems; surely when they tripped over their own dangling spill of intestines it ought to elicit even a momentary reaction.
Well it was generating reactions. Just not in the zombies. The zombies didn’t seem to care about anything so long as they could get hands and teeth upon someone. The Guardsmen . . . they were mostly weathering the graphic assaults poorly, at best. A number had been injured, some seriously enough for Captain Foreman to be required to call for medical transport.
And it seemed Foreman’s unit wasn’t the only one having such problems; the wait for one of Clay’s roving medic teams to arrive and handle treatment and transport was growing longer.
Some of the injuries seemed minor, but with words like ‘zombie’ gaining circulation strength, many of the injured Guardsmen became panicked. Peter couldn’t really blame them, though he tried his best to do his job. Which was to keep the unit on task and working.
He hated it, hated having to tell a man with a deep bite but no other injury to calm down and get back to work, but those were the orders. He hated even more having to argue with the others in the unit about working alongside someone who’d been bitten. He harbored faint hope that this was not like the movies, that the bites and other wounds received from scuffling with a hungry zombie wouldn’t result in the obvious.
Maybe those were just the movies, that this was just some unidentified chemical attack or parasite or something. That there was a non-horror story reason for what was happening, one that didn’t mean what the word ‘zombie’ was ultimately going to happen. He wasn’t holding his breath though.
One thing he had done, with Foreman’s blessing, was pull those who seemed the most calm, who were displaying proper self-control and equanimity, off other duties and form them into a security squad. Now they were tasked with nothing except guarding against, and dealing with, the zombies when they appeared.
The security squad had helped to, somewhat, settle the morale of the rest of the unit; but Peter was still concerned. Now he glanced around at the site they were working, trying to evaluate the work’s progress. The men, and women, were getting good at the clearing. It wasn’t that hard when you didn’t care about anything except getting the road open. Only the zombies were a serious problem.
“Well sir.” Peter said finally, seizing on the can-do attitude all NCOs were required to generate at the bat of an eye, “We can be out of here in maybe fifteen minutes, ten if we push it.” Foreman was quiet, and Peter frowned slightly after a few moments. “Or should we just move out now?”
The captain hesitated, then shook his head. “No, let’s finish up here. I have a feeling that once Philmore has us with him, we’ll probably stay joined up for a while, maybe the rest of the night. Let’s at least get this cleaned before we roll out.”
“Roger that sir.” Peter said, turning and looking across the scene again. He plucked the radio off his belt and keyed it. “Stevens.”
There was a moment, then the radio crackled with the answer. “Stevens, go.”
“Stop being so fussy.” Peter said. “We got orders to roll out ASAP, so do what you can to expedite the rest of the clearing here.”
There was a pause, then the driver of the M984 came back, sounding wryly amused. He had learned to be pretty cavalier about how the vehicles were moved, to be only concerned with moving them. Clearly, however, he thought there maybe was some other level of restraint he could remove from his approach to the clearing effort. “Will do sergeant.”
Peter looked across the lanes of pavement again, evaluating. The interstate’s own street lights were almost unnoticed in the powerful gleam and glare of the unit’s own headlights. When they arrived at a site now, they automatically parked and positioned the trucks and humvees to add to the illumination of the scene.
The M984 was clearly identifiable by the distinctive pattern and spacing of its light suite, designed to let the vehicle operate in exactly these types of conditions without external lighting aid. Right now it was using the articulated arm to right an overturned car. Peter went in that direction, and started giving specific orders to those assisting Stevens as he moved the wrecks.
This stretch of I-75 was on an incline, so Peter took advantage. There were already enough vehicles moved off to the side to allow him to have someone get behind the wheel of something and steer while others leaned their shoulders and backs to getting in the vehicle into motion. Once it was, the Guardsman, or woman, would simply hop out and they’d leave the whatever it was to roll off to crash into the growing mass that was off to the side.
Between the M984 and the roll and go strategy, they had three of the four lanes opened by the time Peter’s radio crackled again. He stepped back from a truck that had rolled over before slamming into a sub-compact; both vehicles were going to need the crane and winch to move. Picking the radio off his belt again, he keyed the microphone. “Gibson, go.”
“Gunny, time to go.” Foreman said.
Peter glanced around, then nodded. “On it sir.” Hooking the radio back into place, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Back on the vehicles, move out. Let’s go, we’re rolling out.” A couple of the corporals took up the call, and in moments the Guardsmen were headed for their assigned places in humvees and trucks. Peter jogged over to the nearest police officer as the Guardsmen started loading themselves up.
“We’re heading out, orders.” Peter said, to both explain and forestall the expected objections.
The officer merely nodded though, his eyes flicking to the last blocked lane, which was the left lane. “Guess we’d better rearrange the cones then, and put out some more flares.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the help.” the man said, keying his own radio and calling for the senior officer on the scene.
Peter left him to the task and jogged over to the humvee he’d been riding in. Everyone else was already in their seats, and he stepped up on the edge of the op
en passenger door and looked around one final time. He didn’t see any more Guardsmen who looked to be still afoot, so he dropped into the seat and lifted his radio again.
“This is Gibson, vehicles sound off go-no-go for departure.” He held the radio up next to his ear so he could hear more clearly, and listened as each vehicle’s driver checked in to confirm they had all their assigned people, marking them off his mental list of the unit’s transportation. When he’d filled in all his boxes, he nodded sharply and keyed the radio. “Captain, we’re good to go.”
“Move out, head south.” Foreman said after a few moments. “10th street, exit 250. We’re in a hurry, but stay together. Be advised, there’s supposed to be another blockage at exit 254, so be prepared to use the shoulder.”
Peter grabbed onto the doorframe to brace himself as the driver stepped on the gas a little too enthusiastically, though it could be fatigue starting to build up. They’d been working hard for hours now, and most of the Guardsmen had either been at their civilian jobs or already on base, before events had started happening. Fatigue could only be held at bay by surprise and the press of things that needed doing for so long. Peter said nothing, merely hung on as the vehicles shook themselves down into a single file convoy formation and sped south along I-75.
Sure enough, just before they got to Moores Mill Road they saw a trio of police cruisers parked across the interstate, lights going, with flares and cones set up to indicate the road was blocked. Well, not entirely blocked; there was technically some space for them to fit through. The Guard vehicles slowed and threaded their way through the blockage, the lead humvee using a little bumper to nudge two wrecks a bit more out of the way, before they got back up to speed and continued following 75.
Foreman came back on the radio, his voice echoing from both the vehicle’s under dash set as well as the hand units Gibson and one of the backseat corporals wore. The captain read out a new frequency. “We’re joining unit Pappa David. Switch over to their frequency.” He repeated the numbers again. Peter reached to change the humvee’s radio so the driver could concentrate on the road.
As he started trying to adjust his handset, what he heard coming from the vehicle’s radio caused him to furrow his eyebrows. The voices were, well panicked was the only word, the strong emotion in the voices underlined by clearly audible gunshots in the background. He wondered who had decided to take the lid off. Then he wondered how bad it might be if they had.
As he got his handset shifted to the new frequency, Peter left the volume alone despite the stereoscopic echoing the multiple radios were now creating in the vehicle. He didn’t want to risk missing any important traffic, and based on the amount of shooting he heard it was going to get much louder.
“Pappa One-Four, pulling back some more. They’re too close again.”
“No shot, no shot! Fuck Tanner, move that piece of shit.”
“Pappa Six, Pappa Two-One, we got a jam on the mount, might take a minute to clear.”
Peter started to see flashes up ahead, staccato strobes that could only be weapons fire; and only some of them looked like small arms. The others had the distinctive look of machine guns, he was sure of it. Few things lit up the night like automatic fifty caliber fire; at least, almost nothing else the Guardsmen might have been issued today. As they got closer, the sound started to penetrate through the roar of the humvee’s engine and the rush of air past the vehicle’s open window.
As impressive as the firefight was in the moonlight, his eye was inevitably drawn to the Downtown skyline. Normally lit up like it was posing for any nearby photographers, tonight Atlanta was lit in a different manner. The orderly and twinkling lights that normally framed the buildings were mostly gone; power was out in a lot of the buildings. They weren’t dark however.
A number were on fire, and their flickering illumination gave the city a vaguely sinister look. He saw three different skyscrapers ablaze, though two of them were smoking more than actually burning. The third however, was pretty well engulfed, and Peter frowned. The Westin Peachtree was a landmark in the city for its distinctive cylindrical construction as much as for its height. From the look of it, no one would be admiring it anymore. Based on how bad the fire looked, he couldn’t believe the building could be salvageable even if firefighters could reach it immediately.
At a break in the radio traffic, he heard Foreman come on the circuit. “Pappa Six, this is Bravo Mary Six, approaching from your north, ETA forty-five seconds.”
“About time.” Peter heard a less panicked, but no less stressed, voice respond. “Slot in as our second, double time.”
“Pappa, what’s the frag?”
Peter’s frown deepened as he heard Philmore curse. “Fuck, everything south of our line.”
Reaching for the AR-15 he’d brought along from home, Peter glanced over his shoulder at the backseaters. “You heard the captain.” he said as he lifted his personal weapon, having declined the offer of a service issue M-16. “Vorees, get on the mount. Rest of you, load and for fuck’s sake double check your safeties. Keep them pointed out the windows.”
He opened the flap on the ammo pouch on his belt, extracting a loaded magazine as the soldiers behind him nodded back. Shifting the weapon, he let the barrel hang out the window as he inserted the magazine, then pulled the charging handle and made sure he still had the safety on. Similar metallic clacks and sounds came from the Guardsmen riding in the back seat, and the noise in the humvee increased as one of them threw back the roof hatch to clear access to the top mounted M2 Browning.
They were less than half a mile away, and he could see dozens of flashes now. Each flash represented a weapon, and there were a lot of them. He wondered if maybe there was an organized gang of looters that was resisting arrest, then shook off the thought as stupid. Even looters would be shooting back. It wasn’t until the humvee was within two hundred feet that he could finally make out what they were firing at. His mouth dropped open, and he heard curses and amazed grunts from the Guardsmen in the vehicle with him.
In the distance, maybe a quarter mile off, was the bridge across which 10th Street went above the interstate. Just beyond that was a now familiar tangled mass of vehicles, including three semi trucks, that were twisted and overturned across and through a couple dozen smaller vehicles.
In the foreground he saw four humvees in a rough line abreast across the highway. All of them had their reverse and brake lights lit, and two of the four were spitting fire from machine gun mounts. There were figures riding in the open doors, or walking backwards between them, figures wearing BDUs, with rifles pressed to their shoulders. The heavier vehicles that should have been accompanying the unit, trucks at least, were not in evidence. Just the humvees.
Between the wrecked cars and the National Guard unit was a solid mass of zombies. Peter couldn’t see how anyone could possibly use any other word to describe them. It was the only one that fit. How else would you describe a shuffling, shambling horde of people all staggering forward under the fire raking across them. Humans, no matter how fevered or delirious or angry, would never take such punishment without shattering into a disorganized and demoralized mass that retreated or at least sought cover.
Not here, not the zombies. They didn’t even seem to mind the bullets slamming into them. They ignored all injury, old or new alike, as they pressed inexorably forward. Most of the fire they were taking was 5.56mm, from the M-16s wielded by the Pappa Guardsmen. The normally dependable rounds seemed to have almost no effect. Zombies would flinch from an impact, rocking back under the energy of a hit, but never stopping.
There were two M-2s raking them, and at least those bullets were heavy enough to present something even zombies ‘noticed’. If having arms and legs blown off, or taking repeated torso hits by the heavy rounds, and being knocked over qualified as something that needed to be ‘noticed’.
Peter wasn’t entirely sure it did; the zombies almost immediately started trying to get up after ‘noticing’ it. The bulle
ts and the subsequent damage they caused seemed to be nothing more than a minor irritant to the zombie horde. He couldn’t even tell if they were bleeding; there sure weren’t the sprays of blood he knew would be present if a human mob were taking such fire.
Peter heard cursing, turned in automatic response to tell the Guardsmen to focus, then realized it wasn’t just them. He had unconsciously joined them. The scene was just that surreal. He glanced around, expecting to see someone with a camera, but there wasn’t.
‘This is really happening’ a corner of his mind insisted. ‘Buck the fuck up Marine’.
“Okay, get ready.” Peter said, catching his headshake and turning it into a slow roll that looked like he was loosening his neck up. He reached out and tapped the thigh of the Guardsman, well woman really, who had stood up behind the M-2 their humvee mounted. She dropped into the center of the back bench seat and looked at him. Her eyes were big and wide. The flashes of gunfire behind him lit her face oddly.
“When you fire, keep your aim point low and the bursts small.” Peter said loudly, deliberately letting his tone drift into harshness. She didn’t look like she was too eager, or too ready, to handle what was about to happen. Peter was hoping a little command authority might snap her back to the task at hand.
“Sarge, they’re people.” she protested, sounding very unhappy.
Peter gave her a long look, considering what to say. “Just watch your fucking line of fire.” he said after a few moments, abandoning any thought of something uplifting and motivational when he realized he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound ridiculous. “Last thing you want is to put rounds through a friendly. Understand?”
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then nodded twice with short choppy movements. She didn’t say anything further. Peter gave her a brisk nod back, and she stood back up to man the mount. He eyed the other two soldiers in the back but they didn’t look as disturbed as Vorees.
Apocalypse Atlanta Page 22
