Apocalypse Atlanta

by Rogers, David

  None of the heavy vehicles had a driver visible behind their wheels. And there were far too many zombies around them for anyone to make it through.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Peter breathed, twisting around to look behind them. He studied the lanes to the north for a moment, then lifted the binoculars for a better view. “Fuck!” he cursed, shouting loudly enough to be heard over the Browning right next to him.

  The binoculars let him see what was happening, why it was happening, and how bad it was. Just as at 10th Street, zombies were descending from the side of the 14th Street overpass and flooding into the Interstate as they moved to investigate what was happening. With the wall on their east side, and zombies coming at them from the other directions, the Guardsmen were trapped.

  “What?” he heard, and glanced over to see Manning giving him a questioning look.

  Anxiously he looked back to the west. This wasn’t supposed to have been a combat deployment. Just a whole lot of drudge work clearing wrecks, assisting the overwhelmed police departments in keeping the roads open. The Guard were reservists, men and women who only occasionally put on their BDUs and remembered they were soldiers.

  No one had kept an eye on the flanks until it was too late. Peter could already see it would take a miracle to fight through and get at any of the heavy vehicles. The horde to the south was the largest, but the zombies on the north side were also building numbers rapidly. He was not at all sure a humvee would be able to plow through that many bodies. If they tried, and were wrong, then it was death.

  Peter allowed himself three long seconds to think. The humvees were designed with high ground clearances and four wheel drives. But they weren’t tanks. They weren’t heavy vehicles. Oh sure, they were in the SUV weight class, and had more power than most SUVS, but still. Was it enough to ride through forty or fifty ranks of humanoid bodies, packed in shoulder to shoulder, front to back. Who would not be trying to get out of the way, but instead grabbing at the vehicle, at the doors and windows . . .

  He abruptly decided he wasn’t interested in trying that unless he absolutely had to. He keyed his microphone. “Break, break.” the cross-talk ended after a couple of frustratingly long seconds, and he spoke again. “Bravo Six, Bravo Two-One.”

  “Go Two-One.”

  “Sir, it’s time to dance with BOB.” Peter said quickly, knowing Foreman would correctly interpret his comment. There was a lot of panic and chaos within the unit as the soldiers trapped in and around the trucks fought and died, but Peter didn’t want to jumpstart any more before it was absolutely necessary.

  “I agree.” Foreman said. “Got any recommendations?”

  “East is preferred.”

  There was a pause, which Peter used to step out of the humvee. “Vorees, gimmie that ILBE, now.” he said.

  She blinked at him for a moment, then muscled the large pack up and over from the cargo area. Peter opened the rear door and stood the pack up correctly, then turned and backed into as he slipped his arms through the padded straps. When he straightened and stepped away, the pack was in place. He was tugging the dangling adjusters to tighten the straps when Foreman spoke again.

  “Concur, get it setup Two-One. Break. All elements, all elements, dismount and form up on Two-One to go up the wall to the east.”

  The retaining wall to their east had a fence atop it. It wasn’t as dramatically curved inward, away from the interstate, at the top like the overpass fence was, but it was still there for the same reason. To keep people from jumping down into the interstate, or easily throwing things down into the lanes. Peter had never understood why some people would try to jump down; there had to be easier ways, better ways, to commit suicide.

  But that fence gave them a chance. They needed to move quick, and the fence was going to make it possible to get climbing ropes set much more rapidly than would have otherwise been possible.

  “Bravo Two-One copies.” Peter said, dropping the radio back on his belt and releasing the binoculars. “Hey, rally up, cease fire, cease fire.” he shouted.

  The Guardsmen in ‘his’ humvee stopped firing as they turned to look at him. Peter kept his voice at a shout, seeing helmeted heads in other nearby humvees turning to look at him as well. “Climbing ropes, grapnels. We’re going up the wall to the east.”

  “Fuck.” “You’re kidding.” “Aw man.”

  “Can it.” Peter said. “Grab whatever there is and come on.” Peter jogged towards the center divider between the north and southbound lanes. It was a little higher than the wall that held the landscaping back from falling into the breakdown lane to the west, but only a little.

  Peter managed to sort of tumble and roll sideways over it, knowing better than to try hurdling it. He was too old for shit like that, and in too much of a hurry to do a more reasonable climbing type of crossing. He landed on the far side stumbling, a touch dizzy, but on his feet and still moving. Weaving a bit like he was drunk, but still moving.

  As he headed for the wall he glanced north and south automatically, though he was checking not for cars but where the zombies were. The ones to the south were closer, though most of them were still on the southbound side of the interstate as they pressed north. He could already see a few zombies tracking his progress, easily denoted by how their heads fixated on him, moved as he moved. It was damned eerie, and ominous. He would rather they have not noticed him, at least not yet.

  Peter also abruptly realized the lack of fire pressure from the Guardsmen would let all the zombies close in quicker. And that any who were on the less crowded northbound side of the interstate would be able to close without being tripping each other in a tight pack.

  When he reached the retaining wall that was the only thing between their possible salvation and becoming a late night snack for over a thousand zombies, he dropped his pack. Digging through the compartments in it rapidly, he didn’t bother cursing what he didn’t have. No grapnel – it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d thought to have on hand – but he did have a hundred foot length of rappelling cord. There was also a pair of pliers that had snips beneath their grasping pads.

  Standing up as Guardsmen began joining him, he shrugged back into the pack and dropped the pliers/snips into a convenient pocket. He separated out about a fourth of the rope, holding it in his hand while dropping the rest at his feet, and raised his voice in a shout.

  “Grapnels? Rope? We’re going up that wall!”

  Peter looked around, trying to keep his expression calm, to keep the edge of desperation that he could feel threatening to spill out across his features hidden. Heads were shaking, and he felt his heart sinking a little. He looked at the fence again, trying to think. Maybe he could use a combat knife, or even a fucking rifle, and throw that over the fence to hold the rope while someone climbed.

  “Sarge, what about this?”

  Turning, Peter saw a Guardsman holding up a curved metal hook, a heavy duty one that Peter recognized instantly as intended for use with an equally heavy chain while towing a vehicle.

  “That’ll do.” Peter exclaimed, grabbing for it greedily. He got the end of the rope threaded through the hook’s connector, knotting it tightly in a triple knot that lacked finesse or style but would do the job for the next few minutes. Standing back from the wall, he spun the hook on the end of the rope counter-clockwise several times, building up some speed, before letting it fly overhand towards the top of the fence.

  He was low by a few feet, and the hook didn’t catch on the fence as it clattered off with a dull clunk. Peter gathered the rope back in and tried again. This time he went for height, aiming well over the fence, and succeeded. The hook sailed over the fence with plenty of room to spare. Quickly he pulled the rope back, crossing his fingers mentally as he did.

  The hook came back into view as he hauled the rope in, dangling from the top edge that was curved away from the interstate. Finally the hook caught in one of the links near the top. Peter frowned a little as he tugged on it experimentally. It would hold, but he
couldn’t say for how long. Pulling on an individual wire in the fence was going to make it bow like mad when any real weight got put on it.

  “Someone volunteer.” Peter said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the pliers that were going to double as wire cutters.

  “I’ll go.” said a female Guardsman.

  Peter eyed her briefly. The nametape on her BDUs read Whitley. She appeared light and in decent enough shape. She looked like she could make it up and get the job done. “Okay, here.” he slapped the cutters into her hand. Reaching out, he grabbed a coil of rope off another soldier’s shoulder, pulled the M-16 off hers, and draped the rope in its place.

  “Up you go, tie this off around one of the poles, then start cutting a hole.” Peter said, glancing south again. They had maybe a minute before the closest zombies could close up on them. The ones to the north were further back. “Everyone else, cover her as best you can. Watch your damn fire. If there’s another set of cutters or wire snips or something handy, someone else go up and help her cut through.”

  Peter stepped back a little more, eying the fence. There were some zombies visible along the fence, but only a few. He unslung his AR-15 and shot twice while Whitley was still climbing, clearing away the zombies closest to where she’d hit the fence at. Other rifles began firing, further out along the fence, and he left them to it as he grabbed his radio off his belt once more.

  “Bravo Six, Bravo Two-One.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Sir, recommend everyone bail on the vehicles and hop over to this side. We should be ready to evac momentarily and could use some fire pressure to hold the way open.” Peter said before jamming the radio up against his ear. The rifles of the Guardsmen firing in support of Whitley were going off in rapid succession, making it hard to hear.

  “Understood.” Foreman said. “Last call everyone. Dismount and form up on Two-One, get ready to egress to the east.”

  There was a lot of fighting happening around the western most of the vehicles. Zombies were flooding around them, but fortunately they were being distracted by Guardsmen who had been slow to get to the northbound side of the interstate. Unfortunately for those Guardsmen, who were having almost no luck trying to fight clear of the greedily grabbing hands and teeth. However, their deaths were providing a distraction that slowed the zombies down.

  That’s all it took, really, Peter laughed with more than a little mania. Just find a convenient human and sacrifice them as bait. Zombies were easy to distract. All you needed was something, someone, they wanted to eat, and you could dance naked in the moonlight for all the attention the zombie would pay to you.

  Tearing his eyes away from the dying, and worse, on the other side of the interstate, Peter looked back up. Two more soldiers were on top of the wall next to Whitley, standing on the concrete and clinging to the chain link fence. One of them had a pair of snips in his hand and was working to open up a hole with her. The other had a pistol and was firing through the fence.

  More soldiers began arriving, and Peter checked south reflexively. He pointed in that direction and got most of the new arrivals shooting. He didn’t particularly care if they got kill shots off or not, so long as they delayed the zombies. The soldiers would need time get up the rope and through the fence.

  “Gunny.” Peter turned as Foreman arrived, with another man with captain’s bars on his collar tabs, and a pair of privates who were mostly watching to the west.

  “Captain. And captain.” Peter nodded to both officers.

  “How are we doing?”

  “Well sir.” Peter said, cracking a grin and raising his hand to about mid-chest level. “It’s currently stacked this high, and rising fast.”

  “That’s pretty bad.” Foreman said with a chuckle. His voice sounded amused, but the look in his eyes was worried. His expression was strained around the edges. Peter didn’t blame him. He was worried too.

  “Could be worse.” Peter said, glancing up again. He saw the hole in the fence was down to just a few remaining links before it was finished. “We could be facing the other kind of zombie.”

  “What other kind?” Philmore asked. “And you two are fucking crazy, you know that?”

  Peter shrugged. “The fast kind. Don’t you watch any movies?”

  “Through!” Peter heard a female voice shout behind him, and he looked back up to see Whitley and the other soldier ducking through hole they’d just finished cutting in the fence.

  “Sirs.” Peter nodded to them both again. “Double time, up the rope.” he yelled. “Clear any threat out to fifty feet and hold.” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Whitley!”

  “Yo.” The Guardswoman reappeared at the top of the wall, looking down at him.

  “As soon as you’ve got some covering fire up there with you, start cutting another hole.” Peter called up. “And faster this time. Get a rope down when you’re done.”

  “Roger.”

  Peter adjusted the AR-15 on its sling so it wouldn’t swing out of control, then stepped into the line of soldiers waiting on the rope after eight had gone up. Centering his weight, he jumped and grabbed hold of the rope with both hands. The ILBE threw his balance off some, and he cracked his knee painfully against the concrete wall. Peter swore and winced as he hung on and pulled his feet up towards his chest.

  As quickly as he could, feeling his arms and hands and shoulders protest while they supported his full weight, Peter got his legs and feet situated on the rope properly. It took a moment to get it wrapped around his left leg, then he used his right foot to pull a loop of the rope down and around his left foot. When he clamped his feet together, the right pressing down on the left with the rope caught between them, he was able to straighten his legs and push himself higher.

  Fortunately for the sake of his arms, and for the need for speed, he was able to keep the rope in place around his legs as he climbed. That saved him from having to hang from his arms while he got his legs and feet repositioned from scratch each time. Still, he was panting heavily when he reached the top of the wall. He was getting old, and the pack was heavy. He was happy as hell the wall wasn’t very high.

  A Guardsman had stationed himself at the top to help the climbers. Peter didn’t complain as the man pulled him up and over, tumbling him out onto a stretch of dirt next to the street that paralleled the Connector’s east side. There was a line of trees planted here in lieu of a sidewalk, spaced about every ten feet.

  Peter didn’t care much about any of that except that the dirt was easier on his knees as he scrambled away from the top of the rope. There were a lot of men yet who had to come up. When he reached the street he rose and grasped his weapon, looking around properly. He didn’t bother to hide the deep breaths he was drawing. There was no time for vanity, and he’d didn’t care what any of the younger soldiers might think. He’d made it up the rope, and fast enough to not be the reason anyone died.

  Whitley and the other soldier with snips were almost done cutting a second fence hole, and they had a rope at their feet ready to tie off and drop down. There were about fifty zombies nearby, but ten were already down. 10th Street was just to the south, and was the closest problem. There were a lot of zombies, well past two hundred already, starting to stagger and stumble around the corner at 10th and toward the soldiers, but there was time yet before they could reach the position.

  “Fuck.” Peter cursed, too softly to be heard over the sound of gunfire. Directly across the street was a building, offices or apartments he couldn’t tell, but it was big and tall and, right now, in the damn way. He could see metal gates had been dropped over the exterior of the doors, so he was guessing office building. All that really mattered was they didn’t have the equipment necessary to break into the building and shelter within. He knew better than to ask if anyone had explosives; there was no way.

  He looked left. The fence that screened the Connector in that direction stretched off north, toward 14th Street. There were a whole lot of zombies on 14th he reme
mbered, he didn’t bother to use the binoculars to check. It almost surely looked just like what he was seeing at 10th Street here. But just past the building that was across the street was a slight hill, heavily landscaped with green stuff. It was passable.

  Peter snapped his weapon to his shoulder and worked his way through the magazine he had loaded, killing eight more zombies before the AR-15 went empty. He reloaded, then shot another five before he felt comfortable moving about twenty-five feet north, away from the fence holes. He used the binoculars and eyed the green space. He could see street lights on the far side of the expanse, a landscaped mass of trees and low bushes that had been planted as decorative ground cover.

  Whatever, exactly, was up there, it couldn’t be much worse than where they were now. It simply couldn’t be, or they’d be dead. Peter took another long look, then jogged back to the fence holes. Both ropes were now in use. Despite this, there were maybe thirty Guardsmen still on the Connector below. And hundreds of zombies who were very, very close to them now.

  “Cover down.” Peter started shouting, grabbing Guardsmen and pointing them at the Connector below. Up top was fine for the moment. They needed to get more rifles covering the men still waiting to come up. As Guardsmen began lining up along the fence and shooting down at the zombies, Peter glanced desperately at the two who were currently making the short climb.

  The main problem was they were reservists. Sure they’d been trained, but then all but a handful had gone back to civilian life. One of the things that happened with active duty troops was their physical fitness tended to be maintained. It was hard to slack off and add pounds without your superiors noticing when you were on base. When you worked a desk or sat behind a steering wheel all day, and ate crappy food in front of the television at night, it was hard to keep fit.