Apocalypse Atlanta

by Rogers, David

  “But–”

  “No time, no argument. Anyone who’s coming, follow me.” Peter shouted. He jogged south with his weapon held at port arms. He was leaving his friend to die, and quite honestly wasn’t sure if he really cared whether anyone followed him or not. Things had been disintegrating rapidly over the past few hours. He wasn’t sure if things like military discipline, once so important to him, even applied any longer. He did know he didn’t have the time to ponder things, not now. Later.

  Booted footsteps behind him told that at least some Guardsmen were coming. Peter looked the convoy with its zombie besiegers over almost casually, fairly disinterested in it if he was truthful. He just wanted the zombies to stay focused on the vehicles for another fifteen seconds. That’s all. Just fifteen more seconds and he could be at the parking garage. There weren’t any zombies spilling out of it, so he figured its levels would be clear for the moment.

  However, as he ran, Peter saw people inside the vehicles. The humvees were going to fall, it was just a matter of time. Maybe if one of the hummer passengers was packing a minigun with a huge box of ammo they might be able to shoot their way clear. Since Peter wasn’t betting on a minigun being handy, those people were effectively dead. The unit hadn’t even been able to hold the intersection to the north; the only chance they had to clear Spring and Linden was if a couple of God’s angels came down to lend a hand.

  The fire trucks though . . . he saw other people in there too. The trucks were higher off the ground; the zombies couldn’t get at the windows. Their doors were also sturdier, fire trucks were still built pretty solidly even in the modern era of efficiency. It didn’t change whether or not Peter and his people could cut the firefighters out of there, but maybe if they stayed locked up in the trucks they could hold out for a while.

  For all the good it would do.

  Shrugging mentally, Peter switched his attention to the parking structure. Fumbling with the tactical light he’d fixed to the under barrel mounting rail, he got it on and panned through the garage quickly as he approached. The main entrance was closer to the intersection, along with the pedestrian doors, but he didn’t see any need to go that close to the horde. The garage used half-walls everywhere a load bearing wall wasn’t needed, and he could see right into the dark interior of the open building.

  It looked clear. He hoped it was. He reached the wall and went over it with the same tumbling and rolling motion he’d used back on the Connector. His boots slammed down inside a little quicker than he’d expected, and he winced as something in his ankle protested a bit. The last thing he needed was to fuck up one of his legs. But he was in, and he brought the AR-15 up.

  Only a little moonlight filtered in through the open walls, leaving his tactical flashlight to probe through the gloom alone. From what he could see it was deserted, of both zombies and cars. He considered the hotel across the street for a moment as he looked around, trying to make sure there wasn’t a zombie about to lurch out of the darkness at him while he waited for a couple more guys to get over the wall to back him up.

  “Maybe we can grab off a ride?” one of them panted as he joined Peter.

  Peter hesitated, then shook his head twice. “No. What happened to the convoy outside could just as easily happen to us. That’s why the captain had us moving on foot.”

  “Fat lot of good it’s done us.” someone muttered.

  “You’re welcome to take off anytime you want.” Peter said without looking to see who was complaining. “When the shit’s this deep . . . I ain’t got time to file a report.” His light was reflecting off something that turned it red, and he stepped off in that direction. He moved quickly, but as quietly as he could, swinging the AR from side to side to cover his front as best he could.

  Nothing came out of the darkness to try and eat him. He made it to the stairwell as he heard a particularly gut wrenching series of screams coming from the intersection outside. Peter ignored them, reaching for the doorknob with one hand while trying to keep his weapon leveled at the ready.

  “Cover me, I got the door sarge.” a Guardswoman said, slipping up on his left. He couldn’t remember her name . . . she had climbed up and cut through the fence back at the Connector. Peter shrugged it off, not important right now. He realized she was looking at him, and he nodded slightly. In one quick motion she jerked the door open and stood back out of the way. Peter’s light revealed only a vacant concrete stairwell.

  He moved inside, checked up to make sure something was maybe lingering, then started climbing the stairs. They had a gritty surface that gave good traction, but also was loud beneath his boots. As he reached the half-landing and swung around to check the rest of the stairs up to the second level, the noise level increased as others started up behind him.

  Peter led the way up to the third level, pausing only to check that the way was clear of any hungry zombies. The same Guardswoman pushed up next to him when he got to the door. He could have kicked the door open, using his foot to depress the panic bar across its interior, but he let her push it outward while he covered.

  The third level did have a few cars on it, maybe a dozen or so, but he ignored them. He really didn’t want to screw around with vehicles right now. He wanted to break contact and think, catch his breath, wait for daylight. The cars would be here, and if they weren’t then there were bound to be others around somewhere. He wasn’t concerned about it.

  There was another Exit sign hanging over the pedestrian tube on the east side of the level. The lights were out, but its lettering reflected red when his light swept over it. Peter went that way, still cautious. The gloom retreated as the tube, covered with a circular glass or maybe plastic roof and sides, let in enough moonlight to see by.

  As he crossed through it, Peter took one glance down at the intersection to see what the zombies were doing. He saw a couple wandering toward the parking deck, probably following soldiers they’d spotted, but the horde was still thronging the wrecked convoy. Peter very purposefully did not look north. Instead he reached the far side and checked the door.

  The knob turned, but the door moved less than half an inch when he tried it. He frowned and pushed harder. The door wouldn’t budge, and he heard a creaking. Peter stepped back and swept the tactical light around the edges of the door, then cursed as he saw something filling the hinge side from within. “Fuck me.” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” someone behind him asked.

  “Door is jammed from inside.” Peter said, trying to think.

  “I could try to dismantle the knob.” a thin man said, coming forward and tapping them. “Got a Leatherman here. Pull the knob, there should be nothing left locking it.”

  “How long?” Peter asked.

  The soldier shrugged. “Could be five minutes, maybe longer if they secured the screws with glue or something.”

  “Screw that.” “No way man.” “Are you for real?”

  Peter ignored the protesting voices behind him and shook his head uncertainly. “The knob’s turning, I don’t think it’s locked. It feels like they wedged something in to keep it from opening.”

  The Guardswoman who’d been backing Peter up stepped past him and held her hand out to the other soldier. “Give me your Leatherman.”

  “What?”

  “Now!” she insisted. “You want to get out of here or wait for the zombies to make it up through the parking deck and wander in here for a sub sandwich?”

  “What’s your idea?” Peter asked, glancing back through the tube. The remaining soldiers were clumped up close behind him, all waiting for the door to be dealt with. There were more than he had thought might keep following, which was a welcome surprise. He also saw those at the back of the little column were watching the garage side of the tube already, another welcome surprise.

  “Wedges you said?” she answered as she grabbed the proffered multi-tool the first soldier held up. She examined the attachments quickly and unfolded a long metal tool from it. “Sarge, shine that light on
the hinge crack.”

  Peter checked that his safety was on, then complied. She probed the crack with the tool, which was a serrated knife. “Yeah, wedges.” she said, tapping something in the crack with the blade, then patting her pockets with her free hand. She pulled out an ammunition magazine and began hammering on the end of the Leatherman with it. After the third hit, Peter could tell she was making progress.

  “Got it.” she said about ten seconds later. She found two more wedges, though the one next to the middle hinge seemed to take as long as the other two combined to knock out. It finally gave though, and she ran the blade around the bottom, then along the top by stretching up on tiptoe. “That’s the last of them I think.”

  “Okay, try the knob again.” Peter said, readying his weapon. She reached out from the side of the door and turned the knob, then pushed on the door. It opened this time, and Peter swept around with his light. He saw a hallway stretching out away from the door that was dimly lit. It looked like emergency lighting, the kind that usually ran off batteries. It was just enough to see where you were going, but not enough to really be good for much else.

  “Cover my ass.” Peter said quietly, stepping forward.

  “With you sarge.” the Guardswoman said, handing the Leatherman back and hefting her own weapon. She eased in right behind Peter, staying almost close enough to touch him, as he moved slowly down the hallway. There were stores on either side of the hallway; a gift shop, coffee bar, sandwich shop, and newsstand. Their security gates had been dropped, and they were deserted as he went past. Just past the newsstand the hallway broadened out onto an open space.

  Peter panned his light around slowly. It was the hotel’s lobby, he realized. The hallway opened out into a sort of balcony that surrounded the lobby below. There were tables and chairs scattered around the floor where people could sit and drink their coffee and read their newspapers while they watched the comings and goings in the lobby below. The elevator bank was on the far side, but he looked further and spotted a stairwell in the corner on his right.

  “Someone get that door closed behind us.” he said quietly. “Make sure it’s closed good and tight.”

  He heard the order being passed back down the line of soldiers, but didn’t pay much attention. He was still examining the building’s interior. The stairwell door was dented, right about chest high in a rough circle maybe two-thirds the width of the door. He frowned, pondering, then shone the light on slung under his AR slowly around the rest of the level.

  “Sarge?” the Guardswoman whispered.

  Peter started very slightly. The light had just illuminated a puddle of something on the floor near the elevators. Any other time, on any other day, and he would have said he wasn’t sure what it was. Especially in a hotel. But today, with everything that was going on, his mind instinctively filled in ‘blood’ without hesitation.

  “What?”

  “Do you think that’s blood?”

  “What was your name again soldier?” he said after a moment spent studying the blood. He couldn’t think of what else it was. It was smeared across the floor toward the elevator, and as he followed the trail with his light he saw footprints had tracked through it in several directions. Further, that it was on the floor of a hotel, even in the middle of, or especially in the middle of, an apocalypse like this couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Whitley. Sarah Whitley.” she whispered back.

  “Okay, two things.” Peter said, still speaking quietly. “First, stop whispering. It carries further than a low tone.” His light revealed a couple of potted plants, typical corporate corridor dressing, but overturned and lying on their sides. Dirt had spilled out from the decorative pots, and he saw some of it had been trampled on.

  “Two?”

  Peter blinked, then glanced over his left shoulder. Whitley was holding position tucked in right behind and to the left of him, staying within arm’s reach. He had felt her there, moving with him like she was attached by string, as he moved through the hotel. Her face showed a little strain, stress lines creasing the skin around her eyes and across her forehead, but she met his gaze fairly steadily.

  “Two, shut up unless there’s something to report.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” she said, copying his quiet voice.

  Peter looked back, then started moving quietly towards the stairwell door. After a few steps he was near enough to the decorative safety wall that ran around the balcony area to see down. The first foot of the wall was wooden, or at least faced with wood, but the rest was glass except for the posts spaced a couple feet apart. He glanced down as he eased along the balcony, then frowned.

  The emergency lights down there were less effective, or maybe they were mostly out. But what of them there were, and the moonlight coming in from the east side of the lobby, revealed a sight that made him stop almost in mid step. He froze for a second, staring, then carefully lowered his foot the rest of the way. Peter hesitated, then angled his light down for a better look.

  There were faces staring back up at him. Blank, pale, with dead eyes that held a hint of intent hunger. Over two dozen, lining the railing of the second floor. And at the bottom, in the lobby, he saw over a dozen more, also looking to the third floor and the noisy warm meat they sensed. Someone next to Peter cursed, and a second flashlight beam joined his, flitting around the lobby as if the holder couldn’t believe it.

  Peter backed away from the balcony railing and looked at the others. Knowledge of what lay below was spreading fast via low voices and quick looks down as the soldiers finished trickling in from the hallway. Peter examined the third floor again, but saw no zombies up here with them.

  Just to be safe though, he went down to where the balcony terminated against the dented stairwell door before turning to face everyone. He gave himself a count of five, making sure his voice was under control and absent any sense of frustration or defeatism before he spoke.

  “Okay, ammo check. Go through all your pouches, and anyone with a pack check that too.” Peter said quietly. He pointed with the tactical light. “And then I need a no-shit reality check. Anyone who qualified Expert with rifle and who isn’t too freaked out by the shit we’re in, over here.

  Suiting action to words, Peter went over to the spot he’d indicated, then shucked his ILBE and started going through it. He took the opportunity to stuff a few energy bars into his pockets, along with a pack of batteries for the light in case he needed them later, then pulled out his last three filled magazines. In total with what he had in his ammo pouch, there were five.

  But he also had two boxes of rounds, ammunition he’d brought with him from home, at the bottom of the pack. He left them there for the moment. Those he didn’t want to invade just yet, unless the current ammunition situation was more dire than he suspected. There was also a box of .45 rounds for his M45 and Kahr, but the only three spare magazines he had for those were already in his secondary pouch, and were full. He didn’t want to contemplate being down to only the pistols.

  Peter kept the 5.56 magazines in his hand and stood up, shrugging his arms back into the ILBE’s straps once more. Four soldiers had stepped over to join him. The Army didn’t emphasize marksmanship to the extent that the Corps did, but even allowing for their Guard status, Peter had been hoping for more than that.

  He looked the four who’d stepped over, trying to determine their mental state. They met his gaze steadily and without shirking, their hands and body movements seemed controlled, and their breathing was even and regular. No tremors, no twitchy reactions or flinches–as far as he could tell they were tracking okay. But four, five including himself, probably wasn’t enough.

  “Okay, anyone qualify Sharpshooter?” Peter said. “And whose hands aren’t shaking?” Two more Guardsmen stepped forward. Peter blinked, and decided not to ask about Marksman qualifiers. Six would have to do.

  “Alright then.” he said. “First, I want to get everyone organized again.” Losses from zombies had eaten away at the already pretty casu
al grouping the Guard had been set up in before being thrown out into Atlanta to try and help. The constant running had prevented any real attempt to get things straightened back out, but Peter was done screwing around. There was the time now, so he was going to get it sorted out.

  “Okay, shooters, spread out a bit. Now, you, and you, and you, with me.” He indicated the Guardswoman who’d been glued to him, along with the soldier with the Leatherman and another completely at random, based on nothing more than how nervous the man seemed.

  “You three are on my fireteam, you move with me. Stay close, two or three yards max.” he told them, but making sure everyone could hear him. “I’m lead and point, I cover front. If we’re moving, that’s front. If we stop moving for some reason, the direction we were going is front. You cover back.” he said, pointing at Whitley. “No matter what, you’re responsible for covering the fireteam’s six.”

  She nodded with a determined expression, and Peter gave her a sharp nod back. He’d picked her because she seemed to be tracking well and seemed ready to do whatever was necessary to get through this. That was someone he wanted covering his ass.

  “You’re covering left, and you’re covering right.” Peter said, pointing at the other two he’d picked out in turn. They each nodded back. “Okay, got it? Your job is to cover your arc when we’re moving, when we’re stopped, whenever. Period. No matter what the fuck is going on, you cover your arc. Sing out if you spot incoming, keep me updated on what’s there, how many and how far. Clear?”

  “Clear sarge.” “Got it.” “No problem.”

  Peter nodded, hiding his trepidation. It normally took weeks of intensive training for a fireteam to begin to gel as a tactical unit, and months before they functioned flawlessly. That was why he’d assigned arcs and simplified their roles to the bare minimum. All they had to do was stay with him, watch their arc, and speak up. Hopefully it wasn’t too complicated for them to manage.