When he crowded into the TV room with a couple of the other Dogz with his lunch, which was hamburgers and potato chips, what he saw on the news didn’t change his opinion about the fence one bit. Who gave a shit how it looked. Just so long as it worked.
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve – Take all necessary precautions
Jessica
Jessica sat in her recliner with a sick feeling in her stomach, watching as images of downtown Atlanta played out on the television. For most of the day she had been glued to the news, free to watch with Candice perfectly happy to stay in the front room where she had full reign over the kids’ television. So while Candice enjoyed uninterrupted access to the X-Box, something she normally had to compete with her siblings for time on, her mother and grandparents were in the living room watching the city disintegrate.
Three of the four Atlanta network television affiliates had evacuated their studios hours earlier. WAGA, the Fox affiliate, had tried to evacuate, but they were apparently surrounded by thousand of sick people who were swarming across the Druid Hills area near Emory University. Jessica had thought that a little odd, because the CDC was headquartered in the same area, and she would have expected the government would do everything possible to keep that accessible.
WAGA, WXIA, and WGCL were controlling their broadcasts from studios outside the city, tapping into their transmitters and using borrowed or mobile resources to continue their reporting. WSB had gone off the air about eleven. That had quickly gotten coverage from the other three stations, not because they were gloating or because they particularly felt Atlanta needed to know what had happened to their fellow broadcaster, but because the majority of the news was focusing on downtown.
That was where WSB’s transmission tower was, and fires had ravaged through downtown quite badly. Jessica found it almost impossible to fathom how a city made mostly of concrete could burn, but burning it was. Already, estimates put it at as much as fifteen percent of downtown either actively burning, or smoldering from fires that had already come and gone. ‘Experts’ – though Jessica wasn’t sure what qualified someone to be an expert on this sort of situation – were saying a lot of the fires probably had started from car accidents, with restaurant and hotel kitchens responsible for most of the others.
About two-thirds of the images the stations were showing of the carnage, the horror, were apparently coming from security cameras on buildings. Of the rest, they were a mix of helicopter teams shooting from the air and people who seemed to almost be making a game of darting around the edges of the downtown area to grab shots. Jessica had never understood ‘storm chasers’, the folks who raced toward a tornado or hurricane; what some of the freelancers capturing images in Atlanta were doing made even less sense to her.
And it was bad. Normally a significant chunk of a major city being aflame would be the story, but not now. No, now it was the hordes of sick people who were roaming the streets and investing the buildings, stalking the healthy. Jessica was past being shocked at this point by anything she saw. Panicked fleeing, no problem. She’d seen dozens of shots of people fleeing shambling pursuers. People shooting at or fighting with other people, again healthy individuals fighting to get clear of ill ones; a little worse, but still relatively tame by comparison.
Even the images showing what happened when the victims, the zombies, were able to get their hands on someone they wanted, were able to seize and hold them, she was almost utterly numb to now. Apparently so were the broadcasters, for anything remotely approaching normal standards of censoring shocking or violent imagery and subject matter were completely absent. She’d seen people being killed and eaten. She’d seen people being eaten and then dying of the wounds inflicted by those eating them. She’d even seen a few people being torn apart, and then eaten, by crowds of the zombies.
Not even the videos of the military really phased her at this point. At first she’d taken heart from the images of military convoys rolling briskly down the road, tanks and trucks and humvees packed with soldiers all looking ready for action. Then she noticed some of the same shots seemed to be repeating a lot. And that other of the shots didn’t seem to be from anywhere she recognized as being in or near Atlanta.
And there were also reports coming out, more on the internet than from the television news, that a lot of the military units were in trouble. Some of them were being scattered and attacked from within, as members of the units abruptly converted and began trying to eat their fellows. Jessica supposed there was only so much of that a platoon or company or whatever could stand before they stopped being useful for any sort of mission.
Other of the units, ones that apparently did manage to get themselves to a site where they could try to help, were having mixed results. There were a few shots, some of them also being recycled heavily, that showed the soldiers manning barricades they made with their vehicles while they fired weapons into crowds of approaching zombies. Jessica didn’t even really blink when she saw some tank cannons being used on the crowds. The violence didn’t bother her a lot right now.
What did, however, was how little use it seemed to be. She was pretty sure, and the internet was heavily speculating along the same lines, the reason a lot of the shots of the military were being so recycled when other fresh footage kept showing up was because it wasn’t working. The military was failing. However, why, it didn’t matter. What did was that the ‘strategy of containment’ she’d heard some of the media talking about was failing.
To be fair to the military, they apparently were being at least some help. There were reports of units successfully escorting survivors out of ‘hot zones’ of the outbreak. And more reports of other units assisting with the setting up and maintenance of evacuation points near the worst hit areas across the country. Atlanta was surrounded in all directions by a number of the points, which appeared to be lots of tents and trucks of supplies. But she noticed there seemed to be far more evacuees at them than there were ‘staff’, if that was the right word to use for people who were medically or crisis trained and who were trying to assist the evacuees.
Jessica kept her laptop with her constantly, surfing the net for information while the television droned in the background. She had one tab in her browser that was dedicated to the CDC website she’d been given yesterday. She wasn’t sure if the site was even being updated, despite the time/date stamp that generated every time she clicked refresh.
The link that was supposed to go to ‘Victims in CDC Care, Georgia, Atlanta area’ always showed a little popup box that read ‘no information is available at this time, please check again later’. She kept telling herself it was because they were so busy curing people that they didn’t have the time to update the website. She tried hard to keep telling herself that.
The newscasters on the television, their voices normally so professionally calm, so completely controlled as they read out the news of the day, had long since abandoned all but the barest shreds of such standards. Now they sounded as numb as Jessica felt, and several times some anchor or another had broken down in sobs, or had their voice choked off by their own emotions, as they narrated the latest horrific atrocity.
“Okay, we’re going to cut away from this to take you to the Governor’s Mansion in Buckhead, where Governor Deal is about to speak.” the anchor’s voice said. The images showing an army unit stationed across the southern end of the Downtown Connector, just north of where it diverged again into I-75 and I-85, abruptly vanished to show a shot of crowded room.
Jessica thought it rather looked like a hotel ballroom, but there were a lot of people in it, and they weren’t wearing formal clothing. She saw a lot of cameras and microphones, as well as smartphones, tape recorders, and laptops all out in hands or on tables.
She recognized the Governor standing in a cleared space, talking with a group of people either wearing suits or military uniforms. The suit wearers looked stressed and tired, with ties loose or absent at their collars, suit jackets missing, and sleeves r
olled up. The uniforms were fatigues, not formal military dress, and while they looked a little more controlled than the civilians, there was still an edge of franticness in their posture.
Abruptly the Governor turned to the room, raising a microphone in one hand up to his mouth. “Hello, is this on? Can everyone hear me?” He seemed to be listening to what people in the room were saying in response to the question, then his head turned and he made a motion with the microphone to someone who wasn’t in frame. A moment later, when he spoke again, his voice was considerably louder. “Is that better? Yes? Okay, good.”
He looked tired, something Jessica had never seen in a professional politician before. Not outside of a movie in any event. And even there, even in movies that involved world wars or massive terrorist events, Presidents, Governors and Mayors almost always seemed to show up with their clothes freshly pressed, ties tightly knotted, and hair neatly combed. It was a leadership thing, an image-as-reassurance thing.
Whatever thing it was, whether or not it actually worked, Deal didn’t seem to ascribe to that school of thought. Or maybe he was too busy to care. Jessica wasn’t sure. But he looked frazzled and tired, not poised and polished. His tie hung completely loose around his neck, his jacket looked rumpled, and his shirt definitely needed pressing. There was a shadow on his face that indicated he needed to shave, and his hair was untidy like he’d been running or something.
“We’ll skip the usual formalities.” Deal said, and even his voice sounded exhausted, defeated. “I am announcing the declaration of martial law across the entire metropolitan Atlanta area, starting now. In addition to the circumstances downtown, in Druid Hills, in Marietta, around Hartsfield Airport, and other places; there is looting and violence that is unrelated to the medical situation. In some instances, police officers are being attacked and even killed by individuals they attempt to apprehend for crimes being committed.”
“Well it’s about time he did that.” Sharon said. Jessica looked at her mother, seeing her face touched with a little anger, and her mouth firmly set. Next to her on the couch, William was silent, but Jessica saw agreement in his eyes. Amid the constant stream of reports showing sick individuals, or the destruction and mayhem erupting across the area, had been stories showing stores being stripped almost bare. In some areas there had been mobs of people fighting with each other as they struggled to seize items from the shelves and get outside with them.
“To be clear, and to make it simple, anyone inside or within thirty miles of 285 should consider themselves covered by this declaration. Anyone out on the streets will be detained and either escorted home or taking to holding areas being arranged now. Go home, everyone needs to go home. The best thing everyone can do to help us try and resolve this situation is to stop distracting our emergency services personnel who have been working since yesterday.” Deal said, looking around the room as he spoke.
Jessica could tell there were questions being directed to him, but all the microphone in the governor’s hand, or the camera, was picking up was a faint buzz of voices. Deal made a waving motion with his free hand and shook his head.
“Please, there’s just no way I can answer questions at this time. The order is self explanatory. If you are inside the Perimeter, or within thirty miles of it, you need to go home. This is for your safety as much as your safety as our ability to better focus our available resources.”
Deal paused briefly as one of the civilians near him stepped forward, whispering in his ear. The governor nodded. “Ah, yes. Regarding martial law, there is an exception. If your area is currently marked red on the disaster maps the media is showing, which we are updating hourly, or if your area is suffering from large numbers of disease victims, you should not stay home. You should evacuate.
“Most of these areas have been cordoned off, or are in the process of it being done. If you’re stopped at a checkpoint or by a patrol just tell them which evacuation point you’re going to, and you will be allowed to continue”
The governor took a notepad, already opened to a wrinkled page, from his shirt pocket and studied it for a moment, ignoring the buzz of voices that rose in the room as he read. “Next, nine-one-one and emergency services. At this time, actually starting about fifteen minutes ago, I have instructed all nine-one-one call centers in metro Atlanta to disregard and disconnect any call that does not relate to either the medical situation or some incident that will result in widespread property harm.”
Now the buzz of voices was loud, and Jessica could make out some angry tones amid them. Deal shook his head and both raised his voice even as he raised the microphone closer to his mouth. “Please! This is important.” The background noise faded reluctantly, and Deal continued after a moment. “There is no other way to say this, but we’re in a crisis situation. There are not enough resources to go around. We need the lines into the emergency centers kept open, and the firemen, the paramedics, and the police out in the field all free to be able to focus on containing the sick before they cause damage.
“The only exception to nine-one-one calls that don’t involve zo – uh, sick people, is for something like a building fire, a broken water main, a downed power line that’s still active, things like that. Those situations have the potential to cause as much damage – or in some cases more – as the sick. Those need to be dealt with as well, so they should be reported. But the other calls, any other call, should not be made. And if they are, they will be disregarded.”
The reporters were shouting questions at the governor now, and Jessica heard words like ‘murder’ and ‘assault’ being thrown out, but the governor just shook his head. “Look, I’m not going to say people can’t defend themselves, and I’m not going to tell people to take the law into their own hands, but we are fast running out of warm bodies to send out to deal with things. If everyone obeys the order to stay home, the only problem that should be left to handle will be the sick.”
“Jessica.”
She turned her head from the television as her father spoke her name, and found him looking at her with an expression she couldn’t remember ever seeing on his face before. He looked serious and concerned to a level that went far beyond his normal mild mannered demeanor. “Dad?”
“Do you still have Brett’s gun?” he asked soberly.
“What?” Jessica asked, shocked.
“Brett’s gun. Did you get rid of it?”
Jessica stared at him for a few seconds, not hearing whatever was being said on the television. “Why do you want to know?” she finally asked.
“Sweetie.” her father pointed the remote at the television and muted it. “If you still have it, I want you to go get it for me. We might need it.”
Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it. She remembered Pete from last night, shooting Mr. Wagner. But that had been self defense. And the television, all those horrible scenes of what was happening downtown. She heard, now that the television’s speakers were off, the faint sounds of Candice’s game in the other room, and found herself getting up before she realized she’d decided.
“It’s in my closet.” she said faintly.
“Do you want me to go with you?” her father asked gently.
She shook her head. “No, I’ll get it.”
Feeling light headed, she went upstairs and into her bedroom. Pulling the string dangling from the closet light to turn it on, she unfolded the little step stool she kept on her side, then stepped up and start rummaging through the things on the top shelf. Very little of it was hers, since she found it inconvenient at five foot seven to easily reach the shelf.
Instead, she preferred to keep her things on the floor, or on the shelves lower down. In the very back corner of the top shelf she found the metal box she’d made Brett buy for his pistol the week after she’d learned she was pregnant with Joey. It had stayed there for the past couple of years, unneeded and almost forgotten.
It was heavy in her hands, which she saw were shaking a little, as she shoved things out of the way so she
could slide it closer to herself and extract it. When she stepped down, she almost dropped it, but tightened her grip just in time. She stared at it for a few moments, then left the closet light on and the step stool out as she went back downstairs with it.
“Here.” Jessica said, handing it to her father when she reentered the living room.
He took it from her and set it on his lap, then looked back up at her. “I hope you remember the combination.”
Jessica nodded. “Zero four nine five zero.”
William began rolling the dials on the front of the box with his thumbs, inputting the number. Jessica sat down as he worked. She remembered the first two lock boxes Brett had come home with, both of which she’d made him take back.
The first had used a key, which she had pointed out could be found by the kids and thus the box opened. The second had used only a three number combination, which she had similarly pointed out was not secure enough for her comfort. So he had gotten this one, and she had reluctantly ceased her protestations.
The box clicked open, and her father reached inside. The stainless steel pistol looked large and dangerous in his hand as he took it out and drew it from the nylon holster. She flinched a little as he worked the slide with a loud metallic clacking, peering in the gun for a moment, then doing something with his thumb that made the gun click, then click again. Setting it next to himself on the couch, he pulled a rectangular magazine out of the lockbox and examined it briefly, then took a box of bullets out as well.
“Dad, where are you going to keep it?” Jessica asked as he opened the bullets and started inserting them into the magazines.
“On me.” William said without looking up from the weapon in his hands.
Apocalypse Atlanta Page 40
