“We won’t all fit in it.” Oliver said unhappily.
“Like I said earlier, there are other vehicles around here.” Candles was slinging his M-16 into a combat carry position. “How many of us are there, almost twenty? That’s like four cars, three if we crowd in some. We can be out of here in, what, five minutes? Let’s go.”
Peter sighed. “Modern cars often have a computer that prevents the engine from starting unless the key and its codes are present.”
“So?” Oliver asked, his voice tight and afraid. “Cars get stolen all the time. There have to be ways around that crap.”
“There are.” Peter nodded. “But I’ll probably have to pull the modules and do a bit of rewiring to get the vehicles running. But that’s not the biggest problem.”
“Yeah, the fucking bombs are.”
“No. Well, yes.” Peter said, trying to keep his temper in check. “What I’m talking about though is the zombies. Unless we can find a clear path out, we’re probably going to still be hemmed in by zombie packs.”
“Cars trump zombies.” Hernandez said. “I mean, don’t they?”
“Yes and no.” Peter said.
“I drive tanks.” Candles pointed out. “Trust me, vehicles win.”
“We don’t have a tank.” Peter replied. “If we did, no problem. We could roll over almost anything in our path and follow the trail.”
“Same difference.”
“No, big difference. Civilian cars weigh less. There aren’t any treads. The ground clearance is different.”
“Just keep your foot down and keep going.”
“Listen Goddam–” Peter started, a lot more loudly than he’d meant. He stopped and drew a deep breath, then forced himself to speak calmly. “If we have to push through a big crowd we’re seriously risking getting stuck.”
“How?” Oliver asked.
“He’s speculating.” Candles said, not quite dismissively, but without any real measure of respect.
“So are you.” Whitley said in an irritated tone. “Or have you driven through a crowd in a Bronco before?”
Candles opened his mouth, then hesitated. Whitley nodded. “Right.” She turned back to Peter. “Sarge?”
“Everyone just calm down.” Peter said. “I’m not staying, and anyone who wants to go I’m happy to bring along. Anyone who wants to go on their own, that’s fine too. My position hasn’t changed from earlier. But it’s not going to kill us to take a few minutes to get our heads on straight and decide what we’re going to do.”
“It might.” Candles muttered, but he stepped back several feet and leaned against the wall with his arms folded, waiting.
“Okay. Like I was saying, if we try to put a regular car, even a truck or an SUV, through a big crowd of zombies, it could fuck us over. Bodies could get tangled up underneath the car and break something, or jam the wheels. Most cars only have the one drive axle. If those wheels lose traction or don’t have good contact with the ground, then whoever’s in that car is zombie chow.”
“Fuck that.” Smith said. “I’ll eat a bullet first.”
“Shut it Doom-boy.” Johns told him before looking around. “How likely is that?”
“Think about it dude.” Harper said. “If we go fast enough to knock zombies out of the way, the car’s not gonna make it far before it’s totaled. Slow enough to avoid that, and we’re probably driving over most of them. Only takes one, a fat one or maybe they roll around underneath in just the wrong way, and suddenly we’re stuck.”
“Totally fuck that.” Smith said again.
Nailor spoke quickly as Johns turned his head toward Smith again. “So we’re stuck in here?”
“What about MARTA?” Teves asked.
Roper laughed. “I hate to break it to you amigo, but I don’t think the trains or buses are running.”
“Fuck you man.” Teves shot back, sounding annoyed. “I mean the tracks.”
“Yeah, what about the tracks?” Johns said, sounding enthusiastic. “Stations are all over downtown, we just get to one, then down to the tracks, and we can go out through the tunnels.”
Smith was shaking his head. “You’re crazy.”
“What?”
“Think about it guys.” Smith said. “The only reason any of us lived through the shit last night was we had places to dodge when the zombies closed in. The train tunnels only go two directions, forward and back. What happens if we get surrounded by a big pack of zombies on both sides?”
“The zombies can’t be everywhere.” Teves said, though he sounded uncertain. “How likely is it they’re down there?”
“You want to risk finding out?” Whitley asked. She looked at Peter. “Sarge, you’re on to something, I can tell. What’s up?”
Peter stared blankly at her for a couple of moments, then blinked and shrugged. “I don’t know.” he said slowly. “Maybe.” It was the mention of MARTA that had jogged his memory.
The city’s transit system used trains that ran north to south, and east to west, in from the suburbs though the heart of downtown. But it depended heavily on hundreds of buses that ran routes all through the region, feeding people into the train stations or ferrying them away from the trains on the other end of their trips.
“We passed a MARTA bus abandoned a couple blocks to the south yesterday.” Peter said, his thoughts racing. “That’s heavy enough to ignore a lot of the problems I just covered. Plus, if it gets up to a decent speed – say thirty or forty miles per hour – its mass should knock a lot of things in the way aside without much of a problem.”
“That’s your plan?” Candles asked. “Go a few blocks on foot and hope for the bus to be drivable?”
“No, we drive a few blocks.” Peter said, still using all his experience and maturity to avoid rising to the argument Candles was apparently willing to have. “And we use the vehicles we get there with to block off the top of the ramp so we have a position to fight from while we see if the bus will run.”
“And then?” Hernandez asked.
Peter shrugged. “If it isn’t, then we try to dodge our way out of downtown using the vehicles. Maybe we’ll find another big vehicle, like another bus or something, and try the same thing with that. If this bus is working, I’d say we head down onto the Interstate and go from there. Either way, any sort of plan beyond that would be pure speculation. We’re going to have to make decisions on the fly.”
“Great, so that’s the plan.” Candles said, standing straight. “Let’s do it.”
“Jesus, calm down man.” Teves said.
“Fuck calm.” Candles replied hotly. “I don’t plan on being blown up and I sure as hell don’t plan on getting eaten. What the hell else is there to discuss?”
“Ammo.” Whitley said.
“Yeah.” a few others said. Candles threw his hands up in the air, but he didn’t say anything.
“Ammo is still a big problem.” Peter said with a suppressed sigh. “I definitely think everyone needs a hand to hand weapon of some sort.”
“Oh man . . . going mano-a-mano with zombies?” Mendez asked in a troubled voice.
“Weapons are better than bare fists.” Hernandez pointed out.
“My fists are good for it.” Crawford said with a grin.
“Yeah, but then again you’d probably look good paler and with less pep in your step.” Swanson replied. “And, wait–” he said as she raised one of her fists. “–if you hit me I’ll tell them about that thing.”
Crawford glared at him.
“What thing?” Oliver asked.
“Yeah, what thing?” Barker chimed in.
“It’s not important.” Peter said, stepping in as he saw Candles stirring restlessly. “If anyone’s got a M9 with ’em, I’d say that’ll do okay. If not, then a regular knife that’s got a long enough blade might work. But there’s plenty of apartments around here. Go dismantle a table or repurpose a lamp or something to use a club.”
“Clubs probably won’t kill zombies.” Smith said with a fro
wn.
“Probably not, but you can knock them around, use it as a shield or a prop to hold them back or something.”
“Break arms and legs.” Crawford said. “Especially legs.”
“Zombies don’t feel pain.” Mendez pointed out. He had produced his M9 from one of his pockets, and was sliding the bayonet knife out of its sheath.
“Yeah, so what?” Crawford replied. “Broken leg is hard to walk on whether you feel it or not.”
“It’s better than nothing.” Peter confirmed with a shrug. “But I’d say everyone should get a hand weapon together, because if it comes down to it, we flat out don’t have enough ammo to shoot our way out of a tight spot. A bunch of clubs or whatever might be the difference.”
“Fucking-A.” Hernandez agreed.
Peter surveyed the soldiers. Candles was still visibly angry; not frothing at the mouth, but definitely upset. Hernandez and Barker looked a little impatient too. On the other end of the scale, Oliver and Mendez looked the most worried. Everyone else fell somewhere between those two extremes.
“Eat up.” Peter said after a few moments. “A couple more minutes won’t hurt, and you never know when your next meal might be. If there’s anything left, I’d recommend throwing it into Ziplocs or something and bringing it along. It might come in handy. After that, or if you’re done, go scrounge up a weapon. And then you can come help me get vehicles ready to roll.”
“I’m good on both counts. I’ll go with you now.” Swanson said as he rose.
“What weapon did you bring?” Crawford asked. “And if you refer to your groin I’m going to demonstrate the leg breaking I was talking about.”
“This.” Swanson said, sticking his hand into one of his pack’s pouches and coming out with a sheathed knife. A big sheathed knife. He unsnapped the catch strap and drew it from the sheath to reveal a blade that was very definitely not military issue.
“Jesus Swanson, compensating for something?” Crawford asked.
“Where’d you get that, a damn Hollywood prop website?” Johns said, shaking his head.
“Hey, this is cool.” Swanson said, wiping the flat of the blade down his left shoulder a few times to polish it up. Peter didn’t really see the point of that, considering it was already quite shiny in the sunlight coming in through the balcony doors. Plus, with all the jags and curves on it, most people weren’t likely to stop to notice how clean it was.
“If by cool you mean ridiculous, then yes.” Crawford snorted.
“You’re just jealous.” Swanson said, sliding it back into the sheath and starting to unbuckle his belt.
“Nope, and if you’re planning on showing your little Swanson off, don’t bother.” Crawford grinned. “I already know the knife is bigger.”
“Hey, fuck you Ci–Crawford.” Swanson said, and Peter saw Crawford’s eyes flicker dangerously as Swanson changed what he’d been about to say just in time. “No one’s around to tell me it’s non-reg, and I might need it, so it’s going on my belt.”
“Just–”
“Whatever.” Hernandez cut in as Crawford started in on some reply. “Let’s get to it.”
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen – Plans
Darryl
Darryl jammed the shovel into the ground next to the loose dirt and stepped back. He was sweating heavily, but he’d pushed the pace of the burial detail because he wanted to be done as soon as possible. It was getting dark, and he instinctively did not want to be out here any longer than necessary. Sure they had the new fence, but the events of the past thirty-six hours had awakened new fears within him.
Life wasn’t simple, or safe, anymore.
“Fuck DJ, you a damn machine.” Tiny said, standing with one foot propped up on his shovel, the handle leaning back against his shoulder as he gripped it in both hands. “What got into you?”
“Naw, them the machines.” Darryl said, pointing at the two augers lying nearby. Well, actually they were standing up on their drill bits. When they’d finished breaking up the ground for the new graves, they’d let the augers drill themselves just far enough into the clay so they wouldn’t fall over. The rest of it had been shovel work, clearing out the loose dirt.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. But we done now.” Darryl was busy lighting up a cigarette. The loft of the barn now held a literal truckload of cigarettes, courtesy of all the gas stations Big Chief had cleaned out the previous night. Jody had raised some hell when she’d seen them, saying it was a waste of time and space to have bothered, but she’d been outvoted by the Dogz that smoked.
She’d been so upset about the cigarettes, some care had been taken to hide all the beer Big Chief had also brought back behind the smokes. It wasn’t any of her business unless she wanted some, and the way she was carrying on no one really thought she did.
Darryl had tucked three cartons of his preferred Marlboro Lights away in the hard bags on his Harley, for a rainy day, but was restocking himself from the cartons that were being stored behind the bar in the lounge. And he had four packs on him, just in case. Now if he could just figure out if anyone had thought to pick up any Zippo fuel, he’d be all set to ride out the apocalypse.
“Think this the last of it?” Psycho asked, also leaning on his shovel.
“What?”
Psycho gestured vaguely at the fresh graves. “Zombies. People getting eaten. You know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Darryl said, unable to keep the darkness from his tone. “And no, I dunno. We ought to be just about done with any supply runs and shit, so maybe if we just stay behind the fence ain’t nobody else get sick.”
“Yeah.” Tiny nodded. “That’d be good.”
“Think it likely we gonna be that lucky?” Psycho persisted.
“Bro, I don’t fucking know.” Darryl said, annoyed. “Anyway, we done here, so I’m going back and get me a drink and sit for a spell. You bring in all the shovels, while the rest of us drag them augers back, huh?”
“Fine.”
Darryl left his shovel stuck in the ground and went over to the augers. Mad helped him with the other end of one, while Tiny and EZ lifted the second. People had sort of drifted back into the clubhouse following the most recent deaths. The only ones outside now, in the last vestiges of twilight, were the diggers and the guards up on the top of the clubhouse.
This far away, near the back fence line, all of the guards were visible on the roof. They were only shapes amid rapidly lengthening shadows, humanoids with the unmistakable outlines of long guns in their hands. But the ground here was reasonably flat, at least on all the immediate approaches to the new fence. Anyone up there had a good view all around the property, both in and out.
Except over past the barn. Darryl frowned as he carried his end of the auger toward the old barn. It was taller than the clubhouse. Its height blocked off direct view from the clubhouse roof to a section of the grounds, and the fence beyond, to the north. He wondered if he was the first to notice it. But he couldn’t think of what they could do about it . . . it wasn’t like they could demolish the barn.
And they sort of needed it for storage. The people they had now were a tight fit inside the clubhouse. Some holdouts, folks who hadn’t come yesterday, had now joined them, and inside space was getting to be a premium. Especially since no one wanted to be assigned to sleep in the bedrooms. In fact, people seemed to want to be around as many others as they could, for safety.
Darryl didn’t blame them. He felt that way himself. True, there was some talk about how likely it was for more people to suddenly turn zombie and get hungry, particularly directed at the newcomers who had only recently left Atlanta and its surrounding suburbs. But that was only a quiet undercurrent for now, set against what might happen if you were near only one or two others, and one or two of those others abruptly decided people were yummy. Better to be with many people.
He didn’t like to think what might happen if a whole bunch of folks turned at once. He was currently of the
opinion if it came to that, if that many people were abruptly converting and trying to eat the remaining few, that it was all over anyway. It wouldn’t matter if you survived the initial dinner bell or not.
They dropped the tools off in the barn and headed into the clubhouse. The back door didn’t open when Tiny tried it. The knob just turned without the door moving.
“Damnit.” Tiny muttered, lifting his fist and banging on the door several times. “Yo, open up in there. We done with the graves.”
One of the guards peered over the edge of the roof, looking down at them. Darryl lit another smoke and glanced up without comment, then back to the closed door when he heard a faint voice from within. “Ain’t no zombies allowed.”
“Fuck you Joker.” Tiny said loudly. “Open the damn door.”
There was a scraping sound, then the door opened. Tiny pushed through and reached menacingly for Joker, who was standing with the crossbar that had been blocking the door propped up next to him.
“Hey, I just playing around.” Joker protested, swaying backwards from Tiny’s clutching fingers.
“That ain’t fucking funny.” Tiny said in a low voice, lower than his usual tone.
“Yeah. But get the fuck inside before you take his head off.” EZ said.
Tiny menaced Joker with one final look, then moved down the hall, making way for the others to file in. Darryl left Joker to rebar the door as he stopped in the kitchen for the drink he wanted. A pair of round drink coolers, like the ones on the sidelines of football games, had been setup on the small folding table near the doorway. One was marked ‘Sweet T’, the other ‘Fruit’ in black marker.
When he held a plastic cup under the spout and pushed the button on the one marked ‘T’, brewed tea poured out. Even before he sipped he could feel it was colder than the drinks had been all day, and when he did drink he found it was pretty good tea and definitely cold. Darryl swallowed several gulps down, topped the cup back off from the cooler, then wandered into the lounge.
The interior of the clubhouse had undergone changes throughout the day. The fruits of the looting runs were not contained to only the kitchen and basement; they were visible everywhere. The lounge had a number of air mattresses, already inflated and ready to go, leaning against the inside walls, for later that night. All the windows had been sealed up with plywood sheets reinforced by boards that were laid in a ladder pattern across them and screwed into the walls with big bolts. Darryl was happy he hadn’t had to deal with that, but had heard a drill had been involved to start the holes in the rock of the walls.
Apocalypse Atlanta Page 47
