Apocalypse Atlanta

by Rogers, David

He turned and got into the Bronco. He’d siphoned some gas out of several of the vehicles they weren’t using to get the SUV’s tank up to about two-thirds, which should be enough one way or another. As he settled his AR on the seat next to him he heard car doors slamming shut as the others piled into their own waiting vehicles.

  In addition to the Bronco, he’d hot-wired three other sedans of various makes, a pretty well maintained Jeep Cherokee that he was wondering why the owners hadn’t fled with, and a completely riced out Honda CRX. The street racer looked odd next to the other, more utilitarian vehicles, but Peter had actually been pretty happy to see it.

  He wasn’t entirely sure the car had the power to plow through a big zombie crowd on its own, but that was fine. They could push the little racer through. What made it valuable to Peter was its low clearance. The previous owner had, among many other modifications, lowered the car considerably. As a result, there was not enough ground clearance for a body to get stuck underneath.

  Crawford was driving that, at her insistence. She revved the engine up a few times, then pulled up a couple car lengths before braking. Peter swung in behind her, and eyed his rearview mirror until he saw the others sort themselves out. He didn’t really care about the order so long as Crawford was first and he was second, and Smith was last in the Jeep.

  When everyone was ready to roll, Peter blipped his high beams momentarily. Crawford took off, sedately, in response and headed down the short stretch of street to the gates. There were actually two sets of gates into the complex, but they’d decided to use the west ones since they opened out onto Courtland Street. That would give them a straight shot down to the ramp where they’d passed the bus, and Courtland didn’t look overly crowded with zombies at the moment.

  The shadows were long already, even though the moon was well up and almost completely full. For some reason the dark made the zombies that much scarier, even though it was silly. Broad daylight, middle of the night; what did it matter? The zombies would eat you either way.

  Crawford braked just shy of the gates, and Swanson hopped out of the passenger side. Peter couldn’t figure the two of them out. They bickered a lot, and Crawford seemed to like threatening Swanson almost as much as Swanson seemed to like being threatened, but they didn’t have the ‘vibe’ of being lovers. Based on their familiarity, he was convinced they’d served together before, but beyond that it was just strange to watch them go at one another.

  Whitley had her door open before Peter finished stopping on the CRX’s bumper. She ran to join Swanson at the fence, yelling something that made his head turn. Peter couldn’t hear, but whatever it was Swanson was taken off guard by it. Whitley grabbed his arm and pulled, and he moved with her off to the right of the gate.

  Others joined them, Harper and Teves setting up on the left side of the gates while Nailor joined the other two on the right. All of them started stabbing zombies through the fence’s vertical bars while Dorne fiddled with the gate’s drive train. When powered, it would roll the gate aside, but without power it was like the gate was anchored in place. But Dorne apparently knew something about how they worked, and now Peter watched as he removed something small and metal, throwing it aside.

  After pulling something else off, Dorne grasped the gate and started pushing. It moved, sliding to the right steadily. He had it open in seconds, and moments after that the ‘gate team’ as Smith had called them once during the planning were running back to their vehicles. The gate team had cleared or at least wounded most of the zombies who’d been gathered at that part of the fence, and the two who moved into the opening created by the gate were bumped aside as Crawford rolled through.

  “Damn she’s eager as hell.” Whitley muttered, breathing hard as she slid back into the Bronco next to Peter.

  “Yeah, she’s not lacking in confidence.” Peter agreed, taking his foot off the brake as soon as he saw Whitley was in. Her door slammed as he reached the gate, and he turned left to line up behind Crawford. There were two shots behind them, but when he looked the other vehicles were beginning to move. Shrugging, Peter checked the street ahead.

  Zombies were scattered across Courtland randomly, with a lot of those in view near the fence. That was already changing, as zombies turned and began staggering into the street. But Courtland looked basically clear up to the big intersection at Ralph McGill Boulevard. Just a bit past that was where the off-ramp from the Connector joined up with Courtland. That was where they were headed.

  Peter blipped his high beams as he saw the Jeep start moving. Crawford took off again, faster than Peter would have liked, but still reasonably sedately considering. It was just that when he wanted to hold to fifteen or twenty miles per hour, thirty seemed overly quick. He accelerated to catch up, settling in close enough behind her to have gotten a middle finger from her had this been a normal drive without things like zombies or bombs in the equation.

  Crawford swerved, the CRX darting to the right smoothly as she cranked the wheel, then back to the left a few seconds later. Peter followed, and saw in his mirrors the rest of the ersatz convoy sinuously weaving like a snake around zombies in the way. The instructions were to not ram or run over anything they didn’t have to. The vehicles would last longer that way.

  When they reached Ralph McGill Peter looked in both directions. East was clear for about three blocks, but to the west, at the next intersection, he saw a fairly large crowd milling about. “Fuck, I hope they stay there.” Whitley said.

  “Pray.” Peter said with a shrug. “Maybe it’ll get heard.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Crawford moved the CRX over to the left as far as she could as the meridian separating exit ramp from street ended. Peter swung over with her, then followed as she began a wide U-turn to the right. She clipped three zombies during the turn, knocking two of them aside while the third seemed to get hung up somehow on her hood. Peter frowned, but concentrated on staying with her and not hitting the Honda. He risked a single glance at his mirrors, and saw the other vehicles still with them.

  Crawford finished her turn and began rolling down the exit ramp. A few seconds later, she swerved over to the right, putting the CRX almost in the grass between the asphalt and the beginning of the retaining wall at the Courtland/Ralph McGill intersection. Peter had an idea what she was doing and didn’t follow her over; instead he slowed some.

  Sure enough, a moment later she jerked the Honda very sharply back to the left. The zombie on her hood tumbled off into the grass. Peter watched as she got the CRX under control and stabilized right on the dotted line dividing the ramp into its pair of lanes. He closed back up on her bumper.

  About fifty or sixty yards ahead was the bus, just in front of the overpass that allowed Ralph McGill to cross over the Connector and exit ramp. Peter eyed the big vehicle critically, beginning his evaluation. It was sitting at an angle across both lanes, front end against the retaining wall on the left. Long black lines of skid marks on the asphalt showed that it not been left that way in a calm and routine fashion.

  There was just enough room at its rear end for a vehicle to fit around by going onto the grass. Peter hoped Crawford wasn’t going to try to put the street racer she was driving over the uneven surface without good reason. The Honda was so low Peter had no idea how the former owner had dealt with things like speed bumps. Fortunately Crawford did stop near the back of the bus, but shy of the grass. Peter pulled out around her and slowed to crawl, more out of a concern for what might be on the other side of the bus than for the Bronco’s suspension.

  As he eased past the bus he put the high beams back on. The underside of the overpass was already fully dark where the SUV’s headlights didn’t hit. He saw immediately why the bus had stopped where it had; there were two cars and a small pickup blocking the lanes. Peter paused so the headlights stayed on the scene and studied it carefully.

  “See anything moving?” Peter finally asked.

  “Nope, looks okay for the moment.” Whitley replied.

>   “Okay.” He cranked the wheel over and turned sharply to the left, then backed up to the right some so the Bronco’s headlights covered the front of the bus. “Let’s get to it.” he said, setting the brake and opening his door.

  Peter stepped out and slung his AR behind his shoulder, then folded the Bronco’s seat forward so he could reach his ILBE. Carrying it in his left hand by the top handle, he headed for the bus.

  “Ramp is blocked behind us.” Smith said, coming around the back of the bus. “Took all three cars and the Jeep, but the only way anything’s getting past without moving them is crawling or climbing.”

  “Good. Guards posted?”

  “Hernandez and Mendez are setting their people now. And mine are right behind me.” Smith said, turning as other Guardsmen started coming into view, Candles leading them.

  “So far, so good.” Peter muttered. Then, louder. “Set up and watch the Connector. Roper, Oliver, you two hold position there.” He pointed at the back of the bus. “Keep an eye open in both directions and sing out if there’s a problem.”

  “Got it.”

  Peter turned back to the bus. Dropping his pack near the door, he dug his hands through the rubber fittings that covered the cracks between them and pulled. Slowly, moving but reluctantly, the doors parted. Peter had just gotten them fully open when two things happened almost simultaneously; a cold and squishy hand grabbed his wrist, and a gun went off, twice, right next to his head.

  “Jesus!” Peter blurted, instinctively pulling back even as he clawed for his pistol. The expected resistance was already gone, and he stumbled and fell on his ass in the road. But his M45 was out and pointing vaguely in the direction of the bus as he tried to focus his thoughts past the ringing. His left ear felt like it was completely submerged in water.

  Whitley was standing to his left, her M-16 up and against her shoulder. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Peter blinked and saw a zombie corpse sprawled on the steps of the bus, right next to the driver’s seat. There were pieces of . . . head and brains he guessed . . . splattered across the left side of the windshield and the left window and the driver’s seat.

  Whitley moved back, her rifle still trained on the bus steps. Peter shook his head, trying to drive the unpleasant sensations that were interfering with his hearing away. Scooting back a few feet, he rose to a crouch, paused for a moment, then pushed fully upright.

  “I said, are you okay?” he made out Whitley’s voice finally. “Sarge?”

  “Fine.” Peter said, putting hand to his left ear experimentally. Brushing his fingers across his ear, he looked at them reluctantly. He’d half expected to see blood or something on them, but apparently he wasn’t bleeding from the ear. It just felt like he maybe was.

  “Not so loud, I’m right here.” Whitley said.

  “I can’t fucking hear anything out of my left ear.” Peter said, purposefully pitching his voice lower than hers sounded to him.

  “Yeah, well, sorry. I figured you didn’t want to get eaten.”

  “No.” Peter said, holstering the pistol. “Cover me.”

  “Just stay low.” Whitley advised as Peter went forward and grabbed the zombie’s body by the ankles. The man, now dead for good, took effort for Peter to move. The zombie was a little thick around the middle, but Peter set himself and gave a stronger tug. The body moved, and Peter stepped back half a step before tugging again. Now it was sliding easier, and he slowly walked backwards pulling. The zombie’s head bumped sickeningly as it came down the steps, and Peter averted his gaze hastily. He didn’t need to see that.

  He felt a final thump as the body came completely out of the bus, and Peter pulled it about five yards away before releasing it. When he looked back at the bus, he saw there were more bits of brain and bone on the steps. Peter pulled his AR around on its sling and got it into his hands, flicking on the tactical light as he raised it up.

  The bits of zombie weren’t wet, not like he supposed they should have been. If you shot a person in the head, there’d be blood and stuff. It would be wet, and wet things tended to glisten and shine like dry things didn’t. But the bits on the steps were dull and sort of crumbly. He wasn’t sure if that was more, or less, disturbing, but it was definitely not good.

  Peter eased forward a few steps, then slowly tracked his AR along the line of windows. He didn’t see anything else inside except seat backs, but he took his time, carefully watching. When he’d swept the light back to the front, he moved forward cautiously and went up the steps very slowly.

  From the inside, the bus was very dark. The windows had tint on them, filtering what light did reach under the overpass out. Between the tint and the overpass above, it was damned dark inside. Peter uttered a silent curse. He spoke without turning his head from the bus’ interior. “Whitley, get up here and cover my ass.”

  Peter edged forward as she mounted the steps. Carefully he shined the light to either side of the aisle at the first pair of seats. After a moment he stepped back and drew the M45 again. The tactical light came off the AR’s mounting rail, and he let the rifle dangle behind him from the sling as he crossed his wrists to hold the light in parallel with his pistol.

  His spine tingled as he moved forward again. He hadn’t been afraid of much since he was a kid, but now he felt like he was eight years old and needed to go out into the back yard after dark to fetch a forgotten toy. That had happened to him once, and he’d been more and more terrified as he’d crossed the yard to retrieve his football. When he’d gotten the ball into his hands, his nerve had suddenly broken and he’d ended up pelting back to the house at top speed, his breath coming in great gasps as his heart hammered.

  Now he kept his breathing even, but his pulse was quickened. Even though he was a fully grown man, armed and with Whitley’s reassuring presence, and rifle, at his back, the bus’ dark interior lit all those old feelings. But it had to be cleared. He didn’t want to risk altering the balance of what discipline was left by retreating and having someone else do the dirty deed. So he kept moving forward, swinging light and gun from one side to the other, checking between and under the seats.

  Halfway back he found a body. His boot came down on a floor that was tacky, sticky, at the same time his light fell across an outstretched hand. Peter stopped and willed himself to take a deep breath. The hand wasn’t moving. It was fine. No movement was fine. He leaned forward a little more and angled the light for a better view.

  It was a woman, lying face down in a pool of what was obviously dried blood. The back of her shirt had been torn and ripped away, and her flesh savaged with teeth and nails. He could see her ribs, stark and white where they weren’t stained red or pink or maroon by blood. Peter wasn’t an expert on anatomy, but he was pretty sure there weren’t supposed to be so many, if any, empty spaces inside a human body.

  Peter was taking another deep breath. In a sick and disturbing way, the half eaten body was almost reassuring. Blood and gore, that he could handle. Zombies even, no problem. Having them lunge at him from the inky blackness was the problem. His breath caught though, when he spotted another hand. A small hand, barely half the size of the woman’s.

  It was sticking out from beneath the corpse’s torso. Peter frowned, his fear moving back to the fore. “Oh man.” he muttered. The fingers on that small hand were wiggling, slowly opening and closing like they were trying to grasp at something that wasn’t there.

  “What?” Whitley asked.

  Peter started a little. His hearing, at least in the right ear, was coming back. Her voice sounded like it was filtering through cotton or wads of newspaper, but he could hear her. “Body.”

  “Dead?”

  “Dunno.” Peter said. “There’s two.”

  “Well?” Whitley asked.

  Peter scowled, irritated. Then his annoyance increased, because he realized he was not irked at her but rather himself. What did he expect? This kind of thing was going to happen. If he were backing her up, what would
he have her do? Peter edged forward just enough to get a clear line of sight at the back of the woman’s head and put the M45’s sights on the back of her head.

  “Firing.” he said, in case Whitley wanted to do something to protect her ears. Peter waited two more seconds, then squeezed the trigger back. The .45 bucked in his hand, but the normally deafening report was as muddled and faded as Whitley’s voice had been. The woman’s head twitched, but there was none of the explosion of bloody gore that always happened in the movies.

  “Oh shit.” Peter said.

  “What now?”

  Peter ignored the question. He could only think of two reasons why the shot didn’t produce the expected mess. One was that she’d already bled out fully and had been dead long enough for her body to settle somewhat. The other was that she’d been a zombie, which definitely would explain the lack of wet stuff coming from her shattered skull. And if the second case were true, then whatever was beneath her might be–

  Abruptly, Peter shook his head once like he was trying to discourage a fly. Focus. Stay on task. He didn’t trust his hearing right now, but if there were other voices, or crying or something, in here Whitely would have said something. There could only be one explanation for what was under the woman.

  He slid forward a bit more, then reached out with his right boot to nudge at the body. Nothing much happened, so he got the toe of his boot stuck in beneath the remnants of the torso and lifted with a sort of kicking motion. The body rolled over and off to reveal a smaller body. Peter didn’t allow himself to think about it. It was just a target. That’s all, just a target.

  His pistol lined up almost of its own accord, and he fired again before the second zombie could take advantage of the removal of the weight that had trapped it. Peter watched with defocused eyes, waiting for any movement. After ten seconds he looked away, satisfied but sickened.

  “Okay, continuing.” he said over his shoulder. As he edged forward again, resuming his sweep of the seats, he heard Whitley gasp as she was able to see what he had shot. Peter ignored the reaction, forcing himself to pay attention to all the places other zombies might be concealed around the seats. He reached the end of the bus without finding any more, and sighed softly in relief.