“Yeah, well, the insurance can bill me.” Peter said, pointing at the floor in front of the fare machine. Whitley dropped his pack next to the column bolted to the floor where passengers put in their tokens or fed their dollar bills to pay for the ride. “Team leads, how we doing?”
“Team Two good.” Hernandez said.
“Three here.” Smith added.
“Team four ready.” Mendez finished out the count.
“Cripple, accounted for.” Jenkins said from the from ‘handicap’ seat at the front where Johns had dropped him.
“Okay, we’re rolling.” Peter said, hitting the lever that closed the doors. They hissed closed, and he bumped the brake release with his fist, then shifted and put his foot on the gas pedal. The bus accelerated forward. Peter angled to the right as much as possible, toward the back end of the pickup that was lying on its side.
There was a space between the truck and the retaining wall, about half as wide as was necessary for the bus to fit through. Peter lined up on that gap and kept his foot down. The bus was a big, heavy vehicle. It didn’t have room to get up to any sort of dramatic speed, but its mass was more than sufficient to knock the pickup aside when Peter hit its back end.
A few curses floated up from the Guardsmen behind him, as the bus juddered under the impact, but Peter ignored that. The rest of the ramp looked clear. He glanced down at the dashboard labeling, then toggled the turn signal stick to switch the high beams on. As the bus reached the Connector and he started turning left, which was technically the wrong way to go, Crawford zipped past in the CRX honking her horn.
“Crazy bitch.” Peter muttered.
“Way to go sarge!” Smith shouted happily, and several others cheered along with him. Peter glanced in the passenger mirror briefly. For the first time Peter could remember they looked genuinely relaxed, almost cheerful. He allowed himself a brief smile and concentrated on his driving.
The Interstate was not exactly clear, but neither was it blocked. There were numerous vehicles wrecked or abandoned, but most of them were either off to the side on the shoulder or in the left lane. Or, rather, the right lane since the bus was going north in the southbound lanes. And there weren’t nearly as many zombies as he had grown accustomed to seeing over the last day. Maybe two or three dozen were in view at any given moment, which wasn’t bad at all.
Whitley tapped him on the shoulder. Peter started and glanced sideways at her. She pointed back into the bus, and Peter looked up in the mirror again. Mendez was looking at him, and this time Peter heard the question.
“So where we headed now?”
“The wrong way.” Candles said, coming forward. He kept a hold on the overhead grab rail as he moved up, even though the bus was only going thirty.
“What’s wrong with going north?” Dorne asked.
“There was an enormous zombie pack on the interstate last night.” Candles said. “Just a few miles north of here. We’re headed right for it.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah, but at least a few might have wandered off the road. And unless something incredibly fucked up happened since then, we know there’s probably a clear shot at least up to the Top End.”
“Why not just go south?” Candles persisted. “It might have fewer zombies, give us a better shot.”
“Yeah, but it might have uncleared road blocks.” Peter said tightly. “We’d have to turn around.”
“So?” Candle asked. “If it’s clear, we go. If it isn’t, we detour. What’s the big deal?”
“There’s only a quarter tank left in this thing.” Peter said, pointing at the dashboard. The gauge was actually below a quarter. He knew buses like this, designed and sold exclusively for city transit agencies, were usually able to fill up once and run their route for a whole day. But he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know the mileage, nor did he know how big the tank was. There could be enough fuel to make it another hundred or more miles, or there could be just a few tens remaining. It made him very nervous.
“Lay off.” Hernandez said suddenly, standing up as Peter saw Candles opening his mouth to say something further. Peter’s eyes flicked to Hernandez, who was frowning at the other Guardsman. “Sarge is doing fine. Leave it.”
“I’m just trying to make sure we get out.” Candles protested, for the first time looking the tiniest bit embarrassed at himself.
“Relax and enjoy the ride.” Hernandez said, not exactly confrontationally, but with a faint edge to his words. “We’re getting out.”
Candles scowled, but he dropped into the sideways facing handicap seats opposite Jenkins and looked forward out the windshield. Peter met Hernandez’s eyes briefly in the mirror and gave him a small nod, which was returned along with a smile before the other man sat back down.
“Here, take these.” Peter told Whitley as they passed North Avenue. She was standing on the steps, ahead of the white line passengers were supposed to stay behind. Peter undraped his binoculars and handed them to her as she looked at him. “Check ahead as far as you can see. 10th Street isn’t far off.”
Whitley dropped the strap of the binoculars over her head and held them to her eyes as she looked forward. After a moment she changed position, leaning back against the divider between the stairs and the seats, using her legs to push her back securely against it. That let her take her other hand off the stair rail so she could focus the binoculars.
“Uh . . . okay there’s a big damn wreck about, I don’t know, a mile or so ahead of us.” she said after a moment, speaking loudly so Peter could hear her clearly. “It looks thin in a couple spots in the middle, there might be a way through but we need to get closer to tell.”
“What about zombies?” Candles asked.
Peter glanced back at him, then shifted his attention back to Whitley. He gave her a look that said ‘well’, and she put the binoculars back to her eyes. “It’s dark. Just moonlight, but . . . yeah I’m pretty sure I see a lot of movement on the other side of the wrecks.”
“Okay.” Peter said, frowning as he eased off the accelerator some to let the bus’ speed fall. “Anyone know if Crawford has a radio?” he asked loudly.
Heads shook as he eyed the soldiers behind him, and Peter suppressed a desire to curse. He let their speed fall all the way to about ten or twelve, it was hard to tell exactly when the bus was going that slow, and leaned forward as they approached the 5th Street overpass. 10th Street was about half a mile north, just beyond the wreck that Captain Philmore’s unit had been tasked with clearing yesterday before the zombie packs had coalesced and prevented the work from happening.
Peter saw the blockage, a now familiar tangle of trucks and cars and tractor-trailers that had spread and twisted themselves across the Interstate lanes. He rolled closer, studying the vehicles as the bus approached, trying to evaluate it. There were a couple of thin spots in the middle, but only in the sense that instead of there being three or four or five vehicles stacked in a row, or the heavy mass of a semi-truck, there was only a single vehicle. But as for a clear lane the bus could fit through, he didn’t see one.
“Damnit.” Peter muttered, taking his foot off the accelerator entirely as he thought. The bus might punch a hole through, but he wanted to save any wear and tear on the front end or the drive train as long as possible. He only saw, maybe, fifteen or twenty zombies close to the blockage. Those could be cleared pretty quickly by a couple of sure shooters, which maybe gave them a chance.
The bigger problem, or the next one perhaps, was beyond the road block of wrecks. There, still milling about, were the hundreds of zombies that had descended upon the Guard units the previous night. Probably still thousands. Interstates were designed for cars, not people, and a lot of humanoid forms could fill in across the asphalt if they stood shoulder to shoulder. Which the zombies basically were doing.
“Okay, here’s my next plan.” Peter said loudly, braking about a hundred yards shy of the blockage. “Team Leads, get up here.” A few moments later Hernandez, Smith and Mendez were clustered
in the aisle next to the driver’s seat. Peter pointed at a SUV in the middle lane. It was on its wheels and sideways across the lane, its front bumper against the back of a trailer that had separated from its tractor, its right rear side pressed up against a pickup.
“That SUV, right there.” Peter said. “See it, the beige one that’s on its wheels.”
“Yeah.” Mendez said slowly. Smith nodded, and Hernandez did a moment later, though a little suspiciously.
“It’s the only thing in the way there.” Peter said. “We move that, and we can roll right through.”
“How the fuck are we going to move it?” Smith asked.
“Push.” Whitley answered, taking the binoculars from around her neck and handing them back to Peter.
“There’s fucking zombies out there.” Mendez protested.
“Yeah, and the longer we stand around bitching about it the more there’ll be.” Hernandez said suddenly. “So let’s just do it and get gone.” Turning, he raised his voice. “On your feet people, we gotta move one damned car out there and we’re good. Let’s go.”
Peter crept the bus forward again, this time stopping about twenty yards short of the line of wrecks. He hit the lever that opened the doors, then set the brakes and twisted around in his seat as the Guardsmen, some grumbling, started filing off. “Jenkins, can you drive this thing?”
“I guess.”
“Good.” Peter said, waiting until the last of the soldiers had cleared out down the steps. Standing up out of the driver’s seat, Peter helped Jenkins stand up and shift in behind the steering wheel. “Okay, see that? That’s the brake release. It’s like the parking brake in a car. Hit that, then put it in ‘D’ and step on the gas. Got it?”
“Yeah. When am I gonna do any of that?”
“Just in case.” Peter said. “That’s the door control. Close it behind me, so nothing sneaks up on you, okay?”
“Sure.”
Peter left Jenkins studying the controls and gauges on the dashboard and console and went down the steps. Shots were sounding ahead as some of the others started targeting the zombies closest to the road block. Peter jogged forward, then brought his AR up and joined his fire with theirs. In seconds the last of the stragglers were down, leaving only the mass of the pack further away.
Peter eyed them briefly, trying to estimate as he thought back to what he’d learned and observed since all this insanity began. If they were lucky it might be forty seconds, maybe as much as a minute, before the next closest zombies could reach them. In ninety seconds, no more than two minutes tops, a good chunk of this edge of the pack could be enveloping the wreckage.
Unhappy at how little time they had, Peter slung his AR and ran to join the others gathering at the SUV. The driver’s door was open, and as he arrived Swanson slid out from behind the wheel. “Brake is off, let’s give it a try.”
Hands grabbed onto the SUV all along the driver’s side, some dropping down on one knee to get a grip on the bottom running board, while others braced themselves to push against the side or against the doors. Peter found a spot near the rear wheel and pulled on the back of the wheel well. The SUV didn’t budge, and he frowned. Pulling again, harder, he felt it move just a tiny amount, rocking a little against its shocks. It felt like the right side was what had moved; this side wasn’t for some reason.
“Fuck this, no way.” Oliver gasped after a moment.
“Yeah, it ain’t happening.” Harper said, stepping back.
Peter dropped flat on his front and fumbled the tactical light out of his pocket. Quickly he shined the light on the back wheels, then scooted forward and looked at the wheel next to him and swore. The brake pad on that wheel was stuck closed, clamped down on the wheel. Peter thought furiously, then had an idea that was either brilliant or really dumb. He didn’t have time to weigh its merits though.
Rolling out from beneath the SUV he looked around. “Swanson!”
“What?”
Peter glared up at him. “Give me that stupid fucking knife you’re carrying.” He held out his hand.
“What? Why?”
“Now Goddamnit!” Peter roared.
Swanson flinched a little, but he fumbled the knife out of the sheath he’d looped onto his belt and settled on his left hip. As Peter took it from him, he raised his voice. “Shoot some more zombies, buy us a little time. Um . . . Hernandez, get under here with me.” Hernandez was the Guardsman who looked the strongest.
Peter scooted back under the SUV and probed with the knife blade. It took him five excruciating seconds but he managed to wiggle the blade in between the brake pads and the wheel. The sharp edge of the blade was as thin as any knife’s was, but the back end, where all the silly decorative jags and such had been cut, was quite thick. It might hold out just long enough for him to pry with it.
“What?” Hernandez asked, sliding in under the SUV from the other side of the wheel. Above them, spreading out around the SUV, the Guardsmen’s weapons were starting to crack rounds off at the encroaching zombie pack.
“Help me pry this fucker back.” Peter said, wrapping both hands around the handle of the knife and tugging. The angle was awkward, he couldn’t really get a good position to either push or pull with full strength. He was reduced to sort of jerking against it and flexing his muscles as he tried to move it.
“I’m out.” someone shouted.
“Me too.”
Hernandez’s hands closed in around his, and Peter felt him pulling cautiously. He also felt the pad give a bit. “Come on, harder.” Peter grunted, jerking on the knife again. Hernandez’s grip tightened, and Peter compressed his lips as the pressure on his hands built painfully. But he felt the pad move again, then a bit more. “Come on.” Peter grated. “Pull! Pull! Pull!” He grunted, trying to coordinate a rhythm for Hernandez to work with.
“Sarge, we’re barely making a dent!” Peter heard Whitley yell loudly. Peter, in the instant of attention he gave over to the thought, figured there were maybe half the rifles still shooting. He closed his eyes and kept throwing his strength against the knife’s hilt, willing the brake to move.
His hands were screaming in agony, but the pad finally wedged out and away from the wheel. “Okay, done.” Peter gasped, and dropped the knife as soon as Hernandez’s hands left his. Peter couldn’t get all of his fingers to work properly, but he didn’t need his fingers right now. He scrabbled back out from under the SUV and staggered to his feet.
“Push the car!” he yelled over the sound of the rifle fire that was targeting incoming zombies.
“Did you fix it?” Candles asked.
“Push damnit.” Peter gasped as loudly as he could, reaching for the wheel well again. He could barely feel it when his hands came into contact with the inner edge of the well again, but when he tugged along with the others he felt the car move.
“Yes! Move motherfucker!” Smith shouted as the SUV rolled back from the overturned semi trailer. After the SUV had moved a few feet a couple of the soldiers were able to move around and push on it properly from the front end. That got it going pretty good after a few seconds, and abruptly the path was clear.
Except for about a thousand zombies. A double handful were only a few staggering steps from being within arm’s reach of the closest soldiers.
“Bus!” Peter gasped, turning. There were spots in his vision, and he suddenly felt a little light headed. He stumbled and almost went down as he tried to break into a jog. As he caught himself just in time, an arm abruptly looped itself around his waist, lifting. Whitley got her shoulder braced up under his as he threw his own arm across her shoulders, and with her help he managed to break into a fairly ugly looking stagger towards the bus.
He heaved himself up the steps and collapsed into the handicap seats right behind the driver. His hands were both bleeding, the left more than the right, from compression cuts and wide abrasions the knife’s hilt had left across his palms. There were also white marks on the insides of his fingers that were throbbing steadi
ly.
“Team leads, sound off!” Whitley shouted. Peter looked up, trying to blink away the blurriness in his vision.
“Two.”
“Three good.”
“Four go go go!” Mendez said.
“Am I driving?” Jenkins asked.
“Yes!” about half the people on the bus shouted back.
“Okay!” Jenkins blurted. There was a hiss and a rattle as the doors closed, then a rumble as the brakes released. They’d barely started rolling forward when the bus suddenly braked hard enough to throw Peter sideways into the back of the divider that separated the driver’s seat from the handicap section.
“She cut me off!” he heard Jenkins mutter. Peter craned his neck and saw the CRX, Crawford presumably back behind the wheel, was in front of the bus and rolling straight for the pack of zombies that was squeezing through the opening in the tangle of wrecked vehicles.
“Close up behind her.” Peter said, shaking his head. The pain was receding, and his head wasn’t feeling quite as thick.
“What’s she doing?” Whitley asked wonderingly.
“Trying to act as a cow catcher.” Peter said, pushing against the seat and standing. He managed to get himself leaning forward against the driver’s divider as Jenkins stepped on the gas again. With his feet and legs pushing on the floor, he was able to wedge himself against the divider somewhat securely. “Follow her.”
“How close?” Jenkins asked. “Hang on!” he added quickly, much louder. There was a crunch of metal as the bus scraped through the blockage. The driver’s side of the bus was dragging along the back of the trailer on the left, but they were still moving. It was just a scrape, not enough to stop them. Peter saw the CRX cutting, pushing, through the zombies, but he figured it couldn’t last.
“She’s probably going to stall out pretty damn quick.” Peter said, blinking a few times. He was so tired. “Probably after the first few ranks of zombies. Just ram into her from the back and keep going.”
Apocalypse Atlanta Page 55
