Apocalypse Atlanta

by Rogers, David

  He couldn’t see the shot as it fired, especially not in the moonlight, but he saw the lead figure stagger heavily under the impact of the pellets. Darryl worked the slide without lowering the gun and fired a second time. Again the figure, the zombie – it had to be, to be ignoring without apparent effects of getting shot – staggered, but stayed on its feet.

  “Motherfucker.” Darryl muttered as he stepped back away from the fence. He was slowing it down, and could probably use the gun to knock the zombie off its feet, but either his aim was worse than he thought it was or the pellets weren’t penetrating enough to be dangerous.

  Against a human it wouldn’t matter so much. People didn’t ignore a dozen or so pellets ripping into them, even if each one individually probably wasn’t going to do enough damage to kill them. The pain alone would be enough to drop them. The damn zombie didn’t seem to care if it was shot though.

  Darryl safed the shotgun, then turned and threw it behind himself to keep it away from the fence and Ann. He didn’t know if she’d want the gun, or want to use it on him, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Desperate people did desperate things.

  As EZ fired again, Darryl saw the front door of the clubhouse open suddenly, and several people poured out. More than several. Over a dozen, all of them with weapons in their hands.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Stay there by the house.” Darryl yelled back. “It fine.”

  “Help me!” Ann screamed.

  “Fucking – everyone stay back by the damn house!” Darryl shouted as loud as he could. “Don’t need no one to go wandering around out here in the dark and getting shot.”

  He heard someone else, Big Chief maybe, start yelling at people as Darryl turned back to face the fence. Movement on his left drew his eyes automatically as he drew the Glock, but he stopped himself from pointing the pistol when he saw it was the girl. She was scampering away from the approaching zombies, and was audibly crying again. But she wasn’t trying to get over the fence yet.

  Darryl returned his attention to the zombies. They were closer now, but he didn’t even think about retrieving the shotgun to try with it again. He liked his Glock. It was comfortable and familiar, and after Friday night he had no doubt it would be able to kill zombies. He had thrown the shotgun away because it wasn’t working, and because he couldn’t properly shoot the pistol and hold onto the shotgun at the same time.

  Bringing the pistol up in his preferred two handed grip, his feet spreading automatically for a stable stance, Darryl put the glowing dots of the sights into alignment on the nearest zombie. He could make out features now, it was a man, pretty tall, with blood all down his face and front. His expression was blank, but there was something hungry in the eyes.

  Darryl shrugged those observations aside as well, and let his breath out quickly but evenly. When he was as still as he was likely to get he squeezed the trigger back. The Glock bucked in his grip, and the zombie’s head snapped back nearly simultaneously. As the figure fell, Darryl heard EZ fire again, then swear.

  “Damnit DJ, I had him that time.”

  “Too bad.” Darryl muttered, shifting his sights to the second zombie. This one was younger, still a man, but not as old as the first one. He rushed his shot this time, flinching just a bit as he fired. Reproving himself, Darryl reaimed, waited a moment to be sure his arms and grip were steady, then shot a third time. The bullet took the zombie right in the middle of its face, and it toppled over backwards.

  “Second one’s down.” Darryl yelled back to EZ.

  “Yeah, I see that.”

  “Well, there any more?”

  “I’m looking.”

  Darryl lowered his pistol but kept it in his hand. “There you go, ain’t no one chasing you now.”

  “Sure.” Ann said, her tone acid and bitter.

  “Now go on.” Darryl said, gesturing with his left hand in a broad sweep of a shooing motion. “Ain’t no more cause for you to be standing around here.”

  “Please, why won’t you help me?” Ann begged. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “DJ, what’s going on out there?” he heard Low ask from behind him.

  “Don’t nobody shoot, and don’t nobody come out here.” Darryl hollered back. “Look, we already had this conversation, and you know how it is. Now go on.” he said, gesturing again for Ann to leave.

  She hesitated, and Darryl felt something inside himself snap. It wasn’t like he was enjoying this; why did she have to keep dragging it out, making a tough thing that much harder. He pointed the Glock at the ground next to her and fired twice. She screamed and threw her hands up around her head as she flinched violently away from where he was shooting.

  “Leave! Now!” Darryl shouted.

  “God damn you!” Ann screamed, loud enough that her voice was cracking. “I hope you die.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Darryl said, firing again. “Get.”

  Ann turned and ran south, toward where the road curved around the lake. Darryl watched her go, feeling his jaw muscles clenching tightly as he kept his mouth set in a firm line. He thought she might want to walk, to save her energy for in case she had to run from something specific later, but it wasn’t no concern of his. So long as she was leaving.

  He watched her for about a minute, until she was distant enough that he was sure she was going to keep going. Turning, he found the shotgun and holstered his Glock before picking it up. He thought about trying to find the unfired shell he’d left on the grass near the fence, then decided it didn’t matter right now. They had others, and it would be too much trouble to find in the dark. It would be there when the sun came up.

  As he trudged across the grass, he saw there were a few less people on the front porch. One of them was Bobo though, and Darryl thought it might be prudent to fill the top Dog in on what had just happened.

  “You alright DJ?” Joker asked.

  “Yeah, I good.” Darryl said, though he knew his voice sounded flat and dangerous. He didn’t care right now.

  “So?” Bobo asked when Darryl was only a few steps away.

  “Some girl, said she lived across the lake.” Darryl shrugged, double checking that the shotgun was on safe before resting it across his shoulder. There was no one behind him, or there wasn’t supposed to be, so he didn’t mind letting the barrel point back that way. “Said her family turned zombie and got hungry. She was looking for help.”

  “Why ain’t we helping then?” Wild asked, sounding confused.

  “Shut up.” Bobo explained.

  Darryl shrugged. “She had blood on her. And she’d been near three zombies. And she ain’t a Dog.”

  “Good.” Bobo nodded, though the look he gave Darryl was not a happy one. There was approval in his eyes, but his face was sad. “Nothing else?”

  “Naw.” Darryl shook his head. He wanted a cigarette. “I going back up to keep watching some more.”

  “I going back to bed then.” Bobo said, nodding again. “Rest of y’all ought to do the same.”

  Darryl turned his back on the clubhouse’s porch. He didn’t want anyone there to see his fingers shaking as he dug his cigarettes out of his pocket.

  * * * * *

  Peter

  The radio hanging off Peter’s epaulette crackled with Whitley’s voice. “Uh, Gunny.”

  He keyed the microphone. “Go ahead.” The MARTA bus was slowing, and he automatically dropped further back in case it hit something or otherwise started to panic stop.

  “We might want to turn the hell around.”

  Peter blinked, then swerved a little so the humvee swung out from behind the bus so he could see. After a moment of squinting through the darkness he lifted the binoculars to his eyes and took a quick peek, taking his foot completely off the accelerator.

  “Oh fuck me.” he groaned. Dropping the binoculars back around his neck, he hit the radio again. “Okay, slow down and let me get around ahead of you just in case there’s a problem, then start turning around. Head back to tha
t truck stop we saw near 75.”

  “Copy.”

  The bus slowed further as Peter went around it in the left lane. As soon as he was in front of it, he saw Whitley start cranking the big vehicle over. The road was a pretty standard rural ‘highway, two lanes in either direction separated by a dirt and grass meridian that presumably allowed room for future expansion should the need ever arise.

  “Whitley, don’t go through the meridian.” Peter said into the radio as he eyed the dip the ground between the two stretches of asphalt.

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Just checking.”

  It was going to take her a lot of back and fill, but there was just enough room for the bus to reverse its direction. Peter made sure his doors were locked and the windows were still rolled up, then lifted the binoculars for another look at the road ahead.

  The unit was just east of Cartersville, probably already technically in it. He studied the mess up ahead, then hit the interior light and lifted the paper map he’d picked up at the gas station they’d stopped at back around Kennesaw. Peter frowned when he saw they were in the right place, or at least the one Mendez had copied down from the internet listing.

  Whitley eventually got the bus turned around, and Peter hauled the humvee through a tight u-turn to follow. Mendez did the same, and they rolled back over to the oversized truck stop. They’d learned the power was still hit or miss after they’d left Atlanta, but so far it was more hit than miss.

  Cartersville still had it, and Peter watched as Whitley drove into the middle of the biggest empty spot in the large expanse of the truck stop’s parking lot. That gave a minimum of fifty feet of open area around the bus, which allowed them a chance to keep an eye on what was happening around them. There were only a couple of street lights in the expanse, but those plus the moonlight were more than enough to see by.

  Peter parked the humvee close to the bus doors, grabbed his AR-15 and got out, slinging the rifle behind his shoulder. Whitley opened the doors as Mendez parked, and Peter glanced around before going up the steps.

  “What now?” Crawford asked.

  “Is anyone’s phone working?” Peter asked. He took Amy’s phone out to make his point, holding down the button that powered it up and waiting while the screen cycled and moved towards its ready state. When it finally finished, he frowned as he saw the little graphic for the connection showed no bars. Experimentally he tried nine-one-one, but the screen just flashed a ‘no signal’ message to further make its point.

  As the negative reports came back, Mendez came aboard the bus, and Whitley closed the doors behind him. Peter turned the phone off again and returned it to his pocket. “Mendez, you got anything on any of the frequencies?”

  The soldier shrugged. “I was sort of busy driving, you know?”

  “Well check.” Peter said mildly.

  “Okay.” Mendez pulled an oversized radio handset out and started fiddling with knobs. Peter heard some static, but Mendez had the volume turned down low enough to not override anyone else’s conversations.

  “What are we doing here?” Nailor asked without turning from the window he was keeping watch at.

  “Trying to figure out a way to see if there’s anyone still alive up there.”

  Smith laughed. “You’re kidding, right? That had to be at least a couple hundred zombies on the road up there. Probably more, I was too busy to really count. What are we even standing around here talking about?”

  “We came up here to see about helping the FEMA camp.” Roper pointed out.

  “Yeah, but we’re less than a mile from where the camp’s supposed to be. That many zombies on the ground has to mean the camp’s either gone or soon will be.”

  “For that matter, where’d that many come from if not the camp?” Barker said calmly.

  “We don’t know that for sure.” Roper said.

  “Well, it’s a logical assumption isn’t it?”

  “We’ve run from a lot fewer zombies than that in the last twenty-four hours.” Smith said.

  “We didn’t have ammo then.” Whitley said from the driver’s seat. She was sitting sideways in the seat with her legs out in the aisle, though after she finished speaking she turned back to look out the windshield. Peter looked for a moment too, but saw only three parked semi-trucks and cracked pavement that needed to be resurfaced.

  “And how long are we going to have ammo if we go around firing up every pack of zombies we see?”

  “Fuck me dude, we’ve got enough rounds in here to shoot for days.” Roper scowled.

  Smith shook his head. “Not the way you shoot.”

  “Just because you shot expert–”

  “Hey, shut it!” Mendez said suddenly. Peter turned to him, and Mendez lifted the radio as he adjusted the volume. Peter didn’t hear static, he heard someone talking, but whatever it was, they finished before Mendez got the volume turned up. “Last broadcast, this is Bravo Mary One-Three, please repeat. Over.”

  “Who is this?” a male voice demanded.

  Mendez looked up at Peter, who shrugged and made a spinning motion with his index finger. Mendez shrugged and hit the transmit button. “This is a squad of National Guard near I-75 exit two-eight-five. What’s your location? Over.”

  When he let up on the button, whoever had the other radio was already speaking. “-meone know if that’s near here? Yes? Thank God . . . uh, hello. Bravo three?”

  “Bravo One-Three, or just Bravo.” Mendez said when the other guy trailed off. “Say over when you’re done talking, and wait until I do before you start again, to avoid us stepping over each other. Over.”

  “Help us. We need help. We’re trapped.” There was a long pause, then he added, “Over.”

  Mendez grimaced. “Where are you? How many are with you? What’s your situation? Over.”

  “-ve me that.” Peter heard a different voice say as the sounds of scratching and bumping came through the radio’s speaker. He traded looks with Mendez, then the new voice was talking to them. “Bravo, as far as we know, we’re about the only survivors of the refugee camp here. Over.”

  “Which camp? The Cartersville FEMA camp? Over.”

  “That’s a roger, the one east of the city on US Highway 41. You can’t miss it anymore, there’s a whole shit-pot of zombies wandering around here now. Over.”

  Peter grimaced. Mendez just hit the button. “How many are with you? Can you give your exact location? Over.”

  “Have you got a map? Over.”

  Peter turned to Whitley, but she was already reaching over to the side console next to her seat. She handed him a brand new map of the Southeastern United States, still in the shrink wrap.

  “Just a standard road map. Over.”

  “That’ll work. Over.”

  “Wait one.” Mendez said as Peter snapped out his pocket knife and slit through the plastic enclosure. He got the knife put up and the plastic stripped off quickly, but it took him longer to unfold and refold the map over to north Georgia.

  “Got it.” he finally said, locating Cartersville and finding where they’d left I-75.

  “Go ahead, over.” Mendez said.

  “Okay, if you can find where Riverpoint Road crosses 41, we’re about two hundred yards southeast of that. There’s at least thirty of us here, though we’re a little spread out. I can get an exact count if you need it, but at the most there’s not more than forty souls here. Over.”

  “What in the hell?” Peter muttered as his finger followed 41 as it left Cartersville.

  “Can’t find it?”

  “Not sure yet. But what does he mean they’re spread out?”

  As Peter continued examining the map, Mendez hit the button again. “How exactly are you able to keep the zombies away from your location, over.”

  “’Cause we’re up on the tops of three trailers. And for all I know there might be some more people around here somewhere, but we can’t tell from here. Over.”

  “Found it.” Peter said.
Riverpoint was a little road only a couple of blocks long, so small Peter was surprised it even had a name. “Hmm, I guess all this here must be open ground. The map doesn’t say, but it makes sense I suppose.” He was studying the area around the intersection of Riverpoint and 41.

  “How secure are you? Over.” Mendez asked.

  “Well unless they learn how to jump or climb, and so far they can’t do either worth a damn, we’re fine until we run out of food and water, which will probably be sometime later today. Over.”

  “Okay, tell him to stand by.” Peter said, frowning down at the map. About four or five hundred yards east of Riverpoint a proper road crossed over Highway 41. One that Riverpoint looped around from 41 and terminated against a little south of the main road. Peter looked at the little loop, 41 to Riverpoint to Allatoona Dam Road, and an idea began to form. He looked up through the windshield at one of the tractor-trailer trucks that was in the parking lot with them.

  “What’s your name? Over.”

  “Bennett Burns, call me BB. I’m the city manager. Over.”

  “Great, a fucking politician.” Crawford muttered, very loudly.

  “Okay BB, if you’re stable there, hold tight. We’re seeing what we can maybe do to help. Bravo One-Three out.”

  “We ain’t going anywhere Bravo. BB standing by.”

  Mendez lowered the radio. Whitley spoke from her position at the front of the bus. “I know that look Gunny. You’ve got an idea.”

  “Maybe.” Peter said, pointing out the windshield at the trucks there. “I was thinking we might could use those somehow.”

  “How are they better than the bus?” Swanson asked.

  “They’re not carrying us or all our gear.” Whitley said.

  “Exactly.” Peter nodded.

  “So what, we’re going to run over all the zombies in the camp?” Smith asked skeptically.

  “No, though I won’t complain too much if that’s what happens.” Peter grinned. “But what I was thinking was maybe we could use them to do sort of a pied piper thing.”