“We’re lucky.” she shrugged. “So far, anyway. Also, I’m told this is a good time to start hunting.”
“For?” Peter asked leadingly, ignoring the way she’s shifted subjects so quickly. That was one of her habits, and he’d grown used to keeping up with her mental switchovers.
“Deer, boar, whatever.” she shrugged, flipping a hand casually toward the wall. “I’ve got nearly twenty guys on the census who say they’re experienced hunters, and a couple of them were in here earlier explaining how they were pretty sure they’d be able to start bringing in some fresh meat.”
Peter considered that for a few seconds. He wasn’t a hunter himself, but he figured fall was when it was usually done; something about how the animals were fattened up in preparation for the coming winter. But most of the animals would be out in the woods and really rural areas. For all Cumming looked like hickville to city acclimated folks, it was still a town; rural or not. The hunting would have to take place out in the sticks; the real sticks. Anyone who went out after fresh meat would be on their own.
Still, food was food. And it sounded like they were mostly volunteering.
“They know how to, I don’t know, butcher what they bring down? Assuming they bag anything?”
“Some of them. And even if they don’t, I’ve got three proper butchers on my list too. And with the generators, I don’t see a problem storing whatever they get. We’ve got locks on the tanks at five nearby gas stations, and they’ve all been treated. The fuel should hold out at least until spring. Probably more once it gets cold and the weather starts working with us for food storage, rather than complicating everything with heat.”
“Sounds like a plan then.” Peter nodded.
“You don’t see any problem with it?”
“They’re taking a risk — anyone who leaves the camp is — but as long as they stay in groups and are careful it should be a manageable one.”
“They wanted to start tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Let me have their names. I’ll talk to Whitley, and we’ll make sure they know how to look after themselves while they’re out.”
Sawyer leaned back in her chair and stretched lethargically. “No one ever told me running an operation with this many people in it could be so tiring. All I do is sit in this chair most of the day, but by the time it gets dark I’m exhausted.”
“Being responsible for a whole mess of refugees isn’t a walk in the park.” Peter nodded. “I’ve never had these kinds of numbers reporting to me, but I know how tough it is tending to a few hundred, even when I had support services to call on.”
“Tell me about it. Which reminds me, Lorren was in here last night outlining a plan to park fuel trucks on-site.”
“What, tank trailers?”
“Yeah.”
Peter frowned. “Filling one of those would take, I don’t know, hours.”
Sawyer gestured at one of the papers on her desk. “He ran some numbers; wants to yank some of those well pumps we spotted outside of town. Says if we do that, we could pump one full in less than a day.”
“Jesus, that’s a lot of hand pumping. Gonna have to switch people out on them every ten or fifteen minutes I bet; that means a big team.”
“Actually, I think we’ve got the manpower to throw at something like that. What I was really worried about was the risk of having a couple of trailers parked anywhere onsite full of combustibles.”
“That’s not really a risk.”
“But—” she started, but Peter broke in.
“I know, I know; gas explodes, right? Not really. Worst case, if someone doesn’t respect a safe zone with fire or sparks or something, the truck burns. But if you’re thinking it’d be like parking a bomb next to the buildings, no. That’s Hollywood, not life.”
She nodded slowly. “So do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Every little bit helps. Hauling fuel back is heavy work. If he can get the pumps worked out, I guess a couple of days would see what the camp needs closer at hand. That would probably save some headaches when we get into winter.”
“I’ll have another meeting with him then, see if the finer points can get worked out.” She slumped in her chair and stretched her arms out across the desk, rolling her shoulders to work out stiffness, then gave him an impish smile. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off?”
Peter blinked at her. “What?”
“You’ve been out every day for the last three weeks, plus planning meetings, and your rounds inside the camp. Take tomorrow and just chill.”
“There’s always—” he began, but she sat up suddenly and shook her head at him.
“No, I think I’m going to throw around a little of that weight you keep insisting I have. Until the day after tomorrow, you’re off duty. That’s an order.”
“Okay, but if I’m off, then so are you.” he told her with a smile.
“That what you told your officers when they gave you an order?” Sawyer chuckled.
“My officers usually didn’t care if I overworked myself.” Peter told her, then let his expression sober a bit. “If I can use some downtime, so can you.”
Sawyer gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. “If six weeks of plans and preparation doesn’t buy me a day off, then I don’t know what will. You’re on.”
“Alright.” Peter stood and adjusted his slung AR. “You any good at poker?”
Chapter Two - Is there anybody listening?
“Your shoulder hurts because you don’t listen.” Crawford said in a voice of dangerous patience. “Stock pulled in tight, so it doesn’t kick back into you when you fire. You were fucking around, and now you’ve got a bruise.”
Peter carefully kept his face blank as he listened to the ‘explanation’. It wasn’t quite fair to call it a ‘dressing down’, but Crawford’s tone was close to that description. One of the scavenging teams had just gotten in with a load of supplies from a Wal-Mart on the northern edge of Alpharetta. They’d come back with a tractor trailer full of food, and no one seemed panicked or upset except for the one civilian who was complaining about the shooting injury, so things must have gone okay.
Today’s targeted Wal-Mart was part of the Atlanta outskirts, in a former suburb of the former state capital. That had concerned Peter a little, but two hundred people had been assigned to the retrieval. All had been armed, over half with M-16s and other rifles out of the camp’s armory. And Mendez and two of his fellow Guardsmen had ridden along as well, to stiffen the civilians as well as provide a more trained source of leadership. Plus the camp’s ongoing scavenging activities had more or less cleaned out all the really lucrative supply sources closer in.
“Gunny, enjoying the day?” Whitley asked.
Peter turned and glanced at the Guardswoman, then at the pair of sodas in her hands. Beads of condensation were rolling down the cans. “If one of those is mine, then yes.” Drinks were not really rationed out very much in the camp, but cold ones were; space in the refrigerators was carefully monitored. She must have pulled strings with someone to lay hands on cold sodas.
“Well, far be it from me to stomp on your moment.” she laughed as she sat down at the picnic table and set one of the cans next to him.
Rotating on the bench, Peter lifted one of his legs over so he was straddling it and grabbed the can. The hiss-fizz provided a welcome counterpoint to the sharp metallic crack as he popped the top. He took a long drink, enjoying the sharp sweetness almost as much as he did the ice cold temperature. “Ahhh, now that’s something I never get tired of.”
“Sugar?”
“Cold soda.” Peter answered. “But sugar’s good too.”
“Why is Crawford trying to make that guy cry?” Whitley asked, looking past him.
Peter didn’t bother to turn. “He was already broken up before she got hold of him. He forgot that weapons have recoil, but he’s fine.”
“He’s holding his shoulder.”
“If his shoulder was really broken he’d be a lot more ups
et. She’s just explaining physics to him.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I guess.”
“Does Crawford even get physics?”
“You want to take over?” Peter arched an eyebrow at her.
“No, I guess she’s got it.” Whitley allowed with a shrug.
“I’ll make a decent sergeant out of you yet.”
“Hey, you promoted me.”
“Yup.” Peter nodded.
“You said I was ready.”
“I also said I didn’t have that many other options to pick from.”
“Ouch. Is this what you do on your days off?”
“Drink soda and make fun of my subordinates? Pretty much, though I used to substitute beer for the soda.”
“We don’t have any beer. Sawyer doesn’t want to set a precedent of spending time on stuff that doesn’t keep people alive.”
“Mores the pity. Calories are calories, I say. My wi—” Peter started, before abruptly cutting himself off. His wife had used to cook a really great chili that used four cans of beer to make up most of the liquid. But Amy was dead — undead, actually — and there would be no more of her chili.
“Anyway, you brought me a soda and are a subordinate. Two-for-one in my book.” he said after a moment, trying to cover the pause.
Whitley shook her head wryly at him, while simultaneously ignoring the verbal stumble. “Doesn’t that earn me any brownie points?”
Peter chuckled, reaching gratefully for the humor as a way to help put the dark thought out of his mind. “Maybe.”
“Hey Crawford.” Whitley called, raising her voice.
Now Peter did turn. The other Guardswoman was looking at them, along with the red faced civilian she’d been berating.
“Leave him alone; get over here. Sir, go to the infirmary; get some ice to put on it for a while. Maybe a little Tylenol.”
Crawford scowled as the civilian stepped back hastily before fleeing at a fast walk in the direction of the sprawling school building. The unloading of the supplies for sorting and storage continued without him, which was no real loss. Not only was he hurt, but there were also a lot more people willing to do things inside the secured perimeter of the camp than there were those who’d venture out to bring stuff back.
A path had been worn into the grass around the sides and up to the back of the school building, marking where repeated trips kept the grass beat down. Elsewhere, the vegetation was nearly waist high. Trails led up to the doors of the building, linking them together around it from front to back, and then from the building itself out to the other various areas such as the fenced athletic fields and the ‘commons’ area between them. That commons, a convenient middle ground centered amongst the ball fields, had become the de facto unloading zone for supply runs.
Crawford fixed Peter with an exasperated look, then came over to the picnic table. “I was enjoying myself.” she complained.
“So is Gunny.” Whitley said. “Grab a seat or you’ll spoil his mood.”
Crawford glanced at them suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
“Close your mouth or someone’ll toss a hook in it.” Peter said.
“I’d like to see ‘someone’ live through that.” she snorted as she dropped onto the far end of the bench from Peter, using her fingers to make little quote marks in the air to punctuate her statement appropriately.
He shrugged. “Some of the hunting and fishing crowd are starting to settle down and get serious about using their hobbies to supply us. They might use you as practice, but maybe they’ll want a smaller target.”
She brushed his feeble insult aside. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, seriously. You know food can come from hunting and fishing, right?”
“Hah fucking hah.”
“Seriously.” Peter said sagely.
“So the world’s ended and rednecks are going to save us?”
“I think save is probably a strong word.”
“Help us?”
“More like it.” Peter nodded, lifting his soda for another sip.
“Motherfuckers.” she sighed. “I miss the city.”
“The city’s overrun with hungry monsters.” Whitley pointed out.
“Some days, I’m not so sure it wouldn’t be better than this.” Crawford retorted, gesturing vaguely around at the tent city, parked truck trailers, hastily assembled pavilion roofs shielding piles of supplies, and the people milling about near all of it.
Peter started to lift his soda for another sip, but before he could get the can to his mouth he heard someone calling him. “This is supposed to be my day off.” he muttered as he looked over his shoulder.
Nailor was running toward the commons. Peter’s first thought was whether he should consider being alarmed, but he checked it for a few seconds while he made a fast evaluation. There wasn’t anything chasing the Guardsman, he hadn’t heard any shooting or sounds of destruction, and the man wasn’t even carrying his weapon. The Marine decided to extend his hold on getting anxious long enough to hear whatever the soldier was coming to say.
“Gunny.”
“Private.” Peter replied. “Problem?”
“The radio.” Nailor said, a little breathless from the run.
“It’s a box with knobs and dials.” Crawford observed.
“Brilliant.” Whitley sighed.
“Yup.” Crawford laughed.
“What about the radio.” Peter asked, ignoring the two female soldiers to focus on the newly arrived Nailor.
“Message. You need to hear it.” the out of breath man responded.
“What kind of message?”
“They say they’re the federal government, broadcasting from a safe zone.”
“What?” Whitley demanded.
“For real.” Nailor confirmed.
Peter stood up. “Are they holding for someone to talk to them? Where’s Ms. Sawyer?”
“No, they’re out of range.”
Crawford frowned at Nailor, who was recovering his wind by now. “How can we hear them if they’re out of range?”
“I don’t know, but they’re not responding to any of our replies.”
“Guess my break’s over.” Peter said, rising with the soda still in hand; he could take it with him. “Nailor, find Mendez and tell him I’ll want to see him in the comms room as soon as he can get there. Crawford, look around for Ms. Sawyer and tell her the same thing, but be polite about it.”
“Me?”
“You.” Peter confirmed, giving her a heavy eye. “She’s in charge, remember. Be nice.”
“No one trusts me.”
“Whitley, you’re with me.” Peter said as the sergeant opened her mouth with a grin. “Bust Crawford’s chops later.”
“Fine.” she said, rising and falling into step with him as he headed for the school building. “Think it’s for real?”
“Don’t know what to think just yet.” Peter said as they walked. He was moving briskly, but without the urgency of panic. He was too old to run just because; that’s something else subordinates were good for.
Also, it didn’t sound like his running over and through the school would help very much. And everyone knew he was in charge of security and most things dangerous. When he ran, people got worried.
“What if it is?”
“Should be interesting.”
“Sure you haven’t been drinking?”
“I’m stone sober.”
Whitley shook her head. “You’re incredibly mellow today. I guess time off agrees with you.”
“I’m entitled.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Peter frowned slightly. “I told her I was fine, but Sawyer was right; two months of go-go-go takes a toll on anyone.”
“Especially aging Master Gunnery Sergeants.”
“Keep talking, I can put you back down to specialist.”
“For that?”
“I’ve busted guys for less.”
Peter shrugged as she quickened her step to beat him to the pair of doors on the back of the building that were the rear access. “If this is what I’m going to have to put up with on my days off, I’ll have to make sure I come up with some really hellish work details before I take another. Wear some of you jokers out so I can relax.”
“Punishment?” she asked as she held one of the doors open for him.
“Distraction.” he grinned as he went inside.
The school’s layout was fairly straight forward; a huge central area that served as the lunchroom, with corridors radiating out from it. The bulk of the school’s rooms — both classrooms as well as the office and administrative areas — were found along the corridors. Peter went along the hallway to the lunchroom and transferred over to one of the other halls and went halfway down.
There he found the classroom that had been converted into the communications center was considerably more crowded than it normally was. The minimum staffing was one person to listen to the radios that had been set up. During the day there might be a couple of extra bodies there, but nothing more.
Now though, there were nearly two dozen people present. Most of them were members of Sawyer’s administrative staff. Sawyer herself was standing right behind the center most chair at the line of tables where the radios had been lined up, studying something on one of the screens. She looked up when Peter entered.
“Gunny.”
“I’m told something interesting is coming in.” he said, keeping his tone calm and level.
“Play it from the start.” Sawyer ordered. “That’s easier than explaining.”
All three chairs at the tables were occupied, and one of the men manipulated a mouse on one of the computers briefly. Peter folded his arms as a static laden voice began emanating from the speakers.
“This is a message to all North American survivors, especially those in the United States. The American Government has not fallen. We’ve just been forced to relocate and reconstitute in the midst of this extraordinary crisis. Resources and personnel are being marshaled on a daily basis, as we organize a comprehensive response.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 2
