He dialed back to two times magnification, then straight view, and still they came. He felt the barrel of his weapon beginning to seriously heat up from all the rounds he was pumping down range and still they came. One minute became two, empty magazines piled up around his feet, and still they came.
The four humans were the survivors of over two hundred military personnel who’d been trapped in Atlanta on the first night of the zombie outbreaks, chased by creatures from a nightmare all through the city’s downtown area. Each of them had hardened, had learned, in the two months since. They knew how to fight zombies, knew how and where to shoot, how to maintain fire, how to ensure the bullets weren’t ignored but actually took zombies down for good.
And still the creatures came on. Four people, however good, were still only four. The zombies were well into the hundreds, probably past a thousand.
Peter buffered his building dismay — and, he was afraid to admit, panic — by forcing himself to think hard. His shooting slowed as he diverted his thoughts, but he ignored that; rate of fire wasn’t going to solve the problem. At least, not the rate the foursome was capable of putting out. Instead, he tried to evaluate the situation and find a solution.
Could they hop in the truck and floor it? No, the horde on the Arkansas side of the bridge was still too thick; still had far too many bodies to get through. And it was no better on the Tennessee side. If anything, it looked worse. If it was try or die, maybe; but he wouldn’t hold his breath at the vehicle being able to make it through. There were just way too many bodies between them and safety.
Engines, tires; there was a limit. Most humans weighed between one hundred fifty and two hundred fifty pounds; so hitting even one at high speed would wreck both the body and the vehicle. Even if there was room to get the truck up to speed, hitting dozens and dozens and dozens of zombies at ‘ramming speed’ would just be effectively no different from driving straight into a brick wall.
Holding the speed down and trying to use the bumper had at least a chance; but not much of one. If it were just a couple handfuls, sure; the engine and transmission and tires could force and grip their way through. But it was obvious the horde was packed in heavy and tight; even a semi-truck would find itself swallowed on all sides by the mass of hungry zombies.
He had seen what happened when a zombie horde surrounded a vehicle; the occupants died. It sometimes took a few minutes for the zombies to force their way in; but they were relentless. They’d break through the windows, pound through the bodywork, ignore the pain and fatigue that might slow or dissuade a human crowd, ignore however many of their hungry brethren who were shot or otherwise killed in the process; and get their hands and teeth on the warm, delectable humans within.
Once a vehicle was swarmed, it was all over but the chewing. Just because it was a car, even a truck, didn’t mean it couldn’t get stuck. Enough bodies could stop anything; and zombie hordes usually had more than enough. This one certainly did.
Peter considered the bridge itself; maybe the four of them could climb the sides and somehow stay out of reach. The structure was formed from simple Xs of metal, banded above and below with continuous beams. It might be possible to climb up them, and then get onto the top beams and crawl to safety; but that climb would be tricky.
There were rivets or bolts or something, but not many, and they were just little nubs of metal on an otherwise featureless expanse of more metal; mostly smooth metal. Grip strength would be the only main means of ascending. He wasn’t confident he could make it up; even a younger version of himself. And while the other three with him were younger, they were also less well trained. Desperation might lend everyone enough motivation to try, but Peter would bet on maybe one of the four making it to the top.
Falling during the climb would either drop them back to the bridge, likely into the zombies’ clutches or to the tracks where they’d lay with broken legs just ahead of the grasping hands; or into the . . . river.
“That’s a thought.” he muttered mentally, sidling over sideways so he could take a look past the edge at the Mississippi River below. The bridge was high enough above the water’s surface to make him uncomfortable; but it didn’t look that high. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant drop, but he didn’t think it wasn’t survivable. Losing control during the fall and going in any way but legs first in a vertical position would likely be death, and he’d bet on at least one of the four screwing up a foot or a leg or something from the impact, but if the alternative was jump or get eaten . . .
The real problem, once they were in the water, was the temperature. The air was cold; somewhere in the forties he’d guess. Water was a great heat sink, but even with the current and the sun he knew the water temperature wouldn’t be much better than the air’s. Maybe fifties if they were lucky.
He knew the other three probably didn’t know what that meant, but one thing at a time. Step one was to get the hell out of here.
“New plan.” he shouted, slinging his weapon and opening the truck door.
“You invented invisible jetpacks and have four?” Crawford yelled back.
“Super-secret sergeant’s helicopter’s gonna scoop us out of here?” Smith asked loudly.
“We jump.” he answered, grabbing his pack and opening one of the side pouches. Pulling out a coil of standard line, he used his knife to cut a twenty foot length off and quickly tied one end to the top of the pack’s frame.
“Wait, what?” Whitley asked. “Also, we’re getting tight to the east.”
“We jump.” Peter repeated.
“That’s your plan?” Smith demanded. He turned around and looked in the direction Whitley was covering, scowled, then shook his head as he looked back forward and finished off the rest of his current magazine.
“Got a better one?”
“Can we climb?” the Guardsman asked as he kicked empty grenade shells out from beneath his feet. Producing another magazine, he slapped it into the weapon’s well and thumbed the bolt release to let it slide forward on the fresh ammo.
“Can you climb this shit?” Peter asked, jerking his head at the bridge’s beams as he dropped the line on his pack and began unfurling the rest of the cord that was left.
“Maybe.”
“Right, maybe. And where do we go once we’re up there?”
“We’ll have time to kill the zombies.”
“Can you make that climb while carrying enough ammo to clear the city on both sides of the river?” Peter asked as he started putting knots into the rest of the cord he hadn’t cut off, forcing his fingers through the motions as fast as he could. It occurred to him the line could be used to maybe take some of the drop out of the drop if they climbed down it before jumping.
If there was time.
“No.” Whitley answered.
“Maybe.” Smith said.
“Maybe.” Crawford said along with Smith.
“Exactly.” Peter nodded as Smith and Crawford made sour faces at one another. “Climb if you want to, but my escape is into the river.”
“From this height?”
“Give me another option.” he said, trying to talk and focus on his hands at the same time. They were flying over the rope, pulling knots in so fast he was risking friction burns on his fingers; but there was just no time. The zombies were getting close on both sides.
“Fuck it, let’s jump.” Crawford said abruptly, moving to Peter’s side of the truck and vaulting down from the bed with one hand. “Always wanted to high dive.”
“Not all of us are crazy.” Smith said.
“Not all of us are pussies either.” she shot back.
“This sucks.” Smith said before he started firing to the east.
“Cost of doing business.” Peter said, deciding the rope was either going to work or not. He had maybe forty feet in his hands, and only had knots in about ten feet of one half. He’d tie the other end to the bridge, and the four of them could slide down and grab onto the knots to halt their momentum, then drop for the water
.
The sound of gunfire ceased as the three Guardsmen approached him. Whitley started pulling packs out, but Smith stopped her with a shake of his head. “Bad idea.”
“What?”
“Likely to overbalance you during the drop. And the straps are going to dig in like you won’t believe when you and it hit the water.”
“He’s right.” Peter said as he started lashing the end of the rope to the side of the bridge. “Could break your back, dislocate your shoulders, or worse.”
“You’ve got your pack Gunny.”
“Not wearing it though; that’s what the cord’s for.” Peter said as he secured the line into a figure eight. “It’ll go in first. I’ve been trained in this; but it’s been a long time since I had to actually go into the water with gear.”
“Running out of time.” Crawford said. Her weapon fired several times.
Peter didn’t bother looking as he finished knotting the rope and tugged on it. “For what it’s worth.” he shrugged mentally.
“Okay, go down, catch yourself on the end, hang for a moment, then drop. When you go in, keep your ankles and legs crossed so your legs stay together, point your toes, and fold your arms over your body.” he lectured rapidly. “Whatever you do, make sure you hit vertical or you’re fucked. Go in straight and as tight as you can so you don’t hit hard enough to break yourself.”
Crawford started climbing over the edge of the bridge. “Rally point?” she asked.
“Downriver, west bank.” Peter said, pulling his cap off. He liked it, liked wearing it, and his bald spot made his head cold if it wasn’t covered. The hat got folded and stuffed into a pocket as he talked, both action and speech going fast. “Also, there’s a highway I was planning taking once we got across. Route 63. If we completely lose contact, get to where I-55 and US-63 diverge. It’s north of here.”
“How far?” Smith asked as Crawford started doing down the rope.
Peter shrugged. “Maybe thirty miles. Map’s in the truck. If -55 and -63 are a no go, then go north along -63 somewhere. Leave a note or a sign or something to show you’re alive; and we’ll all look for each other on the other side.”
“Great.” Smith said, turning and bringing his weapon up. He started firing off his magazine at the western horde, which was now getting uncomfortably close. Whitley took the cue and resumed firing to the east.
Peter glanced down over the edge and saw Crawford was just reaching the end of the line. As he looked, she dropped down past the end -- hanging by her hands on the last knot — and studied the water beneath her while she stabilized herself for the fall, then let go. Peter wanted to watch her drop, to see how she did, but there was no time.
“Smith, go.” he shouted, clapping the man on the shoulder. The eastern zombies were only maybe half a dozen staggering steps from the back of the truck.
The soldier slung his weapon and moved to the line. Peter unslung his AR and started firing to the west. He was tapping bullets into zombie skulls, but the kills were incidental to what he actually needed; bodies on the deck to tangle the horde up some more. At this point, every delay helped.
“Jeez, hurry the fuck up Smith.” Whitley snapped loudly behind him as her firing stopped. Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw her in the middle of a reload; then looked at the rope. Smith’s fingers were still visible at the edge of the bridge.
“I don’t deal with heights real well.” the Guardsman’s voice floated up.
“Clear that rope so we can get out of here or I’ll knock you off myself.” Peter yelled.
“Thanks Gunny.”
“Hurry the fuck up.” Whitley repeated, punctuating her words with a loud metallic click-snick as her weapon’s bolt snapped forward on the fresh magazine. She switched over to burst mode and resumed firing.
“Shitttttttt!” Peter heard Smith yell after a few seconds, his voice receding rapidly.
“Go Gunny.” Whitley said.
“No, you.” he said, ignoring the zombies that were seconds from bumping into the hood of the truck. “I’m trained in how to do it.”
“Bullshit.”
“Semper Fi.” he shot back. “Fucking go, we’re running out of room.” He clicked his AR’s selector lever down to one he rarely used; even if he’d personally done the modification that made it possible. It wasn’t a mode M-16s had enjoyed for a very long time; but the AR was the original M-16. Most people assumed it was the other way around — that the civilian version was a copy of the military model — but the AR predated its military designated version.
Automatic fire had sounded like a good idea in the weapon’s design phase, and generally wasn’t a horrible thing when used by a good shooter with a good reason to employ it. But the US military’s various branches that equipped their personnel with the initial full-auto M-16 had discovered those personnel tended to use it.
A lot.
Ammunition had a cost; and not just in dollars and cents. For boots-on-the-ground men and women, it cost time and effort to ship into theater, to get up to the forward bases, to put into the hands and packs of the warriors, and for those armed personnel to carry up to the point of contact as part of their gear.
Marines were trained in marksmanship because the USMC’s expected deployment pattern often involved fragile or non-existent logistical lines. Making every bullet count wasn’t just a point of pride; it could literally be the margin between victory or defeat when a Marine landing force saw its — usually Navy — supply sources driven away or cut off by enemy activity. In fact, that very thing had led to a good portion of the Corp’s bloodshed in some prior wars.
But as the zombies pressed inexorably in along the truck, Peter used the automatic mode now. He pulled the AR in as tight against his shoulder as he could, gripped it firmly with both hands, and held the trigger down as he swept the barrel across the encroaching front. Bullets chattered out of the assault rifle in a seemingly solid line, ripping into the dead so fast it was impossible to truly register where the bits and bone and gore raised by the impacts was actually coming from.
Peter held his fire at about neck level, knowing his line of aim was going to waver up and down some. Up would put it into something’s head; down would go into something’s shoulder or chest. It was almost impossible to for any single bullet to miss though; the zombies were just so close, packed so tightly together, that everything he fired hit something.
The magazine ran dry in three seconds. He’d toppled a good chunk of the front edge of the horde on this side of the truck. Peter thumbed the release and reached for a fresh one as the empty dropped out. He got it seated and let the bolt slam forward before emptying the second one as well. As he reloaded again, he glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, the zombies were at the back edge of the truck. And Whitley was out of sight.
He was down to a bare handful of feet of clear space, seconds before he was in something’s grasp. Peter clicked the rifle’s safety back on and slung it, then bent and grabbed the line he’d tied to his pack. A quick loop and hitch secured it to his belt, and he carried the pack over to the edge of the bridge.
Whitley was at the end of the rope, looking down at the water. Peter dropped the pack and braced himself against the girders against the pull as it hit the end of its cargo line. The metal of the bridge was cold, having soaked the frigid temperatures in all day. Suddenly he was even less sure than he’d been before that climbing it would be possible. Even through his gloves he could feel the heat being sucked greedily out of his hands by the cold iron or steel or whatever it was.
Bending down, Peter clambered over the side of the bridge and reached for the line. He felt a jerk on the rope as Whitley released, but he was busy trying to get onto the rope himself. As he got into free space, with nothing but a single rope and the Mississippi beneath him, he felt cold, stiff fingers grabbing at his left hand still on the edge of the bridge.
The zombies had consumed all the free space; they’d pressed in from both sides of the bridge and met in
the middle. Peter was the only thing left in reach, and the dead were reaching for him. As he got situated for his descent, they were trying to pull him up. There wasn’t enough room in the crush of bodies for them to fall to their knees and start chewing; but they were trying that too.
Suppressing his urge to shudder at the hands clawing at his, Peter locked his legs around the rope and made sure his right was gripping as tightly as he could make his fingers squeeze before he yanked with his left arm as hard as he could. His glove pulled free of the zombies’ hands, and he felt himself start swinging on the rope when his weight was fully on the rope. The pack dangling below him, and the rope itself, were prone to movement and that was bad.
First though he had to get out of grabbing reach. He’d trust his knot and the rope to hold against anything the zombies might manage to do to it; they weren’t smart, and persistently dead or not, their hands and fingernails weren’t going to rip the line apart anytime soon. But there was no sense in waiting around to find out. Quickly, he let himself slide down; feeling the warm friction of contact through his pants and gloves.
When he was halfway down, he stopped and started going down more slowly. Friction burns hurt, and cold or not there was no sense taking on that sort of injury if he didn’t have to. He was out of reach now, it was fine. Hand over hand, he lowered himself down the line and ignored how his arms and shoulders protested. Again, Peter reminded himself that — trained or not — he was closer to sixty than fifty. He’d compare himself favorably to the vast majority of men his age; but he wasn’t an athlete and old was old.
But he made himself take it carefully. In a few moments he was going to be happy for the hot blood surging through his tired muscles. Even as he reached the end of the line and glanced down, the river was still quite a ways below him. He made sure his legs were locked onto the rope, feeling the knots pressed against his limbs and body as he hung on, and reached down to the line on his belt so he could try and stabilize the pack.
It took several seconds, but he managed to get it to dangle instead of swing. Peter refused to look up; he knew what would be staring down at him. Nothing but hungry faces and intent eyes fixed on his every motion. Just as he thought that, something hurtled past him close enough to make him blink and flinch.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 10
