Swaying once more on the end of the line, Peter checked below just in time to see a humanoid form smack nearly full length — horizontal, without making any attempt to control how it hit the water — into the river’s surface. Now he did look up, and saw two more zombies toppling over the edge of the bridge as they mindlessly stretched and reached out to try and grab him. Peter flexed his legs to try and change the direction he was swinging in and barely managed to be out of the way when the closer of the two falling zombies went by him.
“Holy shit.” he swore, reaching down once more to still the pack’s sway. There was no time, no time for anything; but he was terrified of going into the water the way the zombies had. The drop was too high. He’d rather shoot himself than drown, or end up with a body so shattered he washed ashore and had to lay there waiting for something without a pulse to find and eat him.
Another zombie fell past him, but Peter focused on his momentum and position. The pack stopped moving, and he got it and his body dangling true to gravity; in a straight line from the end of the cord. Taking a deep breath, he unraveled his legs from the rope and let go.
Chapter Eight - Free fallin’
Peter fell like a rock, pulled by the pack and his own weight. He locked his legs together and looked down to judge where he was. The drop seemed to just go so slowly, as air rushed past him nearly silently and the water came up to greet him. He had time to windmill his arms twice for balance, then he pulled them in tight against his chest and dropped his chin to his chest with his eyes and mouth closed tightly as he got his legs crossed and squeezed himself as tightly as he could to control what happened when he hit.
The impact hurt. A lot. He felt it in his feet and ankles and calves, felt both hips tweak painfully, and even his shoulders some, when he hit the water. Then he was below the surface, and had to stop himself from gasping as the liquid engulfed him. It was cold. He’d known it would be, expected it; but now he was in it, and it was worse than he’d figured. Or maybe it was just age again.
Whatever it was, the icy water stabbed at him like needles and knives all over. Sharp, piercing, insistent, and unrelenting. Peter unfolded himself out of the entry position and took his bearings. There was an audible thud of a splash above him as another zombie hit the water, and Peter decided it was time to stop thinking and start moving.
There wasn’t much light left, the sun was fading rapidly; but he knew how to feel for which way his body wanted to float and headed that way. Kicking strongly and pulling with his arms, he kept telling himself he was fine on air. He was almost there, he wasn’t even close to his limit yet; but it felt like miles instead of feet as he swam upward with the river’s current tugged him sideways.
When he broke the surface, he shook his head to spray water away from his face and took a deep breath. Some drops went up his nose and down his throat the wrong way, and he hacked a pair of ugly, violent coughs to clear his airway before drawing a second full breath that went down easier. Water was streaming down from his mostly hairless head to foul his vision, tickle at his nose, and he had to wipe his skull backward and face downwards to clear it. Air flowing once more, he automatically tipped himself back in the water into a floating position and looked around.
His pack was bobbing nearby, so he started hauling it in. Contrary to common expectations, the pack was actually a floatation device as long as it was packed and secured properly. The pouches and spaces in it trapped air, and that air wanted to go up when submerged. And he wasn’t even carrying a full combat load of gear in it; not compared to what he’d usually humped around in the field.
Going in to the water with the pack on would have been less than pleasant; but now that he was in, he wanted it. Moving as quickly as he could with the water pushing against his every motion, he got the pack hauled in and his AR unslung so he could shrug his arms through the backpack’s straps. Tightening them down snuggly, he got the AR resituated and pulled it tight too; he didn’t want things flapping and floating around on their own.
And it seemed like he was taking too long to do everything; like his fingers and arms and muscles didn’t want to fully cooperate. That would be the cold he knew. One way or another, the clock was ticking on him and the others the same as it had been when the zombies were closing in. Hypothermia would kill just as surely as teeth and hunger. He didn’t bother trying to stop himself from shivering; the muscular action would actually help him generate heat that would help counter his body’s losing battle against the water’s thermal sapping efforts.
While he was doing all that he had a chance to look around a little. The current was pulling him south at a pretty decent clip. Maybe not as fast as a full on run, but to him it looked at least jogging pace. He saw two other people splashing around downstream of him, but commanded himself not to assume the worst. He wasn’t really looking for the others yet; just sort of snatching glances here and there. There was no reason to assume all three of his companions hadn’t made it down in one piece.
Finally Peter got his gear resituated, and let himself tip back in the float posture once more. With the pack strapped on, he was even more buoyant than before. He took a long look around, evaluating his situation.
The bridge was visible to the north. Some zombies were falling from it, but not many. To him, it almost looked like the zombies that took dives were just falling accidentally. What he could see of the horde on the structure just seemed to be milling about aimlessly now that the dinner they’d been focused on was gone. The current would pull the zombies south along with the humans, but Peter wasn’t too concerned. Any zombies that ‘survived’ the drop into the water would just sink.
Zombies didn’t swim, and they didn’t float since their bodies soaked up the water like sponges and drew them down to the bottom. The creatures didn’t know to not swallow the water in, and that removed a lot of the natural buoyancy humans normally enjoyed.
The sun wasn’t quite gone just yet, and Peter could tell from the angle of its remaining light that the water wasn’t actually moving south right now. The river was curving around to the west. He tried to think back to the map, wishing he’d checked it again before jumping. From what he could remember, the river snaked a sort of S-curve to the west before cutting back south. How far it doglegged out west before turning again, that’s what was stumping him.
Okay, that was fine. That was just semantics; where it was going didn’t really matter right now. Getting out of it safely did. Unfortunately, what he could see of the banks on either side revealed balance-challenged figures moving around. There were buildings and structures near the water’s edge — more to the Tennessee side than the Arkansas to the west — but even amid the sand and dirt and trees he still saw more zombies roaming around than he’d care to deal with right now.
“Gunny!”
A hand waved above the water, and Peter abandoned his visual sweep of the land. He recognized Whitley, and waved back. “You okay?”
“Christ this is cold!”
“See the others?” Peter asked, turning himself in the water to start a side stroke toward her. He was bobbing along pretty high in the water, and staying at the surface without much effort thanks to the pack.
“Just one; Smith I think.”
“Crawford! Smith!” Peter shouted as he crabbed downstream. “Gather up! Everyone swim toward each other.”
The figure ahead of Whitley turned its head, and Peter recognized Smith. Crawford wore her hair pretty short, but still in a vaguely feminine style; Smith’s was effectively a civilian crew-cut and was enough to recognize him by even under these conditions. The man thrust a hair up in the air, and Peter paused his own swimming long enough to return the gesture. “Come this way!”
“Current.” his voice answered back, drifting across the light chop of the river’s motion.
“Just swim.” Peter yelled back. “Slow yourself up so we can catch you.”
“Okay.”
“Where’s Crawford?” Whitley asked as Peter r
esumed his swimming in earnest.
“Don’t know.” Smith called in reply.
“You don’t see her?”
“No, do you?”
“Did she drown?”
Peter frowned slightly as he kept swimming. His blood was starting to warm up from the exertion — there were few activities that would really put demands on a body like swimming fully clothed and hauling gear — but he could still feel himself cooling off regardless. He could stave the temperature loss off with activity, but it was a losing battle. The water would win.
“Swim!” he yelled to the others. It was troubling that no one saw Crawford. The current wasn’t that fast; nor was the river white-water choppy enough to make it likely they’d miss her even in the twilight. If she wasn’t in sight, he took that as a bad sign.
“Trying.” he heard Smith answer, while Whitley just started splashing in a vague approximation of something midway between a dogpaddle and a very sloppy breaststroke.
“Just swim.” Peter repeated as he kept his arms in legs in motion, propelling himself through the water. “It’ll help keep you warm.”
“Yeah right.”
“Just swim.”
Whitley was closer, but by the time Peter reached her he could feel his shivering starting to move beyond his limbs. Muscles in his back and chest and abdomen were starting to twitch in an effort to warm his body. He jerked his head at her as he drew even with the Guardswoman, and she just turned in the water and started swimming alongside Peter as both made for Smith.
It seemed to take a long time — Peter knew that was just his own overblown sense of alarm starting to really get into gear — but they finally reached Smith. The soldier shifted around as the other two reached him, copying Peter’s floating posture in a clear bid to conserve some energy.
“Okay, anyone see Crawford?” he asked, pausing his swimming and gesturing with one hand for the others to look around.
“N-no.” Whitley said, shaking her head as she treaded water. Peter noticed her face was drawn with stress, and her breathing was pretty fast. Her color was way down, leaving her shivering expression pale and stark.
“Did you see her go into the water Smith?” he asked. “You went in after her.”
“I was kind of busy climbing down and doing my own drop.”
“So that’s a no?”
“That’s a no.”
“W-w-e n-need-d-d to get-t-t out-t-t of the wat-t-ter.” Whitley said.
“Shift around on your back.” Peter said, pulling his gaze off the river back to her. It was an effort for him to annunciate his words clearly, but he made it just like it said in his little unwritten senior NCO’s instruction manual; never let the troops see anything bothering you. It confused and distracted them. It bothered them.
Whtiley’s drawn expression was getting paler still, and he could see her shivering getting worse. “Float, catch your breath.”
“T-t-t-trying.” she answered as she twisted into a back down position and spread her arms out for buoyancy.
“T-t-there aren’t s-s-o many z-z-zombies on the banks-s-s now.” Smith said, craning his head up and looking from east to west.”
“We want to get out on the west side if at all possible.” Peter said, looking in that direction.
“W-w-hy?” Whitley asked.
“Because we already know the Memphis side is crawling with corpses, and we’ll have to do this again if we don’t.” he answered. The bank wasn’t what he’d call any sort of proper beach, not in the civilian sense, but it was sort of sandy; not much in the way of immediate settlement right along the water’s edge. And a little downriver, he could see the course starting to curve back around to the south.
Most importantly, he didn’t see anything that looked like a zombie horde along the riverside to the west. A few scattered zombies, yes; but any large packs, no.
“Come on, let’s head for the beach.” he said, gesturing with a hand that shook when he lifted it clear of the water to point despite his intention to conceal how the cold was getting to him.
“G-g-good.” Whitley said, turning immediately and striking out in a crawl stroke.
“I can-n-n- barely m-m-move.” Smith complained as he struggled to get swimming.
“Backstroke.” Peter advised as he started pacing Whtiley, pulling with his arms and kicking some. It was clear Smith wasn’t a strong swimmer, and the man’s sodden clothes and gear harness with all the added weight wasn’t making it any easier for him to manage. “Float, kick your feet, pull with your arms.”
“T-t-trying-g-g.”
Time seemed to spin out like some sadistic entity kept turning it back on them, or at least pulling the shore away as they swam; but slowly the trio moved away from the middle of the river. Peter was really feeling the chill now, could feel his heart racing and breath heaving as his body tried to power his muscles and warm itself at the same time. He was really having to work — not just on keeping himself moving — but also on keeping his focus.
Despite his best efforts, despite knowing how dangerous it was, he found his attention kept wavering. He’d blink and realize he had no memory of what he’d been doing as he swam. He’d see a figure moving on the riverbank and couldn’t remember if he’d already noted its presence or not. Right now it was lost seconds; it could easily become lost minutes, and then more. That was bad. He knew it was a sign the cold was getting to him, a worse sign than the shivering and other physical symptoms.
They were maybe twenty-five or thirty feet out from land when he saw Whitley abruptly stop swimming. She’d been pulling ahead, slowly but steadily, as she swam at a brisk pace; but now she was motionless, face down in the water. As he blinked at her and started to open his mouth, he saw her begin to sink; her clothes and gear were pulling her under.
“Whitley!” he blurted, summoning a surge of strength and surging forward quickly in a redoubled amount of splashing as he kicked rapidly against the water.
“What?” Smith asked, splashing out of his back stroke so he could look around.
“She’s in trouble.” Peter answered as he pulled a burst of activity out of his aching and tired body. Half a dozen powerful strokes got him close enough to reach out and grab for her boot. She was floating below the surface, and didn’t move as he hauled her in and got himself to where he could get a grip on her shirt.
“Holy shit-t-t-t.” Smith said as Peter struggled to get the Guardswoman flipped over. Whitley was an average sized woman — specifically, smaller than him or most of the men he was used to manhandling — but the water made everything awkward. And beyond her waterlogged clothes, she probably had the better part of a couple dozen pounds of weapons and gear strapped on.
“Keep swimming.” Peter ordered.
“Is she okay?” Smith asked, his teeth audibly chattering.
“Keep swimming.” Peter repeated. “I can’t tow you both out of the water, and you’re already slow as it is.”
“S-s-s-orry.”
Whitley was unconscious when Peter finally got her flipped over. For a moment he was afraid she was drowning — dealing with that while still in the water was quite tough — but then she spluttered water out of her mouth and he saw her nostrils flare. Her eyes opened, but they were unfocused and lacked the usual intent spark he was used to seeing in her gaze. She was out of it.
“Shit.” Peter muttered, hooking one of his arms beneath her armpits so he could pull her along. With her on her back, and with his support and propulsion, she was now more or less floating. He kicked with his feet and pulled with his remaining arm, making for the shore. Whitley hardly moved except for the tattoo of violent shivering tremors he felt running through her. Her weight slowed him down, so it was good they were almost out of the water.
“But getting out won’t be enough.” Peter thought tiredly, and with more than a small amount of real alarm, as he kept swimming. “Got to get to some shelter, get some heat going.” Under ‘normal’ circumstances, he’d build a fire as soo
n as they hit the shore. But with zombies roaming around, a house or some sort of building was more or less required. And there was no telling what they might run across while looking for something; or if they’d hold out long enough to get there.
He felt his feet finally touch ground. Two more strokes got him to a depth where he could more practically try to walk instead of swim; or, at least, wade. Peter put his boots down and powered out of the water toward dry land with drawn out steps that took far too long. As he emerged, he felt the breeze cutting through him like a cheese grater on steroids. Even though he knew, intellectually, the water had actually been sapping more heat more quickly out of his body; feeling the gentle wind on his wet clothes and skin felt a lot worse.
By now he was starting to shiver more strongly. “Minutes, maybe.” he told himself as he dragged Whitley out of the water with one hand on the collar of her uniform shirt. “Minutes to find heat or it’s over.” He scanned the area, trying to focus though the quivering of his muscles; even his head was jittering unsteadily as his neck muscles took up the rapid involuntary motion in an attempt to generate heat.
The shoreline had a scattering of sand, some of it even white, but was mostly mud and scrub underbrush. There was a line of loose vegetation maybe twenty-five or thirty feet inland, and beyond that to the southwest some he saw a few building roofs that looked to him like regular houses.
He also saw three zombies; two upstream of his position, and a close one a little south. All had noticed his emergence and were pulling themselves around to pursue. Peter staggered to the water’s edge, dragging Whitley, before releasing her and reaching for his AR. Getting the weapon unlimbered seemed to take forever; his fingers and arms were stiff with cold, and the strap kept catching on his utilities.
Peter finally got the assault rifle into place against his shoulder as the nearest zombie crossed the line of what he thought of as the ‘danger close’ distance for zombies; maybe ten feet away. Only seconds, a few final staggering steps from actual contact. Peter laid his cheek against the wet stock and looked through the scope. It was waterproof, and the dot glowed red just as always; though now it was jumping and swaying about epileptically as he tried to aim at the zombie’s face.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 11
