Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum

by Rogers, David

  “I c-c-can’t break m-m-much of this up-p-p.” Smith said.

  Peter saw the Guardsman had managed to knock the legs off the other end table, but the top was a solid piece of wood. Nodding, Peter bent down and picked up his AR again. “Move out of the way.”

  To his credit, Smith didn’t waste time or energy reacting or questioning; he just moved. Peter kicked the partially dismantled table into the corner near the shifted shelving unit before the windows, followed by the intact table that hadn’t been screwed with yet. His first shot confirmed what he’d already surmised; the assault rifle was ruined. Even from a distance of a couple of feet, the bullet hit nowhere near where he aimed. But that didn’t matter; he just needed the wood broken up.

  The tables were no match for the five-five-six rounds, and Peter was so cold that he didn’t even mind the noise. His earplugs had been lost somewhere in the river during the swim. No matter, he had others. Firing the rifle inside the enclosed space of the room gave the sound little choice but to bounce painfully around assailing their ears; but that clock in his head was louder still. Time was running out.

  “In the b-b-owl.” Peter said, dropping the rifle as soon as both tables had been reduced to a pile of jagged wood splinters and larger sticks that were mostly banding and legs. He fell to his knees before his pack and started opening pockets and compartments. He knew he should know where what he was looking for was, but his thoughts were coming stubbornly, reluctantly, as he felt the cold beginning to invade more than just his body.

  But he lucked out and found them without too much digging and rummaging, and withdrew a fistful of emergency flares. Twisting the striker cap off one, he reversed it and started trying to light it. His hands were shaking quite badly now; he kept missing when he tried to make the connection.

  “H-h-here.” Smith said, abandoning his piling of broken up wood in the bowl and managing to lean over to grab the flare away. Peter didn’t object, especially when the other man got the flare ignited in less than ten seconds. He was so cold that even from five feet away he instantly felt the heat the chemical stick was giving out. Smith deposited the flare in the bowl without having to be told, and started shifting the contents around to put the flare beneath the wood so it all had a better chance to start catching.

  Peter reached into his pocket and got his knife out. There were several pillows scattered around the room, mostly on the floor. He rolled himself across the carpet to the nearest, then back over to the bowl with it in hand. Using the knife, he managed to eviscerate the pillow without cutting himself. The fill looked and felt like synthetics to him — plastic, basically — but the exterior was cotton. Real cloth, that would burn and not melt. He wadded it up and tossed the bundle into the bowl.

  “Th-th-that’s got it.” Smith said as the cloth immediately began to catch. Some of the wooden splinters were starting to smolder as well. Peter resisted the urge to hunker over the building fire, to just huddle right next to it and soak in the welcome and life-giving heat. They weren’t quite done just yet.

  “B-b-break out the rest of the w-w-window.” he said, crawling over to where Whitley lay limp and unresponsive. “And p-p-put some holes in the outside w-w-wall.”

  “How?”

  “Rifle.” Peter answered, annoyed. “And b-b-be careful. Barrel’s w-w-warped.”

  Smith reluctantly left the bowl and the growing fire to retrieve his weapon. Peter reached Whitley and started unlacing her boots. He got the first one off while Smith shot out his first magazine. The rest of the glass in the upper portion of the window shattered, but Peter didn’t bother looking. It was taking all his concentration to force his fingers through the simple motions needed to unknot the soaked laces. They were starting to shake more than badly, and felt thick with frightening numbness.

  “W-w-why am I doing this?” Smith asked as he reloaded.

  “Ventilation.”

  “W-w-what are y-y-you d-d-doing?” Smith asked after he shot off the second magazine, spraying thirty more bullets through the exterior wall. Peter had gotten Whitley’s other boot off, and had moved up to start unbuttoning her shirt.

  “We c-c-can’t stay in these w-w-wet clothes.”

  “Uh-”

  Peter sighed. “W-w-we’re all in th-th-this together. If it was you unconscious, I’d be taking your clothes off.”

  “But—”

  “Fire off one more mag, then get me some blankets to wrap her in.” Peter ordered, commanding himself to ignore the chattering of his teeth along with the gender difference in the situation that Smith was objecting to. “And don’t drag them through the fire either.” He got the last shirt button undone and started pulling her out of the wet garment.

  Smith shut up and ripped off a third magazine into the outside wall. Peter finished peeling Whitley out her clothing — which for now he simply flung aside — before bundling her up in first a sheet, then the most substantial of the blankets his hasty grab-and-go had turned up. There was a marked bluish tinge to Whitley’s pale skin that told him it might already be too late, but there was nothing else he could do.

  He simply rolled and pulled her over as near the fire, blankets and all, as he felt was safe before starting to strip himself out of his own soaked clothes.

  Chapter Nine - Gimmie shelter

  “Where are we?”

  Peter startled fairly violently, glancing away from the flames climbing out of the metal bowl. His M-45 was naked in his hand — safety on — but he managed to get hold of himself before he pointed it at Whitley. She was awake, staring at him from within the bundle of sheets and blankets he’d wrapped her in. Peter breathed out slowly and carefully took his thumb off the pistol’s safety lever.

  “West of the river.” he answered as he rearranged his own blankets to put his hand and arm back beneath his own blanket. Even though the room was fairly warm now, especially next to the fire bowl, he was still feeling the chill. The cold had worked its way so far down into him he could feel how reluctant it was to flee in the face of the fire. “How are you feeling?”

  Whitley blinked at him once, then shrugged. “A little tired. What happened?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  “Going for a swim in the Mississippi, then everything gets pretty fuzzy.” she said. “I remember the bridge, the jump, the cold . . . something about stumbling through some mud . . . mostly cold though.”

  “Yeah.” he nodded. “You feel okay? Hands and feet working alright?”

  She started to shift around, sitting up, then paused as she got her arms free of the blanket Peter had wrapped around her. Her bare arms, which had been covered to the wrists by her uniform shirt when dressed. “Uh, where are my clothes?”

  “There.” Peter said, gesturing at the wall. The forcible dismantling of the furniture for firewood had yielded nails and screws which were of no use for staying warm; but could be pressed into service as emergency clothes hooks. He’d managed to get them fixed into the wall so the trio’s clothing could be hung to drip dry and benefit from the heat of the fire bowl; which he’d placed as close to the wall as he felt was safe.

  After he’d spent twenty minutes huddled in front of the fire, warming himself up from the brink of hypothermic shock.

  “Uh . . . oh.” she started, then nodded. “Right.”

  “Nothing personal.” Peter answered, purposefully ignoring the light blush he saw rising on her face. Even if she hadn’t figured it out already, the three sets of underwear hanging on the wall next to the uniforms would have spelled it out. “I figure the water temperature was in the 40s, and the air temp’s about the same. Staying in the wet clothes in this environment, especially in the condition we were in after we got out of the water . . . that was just asking for death. Saps heat.”

  “I know.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think we were literally down to minutes before Smith and I got the three of us in here. By the time we got the fire going I could barely feel my body. If Crawford had be
en with us, I would’ve had her deal with you, but . . .” he shrugged. “There was just no margin to handle things any other way.”

  Whitley finished sitting up, clutching at the blanket and sheet to prevent them from slipping off. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take survival over modesty. Where’s Crawford at?” the Guardswoman asked as she started arranging her coverings so they were securely draped across her shoulders and torso after she got her arms loose.

  “She went into the river, and that’s the last Smith says he saw her.” Peter answered.

  “Did she drown?”

  “I hope not.”

  “No sign since?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He kept his voice level, professional; but behind the calmness he was sad. Crawford wasn’t quite what he’d call a friend — he felt closer to Whitley than either Smith or Crawford — but she was a comrade. Determined, persistent . . . if he’d been laying odds on any of them handling any random situation that cropped up during the journey; he’d have picked the wild child Crawford at the top of the list.

  “Any idea where she could have gotten to?”

  “I never saw her after she jumped. Smith says he spotted her in the water, but nothing else.”

  “She knows the rally point.” Whitley said with a tone of obvious forced briskness. “If she made it, she’ll meet up.”

  “Yeah, well, she’ll have time to get there. It’s going to take us at least a day, maybe two if we’re unlucky, to get ourselves sorted out to head that way.”

  “Probably going to take her at least that long too.”

  “I figure. Either way — whether she beats us there or not — we’re looking at spending some time in the area before we either link back up with her or roll on out.”

  Whitley looked around the room. Smith was next to her, curled up in a nearly fetal position on the floor next to the fire bowl. Peter had let Smith take the first rest, recognizing the Guardsman was on the verge of passing out anyway. He’d made them both stay awake for half an hour after the fire got going — to make sure neither of them were likely to slip into a more serious stage of hypothermia — then bowed to the inevitable and let Smith sack out.

  Himself, he ached in a way he hadn’t in years. Not even everything he’d endured since the zombies appeared and started shredding everything and everyone in sight compared to how he felt now. He’d warmed a can of energy drink from his pack and forced himself to drink it for the caffeine, and followed it with several Tylenols; but the ache remained. Like the cold had settled in for a long stay deep within him.

  “So, how are you feeling?” he asked again.

  “Pretty good, I guess, considering the circumstances we’re in.”

  “Yeah, they suck.”

  “As usual.”

  “Right.” he agreed. “So, no tingling in your fingers and toes? Grip feels okay, nothing off or clumsy?”

  Whitley held her hands out and waggled her fingers in a wave pattern several times — first one way, then the other — before closing them into fists twice. Then she shifted a little more, and he saw her legs moving around beneath the sheet and blanket. “No problems.”

  “Good.” he said, secretly relieved. He’d checked her pulse regularly, and made sure she was still breathing; but he didn’t know much more about what to do beyond keeping her near the heat so she’d rewarm. Her voice sounded normal; not strong, exactly, but without any slurring or faintness to indicate serious injury. He was no medic, but he figured if the cold had done a real number on her there might be some neurological symptoms. But if she had full physical function, and sounded normal, then it seemed she’d made it without any permanent damage.

  “How long was I out?”

  Peter reached over to his pack and removed a digital sports watch from one of the pockets. “We’ve been here about three hours.” he said after studying the display.

  “Smith okay?”

  “He’s still breathing, so yeah.”

  “We secure in here?”

  Peter shrugged. “So far we are.” He’d been afraid they’d manage to draw a number of zombies down on themselves getting to the house, or that they’d end up besieged by another horde of walking corpses; but so far the structure had gone unmolested. He’d heard a few shuffling, scraping, dragging footsteps wander by; but the flickering fire light that had to be clearly visible through the upper half of the room’s open window hadn’t proven interesting to the zombies.

  He hoped it stayed that way. The situation was pretty grim; adding active zombie attacks into it before the three of them could get their breath back and feet under them once more might be the straw that broke them.

  “There anything to eat?”

  Nodding, Peter replaced the watch in his ILBE before rummaging in one of the larger compartments and closing his hand on one of his MREs. He’d hoarded them since the apocalypse had hit, hanging on to them through the hell of Downtown Atlanta, through the back and forth across North Georgia and the events in and around Cumming, and carried them as far as Memphis. Because they were a simple, easy, almost foolproof way to retain food in case he had no other option.

  That was now. The house might have some sort of edibles in the kitchen somewhere, but there was no water and even with the fire bowl it would be tricky to get canned goods warmed up for consumption. The only water they had was his Camelbak pouch, plus the pair of liter bottles he’d tucked away in his pack. He had three more cans of energy drink, but those counted more as caffeine than water in his opinion.

  He was also far too tired to go searching for what may or may not be in the kitchen’s cupboards. The MREs were here; the kitchen was too far.

  “Here.” he said, tossing her one at random.

  “Been holding out on us?” Whitley said, picking up the tan pouch from her lap and squinting at the writing on it.

  “Yes. Been saving them for an oh shit situation.”

  She shrugged without offense. “Guess this qualifies. Got anything better than Buffalo chicken?”

  “I’ve got five more, but beggars aren’t going to choose. Eat it.”

  “What about water?”

  He produced one of the bottles, setting it where she could reach. Whitley started opening the pack. “Did you eat?”

  “I had a candy bar.”

  “Nothing hot?”

  “Warm Monster.” he said, gesturing at the can he’d discarded. The green and black label was distinctive, even in the flickering fire light. Truth be told he found the entire class of over caffeinated beverages only a few steps shy of being outright disgusting; but they were a hell of a lot more portable than coffee. Sometimes caffeine was more important than taste or liking.

  “You need to eat Gunny.”

  “I’ve been on watch.”

  “What better time to eat?” she asked as she sorted through the MRE’s contents. “And the heater could’ve helped.”

  Peter shrugged. “We managed to get the fire going. The MREs were my last resort for warmth. And if I eat something I think I might get too sleepy.”

  “We seem secure.”

  “Pray it stays that way.” he grunted, glancing at the upper portion of the open window.

  She followed his gaze, then frowned. “Where are we again?”

  “Just west of the river. Shitty little house. I think we’re on the outskirts of the other half of Memphis.”

  “Did you guys have to stand any zombies off?”

  “No, thank God.” he said feelingly. “I wasn’t kidding about how close we were to the edge. If we’d been delayed in securing this place by fighting off zombies, I don’t think we’d be having this conversation.”

  “Sorry.” she said, her face flushing again.

  “Not your fault.”

  “I let you two down.”

  He shook his head. “Everyone stumbles. I’ve seen guys over twice your weight in world-class shape go into hypothermic convulsions during shorter exposures in warmer water. Real he-man types, curled up and useles
s.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Swear to God. Everyone reacts differently, and every situation is different. The next time we go arctic swimming, it could be me taking a nap and needing to be dragged clear.”

  “Again, bullshit.”

  “I’m flesh and blood, just like you guys.”

  “Hah!” she snorted as she opened the bottle of water and set it down before starting to fiddle with the MRE’s heater pouch. “Senior NCOs are robots sent from the future with one goal; win at all costs.”

  “Yeah, they told me shit like that when I was younger. Then I got promoted and found out it’s just an act.”

  “You saying you’re not better than us?”

  “Older, sure.”

  Whitley rolled her eyes at him. “Come on, I know you too well by now. You’re Corps. You aren’t going to sit there and tell me with a straight face you don’t feel like we’re holding you back.”

  “We’re in this together.”

  “Come on, not even a little?” she teased as she stuffed the MRE’s entrée into the heater pouch.

  “Army.” he shrugged, allowing her wheedling tone to draw a faint smile out of him. “Aren’t Really Marines Yet.”

  “Yeah, and what’s Marine stand for?” she challenged as she managed to fit the second pouch of rice in next to the chicken before starting to pour water into the heater. She set the bottle down and quickly crammed the heater into the box the entrée had come in, then folded the heater pouch’s top down into the box so it would stay closed. The water would activate a chemical reaction within the heat element that would warm the food.

  “Muscles Are Required Intelligence Not Essential.” he chuckled. “I’ve heard so many on both sides of this argument I can’t even remember all of them.”