Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum

by Rogers, David

  “They act just like her.” Smith said sourly.

  “We’re looking for a safe place to spend the night.” Whitley called. “Any chance—”

  “No.” the man on the tower doing most of the talking said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Town’s closed for the duration.”

  “For the duration of what?”

  “The apocalypse.” the lookout replied, shuffling his feet some while he shifted the weapon he was carrying. It was an AR-15, done up in a camouflage pattern on the stock and barrel. Peter didn’t think much of anyone who felt like that was a good idea to do shit like that to their weapon, but the lookout held it like he knew what he was doing with it. And there was a scope attached to the top.

  “We just need shelter for one night.” Whitley said.

  “And?”

  “Come on, it’s almost dark.”

  Peter thought this was an entirely unnecessary statement; the sun was low enough in the western sky for even the grass to be casting long shadows across the pavement. Minutes he figured, maybe.

  “We’re not asking for much.” Whitley said.

  “Yeah, we’ve got our own supplies.” Smith added.

  “Got your pick of spots. Anywhere but here.”

  “We don’t need a handout; we’ve got our own food and water like he said. We just need to rest up until morning and then we’ll be on our way.” Peter said, raising his voice over Smith’s and Whitley’s.

  “Okay.” the lookout said.

  “Okay we can stay?” Smith asked.

  “No.”

  Peter blinked at the one-word response. It was delivered in a vaguely neutral tone, lacking any overt challenge, but it was an aggressive rebuttal regardless. “Why don’t we try and start over.” he called up before turning and looking at the two soldiers on the tractor. “Let me handle this.”

  “Good luck.” Smith muttered, while Whitley just shrugged at him.

  “Ain’t nothing to handle soldier boy.” the lookout said.

  Peter spread his hands out and away from his body, trying to show a non-threatening posture. “I’m Master Gunnery Sergeant Gibson, Marines Corps. These two are Specialist Smith and Sergeant Whitley, Georgia National Guard.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re on our way to Ellsworth AFB in South Dakota. We ran into some problems getting across the river and have had a rough day. It would really help us a lot if we could clock some solid sleep in a secure location.”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  Peter suppressed an urge to scowl back at the lookout, but the second man on the watch tower finally spoke. “You guys coming from Georgia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Man, you fools are fucking crazy.”

  “No shit.” the first lookout agreed. “Listen, I’m sure you’re who you say you are and all that, but we don’t know you, and we’ve got rules.”

  “I understand.” Peter said calmly, forcing himself to over emphasize polite patience. “Any chance I could have a word with someone in charge?”

  “At this gate, that’s us.”

  “Right. But maybe someone who’s responsible for the entire town, rather than just part of it?”

  “The rules don’t change just because you talk to someone different.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.” Peter replied. “But perhaps we could at least trade information, maybe trade supplies?”

  “What for?”

  “We might have something you need. We might have information you could use.”

  “Ain’t no one here from Georgia.” the second man said.

  “Yeah, we’re all local. That’s why we’re in here.”

  “Is it possible to talk to someone?” Peter persisted politely.

  “They’re fucking deep South hicks.” Smith said sotto voiced.

  “Shut up.” Peter explained, turning his head and lowering his voice just enough to make sure Smith heard him and the lookouts didn’t.

  “Someone’s coming out here to make sure there ain’t no problems.” the first man said with a dismissive shrug.

  “So if I wait then I can talk to that person?”

  “Sure, if you wanna.”

  “Okay, fine.” Peter said calmly.

  “Standing around out there with zombies in the dark is your business, not ours.”

  “We’ll wait a bit.” Peter said, still stepping firmly on his impulse toward irritation. He fully understood the lookout’s position, at least, as far as the rules were concerned. If the town had some, then it was incumbent on whoever was guarding — especially those guarding the perimeter — to follow and enforce them. Otherwise there was no point in having rules.

  And he did see the point of keeping the town isolated. At least, to a certain extent. It was not a completely unreasonable reaction to the outbreaks and what had happened once people started dying and rising with hunger as their sole motivation. As far as he knew, no one had the first clue as to any hows or whys of this whole nightmarish situation. And considering the state of the world, he could absolutely understand others’ concern in avoiding further surprises.

  These days surprises could often be lethal.

  But he grown sort of used to being on the other side of the fence in Cumming. And at the FEMA camp, the rule had been anyone who was civil and willing to work with — not against — the camp was allowed residence. Shellie Sawyer had plans drawn up for expansion, even subsidiary locations in case they somehow managed to gather up more people needing saving than the high school could handle.

  So while he saw the town’s position, he couldn’t help but think — wish — they’d be more willing to do a little saving that extended beyond the walls of their own little piece of the apocalypse. Especially since, if everyone ran around acting like that, it was more likely more people were going to die needlessly.

  “You guys keeping an eye out?” he asked Smith and Whitley as he turned to take a good look at the surrounding landscape.

  “Yeah, we’re clear.” Whitley said.

  “We’re burning what little light we’ve got left.” Smith pointed out.

  “Moon’s already up.” Peter replied as he studied the area for movement. He saw a few shambling figures well away from the tractor, and nothing closer.

  “Sun’s already almost down.”

  “We’ve got flashlights too.” Peter said.

  “This sucks.”

  “Yup.” Whitley said. “So shut up.”

  Peter watched Smith frown, but the Guardsman fell silent. Turning back to the gate, Peter contented himself with standing at ease and simply waiting. All the walking, and then all the sitting, had left marks on him today; but at the moment just standing wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Different, at least. So he hooked his thumbs in his belt next to the suspenders of his equipment harness and waited at something approximating a casual stance.

  Several minutes later he heard a sound approaching from beyond the fence that took him a few moments to figure out. But he eventually identified it as hooves on asphalt; the clip-clop clip-clop was distinctive, and just like he’d heard in movies. The less talkative lookout turned his head to look too, but the one who’d led the conversation continued to watch the tractor and those who’d arrived on it.

  It was hard to see past the layers of fence and latticed wood backing and parked vehicles, but Peter finally spotted a pair of riders approaching. He was certainly no expert on horses, but he wasn’t entirely sure if either were all that comfortable on the animals; they were bouncing and jostling around a good bit as they rode. But they handled the horses reasonably as they reined in just behind the cars.

  One of them dismounted — handing his reins to his companions — and disappeared to the other side of the gate from the lookouts. Peter waited a little more, and a few seconds later the man emerged into view on the top of the second watch tower. He nodded politely as the newcomer straightened and gazed down at him.

  “You in charge?” Pete
r asked.

  “Close enough. What’s the problem?” the newcomer answered.

  “No problem.” Peter said carefully, calmly. “Apparently we can’t shelter behind your barricade until morning, but we were hoping we could maybe work out a deal for some diesel if you’re interested in trading.”

  The man studied him for a moment. “What are you trading?” he asked. “And how much did you want?”

  “Maybe fifteen or twenty gallons.” Peter said. “And I figure the best thing we’ve got on offer would be ammo; mostly five five six.”

  “What about the tractor?”

  Peter blinked. “What about it.”

  “You need it?”

  “This could be interesting.” he thought. But he just shrugged calmly. “We need wheels, but not necessarily these wheels. Do you need it?”

  “We could use it.” the man said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Just curious.” the man shrugged. “On first guess I’d figure you haven’t been driving too long with it.”

  “We’ll trade it for anything that runs, as long as it’s got a full tank of fuel and you give me a chance to look it over.” Peter said, choosing to ignore the not-quite-asked question as to how long he and his traveling companions had been driving the tractor. With his luck so far tonight, it just might turn out that this guy knew whoever had owned the farm or something like that.

  “Might take twenty minutes to get something up here.”

  Peter glanced around, then looked back up at him. “Doesn’t bother me too much.”

  “Okay then, I’ll be back.”

  The man climbed back down the tower and heaved himself back up in to the saddle before riding north with his companion. Peter closed up his field jacket and tugged his cap a little lower; the temperature was dropping as rapidly as the sun.

  At least now, unlike this time yesterday, he wasn’t treading water in the Mississippi.

  Chapter Thirteen - Life’s a lemon

  “Is this really better than the tractor?” Smith demanded as he steered around an overturned pickup.

  “Yes.” Whitley and Peter said together.

  “You’re both crazy.”

  “Shut up and drive.” Peter said, unfolding the map he’d liberated from the gas station they’d looted earlier. He still preferred proper tactical maps, but in the months since the outbreaks he’d gotten a lot of practice reading civilian versions. Intersections and roads weren’t as good as coordinates, but he wasn’t calling down fire or trying to nail a hot landing zone for a chopper pilot under fire either.

  Right now, he figured they were maybe five miles from the first rally point. They weren’t on I-55, but it was just east of them. And if he had their location figured correctly the next east-west road they came up to should be the last one before the interchange he’d told everyone about before jumping into the river.

  “You know one of my DIs at OSUT had one of these.”

  “So?” Whitley asked from the backseat.

  “So I know how little it takes to mess one up.”

  Peter stopped perusing the map and looked at Smith. “You fucked with your Drill Instructor’s vehicle?”

  “Yeah, he was a serious prick.”

  “And you didn’t get booted into the brig?”

  “Army doesn’t have a brig Gunny.”

  Peter scowled. “I’ll be more specific then, soldier; the DIs didn’t kick your ass into a new shape, then turn you over to the JAG?”

  Smith chuckled softly. “They might’ve if they’d caught us.”

  “Idiot.” Whitley said.

  “Says who?”

  “Says the soldier who doesn’t pull dumb shit like that.” she retorted. “You realize that was a real good way to ruin your life, right?”

  “You didn’t even hear what we did to the car yet?”

  “Was it drivable when you got done?” Peter asked.

  “No.”

  “Was it repairable for less than a hundred dollars in parts cost?”

  “Er . . . no.”

  “You’re a lucky motherfucker.” Peter said, checking the map again for the number of the road they needed.

  “It would’ve been worth it.”

  “DIs are tough because they’re teaching you.”

  “I get that.” Smith said. “But you didn’t meet this asshole. He used to wake us up in the middle of the night for runs if he thought we hadn’t met his standards during the day.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “He deserved it. Trust me Gunny, you didn’t know him. If you did, you’d understand.”

  “I understand this thing is better than the tractor.” Peter said. “We’re inside, out of the wind, with a heater that works, have room to carry shit, and we’re getting much better mileage.”

  “When this shit is over I’ll be sure to put you in touch with Dodge so you can give a testimonial.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the car.” Whitley said. “I thought you were tired of walking.”

  “There’s walking, there’s riding, then there’s riding in this.”

  “Enough about the fucking car.” Peter said. “42, that’s what we’re looking for.” he said, pointing at a sign that indicated the next crossroad was Highway 42. “Pay attention to your driving if you’re so worried about the vehicle.”

  “Or I could take over if you’re going to be a bitch about it.” Whitley added.

  “Oh no way.” Smith said immediately.

  “What’s wrong with the way I drive?”

  “The last time you were behind the wheel we ended up having to jump off a bridge because we were surrounded by zombie hordes.”

  “Hah-fucking-hah.” Whitley said acerbically. “Just for that you can keep the wheel for the rest of the day.”

  “Good. I’m tired of swimming.”

  Peter shook his head and turned on the radio. Adjusting the volume, he purposefully put the static at a level that would be distracting before he started fiddling with the tuner. Smith made the turn onto -42 before Peter finally gave up trying to find anyone transmitting and turned the radio back off. He hadn’t been expecting any contact, but you never knew.

  “We need to remember to pick up some MP3 players or something.” Whitley remarked.

  “Why?” Smith asked.

  “I miss music.”

  “Where are we going to get any MP3s?”

  “I’m sure there are some around somewhere.”

  “Where are we going to get players?”

  “Same answer.”

  Smith snorted. “Ever the optimist.”

  “Someone’s got to be.”

  “Not sure wandering around with headphones on is the greatest idea.” Peter said as they approached a small bridge. It carried the road over a little river lined gorge, one that was well below the level of the land and only a dozen feet wide, but deep. Just ahead of the bridge was a sign indicating they were entering Turrell, population 615. He wondered how many of those six hundred some odd people were even alive, much less still in the area.

  “I mean for times like now.” Whitley said. “I’m not foolish enough to walk point or watch like that.”

  “Even then, I dunno.”

  “Come on Gunny. You can’t stay on edge all the time.”

  He shrugged. “If it’s that or die . . .”

  “Everyone needs a break.” Smith pointed out.

  Peter shrugged again. “Right now, we’re in the shit. Maybe after we settle in at Ellsworth we’ll have the chance to grab a little bit of slack.”

  “I thought we were going up there to get stuck in again?”

  “Yes, but as part of a team. That means we’ll be able to rotate on and off the front line.”

  “Think there’s anywhere that ain’t a front line?” Whitley asked.

  “I hope so or . . . ”

  She spoke up after several seconds went by without him finishing the thought. “Or what?”

  �
��Or we’re probably all really fucked.” he thought. But he kept the notion to himself. Instead he just shrugged a third time. “We get in with a decent group and it won’t matter; we’ll have a team, a structure we can work with and that can work with us.”

  “Well, whatever, I still miss music.”

  “So do I.” Peter said idly. He leaned over and pointed through the windshield. “Okay, that’s I-55.”

  “Yeah, I see, thanks.” Smith said, starting to slow.

  “No, keep going.”

  “I thought we wanted to take a look at the Interstate.”

  “Right.” Peter said, pointing again. “So go across and we can get a good look in both directions from the overpass before we get on the north bound lanes.”

  “Oh.” the Guardsman said. “Yeah, sorry. No problem.”

  Peter started prepping his binoculars, which were hung from his neck once more. As he popped the lens caps off, Whitley spoke.

  “What music do you miss?”

  “Disturbed.” Smith said immediately. “And they might not have made it; I think they were based out of Chicago. It didn’t take the outbreaks good.”

  “You miss Disturbed?” Whitley asked, sounding irritated.

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing I guess, if you’re a hyperactive dude with testosterone poisoning.”

  “Hey fuck you Whit, I like what I like. Disturbed rocked. Why, who’s your favorite?”

  “Maroon 5.”

  Smith chuckled darkly. “Yeah, they’ve gotta be fucked. They were an LA band weren’t they?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like them for the tunes or the singer. What’s his name?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “Oh my God!” Smith blurted. “They either sound good or look good; it’s never both.”

  “Hmm, what was it you said?” she said in a patient tone. “Oh yeah, fuck you.”

  “Whatever.” Smith said with a dismissive shake of his head. “What about you Gunny? Who do you miss?”

  “I miss a lot of bands.” Peter said as the car approached the overpass that crossed the Interstate.

  “Yeah, but who?”

  Peter sighed. “Zombies didn’t take my music away, most of the bands broke up a long time before this shit started.”