Some of the cars had clearly burned, and a lot of them had broken windows. The ones like that lacking any other obvious impact damage — like a collision — made it clear there had been significant non-vehicular action happening. And there were the skeletons.
Not bodies; skeletons. It wasn’t the first time any of them had seen it, but it was never fun. Left to their own devices, unmolested or otherwise distracted, and zombies would eat someone right down to the bone. Just from here, even with the binoculars, it was obvious somewhere in the vicinity of a three-digit number of people had perished and become fodder for the horde. The bones usually got scattered in the consumption process, but skulls were an easy marker to tabulate.
Whatever story had led up to the intersection becoming such a hellish clusterfuck was lost to teeth and time. And Peter figured he probably didn’t really want to know the specifics. He had his own nightmares, up close and personal images from Downtown Atlanta and two months of surviving the ongoing apocalypse since, to bear. This was just one more, and he’d long since decided it was a waste of time to care about every little detail of what had happened.
What mattered was what happened next. So he waited with Whitley behind the wheel, watching the time and the horde while keeping an eye on the area closer in around the car. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he saw what was definitely sustained westward movement from the horde.
“There they are.” Whitley said quietly, nodding at the western half of the intersecting road.
“Yeah.”
The two of them watched as Crawford and Smith got in close enough to the horde to be noticed. Both decoys spent a minute or two wailing away with clubs, fending off the closest zombies while they gave the trailing edges of the pack time to coalesce. Then they started fading west. Predictably, the zombies followed.
“Thank God zombies are stupid.” Whitley murmured.
“And slow.” Peter agreed. “Only things saving anyone at this point.”
It took five minutes, but finally the intersection was more or less clear. Peter drew his M-45 and checked it over, then reholstered it and lifted the axe. “Okay, let’s go.”
Whitley put the Dodge in gear and drove north. She stopped just shy of the first crumpled vehicles jamming the crossroads. Peter had his door open before she even finished braking, and was out and on his feet by the time the Dodge rocked back on its suspension.
Up close, the intersection was worse. Blood stained most of the visible pavement, and even a good percentage of the vehicle surfaces he could see. Not all of the zombies had left either; but only a handful of the ones remaining were still on their feet. He reversed the axe — he still preferred the blunt end to the blade, letting weight of metal rather than the cutting edge do the damage — and started swinging as he worked his way through the intersection.
The axe head was somewhere around five or seven pounds of solid metal. Peter was aging, but he was able to swing the axe with a respectable amount of speed. When a zombie’s skull interfaced with a swing of the axe, it was shockingly effective.
Some of the heads just split and cracked on the spot. It wasn’t like fruit being smashed, but the desiccated insides of the skulls would spray out in a splattering of dusty debris amid whatever bone fragments dislodged and took flight. Those zombies tended to drop or crumple then and there.
Other heads resisted the catastrophic results of a shattered skull, but still suffered extreme damage and effects from the impacts. These corpses would go flying from the force of the hits, tumbling and stumbling and rolling out of his way. Some were left with gaping holes in the sides of their heads, others with broken necks or fractured limbs when they went down; but all that mattered was they got out of his way when he hit them.
Even taking his time, it was five minutes of climbing and axe work before he got across the minefield of teeth and hidden undead. As much as he could, he stayed on the cars and trucks, so he was less likely to be surprised by a zombie lurking beneath what remained of a vehicle. The extra height made the axe swings that much more effective, but he was still breathing hard as he neared his objective.
“You okay?” Whitley called as he made it to ground on the far side and paused for a moment to check his surroundings — and catch a second wind unobtrusively — before continuing.
“Yeah, just tired.” he called back.
“I’m not sure how much of the fuel I’ll be able to fetch through all this.”
“Just keep a look out and be ready to yell if anything sneaks up on me.” Peter answered. They’d found a gas station and brought a small supply of diesel just in case all that was needed for the Bradley was a fill-up. “I’ll let you know if we need to get into what we brought. And watch yourself.”
“Same to you Gunny.”
“Yeah, yeah.” he muttered to himself. Moving closer, he studied the Bradley. It squatted in the grass beyond the intersection, a dozen or so yards from the nearest buildings. This one was painted in the beige desert camouflage that had effectively become the standard color scheme since the early nineties; when all the fighting happened in desert and arid climates, there wasn’t much utility in the greens and browns of a forest or jungle color scheme.
It didn’t surprise him to see some dried blood marring the sides, and a lot on the front where it had clearly done some driving through crowds of bodies, but except for those streaks that had clung on despite the wind and rain and sun the vehicle looked more or less intact. He didn’t see anything wrong with the treads at first glance, and there were no indications it’d been ramming or been rammed after deployment. Of course, he could only guess how long it had been parked — abandoned — here.
Glancing reluctantly at the rear deployment ramp, Peter instead started pulling himself up onto the vehicle. It took more effort than he cared to admit to heave himself up, but the Bradley wasn’t too much of a climb. The driver’s hatch was dogged down tight and wouldn’t budge when he tried it, but the vehicle commander’s lifted at his touch. Peter set his axe aside and drew the M45, then flipped the hatch all the way back and peered inside with the pistol at the ready.
The seat was in the lowered position, and covered in blood. But there was no body. Peter frowned, then picked up the axe again. Reaching the tool down into the Bradley, he used the head to slam and thump against the interior walls several times. It made a substantial thumping each time the metal axe head came into contact with the APV’s hull; one that was subdued enough out here, but that would unmistakable to anyone — anything — inside.
Peter laid the axe down once more, then got his flashlight out and settled back to wait as he strained his ears. Seconds became a minute, but he didn’t hear anything from inside the vehicle. From the look of it, either one or more of the crew had converted, or someone outside had managed to get up close and inflict damage on whoever had been inside. But whichever way the situation had gone, they weren’t here now.
“You hope.” he told himself, taking a deep breath. Shifting around, he laid himself down and poked his head and arms in the hatch for a look. The interior was as stark and industrial as any combat vehicle he’d ever been in, but nothing moved. Peter took his time, looking and listening; but he had to admit if there were any zombies inside they were playing it extremely careful for zombies.
Slowly, Peter shifted around again and lowered himself through the hatch. Once he was inside, sitting in the seat, he looked around again, then climbed down and checked the rest of the vehicle. He’d known from the pattern and number of antenna protruding from the Bradley’s exterior this was a scout version, but one look at the rear compartment confirmed it. There were usually cases of extra ammunition for the vehicle’s weapons stored back there, but if there’d been any they were gone now. A lot of the space was instead occupied with radios and radio stations.
The driver’s compartment was also bloodstained, but again lacked a body or any other signs of problems. Dried blood flaked away from the seat like crumbling rust when he sat down and ch
ecked the controls. A little blood wouldn’t bother a military vehicle, certainly not one that was designed for limited amphibious operation. But when he tried the starter nothing happened.
Peter considered for a moment, thinking about that, then got up and managed to contort himself into position to open a service panel. He peered in at the exposed components, then nodded and reached for the hatch above his head. The locking levers released, and he was able to open and push back the circular steel without trouble. As he hauled himself out, he heard Whitley calling.
“What?” he called back, blinking at her in the sudden brightness of the daylight.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s empty.”
“Will it start?”
“I’m pretty sure one of the fuses blew.”
“So what’s that mean?”
“I want to try replacing it.”
“Will that work?”
Peter shrugged, then held up both hands and let them drop when he realized she might not be able to make out the shrug from across the intersection. “I don’t know. Just stand by.”
“Well, we’re starting to draw a little notice.” she answered, gesturing.
Peter looked around as he eased himself across the hull. Sure enough, rounding the corner of some of the buildings, were a handful of zombies. Scowling, Peter made sure his pistol was in its holster before he slid down to the ground.
Working quickly, he checked the nearest two vehicles to the Bradley and pulled a good sized handful of fuses from beneath their dashboards. Back inside the APV, he popped out the blown one and tossed it aside before sorting through his hastily procured replacements until he found one that matched the bad component.
When he finished and tried the ignition again, this time the starter produced the distinctive rumbling groan of a long quiescent diesel engine bringing itself back to life. He cranked it for ten seconds, gave it a rest for ten more, then tried again. The third attempt worked, and the engine rumbled into service.
Grinning, Peter checked the gauges over. As far as he could tell, unless something developed in the next few minutes, the Bradley just needed a little routine maintenance but was okay for a short hop. It was less than thirty miles back to Canton, and the rally point was much closer still.
Adjusting the seat so his head poked out of the cramped confines of the compartment, Peter grasped the steering yoke and got the Bradley moving. It was designed to go anywhere an Abrahams tank could, and while its bulk was less than an Abrahams, it sufficed to nudge the occasional corner or end of a stray wreck out of the way without a problem. It had been a while since he’d driven anything with treads, but he found it wasn’t hard to summon the experiences back to the fore.
* * * * *
“Holy shit, you got it working.” Crawford said.
Peter looked up from the radio he was watching Whitley fiddle with. Crawford and Smith were just laying their bikes aside on the road a couple of yards from the APV.
“Can’t lose all the time.” he said.
“Yeah, well, we’ve sorta been working on disproving that pithy little theory.”
“What about the radios?” Smith asked as he stepped on the deployment ramp.
“Hey, relax.” Crawford said. “We’re back to riding in style.”
“You have any idea how often we’ll have to stop for gas if we try to go joyriding around in this fucker?” Peter asked her.
“Actually yeah.” she shrugged. “But zombie-proof armor and vehicle mounted weapons don’t come cheap.”
“That’s if they work.”
“You didn’t check?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“All I care about are the radios.” Peter said, turning back to Whitley.
“Fuck, I care. I’ll check.” Crawford said, moving past Smith and heading for the commander’s seat.
“Knock yourself out.” Peter said. He really didn’t care about the vehicle’s weapons, but he supposed if they were working it might be useful. A twenty-five millimeter chain cannon would certainly rain holy hell down on a zombie horde.
“So what about the radios?” Smith asked again.
“They’re working.” Whitley said, holding one half of a headset to her ear as she fiddled with knobs on the equipment.
“Then . . .”
“Chill, I’m trying to find out if Ellsworth is still transmitting.” she said, sounding annoyed.
“Okay, okay.” he said. “I’m just hoping the shit I just had to do wasn’t a waste of time.”
“I’m not comms you know.” Whitley said, her tone still perturbed. “This isn’t my skillset.”
“It’s a fucking radio.” Smith said.
“Okay, then you do it.” she replied, starting to get up from the fold out seat at the radio station.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” he said, backing away and shaking his head.
“Go be useful, take a look around.” Peter told him.
“You’re clear.” Smith shrugged. “Nothing close, nothing headed this way.”
“Good. Make sure. Check again.” Peter repeated.
“Fine.”
Smith stepped away from the lowered ramp, and a moment later he could be heard climbing up onto the top of the vehicle. Peter looked back at Whitley. “Nothing on any of the frequencies?”
“Not that I can hear.” she said slightly more calmly.
“Maybe they changed to a different broadcast schedule.” Peter mused. “Spaced it out some more?”
“I guess.”
“Okay, let me have that thing.” Peter said, holding his hand out. She gave him the headset, and Peter started settling it into place on his head. “Make sure we’re on one of their frequencies.”
Whitley looked at the crumpled bit of paper in her hand, then twiddled one of the knobs. Finally she looked up at him and nodded.
“Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta.” Peter said, adjusting the microphone on its boom to hang closer to his lips. “Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta.”
Static crackled faintly, weakly, from the headset; the pops of atmospheric interference. No voice came on the line to answer him. Peter waited several seconds, then raised an eyebrow at Whitley.
“I’m not comms.” she said again, fiddling with some of the knobs.
“It’s working, right?”
“As far as I know. You want to do the honors?”
“Check the frequency.” Peter said. “Again. I know, I know. Please, okay?” he added when he saw annoyance materializing in her eyes.
Whitley looked down at the paper Peter had carried in his pocket all the way from Georgia, crumpled and bedraggled after eighteen hundred miles and one very cold swim, then up at the radio’s frequency settings. Fortunately Peter had written on the paper in pencil, which had survived the swim. She made it even clearer that she was checking a second time, then futzed with a few more knobs.
“Okay, that’s about the best I figure I can do to boost the transmission output.”
“Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta or any station Ellsworth AFB.” Peter said again.
“Echo responding to Bravo, identify.” a female voice said suddenly on the circuit.
“Echo, Bravo.” Peter said, flashing a thumbs up at Whitley. “Survivor squad of State of Georgia National Guard traveling to join you at Ellsworth. We should be listed on your contact sheet.”
“Bravo, Echo. Wait one.”
Peter waited, schooling himself to patience. A few seconds later, the voice returned. “I’ve got you Bravo. Say current location and ETA?”
“Just outside Alburnett, Iowa.” Peter replied, delivering the opening of the prepared story he’d come up with to test the base out. Alburnett was on his maps, and effectively along the same bearing from where he was standing in relation to Ellsworth. If they were running triangulation, they’d probably see he wasn’t transmitting from Iowa; but he was betting they either weren’t or would
n’t look that closely.
“You’re getting close then. Be aware, there’s some major outbreak activity along I-90 if you come that way, especially in and around Sioux Falls.”
“Copy. We have a problem and need to know if you can help any.”
The Ellsworth radio operator waited several seconds before responding to that. “Go ahead Bravo.”
“We’ve encountered approximately four hundred survivors and are sort of bogged down helping them.” Peter said. “They want to accompany us to Ellsworth for shelter.”
“Say again Bravo?”
“Echo, Bravo. We are with four-zero-zero civilians lacking aid and shelter. They want escort to your location for shelter.” Peter said again.
This time the pause was nearly twenty seconds. “Bravo, stand by.”
Peter exchanged a tired glance with Whitley, but he keyed the microphone and just said “Bravo standing by.”
“Not exactly auspicious.” Whitley said unhappily.
“So far it’s okay.” Peter said carefully. “This might not be something covered by standing orders.”
“Oh come on Gunny.” she protested. “We’re in the middle of the end of the fucking world. If they don’t have SOP for rescue and care of civilians what’s the fucking point?”
Before Peter could answer, the Bradley suddenly vibrated as a fairly loud buzzing sound went off; a buzzing followed by a lot of loud cracks of displacing air. Peter recognized it immediately, even though he jumped at the unexpectedness of it.
“Crawford.” Whitley said, scowling.
“Guess the chaingun’s working.” Peter shrugged.
“I’ll go tell her to knock it off.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
Whitley rose and went forward to the gunner’s mount. Peter dropped into the seat she vacated and scanned the radio’s readouts without touching anything. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly an expert with the systems either. Turning it on and off, changing frequencies, and attaching power or replacement batteries was the extent of his knowledge. He was hesitant to screw anything up by playing around with it.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 28
