Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 2): Apocalypse Aftermath (Book 2)

by David Rogers

  She stared at them for a while, but though she ached inside, she’d done that crying already. Acceptance and the more developed stages of grief were a ways off yet, but she’d gotten that first burst of sorrow off her chest already. She spent some time examining Candice, smiling up at her from the captured moment in time. Happy and carefree, before tragedy had begun to strike.

  Then, reaching down deep and trying to steel herself against what she knew was coming, Jessica flipped past the more recent school pictures of her kids, past the slightly faded picture of her and Brett on their honeymoon, and finally to the one she both needed and dreaded to see.

  William and Sharon Patterson smiled warmly in it, posed on the back porch of their Dalton home. The same porch Jessica had grown up playing on, sunbathing on, eating family barbecue on. She clearly remembered taking the picture three years ago, at the party for their fortieth wedding anniversary. Not half a second after she’d snapped it Brett had slipped an ice cube down the back of her shirt, and she’d nearly dropped the camera.

  Her parents weren’t even twenty-four hours dead yet, and her mother was in the same category as Joey and Sandra. For that matter, her father might be as well. Sharon hadn’t had time to finish eating her husband before Jessica had found the . . . thing that had taken over her mother as it calmly chewed on her father. Based on what she knew about the horror of the zombies that were tearing everything apart, dad might very well be wandering around in Lawrenceville right now. Him and mom, part of the nightmare.

  Even though she knew it was coming, even though she was purposefully doing it, she was still shocked and startled when the box of pain burst open and poured out its contents. She felt her lips quivering, then the first tears splashed down on the plastic covering over the picture. Jessica’s shoulders rose and fell as her sobs started. The first half dozen weren’t so bad, but as she let herself go, gasps and tear-strangled breaths added themselves to the outpouring of emotion.

  She had just enough self-control left to quickly lean over across the bench to the shower enclosure, standing open and ready for use. Without really paying attention to which handles she pawed at, Jessica turned on the water and got the shower pattering down. The aural cover it added to the closed bathroom door shattered the last bit of restraint she was allowing herself, and a barely muffled wail ripped from her throat.

  Clutching the open wallet to her face, she lay curled up on the bench, ignoring the contents of her purse beneath her body, and bawled like a baby. Where Candice couldn’t see or hear her mother losing it.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five – Helping hands

  Peter

  “Getting kind of thick up here.” the radio said in Mendez’s voice.

  Peter lifted his binoculars and peered ahead. He could just see the lead Humvee, with a whole mess of zombies between him and it. He didn’t bother counting, but he did take a few moments to note if any looked like they weren’t trying to follow the vehicle. Without lowering the binoculars, he hit the button on his radio. “Okay, peel’em west. Try to get at least to where -53 cuts south before you circle back around to us, but don’t get in over your head. Keep us updated if you have to break off and head back early.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry about that. This isn’t what I’d call fun. Standby.”

  The Humvee started rolling west, taking with it the zombies who’d been attracted to its motion. And to the humans inside. Peter had changed his mind and decided to take five civilians. The extra was riding shotgun for Mendez, who he’d tasked with playing pied piper again. The specialist had preceded them to the Calhoun Wal-Mart and taken a few circles through the store’s parking lot before heading back out on the road. Now he had a good chunk of the zombies in the area by the tail, and the plan was for him to pull them all with him to help clear the area for the other vehicles.

  A M-16 fired above him, and Peter glanced at his side mirrors automatically. The roof hatch where a pinnacle weapon could be mounted was open, but Crawford was standing up through it using her rifle. He didn’t see what she’d fired at, but after a second shot went off, there weren’t any more, so he ignored it. The female Guardsman – Guardswoman he guessed – was decidedly on the aggressive side, but she wasn’t crazy enough to not warn him if something was getting close enough to be a problem.

  Behind his Humvee was Whitley, driving a Toyota Tundra they’d found near the motel, with a smaller Ford Ranger behind her being driven by Oliver. The two trucks would be more than sufficient for the amount of supplies he intended on bringing back. Canned and boxed foods just didn’t take up a lot of room relatively speaking, though he knew the weight of cans could add up in a hurry.

  “What are we waiting on?” Steve Harris fretted from the backseat.

  “For Mendez to get clear.” Peter answered. Harris had insisted on coming along, and Peter wasn’t exactly sure why. Either the man couldn’t stand not doing something to help, or perhaps he wanted to see if he could make sure the scavenging team returned with supplies. Or maybe he just wanted a chance to try and weigh in on what was brought back. Whatever the man’s reasons, Peter couldn’t quite figure it. If it had been his pregnant wife, he’d be sticking to her like glue.

  “How long?”

  “Patience.” Peter said calmly, lifting the binoculars for another look. “If we go in too soon, we’ll just pull what he’s leading back on us.”

  “Relax dude, we’re good.” Swanson told him. “Assuming Crawford doesn’t put a hole in the hummer’s hood that is.”

  “Fuck you.” drifted down from above, punctuated by another gunshot.

  “I just don’t want to walk back.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t. I’ll break your legs myself to make sure.” Crawford said shortly.

  “Gunny, you gonna let her talk to me like that?”

  “Knock it off, both of you.” Peter said, suppressing his sigh. He had put them in his vehicle so their sniping wouldn’t be going out on the radio, but any inclination the two might have had to curb their constant bickering because of his proximity had been dashed before the convoy had made it more than a mile from the motel.

  “He started it.” Crawford said before shooting again.

  “When we unass and head into the store I don’t want to hear any bullshit chatter.” Peter said in his command voice. “Focus.”

  For whatever reason, power was out here. None of the traffic lights were on, and all the buildings they passed were unlit. He knew the Wal-Mart, an enormous building with no windows, was going to be hard on everyone’s nerves; even with the flashlights they’d turned up in the Travel Center back at the motel exit.

  Zombies didn’t make any noise beyond the scuff of their feet or if they bumped into something. Something about how they didn’t breathe meant they didn’t make any of the growls or snarls they always did in the movies. It made them stealthy by design, and increased the danger. Spotting any that might be inside was going to be tough.

  At least, before they announced their presence by taking a bite out of someone.

  “Gunny, Mendez. I’m four blocks past now.”

  “Roger, we’re rolling. You know where to go if we get done before you’re back.” Peter said as he took another look with the binoculars before letting them drop on their strap and taking his foot off the brake. The Humvee began moving, and he built the speed steadily to avoid spilling Crawford out of the hatch. Both trucks followed him without prompting. In less than a minute he turned into the Wal-Mart parking lot and got his first good look at conditions there.

  A couple dozen vehicles, mostly cars, were scattered around the parking lot, with a few showing signs of heavy travel and use through some incident or another. One was crashed into one of the light poles, its front end wrapped forward against the concrete and metal, and others had broken windows or blood stains on their paint. He ignored the bodies he saw in a few places, but the upright figures near the entrance labeled “Market” he did take careful note of.

  �
�Stay with me trucks.” Peter said into the radio before curving around to halt the Humvee about twenty feet from the cluster of zombies. Jamming the transmission into park, he didn’t bother with the brake as he opened his door. The zombies were eating . . . someone . . . who lay lifeless on the sidewalk near the doors, but the mobile corpses had already noticed the vehicles. Or, rather, him as he emerged from the Humvee and unslung his AR-15. He remained calm when some of them started coming unsteadily to their feet as he got the rifle tucked in against his shoulder and put his eye to the scope.

  His thumb dialed the low power scope back to straight view, and he put the red dot right on the forehead of the closest zombie. This one wasn’t doing so good, there was evidence someone had been beating on it with something heavy enough to fracture ribs. Bones protruded from its torso, right through skin and cloth alike, but other than a sort of slump to the left, the zombie didn’t seem to mind. Its eyes were fixed on Peter as it continued rising.

  Peter heard the trucks braking on his left as he finished settling weapon and aim, then he fired. The round snapped the zombie’s head back amid a spray of shattering bone, but he was long past noticing how the zombies didn’t bleed like humans did. For whatever reason, they weren’t as . . . juicy . . . as people were. Their insides were dry, which limited the gore. It was still disturbing, but for entirely different reasons. It collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, abruptly inert and no longer a threat.

  Two other rifles opened up as he worked his fire across the zombies, taking his time as he serviced the targets methodically. There were only about fifteen or so, and he didn’t have to change magazines before they were all down. Raising his head, Peter glanced left and right, then canted his weapon down and turned to look across the parking lot quickly. Mendez hadn’t gotten all the zombies out, but he only saw two more that were upright. There were another dozen or so that were down on the ground, crawling or dragging themselves across the hot asphalt.

  “Whitley, Oliver, you guys good out here?”

  “Golden.” Whitley said as she climbed over the side of the truck into the bed. “Go.”

  “Don’t take too long.” Oliver added as he followed suit at the Ranger. Peter left them to it as both stepped from the truck beds to the cab roofs, where the plan was they were going to keep an eye on the vehicles and parking lot.

  “Keep me updated. Don’t let things get away from you.” Peter called over his shoulder as he gestured to the civilians. “Okay, you guys, grab a cart each, and stay behind me. And keep those guns in the holsters unless things get bad. Nothing personal, but I’ve seen people with years of training shoot a teammate accidently. Just focus on the carts and keep your flashlights in play. Crawford, cover the rear. Swanson, stay alert.”

  Each of the civilians had been given a Beretta nine millimeter pistol, along with two magazines. Peter knew better than to ask them to venture out unarmed, but he was serious about not wanting them to use the weapons. Especially inside, in the dark. The last thing he needed was friendly fire right in the back. Or worse, in the leg where he’d lose the critical element that had seen him through the nightmare back in Atlanta. Mobility.

  “Why am I in the middle?” Swanson asked.

  “Shut up.” Peter explained as he moved up to the doors.

  As expected, the interior of the store was dark. Really dark. He flicked on the tactical light mounted under his weapon’s barrel as he eased through the first of the double doors. Their glass was broken, crunching under his boots as he stepped through the empty frames. The inner doors were also broken. Panning his light around revealed merchandise and a couple of overturned carts on the floor past the doors, but he couldn’t say whether it had been zombies or looters who’d been inside. Probably looters; the shelves lining the cash registers looked pretty well picked over, with hardly anything left on them.

  As shopping carts rattled behind him, Peter kept his AR moving in a back and forth sweep, slow and steady. Some of the aisle end caps had stuff on them, so he figured even if there had already been some emergency shopping, the store probably wasn’t picked clean yet. The front aisles were close to the door, where sun could get in. The tac-light was powerful and had a quality reflector and lens, but even then it still faded before hitting the back of the store when he shone it down the main aisle that faced the doors.

  The store awoke a few tentative fears, but Peter forced himself to ignore his apprehension. They needed actual food, not just snack food. That meant they had to go into the darkness. There was no way around it short of punching holes in the roof or something, and he knew that would be a far more involved process. Assuming they could even do it. Maybe with a construction crane . . . he shook himself mentally. In and out. Quick and easy. Just get it over with.

  “You guys ready?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Uh, yeah.” Swanson said.

  “All set.” Crawford reported, sounding like she wasn’t facing him, which was good.

  The civilians all made less articulated sounds of assent. Peter drew a deep and unobtrusive breath. “Okay, everyone keep your eyes open. We’ll take it slow.”

  Peter eased forward cautiously, taking his time and trying to look and listen as hard as he could. He kept his light slowly panning around, checking from side to side. The floor was lightly cluttered with debris; merchandise that had been knocked off shelves or dropped by others and left. A few bags or boxes or cans had split open, scattering the contents out to crunch and crack beneath the feet of the little team pressing in. He tried to ignore the footing, winced against the noise, and kept reminding himself to take it calmly.

  He wasn’t afraid of the dark, exactly. No one who was could be an active Marine for over three decades. But this kind of pitch black was quite rare. There was almost always some sort of light. Moonlight was actually quite enough to see by if you were accustomed to it, and gave your eyes a few minutes to adapt. And while he had been a Marine, his motor pool MOS had made it rare for him to need to participate in the house-to-house fighting that had started coming up so regularly in Iraq, or the cave clearing that had been a regular occurrence in Afghanistan.

  But he was really wishing he had a pair of night vision goggles as the oppressive darkness of the store folded in around him. The darkness wasn’t just dark anymore. Since Friday night, it now held things. Hungry things. Things that made something hard even worse.

  The gunshots outside were tapering off, and his radio stayed quiet, which he took as a good sign. He’d seen zombie movies where people were treed up in stores, and he had no desire to reenact them.

  “Swanson.” Crawford stage-whispered as they left the last vestiges of the doors’ sunlight behind.

  “What?”

  “If you get scared, I’m not going to hold you.” the female solider said in a calm tone that held a considerable measure of smirk. “You’re on your own.”

  “The more time I spend with you, the easier it is to understand how you don’t have any friends.” Swanson shot back.

  “Friends are overrated.”

  “Like you.”

  “Shut it.” Peter said as he flicked his light up so he could start reading the signs on the aisles.

  “Hey—” Swanson began.

  “But—” Crawford said at the same time.

  “Enough!” Peter said again, more sharply. “Save it for later.” About five aisles ahead he saw the sign for canned goods.

  “Are they always this bad?” one of the civilians asked.

  “You have no idea.” Peter sighed. His light swept across an upright shape near the limit of the beam’s coherency, and he froze for an instant. He centered the light on the shape, and it was definitely humanoid. And it had no light of its own, which no living human would be without. When he realized he was bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, he made himself stop and think for a moment. The shape wasn’t moving. What he’d seen of zombies, so far, indicated one would react to the light. And a human definitely would.

  �
��What’s wrong?” Harris asked from behind him, shining his own flashlight toward the back of the store where Peter was looking.

  Peter shook his head. “Lots of shadows. We’re okay.” He made himself resume his careful sweep of side to side scanning, moving toward the canned goods. As he stepped forward again, he sensed movement on his left and spun, bringing weapon and light around. A humanoid shape was in the midst of the clothing displays on his left, moving toward him. Two more were behind it. All three were close.

  “Contact!” he shouted, tracking his fire up from the zombie’s chest to get one through its head where it would count. The weapon’s muted muzzle flash lit the area like a strobe light, giving him instant’s images beyond the circle of illumination created by his tactical light. He saw stringy hair matted with blood, then the glint of bloodstained teeth, and stepped back as he fired. His fourth round caught the zombie in the face and it reeled back and sideways. The pair following it pressed forward, the one on the left stumbling over its twice dead fellow while the other staggered against a rack of sun dresses at just the right moment to avoid getting tangled up.

  Peter shifted his aim, bringing his AR up a little more so he could put his eye to the scope. It was only two more, even if they had startled the shit out of him. No problem.

  Cold, greasy, squishy hands grabbed at him from behind. Peter’s yelp of surprise was genuine and halfway to a screech of terror. He slammed his elbow back reflexively, desperately, feeling the impact as he hit someone – something – in the chest. The fingers just tightened their grip. A bullet cracked past his head more than close enough to strongly wash his face with the displacing air. It was a testament to how rattled he was by the zombie’s grip on him that he didn’t even mind how close he’d just come to being shot.

  The hands started to go limp, and Peter tried to turn. He heard both M-16s firing, which gave him hope. His foot caught on something and he sprawled in a fall, managing to twist as he hit so he went down on his side but ended on his back. Another zombie loomed in the wildly swinging flashlights of the civilians and he instinctively dropped his rifle into a cross grip that left it in both hands across his chest.