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

by David Rogers

  When she finished with the water, she went to town on him with the cream, putting a thick coating all around and in the wounds before starting to stick bandages on. Getting into the bullet holes felt quite uncomfortable, but she knew it was necessary. And he didn’t complain once.

  “Good. Thanks Mom.” he said when she was finished.

  “How are those pills working?” she asked him, taking the light from Candice and directing a little of the side scatter so she could look at his face. The pain lines that had creased his face were easing, but he was still sort of pale.

  “They’re kicking in. The bandages will have to be changed in the morning, and probably every six to twelve hours after for at least the next few days. How many of those AB pills do you have left?”

  “I think maybe ten or so.”

  He nodded. “Okay, wash up and that’s it for now. Thanks.”

  “No; thank you.” Jessica said, reaching and feeling his forehead. He was sweating some, but she didn’t think he was particularly warm. If he didn’t get a fever and he didn’t keep bleeding, things would probably be okay. She knew that much. “You got us out of there.”

  “We got us out of there.” he corrected her gently. “In fact, I think it’s fair to say you did more than me. I just caught some bullets.”

  “So I didn’t. So Candice didn’t.” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  “Wash up before that blood dries and let’s get some sleep. My vote is anything else we need to do can wait until daylight so we’re not fumbling around with flashlights.”

  “Big tough he-man’s afraid of the dark?”

  “Big tough he-man’s tired.” he grinned. “And don’t make me laugh, I think I’ve got some cracked ribs.”

  Jessica winced and limped into the bathroom to wash her hands. She found a fresh towel that she brought back with her, thinking he might want it to cover the wet ones he was laying on, but he was passed out on his back.

  “Is Austin going to be okay?” Candice asked quietly.

  “I hope so.” Jessica said as she sat down on the bed.

  “He’s tough.” the girl whispered, her tone almost prayerful.

  Jessica reached for her daughter and stroked her fingers through her hair. “He’s tough. Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

  She didn’t let her tears finally fall until she was certain Candice had gone to sleep. And, even then, Jessica couldn’t give into the true depth of fear and pain she felt. She lay in the bed listening to Austin’s painful breathing next to her, feeling Candice’s soft breaths as the girl lay nestled up against her, and had to work hard to cry without breaking down into hysterics.

  What was she going to do?

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen – Problem Solving

  Peter

  “How is he Doug?”

  Peter started to look up, then stopped when the paramedic working on him put a hand on his back between the shoulder blades. “Don’t move. I’m not done.”

  “I’m fine.” Peter griped, settling back down on the examination cot. It was a simple field cot with elevated legs that raised it up enough for medical personnel to work on someone without having to lean over or sit. He lay face down on it with his shirt and undershirt off. Both were heavily bloodstained on the back, enough so that he’d resolved – without admitting it – to let the medic tend to him. He felt fine except for the pain that wasn’t too bad at the moment, but the amount of blood on the clothing told him there was a limit to macho willpower that he might be pushing.

  “He’s lucky.” the paramedic said as he resumed his work with tweezers, picking debris out of the wounds on Peter’s lower back. “Most of these are only bruises and superficial cuts, but he’s got one here deep enough to have chipped a vertebrae if it’d been about an inch to the left.”

  Shellie Sawyer pulled a nearby chair closer and sat down next to Peter’s head. “If I didn’t know your type from growing up with my dad I’d be surprised it took you this long to let someone have a look at you, but I do, and I’ll just say I’m glad you’re not as pigheaded stubborn as pop.”

  “Your dad sounds like my kind of guy.” Peter grinned. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re going to need stitches on the deep one, and a couple in a few of the others wouldn’t hurt either.” Doug disagreed. “You’re going to have to take it easy for at least a week after they go in or you’ll just pull them out and open the wounds worse than they are now. And I’ll warn you now my stitches suck, so they won’t take much pulling to come out.”

  “Never did like you fellas much, you know that?” Peter said over his shoulder.

  “Right Mr. Tough Guy. Just lay there and let me work. I know that look she’s got, and if you’re not willing to cooperate because I’m trying to keep you whole, do it because she’s got plans for you.”

  “I do, you know.” Sawyer said with a wry smile. “You said I was in charge, and I hope you meant it.”

  “Every word.” Peter agreed.

  “Good. Because as much as I respect everything your people have done so far, they’re not you. I’m better off with a master guns than two corporals and a large handful of specialists and privates. And based on what I’ve seen of them so far, they agree.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, for starters, Doug is right. You need to take it easy and do some healing.”

  “You know, I was already married once, and we didn’t have any kids. There’s a limit to how much nagging I’m going to put up from anyone now that Amy’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry.” she said, her face clouding a little. Peter shrugged lightly, then scowled when Doug pushed him back flat on the cot and cleared his throat.

  “It’s fine. My sob story’s one of millions at this point. I did my grieving and now there’s work to do.”

  “I may not be your wife or your daughter or your mom, but I’m going to nag you anyway.” she sighed. “I’m not kidding, I really need someone with your experience. At least until I can get some of what you and your people know spread around.”

  “Relax, I’ll be good. I just don’t want to take too much shit over it.”

  “I’m sure your unit can handle the shit giving.” Sawyer chuckled. “As for me and everyone else, we just need training to replace all the people I’m supposed to have with me who didn’t make it in when the call went out. I’m short on everything, especially the skills people don’t think about when they envision putting a few thousand into a camp for any length of time. My plan calls for them, but I’ve got enough holes in my personnel roster to make fulfilling some of my requirements pretty challenging.”

  “Logistics, policing, maintenance, and waste disposal. Just for starters.” Peter nodded slightly. “I know. This isn’t the first relief operation I’ve been attached to.”

  “See, I won’t even have to spend a lot of time convincing you.”

  “I’ll be good.” Peter repeated. “Just so you know, I’m a master mechanic along with my many other sins. Whitley’s an electrician; Mendez knows computers and comms; Roper is logistics and kitchen, though he’ll bitch like you won’t believe if you ask him to cook; Dorne was a MP; Barker’s a fireman; and Nailor was intelligence.

  “Smith and Oliver are straight infantry, but that’s as useful as the rest of them considering the circumstances. Oh, and Crawford was a cannon cocker, but she’s crazy like a fox and has a knack for tackling the hard jobs. Don’t let her attitude fool you, she’s really pretty sweet if you manage to hammer your way past her shell.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find out.” Peter grinned. “But I’m sure she’s quite nice under all that armor of hers.”

  “I’ve got jobs for all of you.” Sawyer nodded. “Mendez is actually already out holding a meeting with everyone who volunteered to watch the perimeter. Said he’s going to take a first pass through weeding out the really hopeless ones before you have a look.”

  “Me
ndez is a solid guy, good head on his shoulders. He’ll sort them out just fine.”

  “I’m sure. Assuming nothing blows up in our faces in the next seventy-two hours, I’m hoping you and he and whoever else you bring in on it will get some real shape knocked into place so everyone doesn’t have to be so terrified of waking up with a zombie in their face.”

  “Count on it.” Peter nodded. “My people have done enough running and shooting to last us quite a while. In fact, once the refugees settle down some, it would be a good idea to put at least a couple hundred of them to work on laying in something better than chain-link fencing. With that kind of manpower it won’t be too hard to get done. The school isn’t too big.”

  “Way ahead of you Gunny. Unless you object, I want to spend at least two days gathering materials for the construction of a real perimeter.”

  “Consider my blessing granted.”

  “Why thank you.” Sawyer winked. “There’s enough food and water to hold us a while, so my priority is security. Then medical, then everything else, including calories. And it would help a lot if we could get the word out that things are different here. Carlson had several days to let rumors of ‘don’t bother’ spread, but I know there’s got to be other people out and about who need us as much as we need them.”

  “See, you don’t even need me. You’re doing just fine.”

  “Bullshit.” Sawyer told him. “Listen to Doug. When he’s finished with you, I’ve set aside a classroom in the math hall for you and your people. Red-5. There are cots and blankets already set up. I’ve got my people helping to make sure your guys and gals know about it. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see if we can figure out a way to get you around tomorrow without tearing the stitches.”

  “Solid walls, good roof, a full night’s sleep; best offer we’ve had in a while.”

  “Alright then. You need anything, my door’s always open.”

  She rose and gave him another smile, but stopped her turn when he spoke.

  “Your dad would be damn proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” she whispered, then she was off, headed briskly for the gymnasium doors. His smile faded a little and became fixed when he saw Steve Harris step through. The father-to-be looked around and fixed on him before heading over with a nod to Sawyer.

  “Oh boy.” Peter muttered.

  “What’s that?” Doug asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Uh, Gunny Gibson?”

  “How are you Mr. Harris?” Peter asked calmly.

  “Better than you I think.” Harris said hesitantly.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You can keep saying that all you want,” Doug chided as he went to work with disinfect again, “but it doesn’t make it so.”

  “Sadist.”

  “I wanted to thank you.” Harris said.

  “It’s nothing.” Peter repeated.

  “No, it’s not. They’ve settled Carol in one of the classrooms so they can keep an eye on her. The staff here have got training and resources to help her, now and in a month when the baby’s due.”

  “We’re going to do our best sir.” Doug said as he continued picking things out of Peter’s back.

  “I know. And I’m grateful beyond words. Both to you and to the Gunny.”

  “Mr. Harris. Not everyone’s a bad guy. People have priorities, but under half-decent conditions a lot of cooperation is possible.”

  “That past few days have taught me indifference is sometimes the same thing as bad.”

  Peter studied the man for a few moments. “Things are tough all over. But if there’s going to be any hope, people like you and your wife have to pull through. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  Harris blinked at him. Peter realized the man was on the verge of crying. The Marine had to stop himself from frowning. Tears were acceptable, considering the stakes. He didn’t blame the man.

  “Thank you.” Harris whispered.

  “You’re welcome. Me and my people are going to be sticking around for the time being, so I’ll look forward to seeing your baby in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Do you know what your wife’s expecting?”

  Harris grinned. “We’ve been waiting to be surprised. We wouldn’t let the doctor tell us what we were having.”

  “Boy, girl, I’m sure he or she will be wonderful.”

  “Thanks. Really.”

  “You’re welcome. Really. Now get out of here, go be with your wife before he starts sewing me up. I’ve seen stitches go in, and it can be a little ugly.”

  “Especially mine.” Doug reminded him.

  Harris nodded and bobbed his head a little. Peter watched the man head back across the gym, then winced as a needle jabbed into his back. Stitches. Great.

  * * * * *

  Darryl

  “Where Bobo?”

  Jacey shrugged at the stove as she stirred cooking scrambled eggs. “Outhouse I think.”

  Darryl nodded and drew a cup of sweet tea from the cooler on the table near the kitchen door, then took it outside where it was cooler. The morning was sunny and a little humid, but it was still more pleasant than the clubhouse. He knew Big Chief and Bobo had done a little talking last night about rigging up some fans or something to provide circulation, but they hadn’t done anything about it as the drinking continued.

  Lighting his first cigarette of the day, Darryl glanced around. Then he frowned. He had gotten into the habit of waking a hell of a lot earlier than had been his routine prior to the zombies; usually around eight or so. Most of the rest of the Dogz usually had to be rousted out of their sleeping bags or off the air mattresses. There seemed to be quite a few awake though. He would have thought more of them would be taking advantage of the day off to sleep.

  And a lot of them looked . . .Darryl wasn’t sure. The mood was a lot different from the day before, and that didn’t make any sense. Hangovers were to be expected, considering how far some of the brothers had fallen into bottles, but what he was seeing didn’t seem to fit hangover. Tired and looking pained, that sort of fit hangover. But the degree of lethargy and wincing he saw was disturbing.

  “Hey! Hey, someone help!” a voice called. Darryl’s gaze lifted and swept around the back yard before he spotted Burnout waving an arm from next to the line of outhouses. “Bobo sick on the crapper.”

  Darryl was out of his chair and moving before he even realized what he was doing . The just started cigarette fell from his fingers as he broke into a run. Two other Dogz were following him, but Darryl arrived first.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Crapper was occupied, but I been standing out here for ten minutes. They all busy. Finally I started banging on doors, and I heard Bobo moaning in this one.”

  Darryl frowned. “He hungover?” Bobo had done some drinking last night, probably to show everyone it was okay to let go and relax some.

  “Don’t sound like no hangover I ever had.” Burnout said.

  Feeling a cold chill of fear sweep through him, Darryl put his hand on the holstered Glock on his belt as he stepped over to the door Burnout was indicating. “Bobo?” he called, rapping on the door. “Yo, Bobo, you okay?”

  He heard groaning inside. It was definitely Bobo. Darryl’s fear turned into a torrent that threatened paralysis. Please, please, please don’t be a zombie. Not Bobo. Just about anyone else but Bobo.

  “Mat, Zeebo, y’all stand back. Cover me.”

  “What?” Zeebo asked.

  “DJ, he ain’t . . .” Door Mat began before trailing off.

  “I dunno. Just be ready.” Darryl said grimly, forcing himself to say the words, to not just step away and wait for someone else to look. He reached for the nub of wood that had been attached to serve as a handle and pulled. The door resisted his efforts; the latch was down. Bobo was still moaning inside.

  “Bobo, open the damn door.” Darryl said, pounding on it harder. No response came; at least, nothing intelligible. Pu
lling out his knife, Darryl snapped the blade open and probed in the crack between the outhouse wall and door. The blade caught the simple wooden lever latch and lifted it as he brought the knife up along the crack, until the lever was rotated to the vertical and out of the way.

  Transferring the knife back into his left hand, Darryl used the same hand to tug the door open as he laid his right back on the grip of his pistol. The door swung back to reveal Bobo sitting slumped against the side wall of the outhouse. He was on the wooden seat with his pants down around his ankles, but his eyes were half open and moving beneath the fluttering lids. The Dogz founder’s skin was ashen beneath his normal dark coloration, glistening with sweat.

  Though the outhouses were not pleasant smelling, to Darryl it was even worse this morning. The stench was thicker, more raw, and far more obnoxious than he’d grown used to. Darryl waited for a moment, but Bobo didn’t try to come off the seat and lunge for him. The vice gripping Darryl’s heart began to ease a little, then Bobo opened his mouth again.

  “Viv . . .”

  “What?”

  “Viv . . . ian.” Bobo repeated thickly, slurring the name like his tongue and mouth didn’t want to cooperate.

  Darryl clicked the knife closed without looking at it, thrusting it in his pocket as he turned. “Mat, go get Vivian. Now.” Door Mat took one look at the flat expression on Darryl’s face and bolted for the clubhouse. “You two, help me get him up.” Darryl told Zeebo and Burnout.

  “He ain’t dressed.” Zeebo protested.

  “He fucking sick.” Darryl snapped. “He our brother. It ain’t pleasant but I don’t fucking care. We ain’t leaving him out here with the shit.”

  Burnout stepped up and reached in with Darryl, the two managing to grip the old biker’s arms and get him standing. Bobo staggered as they tried to get him out of the small wooden shed. His skin was slick from sweat, and he was tripping over his pants as they tangled around his ankles. They managed to pull him out onto the grass and Darryl spoke without looking.