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

by David Rogers

  “Alright.” 180 shouted.

  Everyone seemed deaf. Darryl wasn’t surprised, it was loud work trying to avoid being a zombie snack. He repeated the same message to the other drivers and had to keep himself or someone else from getting shot when Dogz startled at his touch twice more. Then he almost over reacted himself, again, when a hand fell on his shoulder from behind again.

  The same townie was there. “Ready.” the man shouted.

  Darryl nodded and started moving and yelling. The Dogz at the front slid into the cars and kept shooting from the drivers’ seats. Darryl pulled the south side shooters first, then the north ones. They piled into the cars, climbing over them to get to the outside vehicles as the close ones filled. Most switched to pistols and kept shooting at zombies in the trees. Some ditched their rifles entirely, unable to find a way to put them in the cars without the heated metal causing problems.

  Darryl looked down each side of the semis, then at the walkway, but he was the last man still on his feet. He stepped across the hood of a sedan and dropped down into the back seat of another one through the open rear window. The interior of the car was hot as hell, and he had to lean his rifle against the window frame to keep from burning himself on the barrel. The gun was smoking from all the rounds he’d put through it.

  Grabbing the radio off the now much lighter duffel bag’s strap, he clicked the button. “Dogz ready.” he shouted over the continuing sound of gunfire before jamming the speaker up against his ear. The machine guns were firing again in both directions, replacing the loss of the Dogz rifles with long bursts that ripped through the zombies. The heavy weapons were impressive, but they didn’t put out enough fire pressure to hold the horde back. Especially when the ammunition feeding them finally ran out and the guns fell silent. Now it was just down to bad footing and time, and there wasn’t enough of either left.

  The zombies would be on them all in seconds.

  “Coming around.” he heard a man say. A moment later he realized it was coming from the radio.

  Darryl saw zombies were getting a little close on the tree side, but it was okay for the moment. Dogz were shooting at them from inside the cars, buying some more time. It was okay until the zombies from the alley joined in; then everyone was going to be swarmed. Weasel twisted around in the driver’s seat and gave him a wide eyed look. “What the fuck we waiting for?”

  “The damn plow truck.” Darryl said loudly, pointing through the windshield, past the cars in front at the pile of bodies. It was an impressive, and formidable, obstacle. He wasn’t sure if even the semis could push through it. Maybe some of the cars could if they got in a line and pushed together in a big daisy chain. There was an even bigger pile in the other direction, behind where the cars were pointing. “We can’t push through that.”

  “The fuck we can’t.”

  “Just chill.”

  “Damnit!” Weasel swore, then his eyes widened further still. “Oh fuck.”

  Darryl turned. He saw bodies and parts of bodies arcing up behind the north side pile, but the truck wasn’t through. The mass of corpses was too thick, piled up too deeply.

  “Oh fuck bro, what we gonna do?” Weasel was rocking back and forth with his hands on the wheel.

  “Dogz, hold tight.” Darryl shouted into the radio. “This DJ. Hold tight! Stay cool and hold.” he said, trying to ignore Weasel. They had to act together. Everything they’d accomplished so far would fall apart and get a lot of people killed if everyone started splintering off on their own.

  “Zombies starting to get close.” one of the Dogz said on the circuit.

  “Hold. Cover the cars and hold tight for the plow.” Darryl repeated. He could see the truck backing up. The driver was going to take another crack at punching through. There were zombies pounding on the side of the truck, but the driver was weaving a little as he got going backwards. It seemed to be working; none of the zombies managed to reach inside and grab him.

  Zombies were getting really close to the waiting cars. Gunfire was lancing out as bikers within fired to hold them back. Most of the bullets were going toward the tree line, because that was where the car windows were facing. Very little was going north or south, and those zombies who had made it over or through the body bulwarks were starting to get uncomfortably close.

  Darryl heaved himself up out of the car and turned, sitting on the edge of the window, with his Glock in hand. He fired off the little flush magazine into the encroaching zombies, taking out three and dropping another two temporarily. Switching the empty for one of the big extended magazines, he inhaled, blew the breath out, and started firing as rapidly as he could shift his aim.

  “Don’t think, just shoot. Don’t think, just shoot.” he told himself distantly. Decaying and frayed faces kept appearing in line with the sight dots, and he kept squeezing the trigger back. He was so adrenalized the recoil was all but unnoticed. The trigger would come back, the gun would kick a round down range, a zombie would stagger or go down, and then a new face showed up behind his sights. Squeeze, fire, hit. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  An almost explosion of bodies startled him out of his fugue state. The plow truck was through the north side pile, with bodies, pieces of bodies, and things that weren’t even recognizable as having once been either human or zombie flying away from the gore stained blade. The truck’s windshield was cracked in three places and blood and bits were stuck to the plow, the hood, the radiator grille, the body; but it was still going. An arc of zombies tumbled off in a bow wave forward as it shoved through the horde.

  Darryl dropped back into the seat as the truck barreled past on the right side. Cars started peeling away from the barricade to follow it. He grabbed for his radio. “Line up on his ass Dogz. Help push through. Bumper to bumper, go go go!”

  The truck slammed into the mass of zombie bodies to the south, and it was seriously impressive. Zombies, pieces of zombies, unidentifiable things; they all splattered up and out as the plow blade carved a path through heedless of the gore. Some of the cars were fishtailing as the drivers redlined their engines and spun their tires to catch up with the plow. There were multiple cracks and crumps of metal as cars rammed into each other, and the lead car rammed into the truck. Engine noise replaced gunfire as drivers pushed the vehicles and each other.

  Weasel was facing forward, rocking anxiously in his seat, until the car ahead of him finally pulled out and he could go. Darryl caught the M-16 as it tried to fall back against him. There was a melted spot on the plastic on the inside of the door, with sticky overheated strings of gooey material clinging to the rifle’s barrel. Darryl didn’t care about that, he was just trying to avoid getting burned by the gun.

  He braced his legs and dropped the radio as he propped his right hand against the seat next to him in preparation for the rough ride. The M-16 he jammed against the driver’s seatback with his knee on the receiver, holding it in place. The truck was only part way through the killing line of bodies, but this time it had the line of Dogz driven cars helping it to push through. Less impressively, but steadily, the truck and the line of bumper-to-bumper vehicles forced their way through.

  The ride was rough as the cars rolled over the carnage all over the alley behind the store. Everyone was flung back and forth. As the bodies gave way under the combined weight and power of the vehicles, abruptly there was vaguely ‘clear’ space ahead. The plow truck accelerated for the end of the alley, gaps opening between the convoy vehicles as they stopped pushing on each other and gave way in preparation for the turn.

  Weasel took it fast, the tires squealing, and almost lost control when he hit a zombie that was already down on the ground. The car lurched and slid alarmingly to the side, then the tires came off the body and back to the pavement. With a lurch, the car swayed and rocked heavily back and forth as the tired gripped and pulled it through to complete the turn.

  “You wreck us, I gonna shoot you.” Darryl said loudly.

  “We fucking out of here.” Weasel retorted.r />
  “Not yet we ain’t.” Goat yelled, hanging on to the dashboard.

  Darryl turned and looked out the back window as they headed up the side of the store. He saw one of the semis begin to nose around the back corner. Two massive plumes of dirty black smoke were belching from the vertical exhausts as the engine shoved the cab and its trailer over and through the carnage. Looking forward again, Darryl saw the plow truck was still moving, and finding the radio where he’d dropped it, he didn’t hear any chatter. He guessed that meant everything was okay.

  When they burst out into the front parking lot, Darryl blinked. He saw broken and run over zombies everywhere; though there were even more still on their feet. He’d known the plow trucks were probably going to be trying to act as distractions, but the plan hadn’t been too specific as to how. Apparently they had decided to do what effectively looked like big doughnuts and figure-eights in the parking lot.

  The other truck was off in the far reaches of the lot, near the street. Motionless. It had a swarm of zombies around it at least ten deep, and they were blocking Darryl’s view of the passenger compartment. All the windows except the back one were broken with zombies hanging out of them. He didn’t even bother to lift the radio to ask if the driver had gotten out. Frankly, he didn’t fucking care. Whoever he’d been, he wasn’t a brother.

  And it was too late regardless.

  The Dogz were almost out of here. Almost. All they had to do was get back across the Loop without getting stuck or wrecking, and everything should be okay. Then they’d be back in Watkinsville, could take the doctor, and haul ass back to the clubhouse.

  They were almost home.

  Behind them, both semis were just emerging from the side of the store, followed by the other townie pickups. He saw the men in the back were hanging on for their lives as the trucks rocked through the turn and juddered across bodies. Some zombies had managed to grab onto the sides of the pickup beds, and both gunshots and hammered stocks were trying to dislodge them. The drivers ignored what was going on behind them; staying in motion as the passengers battled the dead.

  The radio finally spoke. “Jesus Jim, slow down a little. We’re strung out.”

  “Uh, right. Sure.” another man replied on the circuit.

  “They slowing down?”

  Darryl shrugged at Goat’s question, trying to play it cool. He was still terrified, but he needed to keep his front in place. He was supposed to be the Dog in charge. He had to be the big dog. “They want us closed back up. Relax, we good.”

  “You say so DJ.”

  “Just chill.” Darryl said calmly. “Like you ain’t about to shit your own drawers fool.” he told himself, amazed at how unconcerned his voice had made the command sound. Like everything was as cool as he made it sound.

  Out on the road, the zombie horde there looked thicker than it had when the convoy had come in. The plow truck turned left and headed for the Loop exit. The zombies started thinning out as they crossed the lanes and meridian of the ring road around Athens, and went from horde to thick wandering crowds when the vehicles went from Loop to grass to Daniells Bridge Road. Darryl ignored the rough ride, but didn’t start breathing easier until he saw the bridge over the creek. The zombie count was down to occasional twos and threes.

  “Fuck me, we’re still alive.”

  Darryl didn’t realize he’d been the one who’d spoken until the other Dogz in the car turned to look at him. He made sure his hands were down at his sides so the others couldn’t see them shaking. Everything smelled like gunpowder, hot iron, scorched plastic, and burned cloth. His ears were ringing, his heart was pounding away in his chest, one of his knees was throbbing, and he felt like he’d been worked over by a jackhammer.

  But he was alive. It was over.

  He dug into his pockets for his cigarettes, then hesitated. The Dogz in the car with him were glancing around at each other, even Weasel in the driver’s seat. If Darryl tried to light up, he’d have to raise his hands. He took a deep breath as casually as he could, waiting for the shakes to stop. Even if he didn’t need to hang onto his reputation as a bad ass, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to work the lighter and hold the flame on the smoke so it’d catch.

  He really needed a cigarette. Bad.

  * * * * *

  Peter

  “Gunny.”

  Peter looked up from the papers on the desk in front of him. It was un-fucking-believable. He would have either pitched a fit or laughed himself silly over it if he didn’t know how important the organizing was. Even the end of the world couldn’t abolish paperwork.

  Whitley stood in the doorway of the school registrar’s office; now the Cumming FEMA camp security office.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, anything to get away from this for a little bit.”

  Whitley closed the door and dropped into one of the chairs facing the desk. He’d cleared all the former owner’s effects off it earlier. Staring at pictures of people who were probably dead bothered him. “I thought you’d be used to paperwork.”

  “Used to it, yes. Good at it, no. Happy with it, hell no.” Peter said sourly. “I did my share, then got promoted higher and was able to stick others with it. That’s what I’m missing, more subordinates.”

  “Uh oh.” she said with a brief smile. “You need me behind a desk?”

  “No, I need you out there. That’s why I’m promoting you. You’ve got the right attitude for a NCO.” Peter said as he tipped his chair back, carefully. His back was bothering the hell out of him, but he had refused all offers of painkillers. He could handle a little pain. The drugs might be needed by someone else more, and besides, the pain helped remind him of the stakes.

  She gave him an odd look, and he gave up trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the chair. “That what you wanted to talk about? Making sergeant?”

  “What? Oh, no.” she shook her head. “I mean, I never figured on making sergeant as a reservist, and especially not in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, on the recommendation of a Marine, but I figure you know what you’re doing. I’ll even do paperwork for you if that’s what you want.”

  “Shhh, don’t say that too loud or they won’t let me sit in here doing paperwork while my back heals. I might not like it, but I can push a pencil with the best of them if it comes to it. I need you young bucks out and about so I can take a breather.” he said with a theatrical eye flick toward the glass panel next to the door.

  The woman chuckled lightly. “If you think I can handle it, I trust you.”

  “I do. You and Mendez both, which is why I bumped each of you. That, and I’m too old to keep running around all the time. That’s what junior sergeants are for. I say, you do, and the privates and specialists bitch about it. All we’re missing is some officers for us all to unite in our disdain over.”

  “Right.”

  Peter studied her for a few more moments, then made a winding motion with his hand. “But that’s not what you’re here for. Spill it. Talk to Gunny.”

  “It’s Crawford.”

  “What about her?” Peter asked, suppressing a sigh. He wasn’t entirely surprised, especially not coming from Whitley, but he figured it might have taken longer for the question to come up. He should have known better. Mendez was a good soldier, but he was very job focused. Whitley was better at keeping her finger on the pulse of the finer details that went on around the tasks.

  “I’m not sure she’s dealing with things too well.”

  “I was under the impression she walked her watches yesterday and today, on time and without incident. Even shot some zombies while doing it.”

  “Well, yes. But . . . it’s what she’s doing the rest of the time that’s got me worried.”

  Peter shrugged. “What’s she doing?”

  “She keeps to herself, wandering around inside the secured perimeter playing with those RC cars Swanson insisted on getting. And when she’s in the building, she’s moody
and doesn’t talk to anyone.” Whitley shrugged helplessly. “She doesn’t give anyone shit, not even when Roper complained about having to help in the kitchen.”

  “You’re upset that she’s not being a bitch to everyone?” Peter asked lightly.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.” Peter nodded, allowing himself a sigh. “The short answer is, she’s probably going to be fine.”

  Whitley frowned. “Gunny, I think I’m going to need the long version.”

  “Everyone deals with loss differently.” Peter told her. “If Crawford wants to do her job and mope for a while, that’s no one’s business but hers.”

  “But—”

  Peter shook his head. “No buts. It’s a problem if she skips duty or starts slacking when she’s supposed to be working; but she’s not doing that, is she?”

  “No.” Whitley admitted.

  “Then my advice is for us to be there in case she comes looking to talk, or if she decides to reintegrate herself. If she wanted to leave, she would. She hasn’t, and she’s still working, so she must want to be here.”

  “You’re not worried about her? I mean, this really isn’t like her.”

  Peter thought for a few moments, trying to decide how much of what Crawford had admitted to him to share. “I won’t say I’ve served with people exactly like her before, but I’ve seen her type.” he finally said. “If I’m right, she pushes people away because she cares more than she lets on, and it’s her way of coping. Of readying herself against whatever might happen.”

  “That . . . doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to. You’re not her. All I’ll say is Crawford is working through some things that are none of our business unless she asks for help, or if she starts letting it impact her job. Since she’s doing neither, and since I’ve had a chance to get to know her some, I think we should leave her alone until she’s worked through what’s in her head.”