by David Rogers
Two kids and two brothers, dead because someone forgot to make sure the water they were drinking and washing food in was clean. Darryl had told EZ to stop asking questions about it. Pointing fingers and singling someone out wouldn’t just be hard to do without making sure it was the right person who’d made the mistake; it would do nothing to help.
Everyone knew it had been bad water, and everyone knew how to make sure it didn’t happen again. Boil all water, and add chlorine. Thanks to Jody, they had plenty of cleaning supplies. Darryl didn’t think even she had guessed how valuable the bleach would turn out to be, but now they knew and could avoid a repeat of the tragic mistake.
That was what was important. Even though he really wanted to rage and roar until someone admitted the fatal error, so he could lay a beating on them until his hands gave out and he couldn’t lift his arms for another rblow, Darryl knew it wouldn’t help. And it wasn’t what Bobo would do.
“We got four more Dogz to bury today.” Darryl said finally. “Them two kids ain’t patched, but that don’t mean they weren’t Dogz. We all Dogz now. We all in this together, just like Bobo been saying since all this shit started. We here because we gonna make it through. Because we gonna make sure we stay strong. That everyone’s job, staying strong so we all strong together.
“It ain’t gonna be easy. We done some hard work and some hard things, and there gonna be plenty more of both, but we gonna pull together and get through all of it. Watkinsville loaned us a doctor, but they was starving to death before we went and got them the food they needed. They ten times as many as we is, but they needed us. They gonna be needing us again. Because we strong and they know it.
“Shit gonna happen. Sometime every day. Sometime maybe every hour. Whatever it is, wherever it happen, we gonna deal and keep going. That the job, and we gonna do it. Tell me why?”
“Because we Dogz.” EZ said loudly.
“Yeah, we Dogz.” Tank echoed.
“Damn straight. We the Dogz and we strong. Ain’t none of us need to know anything else. You ever wonder if it gonna work out, you just remember that. That all you need to believe. We in this together, and that why it gonna work. We making it through this. We gonna survive. Together.”
Darryl gestured to Mr. Soul, then turned to the side and looked at the graves as the old preacher began speaking. Four new holes had been dug next to where Ratboy, Ape, Hooligan, the kids, and Shirley had been laid to rest; who had all already died because they’d turned into zombies or been bitten by one. In the four new ones lay the two latest dead children, and Fish, and Bobo. Dead because of the zombie apocalypse. Not by zombie teeth directly, but because of them. The newly dead were almost peaceful as they lay in the holes, their hands folded across their chests.
Stepping over to them, Darryl took his pocket knife out and put the blade into his hand. Pulling sharply down a few inches, he ignored the pain as the edge creased his palm. He opened his hand enough to clear the blade, then squeezed his fist over the first grave waiting to be covered up. “Take care blood.” he said softly as the drops fell on Bobo’s chest.
* * * * *
Peter
“All I’m saying is we should think about it.” Smith said.
“I’m not disagreeing.” Peter shrugged as he looked at the bodies laying motionless in the Publix parking lot. There had to be more than fifty, and while most of them looked as abused as most zombies usually did, he could only hope they’d all been zombies when they were killed. At least he didn’t see any weapons scattered around, which might have argued for a more mundane, human-versus-human, conflict.
Or it just argued for smart winners, who’d picked clean their victims after victory.
“So what’s the problem?”
“They’ve only had a week just to get used to walking the perimeter and basic marksmanship.” Crawford objected as she steered the Humvee around a wandering zombie in the road.
“Yeah, but every time we run a check they’re all doing their jobs. They get it. So it’s time to expand the training.”
“Some are still struggling to deal with the emotional shock of the situation.” Peter pointed out. “We go pointing out they could find themselves shooting at people and that might tip some of them over the edge.”
“So we replace them.” Smith shrugged.
“There’s a limit to how many useful bodies that can be pressed into service as defenders.”
“Better to be ready, right? And to find out now who can’t hack it?”
“How likely is it for some group to roll in and take on such a big camp?” Crawford asked.
“You want to wait and find out?”
“I’m just saying there are still plenty of easier targets, even close to Cumming.”
“Gunny, it’s just insurance.”
Peter nodded. “I know. You don’t have to sell me on the concept. But Crawford’s not entirely wrong either. It’s going to be tough for some of them to get their heads around. Shooting zombies is one thing. Shooting people is something else entirely.” He glanced over his shoulder at Smith. “You should get that; I know you deployed to Afghanistan for a tour before things started pulling back over there. How many in your unit had adjustment issues when it got real?”
Smith frowned, but he nodded reluctantly. Peter shrugged. He’d seen it before, even in Marines who were super gung-ho through years of peacetime training. One bloody firefight and some would find it wasn’t as fun as they’d thought it would be when the death was real. “That’s the real problem. Zombies are real, are scary, but dealing with them from behind a fence isn’t the same as getting shot at. Or as shooting at people.”
“It might come up though.” Crawford said as she followed the road around, passing a sign indicating which lanes to get into for the turns to I-985.
“It might. I don’t think it’s likely to anytime soon, but it might. We just need to do some more feeling out of the security roster before we decide who we’re going to invest time training.”
“What we need are some more psychologists.” Crawford grinned. “Some that aren’t as shell shocked as the two who already fessed up to being shrinks.”
“Yeah, they’re no help.” Smith laughed.
“Be thankful we turned up a physician’s assistant. And even with her, I’ll still take a crazy doctor over a sane psychologist considering what’s going on.”
“You sure about that?” Crawford asked. “The psychologist might be more useful.”
“Until all hell breaks loose.” Peter shrugged. “What we need is time. For starters, we’ll pick the best candidates out and start bringing them with us on these runs.” Peter said. “See who doesn’t freak out when we go into big buildings after supplies. Everything so far has been light looting in calm areas. Let’s see who can hold up when it gets real, then go from there.”
“Sure, kill two birds with one stone.” Crawford nodded. “Bulk up the supply situation and get a feel for who’s holding up.”
“Exactly. We evaluate them, blood them a little when they’re out on their feet, and stock up enough supplies to take a few days and do some real training.”
“Would take a load off us, that’s for sure.” Smith agreed reluctantly.
“Yeah, I’m getting a little tired of carrying you guys on these scouting trips.” Crawford pointed out.
“Carrying, is it?” Peter answered.
“Yeah. I’m awesome, but you guys seriously need to start pulling more of your own weight.”
Peter grinned. She still wasn’t all the way back to her old wise-cracking irreverent self, but she was starting to move past the funk Swanson’s death had put her in. He tried to help, by asking himself what Swanson would say every time she threw something sharp at him. If running her mouth was what helped her cope, he’d put up with worse from others in his time. “Awesome is as awesome does.”
“Don’t you go mangling Forrest Gump quotes at me Gunny. Sometimes I don’t know who’s harder to haul around, you or Roper.”
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“Roper is assigned to the camp.” Peter said mildly. “Ready reserve, plus he’s taking a big load off Sawyer’s people on the inventory management side.”
“Roper’s younger and more virile. You’re older and need more tending.”
“More virile?” Peter raised his eyebrows at her. “Girl, don’t test me. I’m more man than even you could handle.”
She shot him a look of surprise, just for an instant, and he chalked himself up for a brownie point. Small steps. Then her expression flashed to malicious amusement and her mouth opened for a retort.
“Wait a minute, what’s that?” Smith said before she could speak.
“What?” Peter turned his full attention forward.
“That.” Smith pointed to the left of the road.
“It’s a fucking gas station.” Crawford said after a moment’s study.
“With people on the island awning?” Peter disagreed. “And those vehicles aren’t abandoned; they were parked there as a barricade.” He reached for his radio. “Whitley, Gunny.”
“Go.” she answered from the other Humvee, following behind them.
“Looks like some fortified survivors up ahead. We’re going to check it out.”
“Want us close or far?”
“Hold on the street.” Peter said after a few moment’s consideration. “But be ready.”
“Always.”
“Pull onto the edge of the lot, but slow.” Peter ordered, pointing. “And play it soft unless there’s trouble.”
“Right, right, let you do the talking.” Crawford griped, but she slowed and drifted the Humvee over the grassy meridian to the west-bound lanes in preparation for pulling up to the lot in question.
The gas station was large enough to service the traffic – not that there was any to speak of now – on I-985, with ten pump stations. If the tanks had been reasonably full before the carnage started, the station probably had enough to last even a very active group of survivors months. Possibly even clear through to spring. And the number of vehicles he saw present would certainly allow them to do whatever driving they might want.
Forming a wall around the pumps were U-Haul trucks, parked nose to tail across the front facing the street before both ends of the line of vehicles curved around. It wasn’t just a gas station, he saw as Crawford got closer. There was a convenience store, but off-set to the right and sharing the same parking lot was a Waffle House. The windows on both buildings had been boarded up, but he saw steam rising from the restaurant’s roof exhaust.
“Looks like they’re open.” Smith mused.
“Sure, why not.” Crawford snorted. “Let’s see if they’re doing to-go orders.”
“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen since all this started.” Peter shrugged. “Smith, cover us from the hummer. Crawford, you’re with me.”
There were six people up on the awning, all armed with rifles of some sort; at least two had assault weapons. Peter saw a tall ladder leaning against the back side of the island’s roof, facing the convenience store. Four were watching the pair of approaching Humvees, though their weapons were merely ready rather than aimed. He saw Whitley stop in the road as Crawford turned into the lot and rolled the Humvee into the grass bordering the concrete.
“I think they’ve seen some action around here.” Smith said.
Peter nodded. There were bloodstains on the pavement surrounding the gas station, and some streaks that indicated bodies had been dragged clear. But he was starting to get very familiar with how zombies died. They never seemed to bleed very much, like they were dried out. None of the stains looked substantial enough to indicate humans had died. People bled, a lot. Zombies, for whatever reason, didn’t. At least, not very much.
“Okay, let’s have a chat. Crawford, try not to scare them.”
“Awwww.” she said as he checked his mirror and then looked over his shoulder out the windows before opening his door. He slung his AR into patrol carry and walked around the front of the Humvee as Crawford finished setting the brake and got out. She dropped in behind and to his left as he approached the wall of U-Hauls.
“Y’all Army?” a voice called down from the awning.
Peter adjusted his cap to shade his eyes as he looked up. “Mostly, yeah. We’re attached to the FEMA camp in Cumming.”
“FEMA?”
“Refugee center.” Peter nodded. “Currently home to a few thousand survivors.”
“You here to try and rescue us?”
“Why, you need rescuing?” Peter replied, making a show of glancing around. “Looks to me like you fellas aren’t doing too bad.”
“That’s right, we’re holding up just fine.”
“So what’s the story here?”
One of the men moved closer to the edge and went down on one knee. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but over the shirt he had an equipment harness as festooned with pouches as Peter’s was. “Why you interested?”
“Just neighborly curiosity. We’re scouting the area, checking for survivors and supplies.” Peter answered calmly. “Already helped a couple hundred folks who were doing a lot worse than you.”
“Well, we’re neighborly, but we’re also independent. Don’t nobody here need no rescuing.”
Peter held up his hand reassuringly. “Just looking to talk. That’s all.”
“We had us a few incidents with some cops. They seemed to have it in their heads that we needed to cease and desist.”
“Well, I got no problem with what you’re up to so long as you’re not planning on rampaging around like third-world warlords.”
“That’s good, though we all pretty much in the third world now.”
“Still no cause to go shooting people up.”
“Had some of that going on have you?”
Peter shrugged. “Nothing too serious, but we’ve picked up a few isolated rumors of people getting unfriendly toward folks they find.”
“We’re friendly, we’re just not ready to believe things are everywhere else.”
“That’s smart. So, if we’re both satisfied as to our friendly nature, what say you share some news?”
The man on the awning shifted his rifle to rest against his upraised knee and shrugged. “Let’s see. Fucking zombies eating whoever they can get their hands on, govr’ment falling down on the job as usual, and hell on Earth. That about sum it up for you?”
“Pretty much.” Peter agreed. “So other than the cops you said wandered by, you haven’t seen anything more organized?”
“Organized how?”
“Government, military, anything that looks like it might be working on solving the zombie problem.”
“Can’t say we have, until you and your people about a minute ago. That what you’re doing; solving the problem?”
Peter shook his head. “We’re supporting the FEMA camp. It’s the closest we’ve found to any sort help for everyone still breathing, so we’re doing what we can to keep people fed and sheltered.”
“Guess someone’s gotta do it.” the man shrugged again. “Traffic on 985’s pretty down, maybe a few cars a day, on the busy days. If you’re thinking about checking out Suwanee, don’t bother. Zombies fucking thick as politicians at a barbecue there. Same goes for 85 down into Gwinnett. You head that way, be ready to do some serious shooting.”
“Not sure how useful it’ll be to you, but I-75 from Marietta at least up to Calhoun is just about as bad.” Peter offered. “We went through there about a week ago and it’s not pretty.”
“Good to know, but we’re keeping a little closer to home than that.”
“So, what’s your story then? We’ve run into a number of holdouts, but you guys are the pick of the litter, I got to say.”
The man grinned. “Welcome to the Whitfield Family Trading Post.”
“Trading Post?” Crawford asked quietly.
“Barter?” Peter inquired, ignoring her.
“Sure enough.”
“What’s on offer and what are yo
u looking for?”
“We got us a pretty broad selection we’ve been pulling in from around the area. Seems a shame to just leave it for zombies to chew on. Gas, cigarettes, survival gear, clothes, some tires and stuff for cars – though I don’t know that we’ve got anything too likely to fit yours – food, weapons, all kinds of stuff.”
“What about the Waffle House?” Peter asked, gesturing at the restaurant.
“What about it?”
“Smells like the grill’s working.”
“Sure is. Why, you folks hungry?”
“Depends on what you’ve got, and who’s doing the cooking?”
The man grinned. “Well, it just so happens we got us a real live Waffle House cook, and we’re stocked to the rafters with food for him to work with.”
“How’d you manage that?” Crawford called. “Power’s been out for a while now.”
“Well ma’am, we got here before it failed and hooked us up some generators. And we managed to fill the freezers, and the coolers in the store, with stuff before the power kicked.”
Peter grinned. “What’re you looking for in trade?”
“For what?”
“Six hot meals, and six more to-go orders.”
“Gunny, you can’t be fucking serious.” Crawford said.
Peter held up a hand to the man above and turned to Crawford with a grin. “It’s getting toward noon, and we were planning on scouting most of the day. You want to eat canned food or something hot?”
“This is really weird, you know that, right?”
“Crawford, we’ve been in the middle of a zombie apocalypse for two damned weeks now. You can open a can if you want, but I’m in the mood for the kind of meal my wife – God bless her departed soul – would tear a strip off me a mile wide for even thinking about.”
“She didn’t like you eating at Waffle House?”
“She didn’t like me eating anything that wasn’t grease free and green, preferably without having been touched with salt at any point.” Peter said. “But what the hell, I’m going to live a little.”
