Zombie Complex | Book 1 | The Battle For Chattahoochee Run

by Pain, Alexander

  Finally, America would know the truth. Of course, as soon as the network land rovers rolled into town, the network cut to commercial. When they came back, the two reggae lovers led the reporter and camera man down the ally and to a door. Loud music could be heard on the other side of the door. When they opened the door, they saw a small night club. A performer was on stage jamming to a tropical reggae beat and patrons were swaying to the music. No one looked like a zombie.

  “Where are the zombies?” The frustrated reporter asked the nearest bar tender.

  “We don't let the people be zombies in here,” the man replied with a smile. “No drugs in here!”

  “Have you seen zombies here?” The reporter pressed on with a bar patron.

  “Oh no,” the well endowed woman said. “They don't let people become zombies in here!”

  “Da zombies killed that man,” she said. “And, we said 'No More!' and took the drugs away.”

  “They ate his whole face. So gross,” she continued.

  “What kind of drugs do zombies use?” He asked.

  “In America,” she replied. “They call Zombie--Bath Salts.”

  “What!” the reporter said. “Everyone knows what bath salts can do!”

  It looked like the reporter and all of his viewers had been had. This was a non-event. The whole world smirked and wrote off the coming zombie apocalypse as a simple street drug problem in Jamaica.

  Of course, we never looked into the background of the television network or its parent company. We didn't know that the media company also owned a major Caribbean cruise line and several resorts in Jamaica. We didn't realize that the media company would lose millions if people canceled their vacations to Jamaica. Instead, we just laughed off the zombie threat as an isolated drug problem. It was April Fools’ Day.

  Chapter 6

  On the other side of Atlanta from our apartment was Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport—known as ATL by many a weary traveler. It was the busiest airport in the world. Every year it handled 95 million passengers. Nearly every flight in the Southeastern United States traveled through that airport. Amazingly, it could handle the volume and move people in and out quickly. The airport was an amazing transportation hub. That's why "The ATL" made the perfect starting place for an epidemic.

  It was mid-April, when we saw the first story about local zombies on the 10 o'clock news. At first, it was just the bizarre crime story that the news used to tease viewers into watching the entire broadcast. It was just a little crazier than a typical Monday night news in the city. Before they even got to the biter story, two gang-bangers and an aspiring rapper had been shot in the city, one crazy redneck had robbed a bank somewhere outside of town where the banjos play, a drunken high school kid caused a tragedy in his parents' BMW, and some robbery crew had crashed a stolen Escalade into a high end Buckhead boutique in order to get at the designer jeans inside.

  After all the hype of the Great Zombie Hunt, the biter story was just a weird and unconfirmed afterthought. Some guy on a flight in from Jamaica had gotten delirious and started biting people in the baggage claim area. Then he dropped dead. The smart-ass anchor man smirked and wondered aloud if the flyer was a Zombie. After I saw the story, I walked back to the spare bedroom and pulled my 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol out of our cheap gun locker. It was an SD9VE with two sixteen round magazines. The sleek, two-tone, pistol offered smooth contours, a stainless-steel slide and barrel, and a polymer frame. The SD9VE was an economical semi-automatic pistol offered great quality at an affordable price point. It was smooth and on the compact side of fulled-sized pistols. The only drawback was a heavy revolver-like trigger pull that some gun snobs didn’t like.

  "I'm glad you have that," Karen, my beautiful and equally paranoid wife, said for the first time ever.

  We didn’t have any money in savings, but we had a small collection of firearms. The semi-automatic Smith & Wesson was the most practical weapon for self-defense. But, I also had some impractical weapons like my antique Swedish Mauser. It was a World War I era bolt-action rifle. By today’s standards it was a very long and heavy rifle. The barrel was just a hare over 29 inches long and the overall length came in at 50 inches. Every major piece was stamped with its serial number and a tiny crown representing the King of Sweden. I even had a bayonet for it. However, it was made to shoot targets that were at least 300 meters away. If the sights were right on the bulls-eye of a closer target, the bullet usually went high. Shooting at closer ranges would be a bit of a guessing game. But, the rifle was reliable, powerful, and accurate in the hands of a skilled marksman.

  My other interesting weapon was an old British revolver from World War 2. I had picked the venerable Enfield No.2 Mark 1* up at a gun show for $100. It shot the antiquated and weak .38 S&W cartridge—not the more powerful and popular .38 Special cartridge. It had a very, very, heavy trigger and a break open design for reloading. I was actually a very good shot with the old revolver. But, the cartridge would be of questionable stopping power in a gunfight. However, it did see the British Commonwealth through World War 2.

  Rounding out my collection, I also had a cowboy-style Ruger Single-Six convertible .22-caliber revolver. It was slow to load, but fun to shoot. Beyond that, I had four .22 rifles. They ranged from a Brazilian-made 10-shot semi-automatic to my grandfather’s old single shot Ranger. My guns were mostly for fun. I was worried that real service against Zombies might not be much fun.

  On the plus side, I had been slowly stocking up on ammunition for quite some time. We had almost 300 rounds of 9mm. I had 100 rounds for my Mauser, 100 rounds for my antique British revolver, 200 rounds of .22 magnum for our Ruger Single-Six Convertible revolver, and about 1000 rounds of .22 long rifle for that Ruger and our assortment of .22 rifles. I wish I would have had more ammunition on hand. I had been buying just one box of ammunition at a time. But, with the Democrats making political progress, all the gun nuts had been buying ammo like crazy again and, in the frenzy, we didn’t have the budget to keep up. We did have plenty of eye and ear protection. Shooting glasses were cheap. We also had latex earplugs and muff-style ear protection. I wondered if those would be useful or cause problems.

  Of course, our first inkling of Zombies in the area had to start right in the middle of a pay period. As usual, we were tapped out and into our overdraft line of credit. We probably had a quarter tank of gas in the truck. We still had all the extra water, the ravioli, and the beans from the zombie panic of a couple weeks ago. We wanted to get out of town. But, with all the credit cards nearly maxxed out, we wouldn't be going anywhere until payday. If we would have known the Zombie apocalypse was real, we wouldn't have gone to the Buffalo Wing Joint on payday.

  That Tuesday started out normal enough. The curiosity of the airport biter hadn't evolved into a full-blown zombie panic yet. We checked our money situation online and I even went to work. Karen had no contracting assignment and was locked onto the zombie story. She called me every twenty minutes.

  "Hey, you know that biter guy from Jamaica," she said.

  "Yeah?"

  "On Twitter, they are saying that his body disappeared from the morgue before they could even do an autopsy!"

  "Twitter?” I said in my overly controlling guy tone. “What does the news say?”

  "They aren't saying anything.” Karen replied. “Weird, huh?"

  “Nothing. It's probably just a rumor.”

  "Yeah right. Now on Twitter they are saying that even more people are being bitten."

  If her hunch was right, we'd have to do some financial planning to cope with the emergency.

  “Hey, tonight we should check and see if we have any room on the MegaMart card."

  "The hell we should!” Karen said incredulously. “I hate MegaMart!”

  Click.

  I called back. She was pissed. Our cards weren't maxxed out for no good reason. Things came up. There was the long lay off. Then when we did get back to work, we needed tires and a timing belt. I left her an explanato
ry message. Then, I tried to think about work and focus on my job. But, as soon as I got into the zone, the phone rang again.

  "Hey babe, I went home and walked the dog, We do have $250 available on the MegaMart card."

  "Cool!"

  "Did you hear that more people got bit at the World of Coke and at the Georgia Aquarium."

  I decided I needed to go to MegaMart and buy some supplies. I told my boss I'd be going to lunch a little early. I went to the MegaMart over in Marietta. It wasn't busy. People weren't in a full panic yet. I bought 10 more cases of water, some canned food, some oatmeal, some batteries, candles, matches, a camp stove, a tent, sleeping bags, two hatchets, some bleach, and a few other camping supplies. I'd be ready for biters. Of course, there was no one to be found in the sporting good section so getting ammunition was out of the question. Besides, they didn't stock obscure calibers like .38 S&W or 6.5 millimeter Swedish Mauser.

  When I got back home to our apartment that evening, everything appeared to be normal. But, I could tell that some of our older neighbors were starting to get a little nervous. They actually paid attention to the news.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday was another regular work day. I topped off the gas tank in the morning before hitting the highway. There was a line at the pumps. Except for the big survival knife from Harbor Freight in the center console, the commute was uneventful. Traffic even seemed light. As I drove into work, I listened intently to the radio news channels. The biter story was beginning to gain more traction. However, the story about bodies disappearing from the local morgue remained unconfirmed. Most radio reporters discounted the possibility entirely. Most thought that if bodies vanished, they had probably been misplaced due to paper work errors. With all the police agencies and health facilities in the city, most local news organizations expressed confidence that the biter story would be handled quickly and efficiently.

  Karen wasn't having it. She saw that every news channel was filled with updates and talking heads. The media alternated between sensational headlines and urging calm. While survivalists and preppers on social media predicted the end of the world, local, state, and federal government officials tried to project a sense of calm.

  “Jake,” she called me in just after 10 in the morning. “Tune into the news channel on your computer. They are about to have a press conference.”

  I don't like to stream video on a work computer because big brother could be watching. But, for this story, I would make an exception. When I found the website, I was able to get the stream working just in time to see the Mayor of Atlanta, the Chief of Police, Director of the CDC, and the head of a prominent local hospital system standing behind a podium as part of a joint press conference to calm the people.

  “As Mayor of Atlanta, I want to re-assure the people of this city that they are safe.” The mayor started. “These so-called 'Zombie' attacks are being handled by police and public health authorities.”

  “It appears that a disease is causing people to bite others and infect others.” He continued. “While the people appear to be dead, we have to presume that they are merely in an altered state of consciousness. We have to remember that these disease victims are people's fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and children. If you encounter a victim of this devastating illness, do not approach them, do not hurt them, and call 911 immediately. I will now turn this press conference over to our police chief.”

  “What a wimp!” Karen yelled into the phone. “He’s a typical god-damn liberal and he is ruining this country.”

  “Hold on!” I told her. “Let me hear what he is going to say.”

  “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” the police chief started. “I want to assure you that APD and other local law enforcement agencies are handling this epidemic in cooperation with health officials. I want to urge everyone to stay home and shelter in place. Despite what you hear on the news and in social media, these so-called 'Zombie Attacks' are not widespread. There have been less than a hundred so far in a city of over five million people. I would also counsel everyone to just take a deep breath and leave the handling of these disease victims to the authorities. You are NOT to seek the diseased out, you are NOT to handle them on your own. I would remind everyone that we do not condone the use lethal force against these disease victims. They are not criminals. You do not have to stand your ground. You can flee from them. Therefore, anyone committing violence against these disease victims will have to deal with serious legal repercussions.”

  “Wow!” I said. “These walking, biting, dead people are attacking anything that moves, but the government will prosecute anyone who goes out and shoots them?”

  “That's what the Mayor just said.”

  “Surely,” I asked. “Outside of the city, we can shoot Zombies?”

  “I wouldn't do it,” my wife replied sensibly. “If a situation doesn't neatly fit the 'stand your ground' laws or 'castle doctrine,' you better not shoot.”

  “You're right. I don't need to get prosecuted or sued or to have a bunch of pro-zombie protesters coming to our apartment.”

  “Can you work from home tomorrow?” She asked.

  “I hope so. But, you know my boss.”

  “Then call in sick.”

  “I'll think about it.”

  I really didn't want to call in sick. We had a deadline. I had to get the databases deployed by Friday so that offshore team could test. Most of my co-workers at the office were from India and they never, ever, called in sick. Most only had folding chairs and air mattresses in their apartments. At home, they seldom ran their air conditioners at all. It was no wonder that they found the climate and office chairs at the office far more comfortable. If I wasn't there and I missed a deadline, the rest of the “team” would all point their fingers at me.

  Fortunately, just before noon, someone in management sent out the official e-mail:

  “Due to the pandemic and expected civil unrest, the office will be closed on Thursday and until further notice. The safety of our staff is first in our thoughts. All team members should shelter in place at home and with their families. Once safe, please work from home using the VPN network. Check e-mail or call the 1-800 number each day to find out if the office is expected to re-open.”

  My immediate supervisor was the first to bug out. She was gone. Our director was more laid back. He came by each desk and told everyone to finish up, save their work, and get the hell out. For a moment, he even actually seemed interested in our survival. Then he asked everyone to save their work in the shared group directory. That directive was just to make sure that everyone's work was accessible to the rest of the team.

  As I headed for the elevator, most of my Indian co-workers were in the break room filling their water bottles. It wasn't a survival thing. They just didn't like to buy anything from the vending machines. Their project lead, Dinesh, had a Nissan Maxima and would drive most of them home. He usually did. Most of the contractors lived in apartment complexes near the office. I was the idiot who lived in apartment complex half-way around the perimeter.

  Chapter 8

  For this disaster, I can actually say that I was ready for the drive home. I even had granola bars and four bottles of water stashed in the back. I had survived the great Atlanta “snow-pocalypse” of a few years back. Some of my co-workers were stuck in their cars on icy Atlanta highways for 20 hours. On that day, I was glad that I had an SUV and that I could drive in slippery conditions. Even though the Toyota Highlander was a womanly sport-ute that would have been called a station wagon back in the 1970s, I was glad that I insisted on installing some rugged looking, snow-rated, truck tires. The 3.3 liter V-6 engine provided a respectable amount of power. The only thing it was missing was all wheel drive and low range gearing for true off-road capabilities. On the drive home, I was still glad that we still had the Highlander. It was nice to have something a little larger than the average car and that looked a little bit like a truck.

  My plan was to stay off of the perimet
er highway and hit the back roads. I shot out of the parking garage and hauled ass. I made good time too and was able to cross the Chattahoochee without any issues. During the winter “snow-pocalypse” that brought the Atlanta metropolitan area to a stand still a few years back, I made it across the Hooch only to have my commute come to a standstill because rear wheel drive cars couldn't make it up the hills leading away from the river. Fortunately, I was able to backtrack, hit the perimeter, and make it across an icy overpass to get home. This time I didn't have that problem. I could see that the perimeter was jacked up, but it was smooth sailing for me.

  The lady in front of me was driving a tan Subaru Outback with a big soccer ball sticker in the rear window. She must have had the same idea as me. We were both planning to skirt the shopping mall and make it back into our neighborhoods. We were both going 10 to 15 miles over the speed limit. Then I saw a man with a bloody shirt staggering down the sidewalk. He looked like crap. The Subaru lady saw him too and slowed down to 40 miles per hour. He stepped out into the street and she hit him. I heard the thump, saw him roll up onto the Subaru's hood, crack the wind shield, and get flung about 30 feet ahead of the car. I whipped around the Subaru and road kill. This was an emergency. I had to get home. This was Atlanta and I had seen dead bodies in the street before.