Apocalypse Aftermath (51 page)

“
Good.  Okay, stay sharp.  We’re rolling up in a minute with several hundred refugees in tow, and I’m not exactly sure how much yelling there’s going to be when the cops see them.”

“That senator Whitley was talking about is going to fucking love it.” Crawford chuckled from the driver’s seat.

“Just yelling?” Mendez asked.

Peter sighed.  “Honestly, it could be more than yelling.  I don’t know.  But these people and the others still back at the school
s are going to the camp, period.”

“I read you.  We’re ready.”

“Gunny out.”

“Time to get busy.” Crawford said, still amused.

“This is serious.” Peter told her mildly.  “There’s no telling how this is going to go.”

“Oh come on Gunny, it’s a bunch of cops with pistols and some shotguns and hunting rifles.  What can they do?” Swanson said from the backseat.

“Object.” Peter said shortly as she turned the Humvee onto the street that led back to North Forsyth.

“The dweebs on the roadblock we already passed didn’t say anything.” he objected.

“They’re not in charge.”

“Well, neither is the cop lieutenant.”

“Yeah, but he might not know that yet.” Peter said.  He found himself fingering the full magazines in his ammo pouch and made himself stop.  The school appeared ahead, and Crawford slowed and made the turn.  The MARTA bus was still on the front curb next to the building, with two Guardsmen visible atop it in prone positions at the front and rear of the vehicle’s roof.  It looked as unmolested as Mendez had indicated.  Peter pointed.

“Around the same way we came in, but stop on the curb ahead of our bus.  Don’t block the way for
the school buses to pull through.  They’ve got other trips to make, and they’re being driven by civilians.”

She complied, swinging around to the left and circling the front lot clockwise before stopping on the curb where directed.  Peter glanced around out of reflex, then opened his door.  Slinging his AR, he held up a hand to stop the first school bus, then walked around to the door as it halted.

“Okay, everyone sit tight.  We need to see about where you’re going first.” he said when the door opened.

“You said we were safe here.” someone near the front complained.  The buses were loaded to standing room only, packed quite solid.  He hadn’t bothered to count, but if there were fewer than seventy, maybe even eighty, people on each he’d be amazed.  The refugees had eagerly crammed themselves in on the promise of protection and shelter.
  And if he understood the situation back at the school correctly, there were still at least four hundred more waiting.

“You are.  Just stay on the bus so my guys don’t have to worry about you wandering around and maybe mistake you for a zombie.”

“Fine.” the driver, a middle aged woman who looked like she knew what she was doing behind the wheel nodded.  “Anything’s better than where we were.”

Peter jogged back to the second bus as it pulled in behind the first, then the others in turn, repeating the same orders.  A handful of people who’d gotten off the last two grumbled some, but eventually complied and reboarded so the doors could be closed.  By the time he’d gotten that settled, Whitley had pulled up in the second Humvee and parked behind the MARTA bus.  Everyone who’d left with him on the school trip had gathered on the sidewalk near the front of the unit’s mobile warehouse, and he walked to join them.

“Company.” Whitley said quietly as Peter reached them.

He didn’t bother to nod; he’d already seen the group emerging from the school’s front entrance.  Lieutenant Kinney and three others in police uniforms, plus another six in civilian dress; but they all were armed with pistols and either shotguns or rifles.  “Don’t start anything, but don’t assume shit neither.” he told the soldiers before walking past them to greet the newcomers.

“I’m assuming there’s gonna be trouble.” Oliver said humorlessly.

“Let’s hope.” Crawford muttered.

“Good news.” Peter said to the approaching group, using a light tone and wearing a smile.  “Two of the schools are holding out okay, and we got to the third before the zombies that were there managed to get in and tear everyone apart.”

“What are all these people doing here?” Kinney demanded, his tone commanding and challenging.  Peter ignored that and just continued smiling.

“We need to get them settled as quick as we can, because there’s at least one more load waiting, plus everyone at the other schools.  If we’re lucky we’ll be able to get everyone under cover in a couple of hours.”

“I can’t let you start putting people up here.
  That’s not the plan right now.”

Peter let his smile fade a little.  “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Kinney said stubbornly.  “Senator Carlson—”

“Is not in charge.” Peter said in his own command voice.  “Shellie Sawyer is the designated coordinator for this site, and my job is to support her as needed.”

“We’re not set up for refugees at this time.” the trooper said stubbornly.

“This is a refugee camp.  Put up the tents and hand out food and water, and what more needs to be done?”
  Peter asked, trying to sound reasonable.  Maybe there was still a chance this could be sorted out without insanity.

“
We’re not supplied to support large numbers.”

Peter gestured broadly in an arc behind him, in the general direction of Cumming proper.  “Plenty of supplies at hand.”

“That we don’t have secured.”

“And what’s the time table for all that?”

“The senator thinks—”

Peter shook his head again.  “No he doesn’t.”

Kinney’s jaw clenched.  “He’s concerned about further outbreaks.”

“No, he’s concerned about saving his own ass.” Peter said, giving up and going for his hardest tone.

“All these people you’re trying to help are going to be in danger if we have more zombie problems amid the population.  There needs to be a clear system of containment.”

“And you’re the same as Carlson.” Peter went on, ignoring the trooper’s response.  “Doesn’t matter who else dies, so long as you’re okay, right?”

The police officer’s face flushed a little, and his expression went cold.  “Sergeant, I’m not going to tell you again.” Kinney said dangerously.  His hand dropped to his holstered pistol, then the man froze as several clicks and metallic scrapes sounded behind Peter.  The Marine knew without looking it was safeties being rotated and charging handles on M-16s being racked.

“That’s Master Gunnery Sergeant.” Peter said, projecting the authority of his decades of service
as he squared off against the cop.  “I haven’t been just a sergeant in over twenty years.  If you’re trying to threaten a United States Marine, let me tell you now it’s a waste of time.”

“You have no authority here.” Kinney said, his hand still on the pistol.

“Oh but I do.” Peter corrected him.  “The President of the United States personally ordered all members of the military to help however we can.  A direct order to every man and woman in uniform.  Do you see these?” he pointed, with his left hand, at the rank pins on his collar.  “And this?” he shifted to the Marine Corps emblem embroidered on the front of his cap.  “You’re State Police, but I’m a serving senior NCO of the US military, and that outranks you and anyone else here until someone in my chain of command changes my orders.”

“This is Georgia, I’m a Georgia State Trooper acting on direct orders from the current governor, and I say you’re all under arrest.” Kinney blustered, but Peter could see the edge of uncertainty starting to creep into the man’s expression.  It was subtle – the police lieutenant hid it well – but it was there.

“Lieutenant, you’re making a dangerous mistake.” Peter said, finally letting his voice shed all but the vaguest hint of civility.  His anger and exasperation mingled with lethal threat as he regarded the other man with an expression totally devoid of any give.  “There are a couple thousand people waiting for the promised safety this camp is supposed to be providing, and you and Senator Carlson are way beyond exceeding any assumed authority you think you have.  If you expect me and my unit to just sit on our asses and watch people get eaten by zombies because you’re both too afraid to—”

Kinney started to draw his gun, opening his mouth to say something, and then things began happening.  Peter let himself collapse, his hand going for the pistol holstered on his right side. 
Gunfire erupted, in front as well as behind him.  People were shouting, but the gunfire drown out the voices.  He could feel bullets whizzing past above him in both directions, but he flattened out as he hit the sidewalk – ignoring the pain of the fall and the protest his body gave – and rolled to his left, toward the bus and his soldiers.

Something, he was sure it was a bullet, hit the concrete behind him as he rolled.  Fragments spalled from the ground and cut into his back, but he had the pistol in his hand now and kept rolling.  When he came down on his left side again he was already raising the
M45.  Most of the cops or deputized cops or whatever the hell they were weren’t on their feet anymore.  He saw three with their hands in the air, two of them with wet spots staining their pants at the groin and thighs.

Of the others, blood was everywhere around them as they lay writhing on the sidewalk.  Bulletproof vests did little to stop rifle bullets, especially from close range.  Two of Kinney’s group were barely moving and Peter’s instant evaluation judged they were probably mortally wounded.  His hearing snapped back into place as guns stopped going off, and he heard
a lot of yelling.

“Drop it!”

“Hands, hands, show me your hands.”

“Don’t kill me!”

“Don’t move!  Just lay there.”

“Oh God, oh God!”

Beyond the mingled orders of his people and the more panicked yelling of the survivors of Kinney’s group, he could hear, more distantly, the civilians in the bus crying out in alarm at what was happening.  He supposed most of them had an excellent view of the little standoff.

Peter bellowed loudly enough that he felt his throat protest.  “Quiet!”

The shouting subsided, leaving only the groans and whimpering of dying men.  Peter stayed where he was, surveying the wounded cops over the sights of his pistol.  “Whitley.”

“Yeah.”
she sounded calm and serious, which didn’t surprise him.  She’d made it this far without losing it, so he supposed a little shootout with civilian police wasn’t going to phase her either.

“You and two others, secure their weapons.  Mendez.”

“Right here.”  The Guardsman’s voice was a little tense, but level and confident.

“Pick two more, cover Whitley tight.”

Whitley eased past with Oliver and Roper following, all three holding their weapons at the ready against their shoulders.  Oliver was limping, the leg of his uniform bloodstained, but the man’s M-16 was steady as he covered the cops.  Peter heard boots on the sidewalk to his right but kept his attention fixed forward.  Whitley started kicking rifles and shotguns away from the men, leaving some streaks as blood on the weapons splattered the concrete.  Then she bent and began removing pistols from holsters.

“Gunny.”

“Crawford, this isn’t the time.” Peter said.

“There a doctor inside?”

“Mendez, you on target?” Peter asked.

“They’re covered.” the soldier answered from his right, sounding very serious.

“No one fucking moves.” Peter ordered, then pushed himself to his knees with a grunt of pain.  Whatever had happened to his back, it hurt like a bitch.  He got to a one-knee position and turned with a wince as he allowed himself a moment to try and get a handle on his injuries.

Smith and Dorne were visible at the edge of the MARTA bus’ roof, their M-16 barrels poking past it as they covered the scene
below.  Crawford was on her knees next to a bloody figure in fatigues on the sidewalk.  Her hands were pressed against his chest.

“Gunny, you okay?  You’re bleeding.” Jenkins asked from one of the front windows of the bus.  The
previously wounded Guardsman had his rifle leveled out the window.  The man maybe couldn’t walk unaided, but his weapon was steady as he surveyed things from the window.

“I’ll live.” Peter said.  “I think.”

“Swanson’s hit bad.” Crawford said as she dug in one of her pouches.

Peter staggered to his feet, feeling like he was thirty years older than he actually was.  Crawford had some thick battle dressings in her hand and started ripping open Swanson’s uniform shirt.  Peter’s back twinged as he straightened, but he was able to hold himself erect as he looked around swiftly before turning back to Whitley.  She was just finishing with the last of the weapons.  Peter ignored the wounded men as she backed away, then gestured with his pistol at the three who had their hands up.

“On your knees, hands behind your head, and don’t fucking move.” he ordered.  As they dropped obediently, Peter looked at Whitley.  “They all stay right here.  They move, shoot them.”

“Got it.” she said, her face very calm.

“Mendez, you and your guys with me, now.  Smith, you and Dorne stop gawking and cover the parking lot.  There’s been enough killing, let’s not let any zombies join in.  Crawford, do what you can for Swanson.”