Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (10 page)

Despite his focus, he flinched when the first grenade went off.  The hollow chonk-thump barely penetrated his fugue, but the rumbling explosion and whistle of fragments scything through the zombies got his attention.  He missed, but he begrudged that more for the time it took to reaim and fire than the ammunition.  They had plenty of ammo; having the
time
to use it . . .

“How’s it looking back there Whitley?” Peter yelled when he finished his first magazine off.  He let it drop right out and clatter to the railroad ties beneath his feet as he reached for a fresh one; there was no time to hang onto the empty.  It was expendable.

“Not good.”

“Warn when they’re half a minute out.”

Smith launched another grenade as Peter got his replacement magazine seated and slapped the charging bolt.  It snapped forward with a metallic clack.

“How long?” Whitley yelled back over the explosion.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Not long then.” she said.

Peter said nothing, merely returned to his shooting.  Crawford was unloading from the back of the truck; standing and shooting forward over the cab.  Smith had positioned himself at the front of the vehicle, so Crawford’s shots were zipping over his head; but Peter ignored that too.  Smith was infantry, and crazy or not, Crawford was a solid soldier.  At least, in the post-apocalypse; whatever had put or kept her in the reserves before the zombies no longer mattered.  Her shots would stay high, and Smith knew how to position himself in a fight.

The Guardsman thumped out grenade after grenade.  Nearly every one hit a zombie dead on, or near enough, but few were actually killed.  The zombies were packed in together tightly enough to ensure near one hundred percent effectiveness of each grenade’s explosive force and shrapnel; but zombies weren’t humans.  Direct hits might tear apart, or at least gruesomely mangle, a body enough to kill or effectively kill it; but the ‘soft’ kills the other zombies took wasn’t enough.

Humans would be combat ineffective, if not bleeding out and praying for a medevac, after finding themselves within five or ten feet of a grenade’s ground zero.  Humans wounded, and reacted to those wounds.  Humans felt pain when limbs were shredded or ripped away, when razor sharp hot metal fragments splattered into and through their bodies.  Burns, cuts, concussive impacts; such things affected humans.

Not zombies though.  So long as the creature’s head stayed intact, it kept coming.  Or, at least, trying to come.  If all the limbs were disabled, it would just lay there; but even then it would keep looking at a target if it was able.  It would keep trying to bite if something warm and tasty got near.  And it, nor its other brethren, didn’t mind if anyone or anything walked right over it to pursue those human happy meals.

Smith’s grenades were creating one hell of a block against the zombies coming from the west, but killing very few.  He would pile them up, slowing them down; but it was the five five six rounds of Crawford and Peter that were actually taking zombies down for good.  The grenade shrapnel was more likely to hit somewhere other than the head; but the other two military shooters knew where to put their rounds, and were servicing targets one after the other.

And quicker than expected — as always — the heavy ordinance ran out; leaving Smith shooting bullets just like the rest of them.

Peter was in the fastest shooting pattern he knew how to maintain — centering his sights on a face or head, squeezing the trigger, and shifting to a fresh target — but even as he fired off bullets nearly as rapidly as the AR-15’s burst mode could have spit them out, he knew it wasn’t enough.  The skulls that his scope’s targeting dot fell upon kept disintegrating, the bodies kept falling, and still the horde continued to close.

He dialed back to two times magnification, then straight view, and still they came.  He felt the barrel of his weapon beginning to seriously heat up from all the rounds he was pumping down range and still they came.  One minute became two, empty magazines piled up around his feet, and still they came.

The four humans were the survivors of over two hundred military personnel who’d been trapped in Atlanta on the first night of the zombie outbreaks, chased by creatures from a nightmare all through the city’s downtown area.  Each of them had hardened, had learned, in the two months since.  They knew how to fight zombies, knew how and where to shoot, how to maintain fire, how to ensure the bullets weren’t ignored but actually took zombies down for good.

And still the creatures came on.  Four people, however good, were still only four.  The zombies were well into the hundreds, probably past a thousand.

Peter buffered his building dismay — and, he was afraid to admit,
panic
— by forcing himself to think hard.  His shooting slowed as he diverted his thoughts, but he ignored that; rate of fire wasn’t going to solve the problem.  At least, not the rate the foursome was capable of putting out.  Instead, he tried to evaluate the situation and find a solution.

Could they hop in the truck and floor it?  No, the horde on the Arkansas side of the bridge was still too thick; still had far too many bodies to get through.  And it was no better on the Tennessee side.  If anything, it looked worse.  If it was try or die, maybe; but he wouldn’t hold his breath at the vehicle being able to make it through.  There were just
way
too many bodies between them and safety.

Engines, tires; there was a limit.  Most humans weighed between one hundred fifty and two hundred fifty pounds; so hitting even one at high speed would wreck both the body and the vehicle.  Even if there was room to get the truck up to speed, hitting dozens and dozens and
dozens
of zombies at ‘ramming speed’ would just be effectively no different from driving straight into a brick wall.

Holding the speed down and trying to use the bumper had at least a chance; but not much of one.  If it were just a couple handfuls, sure; the engine and transmission and tires could force and grip their way through.  But it was obvious the horde was packed in heavy and tight; even a semi-truck would find itself swallowed on all sides by the mass of hungry zombies.

He had seen what happened when a zombie horde surrounded a vehicle; the occupants died.  It sometimes took a few minutes for the zombies to force their way in; but they were relentless.  They’d break through the windows, pound through the bodywork, ignore the pain and fatigue that might slow or dissuade a human crowd, ignore however many of their hungry brethren who were shot or otherwise killed in the process; and get their hands and teeth on the warm, delectable humans within.

Once a vehicle was swarmed, it was all over but the chewing.  Just because it was a car, even a truck, didn’t mean it couldn’t get stuck.  Enough bodies could stop
anything
; and zombie hordes usually had more than enough.  This one certainly did.

Peter considered the bridge itself; maybe the four of them could climb the sides and somehow stay out of reach.  The structure was formed from simple Xs of metal, banded above and below with continuous beams.  It
might
be possible to climb up them, and then get onto the top beams and crawl to safety; but that climb would be tricky.

There were rivets or bolts or something, but not many, and they were just little nubs of metal on an otherwise featureless expanse of more metal; mostly smooth metal.  Grip strength would be the only main means of ascending.  He wasn’t confident
he
could make it up; even a younger version of himself.  And while the other three with him were younger, they were also less well trained.  Desperation might lend everyone enough motivation to try, but Peter would bet on maybe one of the four making it to the top.

Falling during the climb would either drop them back to the bridge, likely into the zombies’ clutches or to the tracks where they’d lay with broken legs just ahead of the grasping hands; or into the . . .
river
.

“That’s a thought.”
he muttered mentally, sidling over sideways so he could take a look past the edge at the Mississippi River below.  The bridge was high enough above the water’s surface to make him uncomfortable; but it didn’t look
that
high.  It wasn’t going to be a pleasant drop, but he didn’t think it wasn’t survivable.  Losing control during the fall and going in any way but legs first in a vertical position would likely be death, and he’d bet on at least one of the four screwing up a foot or a leg or something from the impact, but if the alternative was jump or get eaten . . .

The real problem, once they were in the water, was the temperature.  The air was cold; somewhere in the forties he’d guess.  Water was a great heat sink, but even with the current and the sun he knew the water temperature wouldn’t be much better than the air’s.  Maybe fifties if they were lucky.

He knew the other three probably didn’t know what that meant, but one thing at a time.  Step one was to get the hell out of here.

“New plan.” he shouted, slinging his weapon and opening the truck door.

“You invented invisible jetpacks and have four?” Crawford yelled back.

“Super-secret sergeant’s helicopter’s gonna scoop us out of here?” Smith asked loudly.

“We jump.” he answered, grabbing his pack and opening one of the side pouches.  Pulling out a coil of standard line, he used his knife to cut a twenty foot length off and quickly tied one end to the top of the pack’s frame.

“Wait, what?” Whitley asked.  “Also, we’re getting tight to the east.”

“We jump.” Peter repeated.

“That’s your plan?” Smith demanded.  He turned around and looked in the direction Whitley was covering, scowled, then shook his head as he looked back forward and finished off the rest of his current magazine.

“Got a better one?”

“Can we climb?” the Guardsman asked as he kicked empty grenade shells out from beneath his feet.  Producing another magazine, he slapped it into the weapon’s well and thumbed the bolt release to let it slide forward on the fresh ammo.

“Can you climb this shit?” Peter asked, jerking his head at the bridge’s beams as he dropped the line on his pack and began unfurling the rest of the cord that was left.

“Maybe.”

“Right, maybe.  And where do we go once we’re up there?”

“We’ll have time to kill the zombies.”

“Can you make that climb while carrying enough ammo to clear the city on both sides of the river?” Peter asked as he started putting knots into the rest of the cord he hadn’t cut off, forcing his fingers through the motions as fast as he could.  It occurred to him the line could be used to maybe take some of the drop out of the drop if they climbed down it before jumping.

If there was time.

“No.” Whitley answered.

“Maybe.” Smith said.

“Maybe.” Crawford said along with Smith.

“Exactly.” Peter nodded as Smith and Crawford made sour faces at one another.  “Climb if you want to, but my escape is into the river.”

“From this height?”

“Give me another option.” he said, trying to talk and focus on his hands at the same time.  They were flying over the rope, pulling knots in so fast he was risking friction burns on his fingers; but there was just no time.  The zombies were getting
close
on both sides.

“Fuck it, let’s jump.” Crawford said abruptly, moving to Peter’s side of the truck and vaulting down from the bed with one hand.  “Always wanted to high dive.”

“Not all of us are crazy.” Smith said.

“Not all of us are pussies either.” she shot back.

“This sucks.” Smith said before he started firing to the east.

“Cost of doing business.” Peter said, deciding the rope was either going to work or not.  He had maybe forty feet in his hands, and only had knots in about ten feet of one half.  He’d tie the other end to the bridge, and the four of them could slide down and grab onto the knots to halt their momentum, then drop for the water.

The sound of gunfire ceased as the three Guardsmen approached him.  Whitley started pulling packs out, but Smith stopped her with a shake of his head.  “Bad idea.”

“What?”

“Likely to overbalance you during the drop.  And the straps are going to dig in like you won’t believe when you and it hit the water.”

“He’s right.” Peter said as he started lashing the end of the rope to the side of the bridge.  “Could break your back, dislocate your shoulders, or worse.”

“You’ve got your pack Gunny.”

“Not wearing it though; that’s what the cord’s for.” Peter said as he secured the line into a figure eight.  “It’ll go in first.  I’ve been trained in this; but it’s been a long time since I had to actually go into the water with gear.”

“Running out of time.” Crawford said.  Her weapon fired several times.

Peter didn’t bother looking as he finished knotting the rope and tugged on it. 
“For what it’s worth.”
he shrugged mentally.

“Okay, go down, catch yourself on the end, hang for a moment, then drop.  When you go in, keep your ankles and legs crossed so your legs stay together, point your toes, and fold your arms over your body.” he lectured rapidly.  “Whatever you do, make sure you hit vertical or you’re fucked.  Go in straight and as tight as you can so you don’t hit hard enough to break yourself.”