Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (13 page)

“We n-n-n-need to hur-hur-ry though.” Peter said as he pushed himself upright again.  He was so cold, so far beyond his normal limits, that even the force of will he was summoning to keep himself going hurt.  Just thinking about what he needed to do was pain, and then doing it hurt all over again; and then he had to do it yet again for the next step, and the next, and then then next once more.  There were still a few zombies in view, but even as screwed up as he and his two companions were, the hungry horrors weren’t fast enough to catch them.

As long as they kept moving.  And as long as more zombies didn’t show up ahead of them.

“Rig-g-g-ht.”

At the top of the bank they found a simple little two lane road.  On the other side was a scattering of moderately dense underbrush and trees, with buildings visible beyond, and to the right he saw other buildings with the bridge in the background.  But to the left there were some rather cheap looking houses; the closest maybe three or four blocks down.

Whitley wasn’t walking — even a little — and as he and Smith dragged her along between them Peter realized she’d mostly stopped shivering as well.  Something tweaked in the back of his brain at that; something about how the most serious stage of hypothermia was marked by the body beginning to shut down in a final bid to preserve itself.  The muscle activity that was generating heat was stopped in an effort to hold on to as much core temperature as possible.

Even if he hadn’t been starting to feel the fringes of panic setting in within himself, that told him they had to hurry.  There wasn’t much time.

The closest house wasn’t much to look at; a standard looking affair that was at least forty years old and suffering from more than a little skipped maintenance.  But however peeling the paint and loose the roof shingles looked; it had four walls.  That was enough for now.  As long as no more hordes showed up, it would work.

He had no idea what they’d do if a horde
did
appear.  Pray maybe.

Peter stumbled across the yard with Smith, and nearly fell when Smith angled for the door instead of the closest window Peter had picked out.  The Guardsman looked at him questioningly, and Peter managed to get a coherent jerk out of his head to indicate the window.  Smith changed course and they got there without further incident.

“H-h-old her.” Peter got out as they reached the building.  Smith nearly dropped Whitley as Peter shifted the semi-conscious woman in his direction — her head lolling about as she shivered in his arms — but he managed to keep her upright as Peter unslung his AR.  Reversing the weapon, he smashed out the window with two unsteady strikes of the stock; then scraped at the opening to clear it of shards.

“C-c-comp-p-pany.”

Turning his head at Smith’s stuttering warning, Peter saw the zombie rounding the far corner of the house.  It was nearly naked, and from the massive collection of scrapes and cuts on its skin Peter judged its clothing had probably been lost along the way as it staggered and wandered around in undeath.  The only remnant of its attire was a sagging dirty sock and a pair of pants that had been shredded and torn into just a bit of waistband and flap of cloth hanging on the outside of one thigh.

Drawing his M-45 once more, Peter blew his breath out and willed his hands to steady as he tried to aim.  His body’s shivering and shaking was starting to get quite pronounced; and his first two shots weren’t even close.  But as the zombie passed the front door, coming within fifteen feet, Peter had a bigger target.  That outweighed his reaction to the cold — and his growing panic — and allowed him to put a round through the thing’s skull.

Switching magazines for a full one — a seemingly simple task that again took him far longer than it should have to accomplish — Peter checked through the broken out window quickly before pulling himself through; after tossing his pack in first.  It wasn’t the easiest thing he’d ever done, but he managed to heave his freezing and
old
body inside.  Glass crunched beneath him as he stumbled to the carpet, but he managed to remember the danger and simply roll it out rather than putting his hands down to try and brace his fall.  Getting cut up would be bad; but he needed his hands right now more than he needed to avoid a laceration on his torso.

Staggering to his feet, he checked around himself three times; listening to the voice in his head that warned him against going too fast or making any assumptions in his current condition.  A clock was ticking down towards serious injury and likely death right along with that voice, but a zombie would kill just as much as hypothermia.

He was in a kid’s room or day room of some sort; cheap and old furniture scattered around and facing an old-style tube television with a game system on the floor in front of it.  The décor didn’t extend past some decorative coasters on the battered wooden end tables — plastic discs emblazoned with the Bass Pro Shop logo — but he didn’t care.  It was empty except for him.

“Ok-k-kay.” he got out, turning back to the window.  It took him three tries to holster the pistol, then he extended his hands out.  “You push, I’ll pull.” he stammered.  “And t-t-t-ry to keep a look out behind me.”

Smith nodded and shifted Whitley around.  Peter got his hands under her arms and pulled while Smith lifted her by the belt, then her legs.  The Marine knew she was probably going to have bruises, maybe even scrapes, the way they had to shove her across the window sill but there wasn’t much either of the men could do.  That clock was still ticking in his head, and it was getting louder.

They managed to get her inside without banging her around too badly, and Peter dragged her clear of the broken glass while Smith tumbled himself inside.  Laying Whitley in the corner, Peter straightened and reached for his AR.  Clicking back the fasteners, he detached the tactical light from the underbarrel rail, then drew the M-45 again.  His wrist bones knocked together unpleasantly as he crossed his arms to put weapon and light in alignment, but Peter ignored that like he was so much else right now.

“The list’s getting dangerously long.”
he thought tiredly. 
“If too much more gets added to it . . .”
  Out loud, though, he jerked his head at the shelving unit that was serving as the room’s entertainment center.  “Get that moved.” he got out around his chattering teeth.  “Block the window.”

“W-w-what are you doing?” Smith asked as he picked himself up off the carpet.

“Checking the kitchen.”

“What?”

Peter ignored the query and stepped to the room’s door.  It was standing half open, and swung freely when he nudged — unsteadily slammed it back, really — with his shoulder.  He got the tac-light activated, and checked the hallway beyond.  Nothing but thin carpet and old paint.  The right side looked like it headed for bedrooms, so he went left.  He almost immediately found what he’d consider a more proper living room, though the furniture was just as worn and battered.

The directly connected dining room had a semi decent table — albeit one that could stand to be refinished — with some semi-matched chairs, but he didn’t care right now.  It was all empty, and adjacent to the dining area was the kitchen.  He scanned the area, then the kitchen as he stumbled to its doorway, then started jerking open cabinets.

“Come on, come on.” he muttered.  The fourth one he tried paid off, and he grabbed.  Metal bowls clattered, but he managed to latch his stiff and unresponsive fingers onto a big metal bowl like Amy had used for serving salads.  This one was the size of a wok; somewhere around two feet in diameter he judged tiredly, and deep enough to be useful.  Clamping it under his left arm, he staggered back into the day room.

Smith had managed to shove the shelving unit over in front of the window; it blocked the opening up to neck level.  Nothing was coming through the opening without going through the piece of furniture.  Peter took one look and nodded as he dropped the bowl.  “Start breaking up the furniture.”

“How?” Smith asked.

“Figure it out.”

“Why?”

“We need the wood.” he said as he turned.

“W-w-where are you g-g-g-going?”

“Blankets.” Peter said without turning as he checked the hallway again, then went right.  He bounced off the walls a number of times, and doorways too, but the pain of the bruises helped him keep focused as he checked rooms.  Three bedrooms — two obviously for kids —yielded plenty of sheets and blankets.  He got back to the day room with his armfuls of cloth, and dropped them out of the way against the wall before closing the door behind himself.  He moved an end table out of the way, then managed to shove the couch over in front of the door.

“I c-c-can’t break m-m-much of this up-p-p.” Smith said.

Peter saw the Guardsman had managed to knock the legs off the other end table, but the top was a solid piece of wood.  Nodding, Peter bent down and picked up his AR again.  “Move out of the way.”

To his credit, Smith didn’t waste time or energy reacting or questioning; he just moved.  Peter kicked the partially dismantled table into the corner near the shifted shelving unit before the windows, followed by the intact table that hadn’t been screwed with yet.  His first shot confirmed what he’d already surmised; the assault rifle was ruined.  Even from a distance of a couple of feet, the bullet hit nowhere near where he aimed.  But that didn’t matter; he just needed the wood broken up.

The tables were no match for the five-five-six rounds, and Peter was so cold that he didn’t even mind the noise.  His earplugs had been lost somewhere in the river during the swim.  No matter, he had others.  Firing the rifle inside the enclosed space of the room gave the sound little choice but to bounce painfully around assailing their ears; but that clock in his head was louder still.  Time was running out.

“In the b-b-owl.” Peter said, dropping the rifle as soon as both tables had been reduced to a pile of jagged wood splinters and larger sticks that were mostly banding and legs.  He fell to his knees before his pack and started opening pockets and compartments.  He knew he should know where what he was looking for was, but his thoughts were coming stubbornly, reluctantly, as he felt the cold beginning to invade more than just his body.

But he lucked out and found them without too much digging and rummaging, and withdrew a fistful of emergency flares.  Twisting the striker cap off one, he reversed it and started trying to light it.  His hands were shaking quite badly now; he kept missing when he tried to make the connection.

“H-h-here.” Smith said, abandoning his piling of broken up wood in the bowl and managing to lean over to grab the flare away.  Peter didn’t object, especially when the other man got the flare ignited in less than ten seconds.  He was so cold that even from five feet away he instantly felt the heat the chemical stick was giving out.  Smith deposited the flare in the bowl without having to be told, and started shifting the contents around to put the flare beneath the wood so it all had a better chance to start catching.

Peter reached into his pocket and got his knife out.  There were several pillows scattered around the room, mostly on the floor.  He rolled himself across the carpet to the nearest, then back over to the bowl with it in hand.  Using the knife, he managed to eviscerate the pillow without cutting himself.  The fill looked and felt like synthetics to him — plastic, basically — but the exterior was cotton.  Real cloth, that would burn and not melt.  He wadded it up and tossed the bundle into the bowl.

“Th-th-that’s got it.” Smith said as the cloth immediately began to catch.  Some of the wooden splinters were starting to smolder as well.  Peter resisted the urge to hunker over the building fire, to just huddle right next to it and soak in the welcome and life-giving heat.  They weren’t quite done just yet.

“B-b-break out the rest of the w-w-window.” he said, crawling over to where Whitley lay limp and unresponsive.  “And p-p-put some holes in the outside w-w-wall.”

“How?”

“Rifle.” Peter answered, annoyed.  “And b-b-be careful.  Barrel’s w-w-warped.”

Smith reluctantly left the bowl and the growing fire to retrieve his weapon.  Peter reached Whitley and started unlacing her boots.  He got the first one off while Smith shot out his first magazine.  The rest of the glass in the upper portion of the window shattered, but Peter didn’t bother looking.  It was taking all his concentration to force his fingers through the simple motions needed to unknot the soaked laces.  They were starting to shake more than badly, and felt thick with frightening numbness.

“W-w-why am I doing this?” Smith asked as he reloaded.

“Ventilation.”

“W-w-what are y-y-you d-d-doing?” Smith asked after he shot off the second magazine, spraying thirty more bullets through the exterior wall.  Peter had gotten Whitley’s other boot off, and had moved up to start unbuttoning her shirt.

“We c-c-can’t stay in these w-w-wet clothes.”

“Uh-”

Peter sighed.  “W-w-we’re all in th-th-this together.  If it was you unconscious, I’d be taking your clothes off.”

“But—”

“Fire off one more mag, then get me some blankets to wrap her in.” Peter ordered, commanding himself to ignore the chattering of his teeth along with the gender difference in the situation that Smith was objecting to.  “And don’t drag them through the fire either.”  He got the last shirt button undone and started pulling her out of the wet garment.