Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (31 page)

“Well, we’re starting to draw a little notice.” she answered, gesturing.

Peter looked around as he eased himself across the hull.  Sure enough, rounding the corner of some of the buildings, were a handful of zombies.  Scowling, Peter made sure his pistol was in its holster before he slid down to the ground.

Working quickly, he checked the nearest two vehicles to the Bradley and pulled a good sized handful of fuses from beneath their dashboards.  Back inside the APV, he popped out the blown one and tossed it aside before sorting through his hastily procured replacements until he found one that matched the bad component.

When he finished and tried the ignition again, this time the starter produced the distinctive rumbling groan of a long quiescent diesel engine bringing itself back to life.  He cranked it for ten seconds, gave it a rest for ten more, then tried again.  The third attempt worked, and the engine rumbled into service.

Grinning, Peter checked the gauges over.  As far as he could tell, unless something developed in the next few minutes, the Bradley just needed a little routine maintenance but was okay for a short hop.  It was less than thirty miles back to Canton, and the rally point was much closer still.

Adjusting the seat so his head poked out of the cramped confines of the compartment, Peter grasped the steering yoke and got the Bradley moving.  It was designed to go anywhere an Abrahams tank could, and while its bulk was less than an Abrahams, it sufficed to nudge the occasional corner or end of a stray wreck out of the way without a problem.  It had been a while since he’d driven anything with treads, but he found it wasn’t hard to summon the experiences back to the fore.

* * * * *

“Holy shit, you got it working.” Crawford said.

Peter looked up from the radio he was watching Whitley fiddle with.  Crawford and Smith were just laying their bikes aside on the road a couple of yards from the APV.

“Can’t lose all the time.” he said.

“Yeah, well, we’ve sorta been working on disproving that pithy little theory.”

“What about the radios?” Smith asked as he stepped on the deployment ramp.

“Hey, relax.” Crawford said.  “We’re back to riding in style.”

“You have any idea how often we’ll have to stop for gas if we try to go joyriding around in this fucker?” Peter asked her.

“Actually yeah.” she shrugged.  “But zombie-proof armor and vehicle mounted weapons don’t come cheap.”

“That’s if they work.”

“You didn’t check?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“All I care about are the radios.” Peter said, turning back to Whitley.

“Fuck, I care.  I’ll check.” Crawford said, moving past Smith and heading for the commander’s seat.

“Knock yourself out.” Peter said.  He really didn’t care about the vehicle’s weapons, but he supposed if they were working it might be useful.  A twenty-five millimeter chain cannon would certainly rain holy hell down on a zombie horde.

“So what about the radios?” Smith asked again.

“They’re working.” Whitley said, holding one half of a headset to her ear as she fiddled with knobs on the equipment.

“Then . . .”

“Chill, I’m trying to find out if Ellsworth is still transmitting.” she said, sounding annoyed.

“Okay, okay.” he said.  “I’m just hoping the shit I just had to do wasn’t a waste of time.”

“I’m not comms you know.” Whitley said, her tone still perturbed.  “This isn’t my skillset.”

“It’s a fucking radio.” Smith said.

“Okay, then you do it.” she replied, starting to get up from the fold out seat at the radio station.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” he said, backing away and shaking his head.

“Go be useful, take a look around.” Peter told him.

“You’re clear.” Smith shrugged.  “Nothing close, nothing headed this way.”

“Good.  Make sure.  Check again.” Peter repeated.

“Fine.”

Smith stepped away from the lowered ramp, and a moment later he could be heard climbing up onto the top of the vehicle.  Peter looked back at Whitley.  “Nothing on any of the frequencies?”

“Not that I can hear.” she said slightly more calmly.

“Maybe they changed to a different broadcast schedule.” Peter mused.  “Spaced it out some more?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, let me have that thing.” Peter said, holding his hand out.  She gave him the headset, and Peter started settling it into place on his head.  “Make sure we’re on one of their frequencies.”

Whitley looked at the crumpled bit of paper in her hand, then twiddled one of the knobs.  Finally she looked up at him and nodded.

“Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta.” Peter said, adjusting the microphone on its boom to hang closer to his lips.  “Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta.”

Static crackled faintly, weakly, from the headset; the pops of atmospheric interference.  No voice came on the line to answer him.  Peter waited several seconds, then raised an eyebrow at Whitley.

“I’m not comms.” she said again, fiddling with some of the knobs.

“It’s working, right?”

“As far as I know.  You want to do the honors?”

“Check the frequency.” Peter said.  “
Again
.  I know, I know.  Please, okay?” he added when he saw annoyance materializing in her eyes.

Whitley looked down at the paper Peter had carried in his pocket all the way from Georgia, crumpled and bedraggled after eighteen hundred miles and one very cold swim, then up at the radio’s frequency settings.  Fortunately Peter had written on the paper in pencil, which had survived the swim.  She made it even clearer that she was checking a second time, then futzed with a few more knobs.

“Okay, that’s about the best I figure I can do to boost the transmission output.”

“Bravo Mary Two-One, calling Echo Three Seven Sierra Delta or any station Ellsworth AFB.” Peter said again.

“Echo responding to Bravo, identify.” a female voice said suddenly on the circuit.

“Echo, Bravo.” Peter said, flashing a thumbs up at Whitley.  “Survivor squad of State of Georgia National Guard traveling to join you at Ellsworth.  We should be listed on your contact sheet.”

“Bravo, Echo.  Wait one.”

Peter waited, schooling himself to patience.  A few seconds later, the voice returned.  “I’ve got you Bravo.  Say current location and ETA?”

“Just outside Alburnett, Iowa.” Peter replied, delivering the opening of the prepared story he’d come up with to test the base out.  Alburnett was on his maps, and effectively along the same bearing from where he was standing in relation to Ellsworth.  If they were running triangulation, they’d probably see he wasn’t transmitting from Iowa; but he was betting they either weren’t or wouldn’t look that closely.

“You’re getting close then.  Be aware, there’s some major outbreak activity along I-90 if you come that way, especially in and around Sioux Falls.”

“Copy.  We have a problem and need to know if you can help any.”

The Ellsworth radio operator waited several seconds before responding to that.  “Go ahead Bravo.”

“We’ve encountered approximately four hundred survivors and are sort of bogged down helping them.” Peter said.  “They want to accompany us to Ellsworth for shelter.”

“Say again Bravo?”

“Echo, Bravo.  We are with four-zero-zero civilians lacking aid and shelter.  They want escort to your location for shelter.” Peter said again.

This time the pause was nearly twenty seconds.  “Bravo, stand by.”

Peter exchanged a tired glance with Whitley, but he keyed the microphone and just said “Bravo standing by.”

“Not exactly auspicious.” Whitley said unhappily.

“So far it’s okay.” Peter said carefully.  “This might not be something covered by standing orders.”

“Oh come on Gunny.” she protested.  “We’re in the middle of the end of the fucking world.  If they don’t have SOP for rescue and care of civilians what’s the fucking point?”

Before Peter could answer, the Bradley suddenly vibrated as a fairly loud buzzing sound went off; a buzzing followed by a lot of loud cracks of displacing air.  Peter recognized it immediately, even though he jumped at the unexpectedness of it.

“Crawford.” Whitley said, scowling.

“Guess the chaingun’s working.” Peter shrugged.

“I’ll go tell her to knock it off.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Whitley rose and went forward to the gunner’s mount.  Peter dropped into the seat she vacated and scanned the radio’s readouts without touching anything.  Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly an expert with the systems either.  Turning it on and off, changing frequencies, and attaching power or replacement batteries was the extent of his knowledge.  He was hesitant to screw anything up by playing around with it.

Instead, he settled for drumming his fingers on the little ledge of a desk surface that was provided to give radio operators and commanders somewhere to write on as he continued waiting.  Finally the circuit came back to life.

“Bravo, Echo.”

“Echo, Bravo.” Peter answered.  It was a different voice, a male that sounded much more sure of himself than the previous operator.  That probably meant he was more senior.

“How many able bodies do you have there not already in uniform?”

Peter hadn’t thought that far ahead, but he made up a number on the spot.  “About fifteen.”

“Only fifteen?”

“Yes, one-five.”

Ellsworth was silent for several seconds, then the new voice spoke again.  “Bravo, we are unable to host or shelter non-combatants at this time.  Supplies and space are extremely tight.  We need action capable adults to correct that.”

Peter was frowning, but he very carefully kept his voice even and modulated.  “Echo, this group is barely hanging on as it is.  They can’t spare anyone or anything.”

“If they don’t, we can’t guarantee we’ll be in position to help them or anyone else.”

“No ETA for relief?” Peter asked.  “At all?”

“Negative Bravo, no ETA.”

“They’re not going to like it.  We might not be able to prevent them, or at least some of them, from following us.”

“Bravo, you need to make sure they do not accompany you.  We are unable to provide aid to civilians at this time.  Do whatever you need to.”

“Say again Echo?” Peter asked, now letting some of his emotions leak into his tone.

“Any means necessary, but only your unit and able volunteers are authorized to join us.  All others will be turned away by force.”

“A lot of them will probably be dead before spring if they don’t get help.  They’re low on food and have a lot of dependents who can’t do much scavenging or work.” Peter said, taking care to speak slowly and articulate each word for maximum clarity.  “They’re not going to hold up much longer.”

“Not our problem Bravo.” Ellsworth said, the voice firm and flat.  “We have to stay on the big picture.”

Peter slapped his hand down on the little desk, but he managed to keep his anger out of his tone.  “Understood Echo.”

“ETA to our location?”

“Tomorrow latest.”

“Good.  Echo out.”

“Bravo clear.”

Peter stripped off the headset and just barely kept himself from throwing it across the compartment.  Instead he very carefully laid it into the hooks on the side of the console, then stood up with his fists clenched.

“GODDAMNIT SONOFABITCH MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLES!” he shouted, feeling the back of his throat and the furthest reaches of his lungs protesting at the volume he was drawing forth.  “CHRIST ON A FUCKING CRUTCH!”

“Gunny!”

Breathing hard, Peter turned and saw Whitley and Crawford standing at the front of the Bradley’s troop compartment.  The former looked a little concerned, but Crawford’s face wore an expectant expression that bordered on satisfied.  He raised a hand and pointed a finger at her.  “Don’t.”

“I di—” Crawford began, but Peter shook his head sharply.

“Just don’t.” he repeated, his voice flat with authority and anger.

“They didn’t go for it?” Whitley asked in a neutral tone.

“Their orders were to abandon the civilians and make tracks for Ellsworth.”

“Good thing the civvies were imaginary then.” Crawford said.

“Shut up.” Whitley snapped.  “Gunny, ignore her.”

“Hey—” Crawford began.

Whitley rounded on the other woman and put her face very close to hers.  “For once, just once, take the hint and leave it alone.”

Crawford blinked, then her eyes narrowed as she glared at Whitley.  For several moments, Peter wasn’t sure which way things were going to go.  Then Crawford shrugged and pulled out her pack of cigarettes.  As she tapped one free, Peter drew a loud noisy breath that was halfway between inhalation and clearing his throat.

“So now we know.” Whitley said, turning back to Peter.

“Yeah.”

“Plan?”