Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (5 page)

“I hate to see you go.” Sawyer said regretfully as she watched the activity around the pair of Humvees.  The eastern horizon was awash with red and yellow as the sun crept into view to banish the night.  Shadows were long, but visibility was pretty good even so.

Peter turned and gave her a steady look.  “Just make sure no one goes getting complacent and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m worried about heat and food—” she began, but Peter shook his head.

“No, trust me.  I’ve seen it before.” he stepped closer, lowering his voice some to make it less likely his words would carry.  “You and your people will figure out the survival and shelter aspects, no sweat.  What you need to be concerned with is staying on top of morale as winter sets in, and against people forgetting what you’re in the middle of.  If the scavenge teams stop paying attention, or if people forget to take fence duty seriously, or if the cranky factor from being cold all the time gets out of hand,
then
you’ll be in trouble.”

“You’ve seen a zombie outbreak before?”

“Funny lady.” Peter chuckled.  “No, I mean I’ve seen how easy it is to lose the edge.  Guys get bored, a routine settles in, and suddenly little things are being forgotten.  Then medium sized things are being forgotten.  Soon it’s big things, and if something hasn’t blown up in your face before then, you’ll definitely be in for a bad time.”

“Only takes one.” Sawyer nodded, repeating back something he’d repeatedly told her as the camp had gotten stabilized.

“Right, only takes one.  Don’t let it happen.  Work with Mendez on keeping the assignments rotated — including off days — so your sentries stay sharp and you’ll be okay.”

“What about you guys?” she asked as Whitley stood at the back of one of the Humvees rummaging in a case of five-five-six ammunition.

“We’ll stay sharp too.  It’s a long way from here to South Dakota.”

“Be careful.   If you can’t pick your way through the . . . I mean, you can always just come back here.”

“We’ll be fine.” Peter assured her calmly.

Turning, he surveyed ‘his’ three people.  Crawford was already standing at the open left rear door of the lead vehicle, her face showing impatience as she stood waiting with her M-16 in hand and the pockets and fittings of her equipment belt and webbing bulging with gear.  Whitley looked to be just about ready, as she handed a stack of magazines to Smith for him to add to his own loadout.  Nailor and Dorne were already seated in the front seats of the lead Humvee, and Barker and Oliver were just settling themselves into the other one.

“What’s the hold up?” Crawford called.

“Control yourself.” Whitley answered, dropping — but not securing — the canvas flap on the back of the covering over the Humvee’s cargo area.

“We’re burning daylight.” Crawford complained.

“Plenty of time.” Smith told her.

“Not with you two circle-jerking each other off.”

“Jealous?” Peter asked Crawford after catching Whitley’s eye.  The sergeant gave him a subtle nod of acknowledgment, which he returned before he switched his attention to the impatient specialist.

“Because they’re slow and needy?” Crawford snorted.  “Yeah, right.”

“Sit down, shut up.” Peter said to Crawford as Whitley and Smith headed for the second vehicle.  He went around the front of the Humvee and unslung his AR-15 before sliding in and propping the weapon up between his knees.  Looking over his shoulder, he confirmed his pack and the other gear they were bringing was in the rear of the vehicle.

Crawford hopped in and pulled her door closed with a bang that told of continuing impatience.  “Come on already.”

“Crawford, you know here to there is something like fifteen hundred miles, right?” Dorne asked, turning to look at her.

“I know sitting
here
in the parking lot isn’t getting us any closer to
there
.”

“Hum-2 ready.” the radio clipped to Nailor’s shoulder epaulette said in Barker’s voice.

“Let’s go.” Crawford said.

“By all means.” Nailor said, pushing the button to start the Humvee.  “Quicker we get rid of you the quieter it’ll be.”

“Except for the squelch of you bozos jacking each other off.”

“Just drive.” Peter said loudly as Dorne opened his mouth.  “Secondary vehicle park.”

Nailor put the transmission in drive and stepped on the accelerator hard enough to make the heavy vehicle surge forward.  Peter steadied his rifle as the Guardsman whipped the Humvee around the curve of the parking lot’s lane and toward the exit.  He just had time to reposition the AR so it was leaning toward the seatback and door before Nailor took the turn onto the road fast enough to make the tires squeal a little.

“Finally.” Crawford muttered, hanging onto the panic bar above the door with one hand as she kept the other on her M-16.

Peter kept his peace, merely checking behind them to make sure the other Humvee was keeping up.  Nailor drove through the quiet streets of North Cumming which — excepting the overgrown grass in the yards and along the shoulders of the roads — was actually fairly orderly after all the ‘straightening up’ the camp had done.  Zombie bodies were collected and moved to the town dump once a week, and burned whenever the gristly piles got too big to stomach.

The result was a town that, while deserted, looked as if it were merely waiting for its residents to return.  Most of the close stores had been picked clean of every conceivable thing that could be of use to the thousands of survivors at the camp, but there were places being used as ‘off-site storage’.

One of these was an Ingles supermarket about five minutes from the school, or specifically the asphalt lot out front.  Its parking spaces were nearly full; over two hundred vehicles in position, each one recovered, checked, and parked to wait for possible use by the camp’s scavenger teams. Mostly trucks and SUVs, the thinking was it positioned a ready reserve of transportation nearby in case it was needed.  The camp’s own school parking lots were already hosting another hundred, and these were the backups to the backups in case of need.

They needed one now.  Nailor slowed and turned into the lot, glancing over his shoulder at Peter.  “Gunny, pick your poison.”

Peter scanned the waiting vehicles.  He had a general idea of what he wanted . . . ah.  “There.” he said, pointing at a green F-150 with a crew cab near the end of one of the rows.  The body showed some dents, and the paint was scuffed from wear and coated with a layer of mud around the wheel-wells; but he remembered it from when it had been recovered.  It had been found ‘parked’ in the middle of a road on the west side of Cumming; the doors open and with the keys still in the ignition.  As far as he knew, it was in good shape.

Nailor circled around the edge of the lot and parked near the truck Peter had selected.  Peter looked around the area carefully, paying particular attention to his side of the Humvee, before opening his door.  He’d already had several close brushes with zombies, and didn’t want to chance his luck any further.  But the area looked clear, and he settled the AR on his shoulder as he walked over to the Ford.

He checked through the windows to make sure nothing had taken up residence in the cab, then opened the driver’s door so he could pop the hood release.

“Can we start loading?”

“Unload the Hummers.” Peter said as he poked his head beneath the hood to give the engine a fast once over.  “But give me a minute before loading.  We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Sure.” Whitley said.  “By the side here.”

Peter ignored the others as they traded comments with one another and got the supplies being brought north out of the Humvees.  Methodically, he went over the engine.  Hoses and belts; making sure they were tight and intact, without any cuts or weak spots that indicated they might come off or break soon.  Battery and wiring; clean and without any loose connections or wear spots.  Fluids — from oil to radiator — all full.

He knew what he was looking for, and it only took him a few minutes to decide he was as happy with the truck as he was going to be short of breaking out some tools and getting serious about crawling through, under, and around the vehicle.  Stepping back, he dropped the hood and pulled a rag out of his pocket.

“We good?” Smith asked.

“We’re good.” Peter nodded, wiping his hands off.  “Crawford, start it up.”

The woman hopped up in behind the steering wheel and keyed the ignition.  The F-150’s engine turned over and caught without a hitch, settling into a smooth idle that told Peter reasonable care had been taken by its owner before the truck had been abandoned.

“Okay, let’s figure out where this shit is going.” Whitley said, lifting one of the packs.

“Packs in the cab.” Smith said, lifting another.

“Gonna be crowded.” she said, opening the rear door and regarding the interior.

“We get some rain and it’ll be a problem.” Smith said.  “And there’s no telling what kind of driving we’re going to go through.”

“Especially if Crawford’s behind the wheel.” Peter agreed, leaning down and lifting his own pack.

“Can’t always drive like Gunny when zombies are about to start pounding on the vehicle.” Crawford pointed out as she got out to help with the loading.  “Sometimes you’ve gotta push it.”

“Yeah, well, this thing’s gotta last us to South Dakota, so take it easy.” Whitley told her as packs started going into the truck.

“We’ll get there.  Gunny knows how to fix shit.”

“Gunny doesn’t want to be on foot near a zombie horde because you broke a wheel or blew the engine.” Peter said as he went around to the passenger side and opened the front door.  The leg room in the front seats was spacious; giving him more than enough room to position his ILBE and still put his feet on the floorboard.  His pack was a little bulkier than those the other three were using; but it was his, was familiar, and was what he preferred.  He laid it down to the left of the space, leaning it against the rounded bulge dividing the left and right sides of the floorboards.

“Rest in the back I guess?” Smith said as the last of the other packs was piled up in the middle of the rear bench seat.

“Yeah, but let’s rig the cover into place to help keep things from bouncing out.” Peter nodded.  He wasn’t planning on the trip being long enough to need proper camping gear, even if it wasn’t suicidally dangerous to sleep out in the open with zombies wandering around.  In lieu of tarps or tents, he’d laid his hands on some bed sheets and had them loosely sewn together to form a makeshift tarp.  It wasn’t waterproof, but it wasn’t supposed to be.  He just wanted it to serve as a make-shift cargo webbing.

There wasn’t much talk as they lashed the sheets to the truck bed at the corners, then slid the rest of their gear into the back.  It wasn’t much; some ad hoc gas cans made of other containers that had been converted for the purpose, some ammunition boxes that held a mixed case of rounds — mostly five-five-six for their rifles — and some other containers of water.  Some food, and a few odds and ends of various supplies like water purifiers that might be needed.

“Make sure everything’s closed up tight, and throw some lines on the containers so they don’t tumble around back here and split open.” Peter said.

“Got it.” Whitley nodded, producing a tightly coiled length of twine from one of her pouches.  Smith and Crawford pulled out knives, and Peter left them to the measuring and cutting of the twine as he went over to the two Humvees.

“Thanks for the ride.” he told Nailor.

“Gunny, thanks for sticking with us this far.” the Guardsman said in a suspiciously husky voice.  “I mean, you know, all of it.”

“We were in it together.” Peter said with a grin.  “We still are.  Just got a bigger area of operations now.”

“You know where to find us.” Dorne said from the passenger seat.  “You watch your ass on the way up there, okay?”

“Always.”

They nodded to him, and Nailor put the Humvee into gear.  It pulled away, followed by the other one; Barker gave Peter a nod, while Oliver tossed him a wave.  Peter watched both Humvees leave the lot via the far exit and pull into U-turns to head back to the high school camp.  The sound of their rumbling diesels retreated and left just the quieter thrum of the F-150’s gasoline engine and some thumps as his people finished getting the supplies secured properly.

Peter snorted to himself mentally.  When all this had started he was a couple of years into his retirement, staring at his sixtieth birthday coming at him in the windshield.  Then, in short order, he’d been made the ad hoc senior NCO for a National Guard company, then for the remnants of two, then the senior man period.  The two companies got whittled and battered away until he was left with less than twenty people, soon barely more than ten after they’d all made it clear of the undead buffet of Atlanta.  Now he was down to three people and himself, which was barely a fireteam.

And the others weren’t even Marines.

“We’re set.” Whitley said, pulling Peter out of his woolgathering.

Peter glanced around, and nodded once.  The parking lot wasn’t creepy — he was long since used to how quiet and vacant everything seemed since the majority had turned hungry or become dinner — but it was desolate.  Without civilization, there was never a background noise of activity anymore.  Things were just different without the comings and goings and doings of civilization to stir the landscape up.  “No sense standing around then.  Let’s get going.”