Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (7 page)

“Not our problem.” Peter said.  “Yet.”

“Looks like it might have been some sort of refugee op.” Whitley said as she looked past Smith at the scene.  The view was getting better as the truck rose along with the roadway, boosting them up to the level of the river crossing.  Peter had already looked, and saw no real reason to look further.  Unless they decided to stop and set up camp for some reason, the casino and its host of undead were no threat to them.

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to look like not so many of those made out very good.” Smith said.

“What d’ya expect?” Crawford asked as the truck went past some treetops to either side.  They were starting to level out as they got close to the bridge, which looked like an old fashioned and heavily built affair of steel trusses that rose up several stories above the pavement they supported.  “Get a bunch of panicked people all in one place, poor planning and some of them about to turn; and zombie math kicks into gear.”

“Harsh.” Whitley sighed.

“True.” Crawford shot back.  “Not like it’s my fault.”

“A little empathy wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

“Empathy was weeks ago.  Today there’s just staying off the slow-food menu.”

Peter leaned forward unconsciously, looking at the bridge.  The truck was approaching it dead on — so he couldn’t see anything of it beneath the road level — but he
could
see the river to either side.  And as they crested the ramp and got closer, he saw a number of ships or barges or whatever were present.

“Stop.” he said.

“Hey, come on, for me that was downright polite.” Crawford protested.

“Stop the fucking truck.” Peter commanded, lifting the binoculars he’d draped around his neck.  It had been weeks since he’d carried them, but an hour after starting the trip he’d dug them out of his pack and got back in the habit.  Now he put his eyes to the lenses and focused his view on the boats.

He could see waves rippling past the watercraft along their sides, but they weren’t moving.  Peter had no idea how heavy of a current the Mississippi carried, but some of the boats were bobbing up and down against its force as they were pushed against the bridge piling.  In some ways the whole mass was sort of an oversized car crash; vehicles having come together and mangled themselves up.  But rather than being twelve to twenty (or, in the case of a semi-truck and trailer; fifty or sixty) feet long; these were hundreds.  To be fair, he saw two smaller boats stuck amid the wreckage; but the rest were all industrial craft.

Those closest to the bridge were heavily damaged; some of them obviously taking on water as they listed heavily into the river.  Being ground together and against the bridge pilings more or less destroying the barges and boats.  And beyond the physical impact damage, he saw a lot of scorching and blackening indicating fire had taken a toll as well.  Cargo containers on the barges— all of them metal and sized for easy transfer to trains or semi-trucks — were no longer neatly ordered on the decks.  Many of the stacks had toppled, and he saw at least two floating in the water amid the pile up of boats.

Crawford finally brought the truck to a halt, and Peter dropped the binoculars to his chest.  Looking behind himself, he quickly made sure the roadway was empty of anything hungry; then got out.  Moving to the concrete dividers bordering the edge of the pavement, he leaned out as much as he dared and looked again with the binoculars.

The few extra inches hadn’t really improved his angle all that much, but he could just see the edge of the concrete pilings supporting the bridge.  It looked like the barges were caught up against two of them, just past what he judged was the bridge’s center point.  On the Arkansas side.  One of the pilings was heavily damaged, with cracks through what was left of it and a number of chunks and pieces missing.  He saw the bridge itself listing north, the bottom of the roadway structure resting atop the top of the cargo containers stacked up on the barge.

Peter had no idea how heavy a bridge was, but he’d guess a
lot
.  The metal cargo containers agreed; the ones that looked to be bearing the brunt of the weight were heavily bowed and caved in.

“That looks pretty bad.” Smith said as Peter lowered the binoculars again.

“Get a new phrase.” Crawford said.

“One more crack like that and you can ride in the back with the gas cans.”

“Oh really?  Who’s gonna make me?” Crawford shot back, sounding supremely amused by the suggestion.

“It’s either in the back or up on the roof.” Smith retorted.

“Funny guy.  Can’t see how you made it this far without getting your ass beat, but funny.”

“Knock it off.” Whitley said.

Peter turned and saw Crawford standing up out of the truck, feet on the floorboard and hands gripping the edges of the doorframe as she looked at the bridge.  Smith was out of the truck with his M-16 combat slung, clearly ready to back Peter up, while Whitley was still sitting in the truck’s backseat, though she’d turned her head to watch behind them.

“Well, I don’t think we’re crossing this bridge.” Peter said, resolving to ignore the chatter if it didn’t rise to a level that made it necessary for him to get involved.

“Why the fuck not?” Crawford asked.

“Seriously?” Smith demanded.

“Keep talking backseat boy and you’ll find out how serious I can get.”

“We go into the river and it’s gonna really piss Gunny off.”

“You keep annoying me and it’s gonna really piss
me
off.” she shot back.

“Enough.” Peter said sharply, looking at the roadway regretfully.  “Knock it the fuck off.  We try crossing this and we’re likely to end up fucked.”

“Road is still intact.” Crawford said in what she clearly thought was a reasonable voice.

“The road is twisted nearly halfway past level.” Whitley objected.

“So?  It’s still intact.”

“You have any idea how much pressure it takes to torque a structure like that?” Smith said.

“Like you do?” Crawford said.

Peter turned, speaking loudly in his command voice to cut across Crawford’s retort.  “Maybe,
maybe
, on foot we might try it; but with three thousand some odd pounds of vehicle and gear . . . not unless we have to.”

“So what’s the plan then?” Crawford asked, sounding annoyed.

“Well, for one, driver change.” Peter said as he settled the binoculars against his chest, letting them dangle from the strap.

“I’m fine.” Crawford objected immediately.

“Jury’s still out on that.” Smith said in a
sotto
voice that still carried over to Peter.

The Marine sighed but he jerked a thumb at Crawford anyway.  “Stow it.  Park your ass in the backseat, or in the rear if you don’t want to play nice with the rest of us; but you’ve been driving for most of the day.  Time to take a break.”

Crawford met his eyes with a sullen look, but she slid down out of the F-150’s cab and grabbed up her weapon.

Whitley got out as well.  “I’ll take a turn.  Smith had a nap.” she said.

“Fine.” Peter agreed, walking back to the vehicle.  He pulled himself up into the seat while the two Guardswomen got settled in their new seats.  While Whitley adjusted the mirrors, Peter tugged the road atlas out of one of his cargo pockets and started unfolding map pages for Mississippi and the surrounding states.

“Which way?” Whitley asked when she signaled her readiness by dropping the transmission into reverse.

“The other way.” Crawford said from behind her.

“Yeah, got that.” Whitley answered calmly, starting a three point turn as she backed around in a curve toward the south side guard barrier.

Peter was tracing his finger along the winding course of the iconic river.  He’d never really given it much thought, but unless the road atlas was seriously deficient; there actually weren’t nearly as many routes across the river as he would have expected.  And he hadn’t been counting on all that many in the first place.  In fact, the number he’d found was a literal fraction of what he’d guessed would be present.

“Memphis.” Peter answered absently as he found the closest crossing he’d marked.

“Fucking Memphis?” Crawford demanded.

“Seriously?” Whitley asked, very quietly and a hell of a lot more calmly than Crawford, as she shifted into drive and started back down the long ramp to ground level.

“Next closest bridge is in Memphis.” Peter confirmed.

“You’re kidding, right?” Crawford said, still sounding put out.

“No, I’m not.” Peter shook his head as he examined the river north of them.  “Our options are the I-55 bridge on the southwest corner of Memphis, or the I-40 bridge that’s more or less on the northwest edge.”

“We want to get that close to a major city?” Smith asked.

“Let me see the map.” Crawford said.

“Wait your turn.” Peter said as he studied it.  “That’s only about an hour, maybe a hour and a half north of us.”

“There’s not something closer if we go south?”

“I didn’t really spend a lot of time checking south.” Peter answered Crawford.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because South Dakota is fucking
north
of us.” Peter said, finally starting to lose patience with her.  He knew she was naturally abrasive and usually didn’t really mean anything by it, but being stuck in the truck with her all day had worn his Crawford tolerance down by sheer proximity if nothing else.  “And there’s not that many bridges south anyway.”

“But—”

“I’m driving, Gunny’s navigating, and it’s your turn to shut up and ride.” Whitley said as she made it back down to regular road at ground level.  “So get with the shutting and upping.”

“Up yours.” Crawford muttered, but just quietly enough for Peter and Whitley to pretend they hadn’t heard her.

“Like I was saying, we’re headed basically north, so I checked north.  There aren’t a hell of a lot of routes across the river that don’t involve a ferry or a plane, and odds are if we keep going north eventually we’ll find a bridge that isn’t fucked up.  South is the opposite of where we want to go, and we’re a lot closer to the Gulf of Mexico than we are to South Dakota.”

“North it is.” Whitley shrugged.  “Uh, where do I turn?”

Peter flipped back to the Mississippi page and found the route markings he’d been making as they progressed across the map.  “Best would be to backtrack to US-61.  Unless we run into any problems, that’ll take us straight up to Tennessee.”

“Do we want to get that close to Memphis?” Smith asked again.

Peter sighed, but regretfully rather than in exasperation.  “I think we take a careful look at things.  We’ll probably run across a gas station somewhere before we get too close to the city, so we’ll stop and top ourselves up.  Then we just keep our eyes open and see if getting near the bridges is possible.”

“If it’s not we can just keep going north, like you said.” Whitley agreed, nodding.

“Basically.”

“I vote for careful.” Smith said, but his voice was slightly muffled.  Peter turned enough to see the Guardsman had settled back down against his makeshift pillow, clearly attempting to grab some more shut eye.

“Careful it is.” Peter nodded.

“Boring.” Crawford complained.

“Shut up.” Peter and Whitley said together.

“There’s something you don’t see every day.” Whitley remarked.  Peter nodded in agreement, but Crawford spoke up from the backseat before he could say anything.

“You guys know Memphis is an Egyptian name, right?”

Peter turned and stared at her in bemusement, and he heard Smith shifting in the seat behind him as well.  Even Whitley reached for the rearview mirror and adjusted it so she could eye the other woman.

“What?” Crawford said defiantly, meeting their gazes.  “I know stuff.”

“About Egypt?” Smith demanded.

“About lots of things.”

“Whatever.” Peter shrugged, though he was still highly amused by Crawford’s comment.  “Even if it might fit here, it’s still a damned big ass pyramid in the middle of America.”

They were on the northwest side of Memphis, approaching the Mississippi river again.  When they’d gotten to the city, they’d found heavy zombie horde activity all over the southern side of the city.  Rather than risking trying to roll through it, Peter had elected to take a look at the other side of the city by circling around to try the northern edge.

That had only taken an extra half hour — a safe half hour — and looked to be paying off because the undead presence was a lot lighter on this side.  Whitley had woven her way through the streets to get at I-40.  There were a decent number of zombies on the interstate leading up to the bridge crossing, but nothing a little judicious steering and careful use of the bumper couldn’t handle.

Just north of I-40, though, was an enormous slate gray pyramid.  And enormous meant
big
.  Really big.  The interstate was raised a good distance above the ground and city beneath them as it cut through the northern edge of Memphis and approached the bridge, and the pyramid’s apex was still well above them.  Definitely not something Peter would have expected to see during their journey.

Construction equipment was scattered through the parking lot, along with an unhealthy number of wandering zombies in and around the vehicles and pyramid.  A curious scan with his binoculars didn’t reveal anything that explained what the odd building had been used for prior to the zombies taking over; at least, not that he could tell.  But it wasn’t that important, just an oddity.

“If we run into anyone from Tennessee, or who has good Internet, I guess we’ll have to remember to ask them.” Peter shrugged again.  “Who knows.”

“Fucking pyramid.  Unbelievable.” Smith said.

“Uh, this doesn’t look that good either.” Whitley said, the truck slowing as she took her foot off the accelerator.

Peter shifted his attention from the pyramid to the road ahead, and blinked as he looked beyond the wandering zombies.  Then he lifted the binoculars and put them to his eyes.

“Seriously?” Crawford demanded from the backseat.  “Seriously?”

“Is that what I think it is?” Smith asked.

Peter focused the binoculars and sighed.  “Yeah, it is.”

“Good thing we missed that.” Smith said with a laugh.

“First fucking boats, now planes?” Crawford said, her tone heavily laced with annoyance.  Not just mere sulking like before, but full on irritation.

“Can we get through if we backtrack and hop on the east bound side?” Whitley asked Peter, braking the truck to a stop before letting the creeper gear take over and roll it forward at a brisk walking pace.

The bridge ahead had suffered a plane coming down right into it.  And not a small one either; to Peter’s not exactly inexperienced eye it looked like it might have been a military cargo craft.  He wasn’t sure if it was one of the massive C-5s, but it didn’t matter; whatever it was had done a number on the I-40 bridge.

Wreckage from the plane, from vehicles that had obviously been on the bridge when the aircraft came down, and from the bridge’s structure, was strewn all over the lanes.  From the look of it, traffic on the crossing had been at a full standstill when the plane had hit; he counted at least a couple dozen vehicles caught up in the mangled mess of the impact’s ground zero.  Blackening of the wreckage and concrete roadway told of more fire having added to the carnage.

“Gunny?”

Peter started and took the binoculars away so he could glance sideways.  Whitley had her eyebrows raised at him questioningly.  She kept looking at him as she turned the wheel enough to ‘ram’ an inquisitive zombie dead center with the front bumper.  The creature went down beneath the truck as it continued rolling forward; but she ignored it to focus on him.

“What?  Oh, er, no.” Peter said, mentally backtracking and pulling her question out of his head.  “Both sides are no-go.”  Both sides of the bridge were jammed with debris and abandoned cars.  Maybe it had been a C-5 that had hit; but it didn’t matter, not really.  Short of the four of them spending hours shifting and clearing a path — amid a mess of zombies — there was no way through.

“Shit.” Smith said.

“Guess we should take a look at the other one then.” Whitley said, starting to turn around.

“Through the city?” Smith asked.

“All right.” Crawford said, sounding almost cheerful.

“Carefully.” Peter admonished.  “If it gets thick, we’ll figure it out or just keep heading north.  We don’t
have
to cross here; there are plenty of other options we can try first.”

“A little action would be fun.” Crawford said, and there was a metallic rattle that drew Peter’s eyes.  She had opened one of her ammunition pouches and was busy checking the magazines within.

“You’ll survive some boredom.” Peter told her.

“We’ll survive a little excitement.”

“You’re just eager as hell to burn all your luck up aren’t you?” Whitley said as she finished her turn and headed back east to find a way off I-40 and through Memphis.

“If you’re good you don’t have to be lucky.”

“If you’re careful, you don’t have to be either.” Smith pointed out.

“Bullshit.” Crawford.  “Skill always wins out.”

“Greatest swordsman in the world doesn’t keep his eye on the guy in second place; he worries about the idiot newbie he might go up against.” Peter said as he looked south, checking out what he could see of the conditions where they had to go.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t see much.

“Heard it.” Crawford said, her tone making it obvious how boring she found this whole conversational thread.  “Newbie doesn’t know what not to do, will do unexpected things that might work because the top dog doesn’t see them coming.”

“Again, boring doesn’t mean wrong.  Or bad.” Whitley said as she used an on-ramp as an exit, curving down, around, and beneath the Interstate to head south into the city.

“Master avoids all that by just being ready.” Crawford said as she lit a cigarette.

“Can’t be ready all the time.” Peter said mildly.

“From a Marine, that’s hilarious.” she shot back.

“How’s that?” Peter found himself asking in a more challenging tone than he would have permitted himself if he’d thought before opening his mouth.

“Semper Fi?  Always faithful?”

“That’s faithful, not watchful.” Peter said, calling on long practiced habits to keep from rising to the challenge she was obviously trying to draw out of him.  “No one can hold the edge twenty-four seven.  No one.”  He glanced over his shoulder at her, meeting her gaze.

She studied him for several moments, her thoughts masked behind a cloudy expression of boredom, then shrugged and exhaled out of the side of her mouth in the direction of her open window.  “Great.  I’m riding through the heartland of America with three fuckers counting on luck to see us through.”

“Whatever chickie.” Smith said.  “Just remember we’re in this together.”

“I’m so screwed.”

“Finally, a bright side.” Whitley laughed.

“Fuck you.”

Whitley cranked the rearview mirror down again so she could see Crawford and blew a loud smoochy kiss, making sure to smack her lips loudly to ensure the gesture’s sound carried into the backseat.  Peter missed what Crawford did in response — probably shot the finger back — as he faced forward once more and studied the roads ahead.

The interstate on-ramp stretched south for several blocks, closed access all the way.  Finally the end came into view, but a clump of several dozen zombies was down on their knees almost dead center of the lanes, about fifty feet from where the concrete barriers bordering the ramp lane ended and the ramp dumped out into regular road.  Their bodies were blocking the view, but clearly they were eating someone or something.

“Can’t fit past them without some contact.” Whitley said.

A loud metallic clacking filled the truck’s cab as Crawford racked the charging bolt on her M-16.

“I’ve got a better idea.” Smith said.

Peter started to turn in his seat to look behind himself, but Crawford’s howl of objection clued him into the suggestion before he could complete the motion.

“Not fucking fair.”

“Hey, you coulda qualified on a 203 if you hadn’t pussed out and picked arty.” Smith laughed.

Peter checked the forty millimeter grenade in Smith’s hand so he could read the color coding banding the round.  “Yeah, that ought to clear most of them.”

“You know there’s a one-thirty casualty radius on that, right?” Crawford said immediately, her voice in full on sulk mode now.

Whitley braked sharply, jostling everyone forward as she brought the truck to a halt.  “So we stay back some.”

“Waste of a fucking grenade.” Crawford muttered as Peter and Smith opened their doors.

“Keep an eye out.” Peter ordered as he glanced swiftly around outside the truck before he stepped down.  He hefted his AR and moved past Smith as the Guardsman opened the breach on the M203 grenade launcher slung beneath his M-16’s barrel.

“Fire in the hole.” Smith said as Peter stood watching the road behind the truck.  There was a dull thump, followed by a faint whistling, then the round went off with a startlingly loud crash of noise that split the early evening.  Peter turned as the explosion started reverberating off the buildings to the east.  The several dozen zombies were no longer in a tight knot.  They’d been tossed and scattered across the asphalt like toys in a child’s playroom.

Most were still moving; but the tube fired grenade had left its mark.  Peter counted several severed or seriously mangled limbs, and a couple more of the not-dead had suffered torso wounds that spilled organs out into the open.  Nothing short of massive head trauma stopped a zombie for good — and sometimes not even then if it wasn’t
massive
enough — but Peter just wanted to keep moving.  Knocking them down and out of the way was fine.

“Let’s go.” he said, clapping Smith on the shoulder as the man’s hand strayed toward one of his pouches like he was considering using another grenade.

“Right.”  The two of them piled back into the truck.

“Waste of a fucking grenade.” Crawford repeated as Whitley got going again.

“Quick and easy.” Smith chuckled.

“We’ve got a lot of five-five-six you know.”

“Yeah, but since Smith has been
so good
I figured it was only fair to let him play with his toys.” Peter said.

“Not fair.” Crawford said.

“Too bad, so sad.” Smith said, still laughing.

“Fuck you.”

“Sweet, two girls one guy.  My lucky day.”

“What?”

“You’re fucking Whitley and me, right?  That’s two of you and just me.  See, luck pays off.”

“Fuck you.” Whitley and Crawford said in unison.

“Shit.” Smith said dejectedly.  “What if I said it was my birthday?”

“You’ve got a hot tube in your hands right there.” Crawford told him, gesturing at the launcher beneath his M-16’s barrel.  “Get busy whenever you want.”

“It’s not the same.” Smith said with a level of dejection that was almost palpably felt.

Peter grinned as Whitley rolled over the zombies.  There were too many to avoid completely, but she curved and twisted the truck through in a reasonable attempt to dodge as many as possible.  Still, the truck rocked back and forth on its shocks as the tires bumped over bodies.  He purposefully didn’t check the mirrors to see what condition the zombies were in after being driven across; he’d seen it before, and it was old news.

Instead, he looked at the first road sign, then checked the Memphis map in his atlas.  “Uh . . . okay, if I’m reading this right, straight south if you can and we’ll hit the ramps for I-55.”

“Straight south huh?” Whitley asked.

“Well, follow this road.” Peter said, looking up from the atlas.  “It’ll curve some but . . .”  He trailed off as he saw the fairly thick horde arrayed across the road a few blocks ahead.

“Straight you said?” she asked again.

“Okay, shit—” he said, checking the map again.  “Displace us a few streets deeper into the city.  Work south and back around to the river as best you can.” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”  Peter nodded.  She looked at him, and he shrugged.  “Fuck it, Crawford’s so hot for some action, it’ll give her something to do.”