Apocalypse Atlanta (20 page)

“Foreman.”

“Captain.” Peter answered as he straightened the GTO out and accelerated further after sliding back through the gears to fifth, pushing his speed past seventy before he was even beyond the barricade wall that separated the exit from the north moving lanes on Peachtree Industrial.  This section of the thoroughfare, known to G-DOT as State Route 141, was closed access just like the actual Interstate he’d left moments ago.

“Where are you?”

“Top end, but GPS is telling me there’s just about no chance I’m getting through that way.”

“Yeah, it’s a cluster-fuck that’s headed for epic proportions.  I haven’t seen it this bad since the last time Gwinnett voted down the MARTA expansion, when that tanker over turned and took out the utility poles?  Christ, I thought the traffic jams that night were bad.

“Anyway, there are three different snags between Spaghetti Junction and the Cobb Cloverleaf, and one of them is I don’t even remember how many semis that are wrecked and overturned somewhere around Ashford Dunwoody.  You’d better get off quick before you’re mired in the backup.”

“Already done sir.” Peter said, glancing over his shoulder as he slid into the flow of traffic.  As he did, the phone slipped down and he barely caught it before it vanished down between the seat and door.  Straightening the GTO out in the middle lane, he blew past three cars in the right hand lane, then got back in that lane and exited at Tilly Mill Road.  As he braked, he got the phone back into place.  “Sorry sir, maneuvering.  I’m going to pick my way across on the back roads.”

“How long?  I think some of the lead might be about to come out of the process on my end.”

Peter shrugged involuntarily as he thought, thinking about the maze of back and forth he would have to traverse to get across the north side of Atlanta without using the interstate.  Not for the first time, and not the first native resident of the city to do so, he cursed the lack of good options for moving around the metro area that didn’t involve the interstates.  “Probably most of an hour, even pushing it.”

“Push it Master Gunnery Sergeant, that’s a direct order.”

“Semper Fi sir.”

“Good man.  I need you here.  Over half my people are God only knows where, and of those that even responded to the call-up, most of them are saying it’ll be hours before they can report.  This is not a good time for a unit commander to be unable to handle the missions being given out.”

Pete braked hard at the intersection, pumping the pedal as the GTO’s tires threatened to lock up under the deceleration.  He reluctantly came to a halt as about two dozen cars went by in either direction, then pulled out against the red light and made a left onto Tilly Mill.  The muscle car’s engine responded enthusiastically as he fed it gas, and the GTO jumped past the cars in front of him before the road narrowed back into a two lane road.

“Doing my best Captain.”  He hesitated, then made himself say the next words.  “If I don’t get there in time, just do what you have to sir.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Dan Foreman said with a wry snort.  “My highest NCO on hand is a staff sergeant who’s career Guard, and everyone beneath him is a corporal or lower.  I need you here, so hurry up.  I ain’t dealing with all this shit with a guy who works at a carpet installer’s all month.”

“Semper Fi.” Peter said again.

“Alright, drive.”  The captain hung up, and Peter folded the phone back into the shirt pocket of his utilities as he flicked the radio back on and concentrated on his driving.  Clay National Guard Center, which was what the retasked Atlanta Naval Air Station had been renamed when the Navy gave it up as active facility, was located in northwest Atlanta, just outside the Perimeter.  Normally it was about forty-five minutes from his house.  Today . . .

As he drove, a small portion of his attention was listening to the radio, as the disc jockey, an outdated term that had nothing to do with what the person did now, but one that hadn’t been retitled, struggled to keep up with the flood of news on this extraordinary day.  The voice that normally had a wry note of amusement as he told listeners about some bit of trivia related to the classic rock band just played that die hard fans had known for decades, or who announced which band was touring with half their original members and coming to town, was now reading down a list of hospitals that were still accepting emergencies in an almost monotone.

“–edmont Hospital, and all Emory facilities except the one on Crawford Long Drive.  Officials are urging everyone to follow the CDC guidelines issued a little while ago, and avoid all contact with anyone who appears to be suffering from this disease or risk injury to yourself or the victim.  Officials continue to urge everyone with wounds or injuries that are self-treatable to do so and avoid coming going to the hospital, as every facility in the city is becoming overwhelmed with patients.”

Peter eyed the oncoming lane, then gunned the engine and pulled around a minivan that was traveling the speed limit; cutting back into his lane less than five seconds before the compact car went past in the opposite direction with a blaring horn.  He glanced at the GPS, then scowled as he saw the turn he would soon be forced to make that would require him to drive south for almost a mile before he could resume a more westerly direction.

“Back to the schools, parents if you haven’t heard yet, you need to pay attention to this.  All schools, public and private, elementary, middle and high, are closed due to the overwhelming number of victims that seem to be kids.  Those kids who are not sick are being held somewhere on or near the school grounds until someone comes to claim them.  If your kids are not at the school or at whatever designated evacuation area is listed in your child’s student handbook, then there’s supposed to be someone from the school there who will tell you where they are.”

“Now, back to traffic, and there’s a lot of it today.  I’m going to run through the major snags again, and the known alternate routes to get around them.  If you’re just now getting in the car, I gotta warn you the interstates are completely unusable in most of the city.  Okay, starting with–”

Peter saw a figure lurching out into the road less than a hundred feet ahead.  He slammed on the brakes, his mind too paralyzed by shock and surprise to remember to pump them to avoid locking the tires.  Rubber burned and squealed on the asphalt as the GTO shuddered into the earliest stage of a fishtail, which he quickly corrected before it caused him to lose control.

The person in the road never looked at him, never seemed to notice the car hurtling towards them, as he desperately swerved right; moving the muscle car half off the road and into the grassy shoulder.  It wasn’t going to be enough, he saw at the last second.

The right front corner of the GTO exploded through a mailbox, fortunately a cheap wooden one that was simply pounded into the ground on its own little stake, rather than one of the more substantial decorative brick ones, or one that had been set into concrete on a sturdy four by four post.  Almost immediately after the mailbox, Peter saw the left side of the bumper slam into the pedestrian.  The impact seemed to happen in slow motion, as he clung to the steering wheel with his mouth open in horror.

First the head seemed to roll suddenly toward him, as the body was moved in the direction the car was going, still at forty miles per hour despite the brakes.  Then the person was lifted and sent hurtling forward at an angle, spinning with arms and legs flying uncontrollably.

Peter just had time to think “oh sh–” before he saw the figure slam into the windshield of the SUV in the oncoming lane.  He pulled further off the road, hitting another mailbox, though this one only snapped off and was rolled beneath the car with a few thumps and bumps.  The GTO felt for a few moments like it wanted to swerve and get loose, but he corrected automatically and kept the car from sliding out.

When he managed to bring the GTO to a halt, Peter clung to the steering wheel for several long seconds, listening to his pulse beating a tattoo in his ears as he drew heavy breaths.  Then he turned and looked over his shoulder.  The SUV had come to a stop almost in the middle of the road, and he heard a woman screaming hysterically.  There was no traffic coming in his lane, so he set the brake, then opened his door, popped his seatbelt, and ran for the SUV.

When he drew near, he saw the windshield was completely caved in, with a pair of legs sticking out and lying on the hood.  Stopping at the driver’s door, he wrenched it open and blinked in shock.  The upper half of the pedestrian’s body was lying in the seat.  It was a man, perhaps seventy or seventy five years old.  His neck was at an angle that just looked wrong, and Peter knew instantly the man’s spine was broken.

Feeling sick about it, Peter looked at the driver.  She was sitting behind the steering wheel panting heavily, her face white with terror as her breath whistled in and out between clenched teeth.  There were shards of safety glass in her hair and stuck to her blouse from the broken windshield.  Her eyes were darting around with a jerky motion.  She seemed to not be able to decide what to look at.

It was obvious in an instant she was not dealing well with what had just happened.  To be fair, Peter wasn’t entirely sure how well he would handle having a person just suddenly appear and crash through the windshield of his car with such abruptness.  The woman’s head was moving a little in time with her eyes, tracing a circuit from where the windshield had been to the man’s body in the passenger seat, over and over, so Peter surmised she didn’t have a spinal injury of her own.

Reaching out, he grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her.  “Are you okay?” he said loudly.  She stopped panting; but her head didn’t stop its circuit.  Peter shook her harder.  “Ma’am?”

Finally she responded, turning to look at him with wide, unblinking eyes.  “What happened?”  She whispered.

“You’ve been in a car accident.” Peter said as gently as he could.  “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” she said.  “What happened?”

Peter realized she was in, at least mild, shock.  He shook his head and hit the button on her seatbelt, then tugged her from the vehicle.  As he pulled her out, he saw the man, the pedestrian, blink his eyes and fix them immediately on Peter and the driver.

“Shit!” Peter blurted, stumbling back and only barely remembering to keep a grip on the woman.  She sagged against him as he pulled her out of the vehicle, and he got his hands under her arms to keep her from collapsing to the asphalt before looking in amazement at the zombie.

It had to be a zombie.  Surely nothing else that was, or that had used to be, human would still be . . . whatever the zombie was right now after having gone through the windshield.

He noted, almost immediately once he was paying attention, that the skin of the man’s face and neck was pale and white, and not from a lack of sun.  It looked just like Amy’s had.  There were also cuts on his face, but Peter now saw none of them seemed to be doing more than oozing the barest hint of blood.

Yes, the neck was broken.  He could clearly see a bumpy angle that foretold of a snapped spine.  Yet the man’s eyes were open, and he was watching Peter and the woman with a now sickeningly familiar air of rapt attention.  Other than the eyes, the zombie wasn’t moving.

“Jesus Christ, are you two okay?” Peter heard from his left, and he turned to see a luxury sedan stopped just short of the SUV.  A man wearing a suit was standing next to the car, behind his open door, and staring from them to the windshield of the SUV where the legs still protruded.

“I’m fine, but I think she’s in shock.” Peter said, shaking his head again and turning to the man.  He hefted the woman in his arms and sort of dragged her sideways, her feet not really doing more than scraping along the asphalt, as he approached the passerby.  “She doesn’t seem hurt, physically.”

“Fuck, what happened?”  The man was still staring at the SUV.  He seemed fascinated by the half of a person he could see draped across the hood.

“That guy walked out into the road.” Peter said, deciding to go with the shortest version that might stop the questions long enough for him to get back under way.  “Can you look after her for me?”

“Why?” the man said, suddenly switching his gaze over to Peter.  “Where are you going?”

Peter reached the man’s car and leaned the woman against the hood.  As she slumped against it, still looking dazed, Peter jabbed a thumb at his fatigues.  “I’ve got to report to my unit.”

“You’re going to leave?”

“Orders.” Peter said with a shrug, taking his hands off the woman and letting them hover as he waited to see if she was going to fall over.  She seemed able to stay mostly upright with the car as support, so he stepped back and pointed at the SUV.  “The guy, there, the one half in and half out of the car?”

“Is he dead?” the man asked, still sounding a little annoyed that Peter was apparently not going to stick around.

“I don’t know.”  Peter answered truthfully, thinking of what the doctor had told him about Amy, and what he’d just seen as a person with a broken neck showed no sign of pain or shock and remained seemingly conscious.

“How can you not know?”

“You been listening to the radio?” Peter demanded abruptly.  “The teevee?  Anything?  You know what’s happening today?”

“Yeah, why?”

Peter pointed again.  “He’s one of them.  A victim, a disease victim.  Don’t go near him, at all.  Just leave the car there, leave him alone.  Get her somewhere, I don’t know.  See if she’ll tell you where she lives, or take her home with you.  Whatever you do, don’t leave her here.”