Apocalypse Atlanta (41 page)

The knob turned, but the door moved less than half an inch when he tried it.  He frowned and pushed harder.  The door wouldn’t budge, and he heard a creaking.  Peter stepped back and swept the tactical light around the edges of the door, then cursed as he saw something filling the hinge side from within.  “Fuck me.” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?” someone behind him asked.

“Door is jammed from inside.” Peter said, trying to think.

“I could try to dismantle the knob.” a thin man said, coming forward and tapping them.  “Got a Leatherman here.  Pull the knob, there should be nothing left locking it.”

“How long?” Peter asked.

The soldier shrugged.  “Could be five minutes, maybe longer if they secured the screws with glue or something.”

“Screw that.”  “No way man.”  “Are you for real?”

Peter ignored the protesting voices behind him and shook his head uncertainly.  “The knob’s turning, I don’t think it’s locked.  It feels like they wedged something in to keep it from opening.”

The Guardswoman who’d been backing Peter up stepped past him and held her hand out to the other soldier.  “Give me your Leatherman.”

“What?”

“Now!” she insisted.  “You want to get out of here or wait for the zombies to make it up through the parking deck and wander in here for a sub sandwich?”

“What’s your idea?” Peter asked, glancing back through the tube.  The remaining soldiers were clumped up close behind him, all waiting for the door to be dealt with.  There were more than he had thought might keep following, which was a welcome surprise.  He also saw those at the back of the little column were watching the garage side of the tube already, another welcome surprise.

“Wedges you said?” she answered as she grabbed the proffered multi-tool the first soldier held up.  She examined the attachments quickly and unfolded a long metal tool from it.  “Sarge, shine that light on the hinge crack.”

Peter checked that his safety was on, then complied.  She probed the crack with the tool, which was a serrated knife.  “Yeah, wedges.” she said, tapping something in the crack with the blade, then patting her pockets with her free hand.  She pulled out an ammunition magazine and began hammering on the end of the Leatherman with it.  After the third hit, Peter could tell she was making progress.

“Got it.” she said about ten seconds later.  She found two more wedges, though the one next to the middle hinge seemed to take as long as the other two combined to knock out.  It finally gave though, and she ran the blade around the bottom, then along the top by stretching up on tiptoe.  “That’s the last of them I think.”

“Okay, try the knob again.” Peter said, readying his weapon.  She reached out from the side of the door and turned the knob, then pushed on the door.  It opened this time, and Peter swept around with his light.  He saw a hallway stretching out away from the door that was dimly lit.  It looked like emergency lighting, the kind that usually ran off batteries.  It was just enough to see where you were going, but not enough to really be good for much else.

“Cover my ass.” Peter said quietly, stepping forward.

“With you sarge.” the Guardswoman said, handing the Leatherman back and hefting her own weapon.  She eased in right behind Peter, staying almost close enough to touch him, as he moved slowly down the hallway.  There were stores on either side of the hallway; a gift shop, coffee bar, sandwich shop, and newsstand.  Their security gates had been dropped, and they were deserted as he went past.  Just past the newsstand the hallway broadened out onto an open space.

Peter panned his light around slowly.  It was the hotel’s lobby, he realized.  The hallway opened out into a sort of balcony that surrounded the lobby below.  There were tables and chairs scattered around the floor where people could sit and drink their coffee and read their newspapers while they watched the comings and goings in the lobby below.  The elevator bank was on the far side, but he looked further and spotted a stairwell in the corner on his right.

“Someone get that door closed behind us.” he said quietly.  “Make sure it’s closed good and tight.”

He heard the order being passed back down the line of soldiers, but didn’t pay much attention.  He was still examining the building’s interior.  The stairwell door was dented, right about chest high in a rough circle maybe two-thirds the width of the door.  He frowned, pondering, then shone the light on slung under his AR slowly around the rest of the level.

“Sarge?” the Guardswoman whispered.

Peter started very slightly.  The light had just illuminated a puddle of something on the floor near the elevators.  Any other time, on any other day, and he would have said he wasn’t sure what it was.  Especially in a hotel.  But today, with everything that was going on, his mind instinctively filled in ‘blood’ without hesitation.

“What?”

“Do you think that’s blood?”

“What was your name again soldier?” he said after a moment spent studying the blood.  He couldn’t think of what else it was.  It was smeared across the floor toward the elevator, and as he followed the trail with his light he saw footprints had tracked through it in several directions.  Further, that it was on the floor of a hotel, even in the middle of, or especially in the middle of, an apocalypse like this couldn’t be a good sign.

“Whitley.  Sarah Whitley.” she whispered back.

“Okay, two things.” Peter said, still speaking quietly.  “First, stop whispering.  It carries further than a low tone.”  His light revealed a couple of potted plants, typical corporate corridor dressing, but overturned and lying on their sides.  Dirt had spilled out from the decorative pots, and he saw some of it had been trampled on.

“Two?”

Peter blinked, then glanced over his left shoulder.  Whitley was holding position tucked in right behind and to the left of him, staying within arm’s reach.  He had felt her there, moving with him like she was attached by string, as he moved through the hotel.  Her face showed a little strain, stress lines creasing the skin around her eyes and across her forehead, but she met his gaze fairly steadily.

“Two, shut up unless there’s something to report.”

“Oh.  Sorry.” she said, copying his quiet voice.

Peter looked back, then started moving quietly towards the stairwell door.  After a few steps he was near enough to the decorative safety wall that ran around the balcony area to see down.  The first foot of the wall was wooden, or at least faced with wood, but the rest was glass except for the posts spaced a couple feet apart.  He glanced down as he eased along the balcony, then frowned.

The emergency lights down there were less effective, or maybe they were mostly out.  But what of them there were, and the moonlight coming in from the east side of the lobby, revealed a sight that made him stop almost in mid step.  He froze for a second, staring, then carefully lowered his foot the rest of the way.  Peter hesitated, then angled his light down for a better look.

There were faces staring back up at him.  Blank, pale, with dead eyes that held a hint of intent hunger.  Over two dozen, lining the railing of the second floor.  And at the bottom, in the lobby, he saw over a dozen more, also looking to the third floor and the noisy warm meat they sensed.  Someone next to Peter cursed, and a second flashlight beam joined his, flitting around the lobby as if the holder couldn’t believe it.

Peter backed away from the balcony railing and looked at the others.  Knowledge of what lay below was spreading fast via low voices and quick looks down as the soldiers finished trickling in from the hallway.  Peter examined the third floor again, but saw no zombies up here with them.

Just to be safe though, he went down to where the balcony terminated against the dented stairwell door before turning to face everyone.  He gave himself a count of five, making sure his voice was under control and absent any sense of frustration or defeatism before he spoke.

“Okay, ammo check.  Go through all your pouches, and anyone with a pack check that too.” Peter said quietly.  He pointed with the tactical light.  “And then I need a no-shit reality check.  Anyone who qualified Expert with rifle and who isn’t too freaked out by the shit we’re in, over here.

Suiting action to words, Peter went over to the spot he’d indicated, then shucked his ILBE and started going through it.  He took the opportunity to stuff a few energy bars into his pockets, along with a pack of batteries for the light in case he needed them later, then pulled out his last three filled magazines.  In total with what he had in his ammo pouch, there were five.

But he also had two boxes of rounds, ammunition he’d brought with him from home, at the bottom of the pack.  He left them there for the moment.  Those he didn’t want to invade just yet, unless the current ammunition situation was more dire than he suspected.  There was also a box of .45 rounds for his M45 and Kahr, but the only three spare magazines he had for those were already in his secondary pouch, and were full.  He didn’t want to contemplate being down to only the pistols.

Peter kept the 5.56 magazines in his hand and stood up, shrugging his arms back into the ILBE’s straps once more.  Four soldiers had stepped over to join him.  The Army didn’t emphasize marksmanship to the extent that the Corps did, but even allowing for their Guard status, Peter had been hoping for more than that.

He looked the four who’d stepped over, trying to determine their mental state.  They met his gaze steadily and without shirking, their hands and body movements seemed controlled, and their breathing was even and regular.  No tremors, no twitchy reactions or flinches–as far as he could tell they were tracking okay.  But four, five including himself, probably wasn’t enough.

“Okay, anyone qualify Sharpshooter?”  Peter said.  “And whose hands aren’t shaking?”  Two more Guardsmen stepped forward.  Peter blinked, and decided not to ask about Marksman qualifiers.  Six would have to do.

“Alright then.” he said.  “First, I want to get everyone organized again.”  Losses from zombies had eaten away at the already pretty casual grouping the Guard had been set up in before being thrown out into Atlanta to try and help.  The constant running had prevented any real attempt to get things straightened back out, but Peter was done screwing around.  There was the time now, so he was going to get it sorted out.

“Okay, shooters, spread out a bit.  Now, you, and you, and you, with me.”  He indicated the Guardswoman who’d been glued to him, along with the soldier with the Leatherman and another completely at random, based on nothing more than how nervous the man seemed.

“You three are on my fireteam, you move with me.  Stay close, two or three yards max.” he told them, but making sure everyone could hear him.  “I’m lead and point, I cover front.  If we’re moving, that’s front.  If we stop moving for some reason, the direction we were going is front.  You cover back.” he said, pointing at Whitley.  “No matter what, you’re responsible for covering the fireteam’s six.”

She nodded with a determined expression, and Peter gave her a sharp nod back.  He’d picked her because she seemed to be tracking well and seemed ready to do whatever was necessary to get through this.  That was someone he wanted covering his ass.

“You’re covering left, and you’re covering right.” Peter said, pointing at the other two he’d picked out in turn.  They each nodded back.  “Okay, got it?  Your job is to cover your arc when we’re moving, when we’re stopped, whenever.  Period.  No matter what the fuck is going on, you cover your arc.  Sing out if you spot incoming, keep me updated on what’s there, how many and how far.  Clear?”

“Clear sarge.”  “Got it.”  “No problem.”

Peter nodded, hiding his trepidation.  It normally took weeks of intensive training for a fireteam to begin to gel as a tactical unit, and months before they functioned flawlessly.  That was why he’d assigned arcs and simplified their roles to the bare minimum.  All they had to do was stay with him, watch their arc, and speak up.  Hopefully it wasn’t too complicated for them to manage.

“Alright.  Everyone else, these are the other fireteam leaders.” Peter said, gesturing at the shooters.  “If you’ve got buddies or friendships or whatever, feel free to group up.  Team leads, you’re each on your team’s point.  Assign your other sectors however you want.”

Peter waited for the groups to sort themselves out, and was prepared to wait a couple of minutes if necessary.  He was keeping an eye on the rest of the floor that was ‘behind’ them, but if there were any zombies up here they were not showing up.  This was still a safe spot for the moment.  He really hoped there wasn’t a horde about to come over from some hallway out beyond the elevator bank that he couldn’t see.

But, to his partial surprise, the soldiers sorted themselves out into the other fireteams pretty quickly.  He waited until he’d seen each leader confer with his people, until heads had nodded pretty much across the board, then snapped his fingers twice to get their attention again.

“Okay, good.  Whatever arc you’re on, you’re covering that irregardless of what’s going on in that arc.  If you’re covering left and there’s another fireteam on your left, you still cover left.  Got it?  Is anyone not clear?  You always cover your arc, period, no matter what.”

Heads nodded, and Peter nodded.  “Okay, next thing.  Whenever possible, I want the points to do as much of any shooting as possible.  We don’t have the ammo to waste, right?  We need every shot that can be a kill to be a kill.  Anyone who does shoot, I want you to take your time with those shots if at all possible.  Think about your fundamentals, your breathing and your grip and steady aim on the weapon.  Head shots, kill shots.  Only when you have to, but when you do make it a kill, okay?”