Apocalypse Atlanta (47 page)

Then it hit her, she didn’t see anyone out.  Nor did she hear anything.  Normally, by this point on a Saturday morning, the neighborhood was starting to come alive with lawnmowers, people out in their yards, or in their garages with the doors rolled up as they puttered around with this or that.

Not today.  Jessica shuddered internally and let the curtain fall.  Going back upstairs, she closed the door to her bedroom and took off her robe.  She looked through her dresser drawers until she found one of her favorite shirts, a green jersey knit pullover with a scooped neck and flowers embroidered around the hem.  Laying it out on the bed, she found a pair of comfortable jeans, clean underwear and socks, and a pair of sneakers from the bottom of the closet.

Leaving it all to wait on the bed, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  After stripping her nightgown and underwear off, she dropped them into the hamper and stepped into the shower cubical.  She stood under the water for a minute with her eyes closed and face tilted up to the spray, enjoying the simple sensation as the shower splashed over her and ran down her body.

Then she sighed regretfully and soaped up her loofah.  After washing and conditioning her hair, and giving herself a good rubdown with the loofah, she allowed herself another minute of just enjoying the fall of water before closing the valves and stepped out on to the thick mat next to the cubical.

It took her a couple of minutes to comb her hair out, and she reminded herself she really needed to get it trimmed soon; it was moving past the middle of her back again.  As she combed, Jessica frowned at the slight shadows she saw under her eyes in the mirror.  “Stress will do that.” Jessica told her reflection soberly, then grinned.  She was only thirty-nine.  That wasn’t old yet.  Still, she dried her face off and took a minute to apply a little makeup to remove the signs of . . .stress . . . from her features.

Snapping a scrunchie around her wrist so she could pull her hair back into a pony tail after it had a chance to dry some, Jessica went back into the bedroom and dressed.  She felt almost normal when she left the bedroom, with only the sight of Joey and Sandra’s bedroom doors, each standing half open to reveal empty rooms, marring the sensation.  Setting her face purposefully in a pleasant smile, she descended the stairs again and found her mother was just finishing laying the food out on the table in the dining room.

“Bill, we’re ready to eat.” Sharon called, smiling at Jessica as she reappeared.

“You sure?” her father called back, sounding wryly amused.  “I could use some fresh doughnuts maybe, or you could mak–”

“Hush you.” Sharon said primly, stepping back into the kitchen and pointing a finger at him.  “There’s plenty for everyone, so let’s sit down.”

Jessica reached to tousle Candice’s hair fondly as her daughter went past with a glass of milk, earning her a grin as Candice carefully set the glass down at her place and pulled her chair out.  William emerged and shared a quick smile and a hug with his wife before selecting a chair as well.

“Jessica, why don’t you say grace.” her father said.

She hesitated a quick moment, then nodded and reached out across the table.  They all joined hands around the plates and serving dishes, and Jessica closed her eyes as she bowed her head.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for this day.  Please bless this food and allow it to strengthen and nourish our bodies for the challenges you have ahead of us.  Be with us all as we attempt to meet those challenges, and keep us safe and whole.” Jessica said quietly.  “Thank you for family and friends, and for all the wonder and beauty you send.  In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen.” her parents murmured, and Jessica opened her eyes to see Candice nodding solemnly.

“Especially be with the doctors helping Joey and Sandra.” Candice added in a serious tone.  “We miss them.”

Jessica smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand.  “Yes, we miss them very much.”

“Amen again.” Sharon said, reaching for Candice’s plate and starting to dish scrambled eggs and grits onto it.  “How many pieces of bacon do you want?”

“Three.” Candice answered.

“Three?” Sharon said with a chuckle.  “Are you going to have room for any French toast?”

“Yes.” Candice said with a firm nod.

“Alright then.” Sharon used her fingers to transfer three strips of crispy bacon onto the plate and held it out to the girl.  “There you go sweetie.”

“Thank you.” Candice set the plate in front of her and picked up her spoon.  “Mom, pass the butter please.”

Jessica leaned forward to slide the butter dish closer to her daughter, then used her fork to maneuver a stuffed French toast onto her plate.  Her mother had already put the powdered sugar and syrup near her, and she sprinkled a generous spoonful of sugar across the top before lacing it with just the lightest touch of syrup in a swirl.

When she applied knife and fork, warm filling oozed out from between the two pieces of egg soaked bread.  The taste was heaven, dense and chewy bread contrasting with the cream cheese, flavored with mashed up banana and blueberries.

She closed her eyes as she chewed, then made an appreciative noise.  “Mom, it’s never quite the same when I try to make it.” Jessica said when she opened her eyes to see Sharon smiling as she watched.

“I keep telling you, you beat the eggs too much.” her mother said as she loaded grits and eggs onto her own plate.  “It makes them too tough when they’re cooked.”

“Grandma let me scramble the eggs.” Candice said as she used her spoon to stir butter through her grits.  “I used the whisk.”

“When it comes to French toast and scrambled eggs, listen to grandma.” Jessica said as she cut another bite.  “She’s right.”

* * * * *

“Sergeant.”

Peter’s eyes flicked open and his head came up with a start.  His mouth was dry from having hung open while he’d slept, and he could feel a wet spot on the shoulder of his utilities where he’d drooled.  His eyes darted around the room for a quick moment, memories flooding through his brain and slotting into place as he remembered where he was and what was going on.

The apartment, townhouse, whatever.  Downtown.  They were taking shelter here.  Zombies.

Peter blinked and looked around more closely, but everything was calm.  No one was in the process of trying to eat someone else.  Roper and Swanson were sitting up and looking around like he was, while Barker was still trying to wake Crawford.  The woman was laying on the floor against one of the walls curled up almost in a fetal position, and by the looks of it was a heavy sleeper.

Blinking again, Peter met the gaze of Whitley as his hand dropped away from the grip of his holstered M45.  She said nothing about his instinct reaction to grab for the weapon, merely leaned in a little closer so she didn’t have to talk loudly.  Peter wasn’t sure it mattered, those who were sleeping looked like they were out, but it was probably the polite thing to do.

“Nothing’s wrong.  Your turn for watch.” she said in a quiet voice.

Peter nodded slowly, then sat up and perched on the edge of the couch for a moment.  He felt like hell, and it wasn’t just the room either, which was warm with no power and no windows or doors open.  His eyes were gummy beneath lids that felt like their insides were covered in grit, and his body ached like it hadn’t in years.  The couple hours of rest felt like they’d done nothing to ease his fatigue, and a lot to make him stiff and sore.

“I’m up.  Sack out.” Peter said to Whitley, gesturing vaguely around the room. After handing him the tactical light, she backed off and picked her way through the motionless bodies to an empty spot on the carpet large enough for her to stretch out in.  As she settled down, Peter scrubbed his hands across his face briskly for a few moments, trying to force some blood flow to help drive away the desire to go back to sleep.

Grabbing his AR, Peter stood up and slung it behind his shoulder before cautiously trying some in-place stretching.  He twisted his arms and torso around a few times, then did some slow and even more cautious bends at the knees and waist.  It helped a little, but hurt a lot.  He glanced down at his feet and bent with a groan to hook one of his hands through his pack’s top handle.

Hoisting it up, he stepped over the expansive back of Mendez who was stretched out face down almost in the middle of the space that served as the open ‘doorway’ between living room and kitchen.  The man’s snores were light but constant, and oddly reassuring.  Snores meant he was still breathing, which meant he was still alive.  Peter didn’t figure zombies snored, or slept for that matter.

One of the glow sticks he’d given Whitley was on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.  Peter heaved his pack up next to the stick, then began poking through the pouches and compartments.  The pale green light of the glow stick was sufficient for him to find and verify the label on the small pill bottle he turned up.

As he opened it and started pulling out the cotton balls squished inside to keep the pills from rattling, Roper joined him at the counter.  His face was eager and hopeful when Peter looked up.

“Those what I think they are?”

Peter shrugged.  “Just a little something to cut the edge.  Fuck!”  A couple of dull pings and clatters sounded as the first cotton ball came out and a number of pills dropped out onto the counter.  Peter clapped his hand down, capturing some, but he was sure several more had gone off on Roper’s side.

“Can I have some?”

“Look around on the floor.  I think some fell on the carpet.”  Peter looked under his hand.  There were five pills there.  He separated two out, then scooped the other three back into the bottle.  He kept the bottle in his hand as Roper picked up the glow stick and knelt down with it.  As the light level dropped, Peter fumbled for the sip tube of his CamelBak pouch.

The pills went down with several mouthfuls of tepid water.  He drank some more, focusing on the wetness to better ignore the warmth his body had applied to the pouch that went down his back.  An idea occurred to him, and he peered through the near darkness until he identified the stove.  His fingers searched across it until he found the knobs, and he twisted one of them experimentally.

“Hot damn.” Peter exclaimed quietly as he heard the gas flowing from the burner.  It wasn’t going to light without help, since the power was out and the igniters were electric, but he was pretty sure they could handle that.

“What?” Roper asked.  The green light of the glow stick had returned, and Peter turned to see Roper standing on the other side of the counter.  He was counting through something in his palm.

“Gas is separate from power.” Peter said with a wry grin.

“Yeah, that’s usually the case.”  Roper said, sounding distracted.  “Is the water still working?”

Peter turned the stove off and tried the sink.  Water pattered out of the faucet when he lifted the handle.  “Things are looking up.”

“Yeah.  Two of these is a dose?”

“Two, give me the rest.” Peter said, turning the sink off as well and returning to the counter.  Roper handed him a couple more pills, then came around the counter and started rummaging in cabinets.  Peter got the pills back in the bottle, stuffed the cotton in after them, and tucked it away in his pack once more.

“Well, the good news is after these kick in, I can put something edible together.  Assuming there’s anything edible around here.” Roper said.  Peter turned to see Roper was leaving the cabinets he checked open.  “Ah, finally.”  The soldier took down a glass and filled it from the sink, then swallowed the pills.  “Fifteen minutes and the power of acetaminophen will chase my pain away.”

“Good for what ails ya.” Peter agreed.  He was studying the cabinet contents in the glow stick’s circle of light.  Pots and pans, plates and bowls, one of glasses and cups that Roper had been searching for, but the one he focused on held a number of cans on the bottom shelf, with some familiar boxes and packages on the upper one.  “Are those ramen noodles I see?”

“Sure are.” Roper said, putting the glass down and reaching up to poke among the food.  “And whoever stocked this stuff did us a favor.  Just with this alone I can put together a batch of hearty soup that’ll feed everyone.”

“You a cook?”

“Was.  I switched to logistics when I reenlisted.”

Peter leaned back against the counter.  “Why?”

Roper shrugged, though it took Peter a moment to recognize and decipher the gesture in the odd green light.  “I guess I found out cooking isn’t as much fun when you’re doing it for hundreds, three times a day.  Plus the career opportunities are a lot better in logistics.  Warehouse management jobs pay good, and there are a lot of them.  Well paying cook jobs, uh, not so much.”

Peter grinned.  “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”  He sensed movement behind him and turned, his hand drifting towards his holstered pistol.  The impulse to draw temporarily abated  when he recognized Swanson.  Peter studied him however, long enough that apparently the other man realized what Peter was doing.

“Hey, I’m still me.” Swanson said, holding his hands up.

Peter moved his hand away from the M45.  “Good.”  Then he realized he was actually violating his own order, and changed his position.  Where he’d been standing let him watch only the kitchen, which wasn’t the reason he and the other three were supposed to be up, so he shifted over to lean on the opposite counters.  Now he could see the living room, though some of the floor was out of sight behind the divider counter.  He frowned as his eyes swept through the room.