Apocalypse Atlanta (90 page)

As it was, it didn’t take long to get everyone out of the tent city and over to the truck.  He dropped off the last load, and hit the button on his radio as they scrambled up into the back of Crawford’s trailer.

“Mendez, Gunny.”

“Go Gunny.”

“We’re ready to roll here, no problems.  You guys okay?”

“Oh sure, no problem.  Unless you count about a thousand zombies.”

Peter paused, considering.  “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“We’re fine.  Meet you on 75.”

“Roger.”  Peter released the radio and drove up past Crawford and Whitley, making eye contact with each as he gave them a thumbs up.  Whitley led off once more, heading south on Riverpoint and following it around the curve to Allatoona Dam Road.  A left there, then a right on Highway 41, and in minutes they were back at the truck stop.  She stopped without pulling into the parking lot, long enough for Dorne to get out and run back to Peter, then got going again.

“Good job.” Peter said as the other man slid into the passenger seat.

“What?”

“I said good job.” Peter repeated.

“I can’t hear so good, it was really loud in the bus.” Dorne said, not quite shouting, but close.  Peter shrugged and grinned, driving over to the second humvee.  Dorne hopped out and got it going, then accelerated after Peter as both sped down 41 to catch up with the others.

Five minutes later, all the vehicles were back together on 75.  Peter hesitated, then keyed the radio.  “Whitley.”

“Right here.”

“Head north and look for a good place to stop.” Peter said.

“Anyplace, or somewhere we can drop our civvies off at?”

“Either.” Peter shrugged.  “I don’t care.  Restaurant, gas station, strip mall, whatever.  Just somewhere we can have a pow-wow at.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Whitley led the convoy north several miles before hitting her turn signal and getting off at Exit 296.  Peter had already seen the information signs they’d passed that indicated what franchises were in operation there, and thus wasn’t surprised when he spotted the big Pilot ‘Travel Center’ that Whitley turned towards.

He supposed a ‘travel center’ sounded better than ‘truck stop’, but he was old school.  It was just a big ass gas station that had things you didn’t find in normal gas stations.  As far as he was concerned, that made it a truck stop.

Driving cautiously, Whitley took them in a big circle around the entire perimeter of the Travel Center’s pavement before pulling up to the curb next to the restaurant that was attached to the convenience store portion of the building.  The parking lot was clear of any dangers Peter could see, but he still took the AR with him when he got out, and he didn’t linger as he went around the front of the bus.

“Hold up, not that one.” he heard Swanson say loudly.

“What does it matter?” Nailor asked.

Peter saw the Guardsman had reversed his M-16 and was holding it upraised, ready to break the glass on the door to the Wendy’s.  Swanson was pointing at a pane of glass that had a booth on the other side of it.  “That one, it’s more secure.”

“We’ll have to climb over shit to get in that way.” Nailor complained.

“And so will any zombies.” Smith pointed out.

“Fine, whatever.” Nailor shifted over and smashed in the indicated panel, then used his sleeve to sweep the glass off the table top before clambering over and into the restaurant.  Several others followed him, but Whitley caught on to Peter’s intention as he stood waiting, and went over to the door after she was inside.  She turned something, producing a loud click, and then the door swung open freely.

“Ta-da.” she grinned.  “Wendy’s is open for business.”

“Is it?” Dorne asked as he pushed past her and headed for the kitchen.  Peter started to say something, but the man wasn’t as cavalier as he sounded.  His rifle was in his hands and pointed ahead of him as he went around the counter.  “I’m fucking starving.  Hey Roper, come take a look with me.”

“Look dude, it don’t take a cook to make a damn hamburger at a hamburger joint.”

“No, but it takes a grill.  And you seem to know whether or not we can trust what to eat.”

“Assholes.” Roper muttered.  “I should’ve never said anything.”  But he headed around the counter after Dorne.

The civilians were filing into the restaurant uncertainly.  Some of them looked reasonably alert and calm, but most were a little wide eyed with shock or fatigue or both.  A heavy set man with graying and balding hair came in at the rear of the pack of rescuees, eyed Peter once, and stopped next to him.  “I’m BB.  Thanks seems inadequate to express how damned grateful I am you folks wandered on by.”

“Peter Gibson.” Peter said, shaking the proffered hand.  “And don’t mention it.  Glad we were able to help out.”

“Where you boys based out of?” BB asked.  “And girls.  Don’t mind me, I’m just old fashioned.” he added when Whitley glanced at him.

“We were dispatched out of Clay.” Peter said.  BB gave him a perplexed look.  “Uh, the air base in Marietta?  Used to be Naval Air Station Atlanta?”

“Ah, right.” BB nodded.  “You know what’s happening in Atlanta?”

Peter shrugged.  “Not really.  I mean, we were stuck in downtown as recently as a few hours ago, but I doubt we know much more than you do.  But what I do know is everything’s gone to shit.”

“Yeah, lot of that going around.” BB sighed.  “So what are your orders then?”

“We don’t have any.”

“How’s that?”

Peter sighed.  “Our unit linked up with another one, and both were trapped and killed nearly to a man by converging hordes in Atlanta on Friday night.  It took us about two days to fight clear with not many more people than what you see here now.  We haven’t been able to locate any other units on the radio.  Clay was deserted except for zombies when we finally got back there earlier tonight.”

“Shit.” BB said, puckering his lips like he was going to spit.  “So you’re it then?”

“Near as I can tell, yeah, we’re it.”

“How is that possible?” one of the civilians asked.

“The news said the military and the police and everything was falling apart.” a woman said from a booth fifteen feet away.

“Yeah, but . . . we need help.”

“We helped you.” Whitley pointed out.

“Yeah, but we need more.” the man protested.  “I mean, where are we supposed to go?  Where’s safe?”

“Maybe nowhere is safe.”

“Why are we sitting in here?”

“I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten in twelve hours.”

Peter looked around as the aura of shock or fear or whatever seemed to break on all the civilians at the same time.  They weren’t quite arguing, but they were trading comments and suggestions fast and furious.  He walked over and tapped a couple of the soldiers on the shoulders.

“Keep an eye out the windows, alright?”

Leaving Smith, Nailor and Mendez to keep a look out, Peter headed for the kitchen.  He was just about to go behind the counter when the lights in the restaurant abruptly came on.  There was a general bout of cheering from the civilians, but it wasn’t enough to halt the back and forth that was still ongoing over what was happening, what to do about it, and where they should go next.

“So, good news, the breaker was just tripped.  Probably a surge or something.” Dorne said cheerfully as he emerged from the depths of the kitchen carrying a box labeled ‘ground beef patties, quarter pound’.  “And Roper has grudgingly agreed to work the grill.”

“Yeah, but you better get a couple more people back here to man the assembly line.” Roper said sourly from behind him.  “I keep telling you I transferred out of kitchen services.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.  You hungry or not?” Dorne asked.

“I could just make something for me.”

“Hey, don’t be like that.”

“I take it the freezer and stuff are still stocked.” Peter interjected.

“Sure, plenty.  Way more than we could eat even if we squatted in here for a couple of days with five times as many people.” Roper shrugged as he bent down and did something to the commercial sized grill that produced several rapid clicks.

“Good.” Peter considered for a couple of seconds.  “I’ll find at least three or four more people to help back here, and we’ll take a look through the convenience store for coolers and drinks and stuff.”

“Soda fountains should be working.” Roper pointed out, holding his hand over the grill’s stainless steel surface.

“Yeah, but there will be bottled stuff over there.  And, probably, coolers or something.  We can cook a bunch of stuff, grab some drinks, and take it all with us.”

“I guess, but even with ice the burgers will probably only be good for the next day.  Past that and we’re risking problems.  And I don’t have any plastic or anything to wrap them with, so they might get soggy from the melting.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Peter said.  “I’ll tell everyone I send back you’re in charge.  If you want to step back and make someone else flip the burgers, that’s your call.”

“See?” Dorne laughed.  “You’re saved.  If this was a damn Waffle House we’d have to wait for you to work your kitchen magic.”

“Fuck you.” Roper said sourly.  Peter left them to it and went back out front to find the civilians were still chattering away.  He pulled Whitley, Swanson and Barker aside and told them to do a sweep through the store next door, then load enough bottled drinks, preferably water, to last at least two days.

As they went over to the interior door separating the store from the Wendy’s, Peter stepped up onto a chair, then to a table top, and raised his hands over his head.  “Hey, listen up.”  Whitley smashed the glass on the door just then, and it was so effective in cutting through the din of cross talk he suspected she’d timed it that way on purpose.

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Peter said into the sudden quiet.  “First thing, who’s got any experience in a restaurant like this?”

There was a long pause, then hands started going up.  Peter pointed to five in sequence.  “There’s enough food here for everyone to eat their fill, but we need hands to get it all ready.  Any of you mind helping cook and prepare and so forth?”

“Did you guys check everything back there?”

Peter looked at Dorne, who was lingering near the counter.  He nodded, and Peter repeated the gesture.  “Two soldiers will be back there with you, and they’re both armed.  But they can’t guard and cook at the same time, and I’d like to get out of here to someplace a bit more secure as soon as we can.  So if you could help out, that’d be appreciated by everyone, I’m sure.”

The five he’d indicated got up and headed back into the kitchen, and Peter regarded the rest.  “Now, after we get a meal squared away for everyone, I’d suggest we transfer over to the hotels on the other side of the interstate.”  He pointed west where, according to the signage on 75, two motels were supposed to be.  “We can secure them and everyone can maybe grab a shower and some rest.”

“Do you know what’s happening?” asked the same man who’d been helping the pregnant woman asked.  She was sitting next to him, looking flushed and worried, but reasonably calm despite that.

“I probably know about as much as you do.” Peter said.  “We were soldiers, but now we’re just like you.  Survivors.”

“What does that mean?”

“Yeah, what are you saying?”

Peter waved his hands quickly to try and forestall another outbreak of chattering.  “What I’m saying is we’ve tried to get in touch with our superiors, and all attempts have failed.  The National Guard base in Marietta is deserted, and as far as we could tell all of Atlanta is overrun by zombies.  As far as I know, we’re on our own.”

The words seemed melodramatically ominous, but they seemed to hit hard enough to still any automatic reactions to demand more information.  Peter let them all think it over for a couple of seconds, then spread his hands and gave an expansive shrug.

“To be perfectly blunt, I don’t know what the best answer is.  I don’t know where’s safe and where isn’t.  We heard that there might be parts of the federal government and military evacuating to somewhere, maybe the Midwest, but it’s effectively just a rumor for all the confirmation I have.

“I’m glad we were able to rescue you.  I’m glad everyone here is still alive.  But beyond getting some food into you, and maybe finding you a secure location to shelter in, I don’t know what the big picture next step is.”

“You’re not going to leave us?”

“You can’t be serious – you have to stay and protect us.”

“Come on, there’s fucking zombies everywhere and you’re talking about walking out on us?”

Peter started to wave his hands, but another voice cut across the others sharply.

“Settle the hell down.” BB shouted.  Faces turned toward him to find he was glaring at everyone with a scowl.  “These people risked their damned lives to rescue us, and not twenty minutes afterwards you’re haranguing them.  Show some gratitude.”

Silence.  A few muttered ‘thank yous’ drifted out.  The man sitting next to the pregnant woman stood up.  “Look.  I’m grateful.  I really am.  I don’t know how I can properly thank you for getting us out of that camp, so all I can do is just say thank you over and over.  And I will if you want, until you’re sick of hearing me say it.  Thank you, really.