Atlanta Bound

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Why are you asking me? “Sounds good.” Her throat wouldn’t quite work. “Put your seatbelt on.”

  “You too.” The Jeep roused, and there was a thud against Phyllis’s door. The vehicle rocked and the black-haired woman cried out, a half-swallowed yell that ended on something rhyming with duck.

  “Oh, God,” Steph moaned. “They’re chewin.”

  “Course they are.” Lee dropped the 4x4 into drive; the chains bit packed, sloppy snow. “Don’t you worry, Steph. We got ammo and fuel, we ain’t gonna be critter snacks anytime soon.”

  God, I hope he’s right. Ginny studied the creatures as they scuttled for the Jeep. Blue veining marked the periphery of their discolored faces, and the one in a ripped, melt-soaked parka lunged for the side-mirror, chin thrust forward and teeth champing. It didn’t seem to realize it could grab at the protrusion with its chapped, dangling hands, which was lucky.

  Fine motor function wasn’t their strong point. For a dizzying moment, she imagined being locked in that hotel room, throwing herself at the walls or the door as her body rotted around her….and the shudders just wouldn’t stop even though she was safe, she knew she was.

  Good luck convincing her non-zombie body, though.

  Spitfoam splattered on the window, shaken free of champing jaws. Ginny flinched; Lee made a soft sound that wasn’t quite a word, killing the curse before it could slip out, goosing the accelerator. The Jeep shuddered and flung the zombie like a dog flicking away water, and Ginny was glad Traveller wasn’t here barking.

  She loved the dog, but really, she had all she could handle at the moment keeping the rifle safely stowed and hoping the window glass held.

  “Come on,” Lee muttered. “Come on.”

  Another mutter in the back was Steph Meacham repeating ohGodohGodohGodplease. Phyllis was deathly silent, and Ginny denied the hot sourness in her throat.

  Puking was not an option. She clutched her bag of books, and stared at the zombie’s collapsed eyeballs, its ice-rimed nose crusted with old, frozen snot, its working jaws and the foam collecting at mouth-corner cracks.

  It had once been a feeling, thinking human being. Now it only wanted to bite.

  Take notes, she thought, deliriously. Observe the symptoms. You might not get another chance.

  Her eyes flew shut, she steadied the rifle and clutched at the two bags of books, and Ginny Mills realized that deep down, she was a complete coward.

  Really, though, she’d known that all along.

  A Man's Gotta

  Inside the biggest, most luxurious RV on the lot, the briefing was well underway. “Shoulda seen it,” Juju said, scrubbing at his woolly head with both pink palms. His jacket rustled. “Pow, pow, pow, all in a row. Like that wildcat asshole in Syria, remember him? Feathers in his fucking hair for every headshot.”

  Yeah, he remembered the guy. Domino, they called him, because one went down right after another when he was behind the scope. Not a team player, though, the kind of cowboy who was worse than no warm body at all when you were looking to get everyone out alive. “No shit.” Lee’s hands wanted to shake, so he kept them tight around a travel mug full of hot, sweet, strong coffee. Ginny and the girls were outside with Traveller and Duncan, everyone carrying at least a baseball bat and keeping an eye peeled. Nobody goes anywhere alone, Lee had said. It was a rule before, and it goes double now. “That’s some fine shootin, Kasprak.”

  The boy—no, he was a young soldier now, there was nothing childlike about this—ducked his spike-haired head a little. “Was afraid I was gonna hit somethin I shouldn’t, so I just did like you said, Mr Juju. Breathe out nice and easy, lead em, and don’t take it less’n you’re sure.” His voice dropped on the last sentence, a tolerable Thurgood impression.

  Apparently, he’d gone onto the roof of the dealership and picked off the majority of the critters chasing Juju and Duncan on their way back. The leftovers had been easily dispatched; Lee was just thankful he hadn’t brought back any more with the Jeep. The one in the parka from the bookstore had vanished into the snow.

  Lee was hopin’ it had run itself to death, like any rabid critter.

  “Well, shitfire and save matches, someone’s listenin to me after all.” Juju’s grin couldn’t get any wider, and he lifted his own coffee with a self-satisfied air. “Someone call the tee-vee news and let em know.”

  All at once Lee’s shoulders eased, the little switch in his head clicking back over to no, ain’t no shootin’, just relax. “Gonna get right on that, you sassyass.” Post-combat jitters were never any fucking fun. The worst was craving a goddamn cigarette, even though he didn’t smoke. “Good job, Mark.”

  “Thanks, sir.” The kid straightened again, self-consciously raking his hair back with stiff bare fingers, and glanced at Juju. “But it’s all Mr Thurgood, sir. He’s a good teacher.”

  “That he is.” Good of the kid to say it, really. He was shaping up right, was Mark Kasprak, and Lee felt a weary wonder that such a thing could happen in the current situation. “You clean your rifle?”

  A jerk of his chin down, a brief nod. “Yessir.” Mark’s eyes shone with the consciousness of a good job done.

  “Clean it again, son, and make sure you got all the ammo you need. You’re gonna be on lookout more.”

  “Thank you, Mr Lee.” Mark’s broadening shoulders came up high and proud, like Lee had just given him a gift. He also mashed his knit cap in both hands, kneading like a cat with a small toy.

  Oh, for Chrissake. Maybe the kid wasn’t really a soldier yet; anyone past basic knew that was a shit duty. “Don’t thank me, Kasprak. You’ll freeze your ass off doin it.”

  “Yeah, well.” Mark shook his head ruefully, and there was a shadow of his daddy in his semi-mournful expression hiding a twinkle of amusement. Before he started hitting the sauce, old man Kasprak had a helluva sense of humor. If he’d just kept it instead of souring—but no use in shoulda, coulda, or wouldas, as Nonna used to say. Life had dealt Kasprak Senior a shit hand or two, and he’d gone bad instead of philosophical over it. “Sometimes a man’s gotta.”

  And what d’you know about that, kid? Lord have mercy. But Lee didn’t scowl. There was no need. Instead, he lifted his mug and took a hit, yet another sign that the worst was over. “G’on now.” Hot coffee meant good things, relaxation and a chance to breathe. There might have been better ways to get him down from the redline, but coffee was what he had, and there was no use bellyachin’.

  “Ayuh.” The kid didn’t salute on his way out, but it was probably close. He peered through the door carefully before he jumped out, and a thin sound that was Traveller’s excited yapping made Lee almost-flinch.

  Damn dog. But Duncan was out with the girls, and the man could handle himself. Steph was a fair shot, too, and Phyllis’s baseball bat had seen action at least once, if Lee was any judge.

  “Lord,” Juju said, sliding into the padded bench on the other side of the postage-stamp table. The RV rocked a bit as the door slammed to. “Were we ever that young?”

  “Not by a long shot.” At least, Lee couldn’t remember it, though he knew they had to have been. He could imagine Juju as a young ’un, but all he could remember for himself was feelin’ ancient and probably lookin’ that way, too. His gloves lay on the table, discarded armor, and there was a faint good smell of boiled caffeine in his nose, warring with a simmering that was too many people and not enough showers gathered in a small place. “You feel okay with him coverin you again?”

  “Guess so.” Which was high praise, coming from Juju. “If his head don’t get big.”

  “Amen to that.” Lee didn’t think it very likely, but you never could tell with kids from bad homes. They either buckled down or exploded. Only one of those ways was useful right now, and it wasn’t clear yet which Mark would choose.

  Juju eyed him, settling his own coffee on the table and cracking his left-hand knuckles. Maybe the scar pained him in this weather. “You look like shit, Loot.” Tip had once said somethi
ng about how Thurgood got that wound, and it about turned Lee sick to his stomach.

  Now Lee could talk. “There were some at the mall, too.”

  “Yeah?” Juju finished with his knuckles and swished his coffee, a familiar thoughtful motion. Just drink it, Tip used to bellow, don’t make it into a fuckin hurricane.

  Fuck your mother and drink your own, Juju had been in the habit of replying, the tag line of a very old joke. As old as Iraq itself, maybe. Or just as old as the war that dropped them all in desert shit.

  Lord, he missed Billy Tipton. Not as much as Juju was likely to, but enough. “That’s why I took the long way home.” Losing your buddies never got easier, and there was a whole long list of names Lee could recite if he had a mind to.

  That particular rosary lodging in his skull was not a good sign.

  “Huh.” Juju’s frown said he was thinking the same thing Lee was, and was just as unsettled. “They gettin smarter, or just hungrier?”

  “Don’t know.” Lee took another scorching mouthful, forced himself to swallow. “Maybe we shoulda started today.” Ginny would have liked that better than the bookstore, indeed.

  Still, the way her face had lit up…that was a good thing, and it made him warm all through in a way the coffee couldn’t touch.

  “Well, that brand-new fancy weather thingummy says it should warm up a little.” Juju’s full lips tightened. “Harris set it up. Even got a rain gauge.”

  “Useful.” And they’d thought to pick up a few of the less-fancy ones and a mess of batteries, too. Might as well be prepared.

  “Yeah. He’s okay.” It was Thurgood’s day for giving out high praise, apparently. “Clipped one at the Bargain Zone.”

  Shit. “Steady after?” That was the most important question.

  “Like a rock. Boy was in the service, he don’t get real nervous.” Juju’s tension eased all at once, with a familiar, gusty sigh. “Got to tell ya, this is lookin up.”

  Well, for everything that was, Lee could think of a few things that weren’t quite. That was probably the adrenaline crash talkin’, though. “Guess so. Which one of these-here RVs should we take tomorra?”

  Juju studied him, sinking into the seat across the dining table. He lay his pompom hat aside and folded his brown hands, like a young, slim preacher regarding one of his flock. “You got that look.”

  Lee fought the urge to hunch his shoulders protectively. “What look?”

  “The look that means there’s shit comin downhill.”

  Well now, if he knew all Juju’s tells, the man knew a few of Lee’s own. You couldn’t escape being known, not when you spent day in and day out getting shot at with a man. Or chased by the walking dead, as it were. “Not really.” Lee couldn’t drink more coffee, he’d taken off the skin inside his cheeks already with that last gulp, not to mention his tongue. “We’re a day, maybe a day and a half out. When we get there, ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  Juju nodded, and swished his coffee some more. “She’s tough. She’ll make it.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Lee made a wry face. Ginny was too damn brave for his comfort. “But still. She don’t need more grief. None o’ us do.”

  “Ain’t no way of gettin round it.” Velvety dark eyes turned still and somber. “Grief’s on the menu, and the only thing doin the cookin too.”

  “I know.” Lord, did he ever. Grey snowlight strengthened in the window, clouds thinning. If the temperature dropped hard overnight it was going to be an icy mess.

  “Where we goin after?” Of course Juju would be thinking ahead. It was in his nature.

  Lee all but winced internally. “You ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Atlanta.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Got a better idea?” Because really, Lee was fresh out.

  Juju’s laugh was a little too bitter to be truly amused. “Shit, no. If I did, I’d’a been sayin so before this whole trip started.”

  “Yeah.” There was nothin’ more to say, so the two of them sat quietly. Juju’s breathing evened out; he was coming down from redline too. Imagine zoomin’ across the snow, knowing those critters were after you, hearing the rifle-cracks and hopin’ whoever was shootin’ had their scope screwed on straight.

  It was damn good to have a friend to sit with. You had to take easy time where you found it, and Lee was lucky to have backup who knew what the fuck.

  Juju coughed, lightly, cupping his hand over his mouth. “Shit,” he said. “Throat’s dry.”

  “Drink yo’ coffee.” Lee stared out the window, his brow furrowed and a headache gathering behind and between his eyes.

  “Fuck yo’ mama,” Juju muttered.

  “And drink yo’ own,” they both said in tandem, Lee’s mouth tugging up in a rueful smile.

  Still, he kept looking out the window. Juju coughed again; Lee tried not to notice.

  After all, there were two syringes left in the hardpac case Grandon had left him. Neither of them might be necessary.

  A man could hope.

  Hobbies

  They were making good time. Phyllis leaned forward in the driver’s seat, her eyes narrowed against the glare even behind her large tortoiseshell shades. “This is one big beast,” she said again. She didn’t quite mind driving with the kids, but there wasn’t a lot to talk about. Ginny was up front in the red and white truck with Quartine, navigating them through a bright melting midmorning, Duncan was taking a turn in Thurgood’s Jeep, and Phyl had never piloted anything this huge and wallowing before.

  Fortunately, it was built so even a middle-aged middle manager could grasp the meaning of all the buttons and whistles, and she didn’t have to do much other than observe a careful distance from the back of Thurgood’s black 4x4.

  “Miz Ginny said that too when she was drivin the other one.” Of the two kids, the girl was the most interesting. Kitten-faced and thoughtful, she was also bright and needy.

  Phyl could relate. Maybe she’d been that transparent once in her life, but not anymore. Getting older was good for something, at least. “What happened to the other one?”

  “Got shot up.” Mark Kasprak leaned over the back of the shotgun seat, almost breathing in the girl’s hair. Puppy love, it looked like, but Phyl itched to smack him and tell him to sit down. “Some guys trying to trap us at a rest stop. They had an RV too.”

  “And big trucks,” Steph added. “Wonder what they wanted.”

  How sheltered had the girl been that she couldn’t guess? On the other hand, no kid should ever have to think about that shit. “Nothing good,” Phyl muttered darkly. “Men with guns never want anything good.”

  “Hey.” Mark found this objectionable, of course. “We’ve got guns.”

  “Yeah, and so did Duncan, but that makes you question marks. Not safe bets.” Phyllis shook her head and internally poured a little more cold water on her temper. “Maybe you can drive after the next stop, Steph.”

  Steph ducked her chin, glancing out at the lack of scenery. It looked like a habitual movement, making herself smaller. “Ain’t got my license.”

  “I do.” The boy was aching to get his hands on something, anything.

  “Maybe.” Phyl restrained herself from eye-rolling with a massive effort. It wasn’t his fault he was that most irritating of creatures, a teenage male. There was no cure for that condition except time and an application of life lessons, generally with a two-by-four if nothing gentler managed to get through. “So what do you like to do, Steph? You got any hobbies?”

  “Not really.” Oh, the girl definitely had been taught to hide her light under a bushel. That would change if Phyl had anything to say about it.

  “She paints.” Mark bounced a little, then swung around and set off down the middle of the RV. Maybe he’d find something to keep him occupied. “Y’all want some hot chocolate or something?”

  Phyllis took a tighter hold on her impatience. Her blue-blocker shades were top of the line, she’d never have been able to afford a set before the world went to shit, b
ut she was still squinting fit to ruin her eyes and her neck was tense. “You paint?”

  “Watercolors,” Steph said, shyly. “Not very good. My daddy got me a paint by numbers set when I was five and I liked it so much he kept bringin em home. Then my mama told him Bull—that was his name, Bull Meacham—Bull, she said,” Steph managed to give the aural impression of an older, wearier woman, “she don’t need the numbers no more, so he started bringin home paints and stuff. Mama went all the way to Lewiston to get me canvases and brushes sometimes.”

  “Like ol Miz Clampett and her plates,” Mark called from the kitchen section. “You want some coffee, Miz Lampke?” He even mangled her name.

  Phyllis took another deep breath. “No thanks, kid.”

  “You know that show?” Steph stared out her window. Snow, more snow, sometimes an abandoned car under a hood of slipmelting white, dark buildings probably crawling with chewing, growling zombies or people with guns and bad attitudes. “There was this guy. Bob somethin. Anyway, he had a big ol head of hair, and he painted stuff. Happy stuff.”

  “Bob Ross?” Good Lord, Phyl’s grandma used to watch that. “Trees and stuff? He was always saying how things were happy. Yeah.” An unwilling smile pulled up the corners of Phyllis’s mouth; there was no rearview to check, but the dry air hadn’t played too much havoc with her skin yet. The cold was murder on complexions. “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “He ain’t paintin no more,” Steph said darkly.

  Phyl wondered if she should tell the girl Ross had been dead a while, and decided not to. There was only so much bad news any of them could take, these days. “But you remember him, right? I know a lot of people loved that show.”

  “They’re probably dead too,” Mark weighed in.

  Phyl longed to stamp on the brake, turn around, and give Mr Kasprak some home truths. She counted to five, took a breath, and counted again. Lord, boys irritated her as much as they ever had. It wasn’t the kid’s fault; being stuck in an RV all day was frustrating for any healthy young animal. Including herself. “Not helpful, kiddo.”