Atlanta Bound

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Uh.” He kept trying to glance at her, then correcting the truck’s drift on wet pavement. Humps of icy white, melting rapidly under the rain, showed where the snow had dipped south, losing its fury as it worked past DC.

  The White House was probably standing empty now. Or maybe the people there who had created this monster and turned it loose had green syringes of their own, and were resting comfortably in bombproof bunkers while all the death and blood and pain roiled in the rest of the goddamn country.

  It wouldn’t surprise her one bit.

  Lee cleared his throat, his Adam’s-apple working. “I, uh. There didn’t seem to be a…well…”

  “You should have told me.” The words were dry and terrible, she couldn’t get them past the wad in her throat. A hot heavy stone, full jagged edges, tearing at her voice. “We could have—”

  “What? What you think we coulda done?” Sounded like he had a rock in his windpipe, too. A big one.

  “We could have saved people.” It was the only thing she could think to say. All the words she’d ever known, all the ones in all the books in the world, hardly seemed applicable.

  “Only three of em, Ginny.”

  Well, that was some pitiless logic. He excelled at it, and Ginny supposed she was lucky he did. “He—this Colonel Grant—said to go to Atlanta?”

  “Grandon. Yeah.” Two short, bitten-down little words.

  Then that’s what you should have done. Ginny had the uncomfortable sensation of her brain actually moving inside her skull, vapor-locking so hard it twitched. That was ridiculous, she knew that organ didn’t feel pain. And yet. “You should have told me.”

  Lee’s knuckles were white. His irises had lightened too, that peculiar yellowish stare of his. “You was wantin to get to your folk, and I thought—”

  “No. You didn’t think, Lee.” She sounded like Mom, she realized, and her stomach flipped uneasily. “We could have gone straight to Atlanta, with this.”

  “And left your folk to—”

  “Yes.” But she wouldn’t have. It was impossible to tell, she hadn’t had the chance. “Or you could have gone yourself. This is important. You could have saved people.”

  “I did.” His chin set, stubbornly. “Leastways, the only one I felt like savin.”

  Her heart lodged afresh in her throat, her pulse a thin high galloping. “What if Juju got sick? Or one of the kids? What if they got sick and I didn’t clue in soon enough because I assumed I was immune and they would be too? What about that?” Her voice rose, she couldn’t help it. “What about people maybe waiting on this to concoct a cure? You didn’t think, Lee. How could you? You told me…Juju told me—wait.” The funny sensation inside her head was simply her brain trying to process and overheating, maybe. Just like a laptop, and just as useless at the moment. Electronics were just giant bricks now. How long before people forgot the secret to making them work? “Did he know?”

  “Not until about twenty minutes ago.”

  Oh. That’s swell. That’s really awesome. “So.” Ginny was not taking this calmly, she decided. No, not calm at all.“You lied to him too.”

  “I just didn’t say nothin, that’s all.” Lee actually flinched, shoulders coming up; the truck stayed steady on the road. “He knows I got my reasons.”

  “I’m sure he does.” It was her mother’s you have overstepped tone escaping Ginny’s mouth, and oh, God, wasn’t that a pain in her chest as well? A week before things went bad, he said? Plenty of time to get to Atlanta, and maybe, just maybe, she could have gotten to Mom and Dad and Flo, and at least been with them at the…

  At the end.

  Ginny covered her face with her hands. She bent over the shoebox-case, almost to her knees. A thick, slick, muffled sound caught in her throat—maybe a scream?

  “Ginny. Ginny.”

  She leaned away from his reaching hand. “Don’t,” she said into her cold palms smelling of harsh pink soap. “Don’t.”

  The walkie-talkie on the dashboard woke with a feedback squeal. Ginny swallowed convulsively. If he touched her, she was going to scream. Probably scare the hell out of the dog, too.

  It was Juju on the walkie-talkie. There was, of course, yet another problem.

  Nice News

  Cold rain drummed on the top of the 4x4. Duncan bent in the backseat, coughing. His cheeks were scarlet from the effort, and when Ginny produced the thermometer, he shook his head. “Oh, hell no.”

  “We’ve got to know,” she said, and there was a set to her chin that reminded him of Phyllis facing down those assholes outside Pittsburgh with just that pink baseball bat and her wits.

  Goddammit, Phyl. “I’m fine,” he said, and hawked up some phlegm. “Just a little overheated. It’s a sweatbox in here.”

  “Sore throat? Headache?” She was all business, the librarian, raindrops clinging to her piled, dark braids. Steph, mute and mutinous, was behind them in the truck with Lee since it had been time for a change in lead anyway, and Duncan thought maybe Ginny was mad at the man for something.

  Not his business, really. His throat was sore and it hurt to swallow his own spit, and he couldn’t stop coughing.

  The engine idled softly. Juju kept glancing nervously into the rearview. Ginny simply looked at him, those large dark eyes cow-patient, and Duncan gave in. “Throat’s been dry since Allentown, but I figured I just wanted some whiskey. Headache, well, yeah.” Everything about this was likely to give a man a headache. “You think I got it? The zombie flu?”

  “Not sure.” She held up the thermometer. “This will help me tell. We probably won’t know until you start to convulse.”

  “Great.” He shook his head, but she was persistent, and he finally accepted the metal and plastic, tucking it under his tongue like a good boy.

  Wasn’t it just his fucking luck?

  “Ginny…” Juju shut up when she glanced at the rearview. When a woman looked like that, silence was probably the best policy.

  Probably? No, definitely.

  “He told me, Juju.” She had a whole medic’s kit in a black faux-leather Bargain Zone handbag—blood pressure cuff, swabs, thermometers, and a bunch of other stuff, including orange prescription bottles. Quite the little pharmacy. Always prepared, like Phyl with that damn Chanel bag of hers. “Drive. We need to get to Atlanta.”

  “You think there’s anyone there?” Juju’s worried frown mirrored hers, and he dropped the Jeep into gear. He tapped his brakes twice, and the truck’s headlights behind them flickered once.

  “Even if there isn’t, there’s probably facilities. I’ll do what I can.” She glanced at Duncan, unrolling the blood pressure cuff. “Don’t worry, Duncan. I didn’t leave med school because I was bad at it.”

  “Why didja, then?” Juju’s mouth set itself, but he popped the emergency brake and touched the gas. Rain drummed tiny wet fingers on the roof.

  “Because my boyfriend planned to roofie me and charge attendance to his frat brothers while they did what frat boys do, and I found out.” She said it all in one breath, and her expression didn’t change. “Let’s get your coat off, Duncan. At least on one side. We’re going to take your blood pressure.”

  Juju’s mouth fell open. Duncan decided he’d better not mess with this particular librarian, ever, and unzipped his own jacket. The walkie-talkie burbled, and he looked out the window. Rain fell in a curtain, an iron-grey line of cloud sweeping overhead and dumping its cargo.

  They were a hundred miles from Roanoke. And from what he gathered on the walkie-talkie, there was finally something on the radio.

  He was pretty sure it wouldn’t do him personally any good, but it was nice news nonetheless.

  Transmission

  “This is Dr Emiliana Torres of the Atlanta CDC, broadcasting on both AM and FM frequencies…If you can hear us, we’re still functioning, and this is the route you should take to avoid those infected with the LV-426 virus…if you can reach Charlotte, head for the Belmont Army Reserve. Helicopters will circle the fac
ility daily at noon. They will land when and if it’s safe and uninfected civilians will be transported to the Atlanta base. We have food, electricity, and medical care…Again, if you are uninfected, we recommend you head for the Belmont Army Reserve Base near Charlotte. This is the route we recommend in order to avoid the infected…”

  Damn Kid

  They stopped again for gas just past Roanoke; someone had been at work on the freeway with wreckers but left the job unfinished. Still, they made good time, even as a winter night swallowed them and the rain intensified. Windshield wipers thump-swooshed back and forth, and the rain tried to have sleet at its heart and only barely failed.

  Duncan slept fitfully, leaning against the window, and Ginny stared out hers, occasionally flicking on a small LED and checking the contents of her medical bag again, as if she’d find something new in there.

  Juju drove, thin-lipped, focusing on the cones of headlight glare. His eyes were grainy, and it was a good thing they were switching off point frequently. Lee was monosyllabic during check-ins, and when they stopped for any short while his gaze followed Ginny hungrily, watchful.

  She ignored him.

  That was a problem, but the two of them were goddamn adults. Juju was more worried about Duncan’s shallowing breathing. It came on fast, and the man hadn’t been bit, had he?

  Not bit, Ginny said. Immunity’s not a factor, I guess.

  Well, she was takin the news real calm-like. There were two of those syringes left, Lee said, but would the man spend one on Duncan? He was, after all, a stranger—a new boot in the platoon, so to speak, and you didn’t get close to a new boot until they’d survived long enough to make it worthwhile. Even if he had done his share of wallopin’ critter heads.

  But that wasn’t what was grinding inside Juju Thurgood’s skull, circling the way a thought did on watch when you had nothing to do but stand and stare.

  No, it was Mark Kasprak Juju was thinkin’ on, and it wasn’t comfortable. Damn kid, gettin himself killed like that. Hell of a way to go, and even though Lee had done him a mercy at the end.

  And Lee knew the kid. That was probably tearing him up, but the Loot wouldn’t say a damn thing. He kept his bleedin’ on the inside.

  The kid should be sittin in the passenger seat right now, or in the RV they’d had to leave behind again. Couldn’t keep a damn one of the big road-hogs to save their life. Woulda been nice to sleep in one, but he agreed with Lee that pushing through the rain was better than risking a crowd of the undead motherfuckas if they stopped to rest somewhere.

  Or even if they didn’t, because each time Juju rubbed his eyes and looked at the damn road, there were little flickers of motion outside the headlight glow.

  Flat shines, like eyes, way down low. Not animal eyes, glowing weird the way they did. Something else.

  The highway ribboned, dipping and rising, and the countryside might’ve been pretty if it wasn’t swarming with the things. Of course, it could just be nerves.

  Night patrol did that to you. Made you jumpy. So did adrenaline. The radio burbled softly, a recording on repeat. No use getting your hopes up, they could arrive and find out it was just idiot noise running because those responsible for it were dead or chew-shuffling and unable to switch it off.

  Duncan moved, and Ginny made a soft soothing noise. “It’s all right,” she said. “Not far now.”

  The rain kept going. At least it wasn’t snow.

  “Damn kid,” Juju muttered, under the sound of Dr Torres, whoever she was, repeating the route. “Damn kid.”

  “I can drive,” Ginny said, leaning forward. “Juju?”

  “Not yet,” he said, and set his jaw. There was another tangle of wrecked cars coming up, and he didn’t like the sensation that there were things hiding in the shattered metal and glinting glass, watching them go past.

  Whirlybird

  Smudged, haggard false dawn rose through curtains of rain northwest of Charlotte, creeping across the top of hills and between cars shoved to the shoulder, tiptoeing down long stretches of blank, wet freeway. The radio was on, muttering softly; Dr Torres had been replaced by a granite-throated fellow whose drawl sounded perilously close to Lee’s own, repeating the same things over and over. Had to be another recording, and it was a good sign.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t give a shit. Duncan surfaced from thin, restless dozing and stared glassy-eyed at Juju. “Uh,” he croaked. His nose wasn’t full, so he could smell the faint burnt metal scent of rank sicksweat. He was greased with the shit, oily with the aroma of his body trying to fight something off and failing miserably.

  Had he been dreaming? Something about Phyl and those assholes outside Pittsburgh.

  Poor Phyl. Duncan rubbed at his eyes with clumsy fingers. Poor everyone, putting up with all this bullshit.

  “Don’t tell me you gotta pee.” Juju’s lean brown face split into a sweet, somewhat gentle smile. “We ain’t stoppin for nothin now, so you gonna hafta put yo dick in a bottle.” He paused, probably waiting for a smile or answering witticism, while Duncan worked his jaws and tried to swallow. That made Juju sober, pursing his lips. “We got some of them espresso-in-a-can business if’n you want coffee, but nothin hot.”

  Duncan’s throat was on fire. Something cold sounded really good. His head hurt, too, his temples pounding and sending glass spikes down his neck. His lower back cramped, his legs felt like he hadn’t used them in six months, and god damn he wanted them to just tip him out of the car onto cool, hard concrete.

  Just let him rest. It had been a long damn road, and he was fuckin’ tired.

  “He’s awake?” Ginny was in the driver’s seat, thin strands working free of her braided coronet. She edged the Jeep over to the left, avoiding a pile of smashed metal and scattered glass that didn’t look quite right. It wasn’t a smashup; it looked like a wrecker had been at work. “We could change over, then.”

  “Nah, keep goin.” Juju finally smiled, his dark eyes lighting up. “Me and my man here just gonna chill until we at base. Right, Duncan? You want some water?”

  Duncan nodded, carefully, so his fool head didn’t fall clean off. Christ, his throat hurt. The rain sounded juicy, delicious. My man. Did Juju suspect?

  Maybe. Maybe Duncan had been talking in his sleep. Everyone found out everything, sooner or later. You couldn’t get away from anything, even during the apocalypse.

  “Christ Jesus, he’s burning up.” Juju’s hand was cool as water falling from heaven against Duncan’s forehead. He cracked a bottle of generic distilled water and held it to Duncan’s lips, and if he had to die, Duncan supposed, it would be nice to do it while leaning on this man, seeing the curling shadow of his stubble along the angle of his beautiful jaw, hearing him speak nice and low, coaxing-like.

  “Just hold on, Duncan.” Ginny leaned forward, and the 4x4 rocked, speeding up. “Shit.”

  “Keep it even, woman.” Juju was antsy with someone else driving his baby. A man who loved his car was a good one, or so Duncan thought.

  Of course, he’d loved plenty of cars, but nobody would ever call Duncan Harris good. He tried to laugh, but all that came out was a harsh caw, spilling cool water down his chin. Swallowing hurt, even the water didn’t give him any reprieve.

  “I just…I can’t be sure, but…” Ginny gasped, leaning forward and peering out the windshield. Peering up. “It is.”

  “Ginny, he can’t even drink.” Juju put his fingers back on Duncan’s forehead. “This ain’t good.”

  “Don’t sip from his bottle, Juju. Is his throat worse?”

  Duncan nodded. Even that hurt. Even his fucking hair hurt.

  “He says yes,” Juju translated.

  “Of course. Why didn’t I…” Ginny’s eyes narrowed, clearly visible in the rearview. She’d’ve made a crackerjack doctor, he decided. That ex-boyfriend of hers sounded like a real turd. “Could be strep. Shit. Dig in the medbag. There’s penicillin tabs—is he allergic to penicillin?”

  Juju’s look was full of i
nquiry. Duncan managed a shrug. Christ, he didn’t care, as long as this stopped.

  “Don’t look like it.” Juju dug in the fake-leather bag. “What’s up there, Ginny?”

  “A helicopter,” she said, in an awed whisper, craning her neck. “Big, and black.”

  For a moment the words made no sense. Then a cold wire of relief coiled shamefully up Duncan’s spine. Helicopter meant people.

  “Get on the walkie—” Juju leaned forward, and Duncan sagged bonelessly without his propping. “Christ, maybe I should drive.”

  “Settle down.” The librarian had made up her mind. She stared at the road ahead like it personally insulted her, and the wipers cleared the windshield in not-quite-tandem arcs. “We can’t change drivers without stopping. Give him five hundred migs of penicillin, that should do for his weight…Duncan, I know it’s not pleasant, but you’ll have to chew it if you can’t swallow.”

  Great. He shrugged again, now hoping they wouldn’t stop the car so Juju could stay right where he was. Ginny reached for the walkie-talkie, pressed the button, and made a face when it squawked. “Lee? Lee, there’s a helicopter.”

  “I see it,” came the reply, its throat rough as Duncan’s own with static. “Keep goin. How’s the patient?”

  Ginny’s gaze didn’t leave the road. “Awake. We need to get there soon.”

  “Aight. Keep goin, we switch point in thirty, ten-four?”

  “Ten-four,” she muttered, grimly, and put the talkie back in its jury-rigged holster on the dash. “Keep going, he says. As if I wanted to stop.”

  “Stay focused, woman.” Juju found what he was looking for in her bag. “Don’t get us in no accident. Amoxicillin? That work?”