Voodoo Plague - 01

by Dirk Patton

  “Where are we going?” Rachel leaned forward and adjusted the AC vent that was blowing directly on her.

  Her question hit me like a slap across the face. Katie! My wife was in Arizona and I’d been so focused on the crisis at hand I’d forgotten about what she must be going through. Guilt washed over me, sapping most of my adrenaline, my shoulders slumping.

  “What?” She asked, looking around in a panic, thinking my reaction was due to some new threat.

  “My wife. Katie. She’s in Arizona. Alone.” I squared my shoulders and started thinking.

  Katie was a farm girl, raised in Michigan by a Marine who survived Pearl Harbor and the fighting in the Pacific. She’d been the only girl, and the baby, in a family with three boys. She could fight and shoot with the best of them, but had she had the chance to arm herself and fight?

  “I’m going to Arizona.” I announced without giving it a second’s thought. “I’m going to find some food, water and weapons, and then I’m going to get my wife.”

  Rachel was quiet, staring ahead through the windshield for a time before she spoke, “I’ll help you. I’ve got no one, and from the looks of Atlanta I don’t even have a home anymore.”

  If I’d been thinking even half way clearly I would have been amazed at how quickly we had adjusted to a world that had just fallen apart around us.

  9

  We drove a couple of miles south before finding a major road that turned to the west and looked like it would provide us access to the expressway that ran through the area. The road I was looking for was GA 400, an eight lane toll road that serviced the suburbs of Atlanta. I really needed a map. I knew the geography of the US pretty well, but I didn’t know the routes to get out of the Atlanta area without getting lost in suburban and rural areas.

  We drove and pushed through more wrecks, regularly bouncing infected off the front of the truck as we made our way towards the expressway. The road we were on swept up a rise and as we gained elevation I could see the signs for the toll road entrances to go north and south. I slowed as we approached the northbound onramp, not knowing which way to go, but hesitant to go any closer to the inferno that Atlanta had become. Idling past the entrance we crested the overpass and I brought us to a gentle stop. The northbound lanes were partially clogged with crashed and abandoned cars, but were passable if one drove slowly enough. Southbound was completely empty for as far as I could see. Infected shambled on the pavement, turning to face us as they heard the sound of the idling diesel engine. More of them crawled on the pavement and in the grassy median, apparently too damaged to walk, but not damaged enough to be down for the count.

  I looked south, to my left, and the scene was repeated. Raising my eyes I could see the thick, oily, black smoke boiling up from Atlanta, and even in the daylight it glowed within from the fires burning in the city. Rachel gasped and grabbed my arm, pointing ahead across the overpass.

  Not a mile ahead of us was a gas station with attached convenience mart, but I didn’t see anything more unusual than abandoned cars and shambling infected.

  “What do you see?” I asked, eyes searching.

  “The power’s on at the gas station. Look at the sign.”

  She was right. A vintage Union 76, giant orange ball sign was rotating away as if everything was normal. I made a decision without consciously thinking about it and stepped on the accelerator. As we approached I noted the empty and abandoned vehicles at the pumps, several of them with gas nozzles still inserted in the vehicles’ fuel tanks. I also noted the half dozen or so infected that turned at our approach and started shambling towards us. They were all male, and moving slower than the females I’d seen, but that didn’t make them one bit less dangerous.

  They met me in the road, fifty yards shy of the gas station and I used the truck to dispatch the largest concentration in one crushing, grinding and bloody impact. Two remained on their feet and turned to follow us as I whipped into the station’s parking lot. A green handled fuel nozzle, green for diesel, was visible sticking out of the tank of an abandoned VW Jetta. No opportunity like the present.

  “I’m getting out to get that nozzle out of the car,” I said to Rachel, pointing at the VW. “When I have it clear, push the car out of the way so I can top off our fuel tanks. I don’t know when we’ll be able to find fuel again.”

  We screeched to a halt behind the VW and I eased us forward until our front bumper crunched into the car. Throwing the transmission in park, I took a quick look around and jumped out of the truck, pistol in hand. Rachel slid behind the wheel and dropped the big truck’s transmission into drive, ready to push. Grabbing the nozzle from the VW I stepped back and she hit the gas. The Ford’s tires grabbed the concrete of the gas station driveway and with a protesting squeal of rubber and crumpling metal the VW moved forward.

  The pump was still activated from the VW owner’s presumably interrupted fueling, so as soon as I inserted the nozzle into the Ford’s fuel tank and squeezed the lever fuel started flowing. Rachel rolled her window down.

  “Two coming up behind you,” she warned, sounding as calm as if she was talking to me about the weather.

  These two were the survivors from the group I’d bashed in the street and were now only about ten yards away, both of them making that wet, snarling, gurgling sound that set my hair on end. I stepped away from the pumps, raised the pistol and dropped both of them with two quick head shots. Glancing around I counted at least twenty more infected converging on the noise of the truck and gun shots, the closest more than two hundred yards out. Fortunately, I still didn’t see any fast moving females.

  “Stay with the truck,” I shouted to Rachel, and ran across the concrete apron to the convenience mart doors.

  I stopped at the closed glass door and peered in. Everything looked so normal. The lights were on, the shelves were stocked and there wasn’t any sign of disturbance. Running out of time I yanked the door open and stepped in, pistol at the ready, whistling loudly to draw out any infected. I gave it five seconds and when there was no answering snarl I lunged for the counter and grabbed a fistful of plastic shopping bags.

  Shoving the pistol in my waistband I ran to the glass door fronted coolers and filled several bags with bottles of cold water. Next I filled bags with candy bars, protein bars, canned food and anything else that looked like it was edible and would travel well. Arms loaded I dashed for the door, praying I wouldn’t meet an infected in such a defenseless position. Just before I pushed out the door I glanced at the counter and stopped short when I saw the road atlas display. Reversing course, I was juggling heavy shopping bags to reach for an atlas when Rachel started honking the truck’s horn.

  I looked out the front door and saw a female infected staring back at me. She pushed on the door which fortunately only opened out. When it didn’t move she started banging on it with her fists, face pushed to the glass and lips peeled back in a snarl.

  I looked over her and saw the converging crowd was now less than forty yards from the truck and closing ground fast. Grabbing the atlas I juggled the bags back into a stable position and ran directly at the door. I’m a big guy and the female infected looked like she had been a high school or college aged girl and soaking wet couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I hit the door in full stride, blasting through it and sending her tumbling back and away from the point of impact, my new road atlas flying out of my hand and skidding across the parking lot.

  Seeing me coming, Rachel leaned across the seat and popped open the passenger door. I ran, skidding to the side of the truck and dumped my looted goods into the cab. I heard the snarl and slap of feet behind me and reached for my pistol, but my hand was tangled in the plastic shopping bags. Leaping back, a bag full of canned goods came with me swinging from my right wrist, the tough plastic refusing to break free.

  The infected was right there, running at me, leaping, eyes wide, lips skinned back from bloody teeth, a snarling scream coming up from her throat. Not even thinking, just reacting, I
stepped to the side and swung the heavy bag of cans. I swung hard. The bag hit her squarely in the face and exploded open, cans of chili and soup flying in every direction.

  The impact stopped the infected in mid leap and she crashed to the ground, immediately jumping back to her feet and turning to attack. Hand free of the weight of the bag I pulled my pistol and shot her in the forehead, stepping over her body as it was falling. I had to get the nozzle out of the truck’s tank and the cap back on so we didn’t lose precious fuel as we drove away.

  A male infected met me by the pump and I dispatched him with another well placed shot, yanked the nozzle out of the tank and let it drop to the ground as I fumbled the truck’s fuel cap back on. I had glanced at the pump’s readout and was surprised that the truck had held almost 15 gallons in the partially empty tank. Quick and dirty math told me I probably had two 50 gallon tanks. I was betting the truck would get around fifteen miles per gallon so we should be good for close to 1,500 miles before we ran out of fuel. That wouldn’t get us to Arizona, but it was sure as hell a good start.

  Rachel had scooted over and closed and locked the passenger door and I was starting to step up into the cab when my left leg was yanked out from under me. I hit the ground hard, breath whistling out of my lungs and lay there, momentarily paralyzed as my body refused to respond. A crawling infected, he must have been under the VW and worked his way back, gripped my right foot and started pulling himself up my legs, teeth snapping the whole time.

  His head had just reached my feet and he bit down on my right foot, the shoe saving me for the moment, when my body started responding again. I took a deep breath, yanked the pistol out of my pants, took careful aim at my attacker’s head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Either a misfire or the weapon had failed to lock open when it ran out of ammunition.

  I started kicking the infected in the forehead with the heel of my left foot and manually cycled the automatic pistol’s slide, but it locked open, empty. A snarl above me heralded the arrival of another infected, ready to fall on me and have a feast. I kept kicking, trying to scoot away from them both, but the damn thing had a hold on my foot like a Terrier on a rat. It wasn’t letting go.

  Looking up I prepared to fend off the latest dinner guest, hoping I would be able to crack his skull using the empty weapon like a club, when a shadow leapt over me from the cab of the truck. Rachel landed on both feet, astride my upper body and swung the tire iron with both hands. If Hollywood was still in business I had the perfect Wonder Woman for them. The tire iron connected with a sickening crunch and he dropped like a puppet with cut strings, bloody head bouncing on the concrete a few inches from mine, dead red eyes staring at me. Rachel spun, dispatched the infected chomping on my shoe in the same fashion and grabbed my shirt, screaming at me to get in the truck.

  Scrambling to my feet I followed her bare ass into the truck, slamming the door behind me. Before I could even hit the lock button, fists started pounding on the window trying to get to the prey that was escaping. I dropped the tranny into reverse, hit the gas and roared backwards a few yards, then into drive and swung around the VW, crushed a few infected in the process and turned back east onto the road with a skittering of tires.

  I headed to the toll road ramps, bounced over the median, and turned onto the southbound off ramp heading north against the direction of travel for those lanes. I hadn’t seen another vehicle moving since the evening before and driving against traffic seemed a better idea than driving closer to Atlanta. My breathing finally slowed down as we settled into a steady 40 mph on the toll road. Rachel took a couple of deep breaths also. I could feel her body shaking as the adrenaline drained off. After a mile or so she picked through the bags on the floor, pulling out a bottle of water for each of us.

  “I don’t suppose it would be too much to ask for you to get me a shirt the next time we stop, would it?” She asked with a perfectly straight face, handing me a bottle of water.

  10

  The water revived us as we drove, and we devoured several of the protein bars I had liberated from the gas station market. Even with all of the sugar and protein I was exhausted and started to get concerned about finding a place to spend the night.

  We had driven north on GA400 for a few miles before heading west on surface streets. We didn’t really have a plan other than getting away from the inferno that was Atlanta. We soon found ourselves in a residential neighborhood with neatly maintained lawns and tree shaded streets. Some of the houses we passed had obviously been abandoned in a hurry, garages standing open and empty, others looked buttoned up with blinds drawn tightly. Some of these were occupied, blinds twitching open as the sound of the truck’s big diesel rattled down the quiet streets as we passed.

  I slowed as we approached a four way intersection where two police cruisers completely blocked the road, roof lights flashing. No one was visible and one of the cruiser’s doors was standing open. Easing to a stop 50 yards short of the intersection I scanned the area looking for any threat. Despite not seeing any danger the short hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. I rolled my window down as I scanned the neighborhood, but all I could hear was the idling of the diesel. Not wanting to turn off the engine I eased the transmission into reverse and backed into an empty driveway as the street was too narrow to make a U-turn with the big truck.

  The sound of roaring engines reached me as I was shifting back into drive and two sedans, both Toyotas I think, screeched out of adjacent driveways and slid to a stop in front of me. I was blocked in, a closed garage door only feet from my rear bumper but I didn’t hesitate to floor the throttle.

  The diesel engine roared and the rear tires screamed in protest as the truck lurched forward and crunched into the sedan on my left. Time seemed to slow down and I saw the white oval of a face behind the wheel of the car as the big Ford bulled it aside. From the corner of my eye I registered movement to my right and then bullets were smacking into the cab of the truck.

  “Down,” I screamed to Rachel as the path in front of us opened with a rending of sheet metal.

  Rachel dove to the floor and rolled herself into a ball in the passenger side foot well. The truck was accelerating away from the ambush but moments later a bullet punched through the rear window of the truck then the windshield, travelling a path where her head had just been.

  I took the first turn I came too, the truck threatening to roll up onto two wheels as I wrenched it through the turn without letting off the throttle. A final bullet pinged off the back of the truck then we were clear. Expecting pursuit I kept on the speed with an eye on the mirrors, but nothing appeared behind us. A couple of miles and several turns later I felt it was safe to slow down.

  “What the fuck was that?” Rachel asked as she climbed back onto the seat.

  “That was the human race at its best,” I answered, taking another turn to get us heading west once again. “World’s always been full of assholes and I’m guessing these guys either wanted the truck, you, or both.”

  Rachel didn’t have a response to that and we were quiet for a bit as I kept pushing us towards the west. The neighborhoods were all the same, a mix of obviously abandoned houses and houses that were occupied by people hunkering down. We hadn’t seen any infected in some time and I stayed on high alert for any more ambushes. We were poorly armed and in no way able to fight off a concerted attack. I knew many of the houses probably had guns and ammunition in them, but was hesitant to stop.

  Reaching Georgia Highway 20 I continued our path west, dodging abandoned car accidents and the occasional roving band of infected. We saw no more people on the streets, but the further west we went the more infected we encountered. The males slowly shambled after us, but the females charged us at a frightening speed. I didn’t think we would last long on foot trying to outrun them.

  It was now fully dark and after the third time a screaming infected female ran into the side of the truck, scaring the shit out of both of us, we decided it was time to find a secure pl
ace to stop for the night.

  “There was a service station with roll up doors about two miles back,” Rachel said, placing her hand lightly on my arm. She was exhausted and spooked, the light touch a plea to get off the road.

  “Let’s see what it looks like,” I said and cranked the truck into a U-turn.

  The service station looked like it had once been a chain gas station but was now an independent automotive repair shop. I drove past, slowing slightly, and didn’t see any obvious danger. U-turning again I wheeled into the parking lot and backed the truck to the one vacant service bay.

  Loosening the Glock in my waistband to make sure it would draw smoothly if needed I grabbed the tire iron and stepped down out of the cab.

  “Slide over and be ready to back into the bay when I get the door open,” I said, slamming the truck door before Rachel had a chance to respond. I watched for a second to make sure she got behind the wheel, then stepped behind the truck and tried the door. Mercifully it was unlocked and I was able to raise it with a squeal of poorly lubricated metal.

  Moving out of the way I slapped the side of the truck as an all clear and Rachel quickly backed into the garage. Turning to step in behind her my only warning that I was being attacked was the slap of feet on pavement. I spun around in time to meet an infected female that launched herself at me from a full run. She wasn’t a big woman, but 110 pounds hit me square in the chest and knocked me flat on my ass.

  The tire iron flew out of my hand, clanging across the garage bay. I got my hands in front of me and locked on her shoulders, holding the snapping teeth at bay, and with a mighty grunt I shoved her away. She flew a few feet and hit the front bumper of the truck with a sickening thud, scrambling back to a crouch faster than she should have been able to.

  Fumbling for the pistol and raising it, I snapped off a shot as she launched herself like a missile. I was happy to see the long dormant skills hadn’t atrophied too much as the hollow point round punched through her face and continued on to blow out the back of her head.