by David Rogers
“That’s cold.” Whitley said. She was still behind Peter, standing close enough that he could feel her presence. She hadn’t moved except to swivel or step with him since he’d setup the fireteams.
“Hot, cold, whatever.” Hernandez said. “Normally I’m all for honor and glory, all that shit. But I’m pretty sure the honorable decision having been made won’t make getting eaten by zombies feel any better.”
“It’s still an assumption.” Peter said.
“Yeah. And?” Hernandez said, not entirely unreasonably. “This ain’t the movies, but they’re the only thing I got to go on right now. And in the movies, you get bitten or whatever by a zombie, you turn into one.”
Peter said nothing. As silly as trying to decide a life or death choice over movie logic seemed to him, he had nothing with which to refute Hernandez’s reasoning. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then turned his head toward the recently converted zombies who were scattered on the balcony floor.
“Do any of these guys have wounds somewhere?” he asked, raising his voice slightly. When a few heads turned to look at him, he gestured at the zombified Guardsmen who had just done their best to eat everyone up here. “Bites or scratches, anything aside from the bullet wounds that killed them?”
Some negative answers came back, most of them tentative, and Peter scowled a little. “Well, help check them out.”
Suiting actions to words, Peter holstered the pistol and snapped out his pocket knife. Squatting next to the nearest zombie, he unbuckled the man’s belt and equipment harness, then started cutting off the utilities so he could get a better look at the body. He could tell there was some hesitation, but then a couple of the soldiers found knives and started doing the same thing to other zombies.
When he finished cutting the pants and shirt clear, Peter sat back on his heels and studied the zombie carefully. It looked normal and was even still warm to the touch, with none of the lividity or drained appearance he’d noticed on other zombies. Probably because it had been alive until only a few minutes ago. Perhaps if it had been given a chance to wander around for a few hours the more gruesome ‘dead body’ features might have begun appearing.
But as he rolled the body over, then stood up after half a minute or so, Peter frowned. The zombie’s head was a pretty large mess thanks to the bullet that had killed it, or maybe that was killed-killed it, but he couldn’t see any thing that looked suspicious. There were a few bruises on the body, one on the arm, another up on the right shoulder, and a third on a knee; but no cuts, no punctures or anything that broke the skin.
“Okay, not sure what I’m supposed to be checking for.” he heard Swanson, another of the fireteam leaders say as Peter considered the zombie he’d stripped to the briefs.
Standing up, Peter shrugged. “Bite or cut.” he said thoughtfully. “Anything that might indicate why they changed.”
“Well, this guy’s clear then.” Swanson said after a couple of moments.
“Are you sure?” Hernandez asked.
“Pretty sure.” Swanson replied, running his fingers lightly over the dark flesh of the zombie soldier he’d stripped down. “I think I see some bruises here, kinda hard to tell with a black guy, but nothing that’s bleeding except the shots in his neck and head.”
Peter glanced over idly, too lost in thought and too inured against graphic gore at this point to be bothered by the trio of shots that had shattered the zombie’s skull and neck. Swanson seemed correct, that zombie didn’t look like he had any non-bullet wounds either. At least, again, none that seemed to match up to a movie defined infection vector.
“This guy’s got some scratches on his forearm.” Smith piped up from near the railing. He held up the zombie’s limp arm as heads turned in his direction, and he pointed at the marks on the corpse’s skin. “Look like fingernail scratches to me.”
“How the fuck would you know what caused them?” a woman asked as she finished winding a bandage around a man’s leg.
“Come on Crawford, you know how it is.” he said with a grin. “My girlfriend likes to use her claws when she’s hot and bothered.”
“Forget I asked.” Crawford said with a moue of discontent.
Hernandez moved over and studied the supposed fingernail scratches carefully, then moved on to examine the rest of the zombies. Peter circulated as well. Out of the eight zombies, one had a bite and one other beside Swanson’s had injuries that weren’t explained away as bullets or by the night’s rough activity.
Peter finally shrugged. “Not a lot to really go on.” he said when Hernandez, who was taking longer to study the zombies, eventually finished his perusal.
“Well something’s turning people.” the soldier said, though his expression said he really wanted to say something else.
“Okay, look.” Peter said, gesturing to him as he stepped away from the main body of the group a couple of yards. Whitley was still moving with him, and he almost started to tell her to stand off, as he waited for Hernandez to join him, then decided against it. She was doing exactly what he’d told her to do, better than other fireteam members were supposed to be doing. And he might want the backup.
“I’m not going to just abandon people, at least not ones who are still mobile and have a chance, on speculation and hunch.” Peter said quietly when Hernandez was standing next to him.
“Sarge, how are we going to maneuver if we’re carrying guys who can’t walk anymore?” Hernandez pointed out, not entirely unreasonably. His tone was a touch hot, but his eyes were steady and level as he met Peter’s. “We’ve been on our feet for hours, and unless we can shoot our way clear of any zombie problems speed is the only defense.”
“What, you want to abandon them?”
“We could park them in a room. This is a hotel, isn’t it?”
Peter was shaking his head, though he was angry and ashamed that part of him had already considered that very thing. “That’s a death sentence.”
“Not necessarily. If we can get out, we can retool and come back with reinforcements to cut them loose.”
Peter frowned, glanced at the others, then lowered his voice to just barely above a whisper. “I’m not entirely sure there’s anyone who might be able to come back with us, assuming we even make it out of the hot zone.”
Hernandez’s frown matched Peter’s. “That convoy came from somewhere.”
“Yeah, and they had vehicle mounted radios. Assuming the reason we can’t reach anyone is due to the range on our handhelds, where’s the cavalry for those poor fuckers outside?”
“It’s only been, what, ten or fifteen minutes?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah, and before you say it, let me point out if there was still a functioning command structure beyond Downtown Atlanta, do you think they would’ve sent just a single convoy in if there were more troops available?”
“Who’s to say they didn’t?”
“Then where are they? Anyone else in Downtown who was able would’ve showed up by now. We’d hear them firing up the horde outside.”
Hernandez’s frown twisted into an ugly scowl, but his eyes were thoughtful. Peter shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s all gone to hell, but I’m not ready to write two guys off just yet.”
“So if you knew we were completely fucked, you’d be willing to cut them loose?”
“I didn’t say that.” Peter snapped, catching himself by the third word and lowering his voice as heads turned. He grabbed Hernandez by the arm and drew him a few more steps from the others. “Look, we’ve still got enough people to get the two who’re immobilized out of here. Even if we have to switch people out, we can keep them with us.”
“Sarge . . .”
Peter shook his head. “Look, if you wanna split on your own like that other guy, then fine. Same deal, no problem.”
“Fuck that.”
Peter almost laughed at the immediate answer Hernandez gave him, in a voice that was a little shocked and a lot definite. “Then I’m still in charge.”
; “I ain’t saying you ain’t.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” Peter said.
Hernandez looked unhappy, and almost said something, paused, then almost said something else, before finally shrugging and turning back to the others. “Alright my guys, come with me.”
“Where?” the two who were still alive, though they stood up and grasped their M-16s.
Hernandez glanced back at Peter, then gestured at the closed shops lining the corridor back to the pedestrian tube. “We’re going to bust those open and check for anything that we can use to rig up crutches or stretchers or something.”
“You’re with Hernandez.” Peter said, pointing to a Guardsman who he knew was the last one still alive out of the fireteam he’d been assigned to just before the zombies converted. “Ten minutes, then we’ll figure out how to move without it if you guys don’t turn anything up.” Peter added to Hernandez, who nodded.
Peter returned it, then unslung his AR. As Hernandez moved towards the shops, Peter eyed the zombies still in the lobby below, then sighed. Settling his weapon back against his shoulder once more, he drew aim on one of the upraised foreheads.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten – Tired
Darryl
“The fuck . . . you say he was shot?”
Vivian nodded. “That’s what it look like.”
Darryl frowned, glancing automatically at the others in the room to see their reactions. The lounge was crowded with people. Every seat against the wall was occupied, and more were sitting on the floor. There was a big pile of sleeping bags against the bar, some of which had been appropriated to act as cushions for those sprawled on the floor.
It seemed that not everyone had heard, or maybe they just weren’t paying attention. Needles and Joker were in the far corner of the room, furthest from the bar, smoking a joint with a couple of others. A few other conversations were going on, quietly, near them. Of those who seemed to be paying attention to what Darryl considered the main conversation, all of them seemed angry or upset.
Except Bobo. The old biker sat on one of the bar stools, arms folded with a stony expression completely lacking in surprise on his lined face. He caught Darryl studying him. Darryl wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of approval when Bobo caught his gaze. Then Bobo addressed Vivian.
“He gonna make it?”
Vivian twisted her hands a little, looking unhappy. “Shit, I don’t know. I ain’t no doctor and I ain’t even no nurse.”
“You work in a doctor’s office don’t you?” Shooter asked.
“Yeah, but I mostly do paperwork and stuff on the computer. Sometimes I take vitals and histories, maybe help wrap a bandage or something, but nothing more than that. I ain’t no nurse.” she repeated.
“You’re the closest thing we’ve got.” Bobo said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I know a bit of first aid, but just basic stuff, and it been a long time since I done anything with it.”
Vivian twisted her hands again. “Well, near as I can tell, the bullet still in his arm. There a lump, next to the bone, right where the wound is. He says it hurts something fierce when you poke at it, and that’s through the pain killers I gave him.”
“Its gotta come out.” Bobo said quietly.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how to get it out.” Vivian looked around. Her face made it clear she really wanted someone else to volunteer to handle the problem of Little Chief’s wound.
“Hang on, how he get shot?” Darryl asked, still trying to puzzle that one out. He hadn’t seen it, but when he’d gotten up to the front of the convoy . . . he couldn’t remember anyone being anywhere that seemed likely for them to have been able to accidentally shoot a Dog.
“I don’t know.” Vivian said.
“Who was up there with him?” EZ asked.
Darryl’s eyes flicked to Bobo, but the man seemed to be thinking. It was Mad who spoke up. “Chief was in the truck. Bobo was outside, next to the door, shooting at the zombies. I was back near the bumper. I saw Bobo move forward as the last zombie went down. That when Chief yelled.”
“So what you saying?”
Mad shrugged. “I ain’t saying nothing. That what I saw, that it.”
“Did one of us shoot him by accident?” Darryl asked slowly. He looked around, trying cover the fact that he was mostly watching Bobo and Big Chief, but neither of them seemed to mind when his eyes met theirs. Better, he hoped, neither looked nervous or shifty. But if they weren’t the shooters, then who?
Bobo sighed. “Look there was other people in that parking lot, and not all of them was all that happy with us. I didn’t see no one take a shot, but that don’t mean they didn’t take one anyway.”
“If that what happened, then it make at least a little more sense.” Big Chief said a little sourly. “Maybe they was shooting for you.”
Mad shrugged. “Maybe. If someone was trying for Bobo, they maybe could’ve hit Little Chief when he moved.”
“It don’t matter.” Bobo said with a note of finality in his voice. “Anyone feel like volunteering to pull that bullet out of Little Chief?”
People glanced around, eyes flickering nervously. It was clear no one wanted to volunteer. Darryl swallowed, suddenly embarrassed. Little Chief was one of his brothers, a fellow Dog, and needed help. He was starting to try and marshal his nerve to speak when another voice broke the silence.
“Fuck, I’ll do it.”
Eyes went to Jody, who was standing near the door. She looked defiantly back at the faces studying her. “He need our help or he gonna get sicker.”
“Maybe we can find a doctor?” Burnout suggested, but he sounded reluctant to even suggest it.
Bobo shrugged. “News say all the hospitals and stuff are either overrun or evacuated or something. Unless you know where some medic live out here, and can convince them to come back with you, I think we on our own.”
“Fuck.” Low said, scowling.
“Yeah, fuck.” Bobo shrugged again. “Big Chief, go look in your toolbox and bring Jody some pliers. Needle nose be the best.” Big Chief nodded and got up to leave.
Bobo looked at Jody. “Scrub them pliers off real good, then boil them in a pot of water for ten minutes, then do it again to be sure.”
“Yeah, I know that much.” Jody nodded. “I can’t sew him up though.”
Bobo hesitated, glancing around briefly, then shrugged a third time. “It just a hole, right? Not a big cut or anything?”
“Just a hole.” Vivian confirmed. “But it deep.”
“If he ain’t die yet, and if he don’t catch no infection or something, I guess he won’t need no stitches. He can live with a scar, it better than dying pretty.”
Darryl nodded along with a lot of others, but he was secretly hoping it was actually true rather than just a case of collective hope. All he knew about first aid was you were supposed to try to stop the bleeding.
“I bet it gonna hurt like hell when I try to find that bullet.” Jody said.
“Probably.” Bobo nodded. “DJ.”
“Yo?” Darryl asked, straightening a little.
“You and Tank go with Jody and hold Little Chief down while she pulling that bullet out of him. He start to moving and thrashing around while she in there with them pliers and it could fuck him up worse.”
“I–sure.” Darryl said, changing his mind just as he started to speak. He could do that much, at least. It was a way to help.
“Okay. Now, before you go get busy on that, how we fixed for food?”
Jody’s expression turned thoughtful. “I ain’t got no written inventory or calculations or anything, but we ought to be okay for a few weeks at least. Probably longer if people ain’t gonna bitch about a lack of variety. Tomorrow we’ll get it sorted and stacked up properly so we can see what we got, around all the cooking and stuff. There room in the basement for more though, and it help a lot if someone go and get some more coolers and ice packs.”
Bobo looked around the room, then brought
his eyes back to her and nodded. “Okay. Here what I want to do. Tomorrow we gonna be busy working around here, so we ought to grab anything we can before then. So I gonna take the two flatbeds and twenty Dogz back over to that Home Depot for another load.”
“Shit, ain’t we got enough building stuff?” Fish asked, looking a little annoyed.
Bobo frowned. “Maybe, but like I said, now’s the time to make sure. One more load. While that happening, Big Chief gonna go back out with another twenty people. There a bunch of gas stations out along 78 they can hit.”
“That just junk food.” Jody pointed out.
“Some of it.” Bobo said. “Some of it a little more substantial, but it better than nothing, and they ought not need no big ass group of people to handle it. Plus it ought to be quick as hell for them to clean them stations out.”
“What about the rest of us?” Darryl asked. He’d noted Bobo had allocated less than half the available hands, even if the kids were excluded.
“They gonna guard the fort here.” Bobo said grimly. “Two shifts. One from now until about five, and the other from five until about eight. I want to start working then, and there’ll be a lot of folks outside keeping an eye on how things are.”
“How many?” Darryl asked, glancing back in the corner where Needles and Joker were still smoking the joint. It occurred to him it would probably be a good idea to have enough people on each guard shift to prevent any fucking off. Or, more likely, to cover for when some fucking off happened.
“Four or five.” Bobo said after a moment. “That ought to be enough, and if it ain’t when they start shooting up a storm that’ll get the rest of us up.”
“Yeah.” Darryl nodded in agreement. He looked up as Big Chief came back in with three pairs of pliers in his hands.
“Good.” Jody said, taking all of them from him and walking out of the room.
“So what we doing?” Big Chief asked as she left. Bobo grinned, and Big Chief grimaced. “Oh fuck.”
* * * * *
Peter
Peter blinked several times as Dorne’s team, on point, led the way north. The tired survivors were moving north on Courtland, with an emphasis on tired. Peter’s eyes were burning with fatigue, almost as badly as his body was. He’d been up over twenty hours now, most of them on his feet and the last six literally running for his life. Well, there was a good bit of power walking for his life mixed in there, zombies were slow, but the principle held.