Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 1)

by David Rogers

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. Please bless this food and allow it to strengthen and nourish our bodies for the challenges you have ahead of us. Be with us all as we attempt to meet those challenges, and keep us safe and whole.” Jessica said quietly. “Thank you for family and friends, and for all the wonder and beauty you send. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Amen.” her parents murmured, and Jessica opened her eyes to see Candice nodding solemnly.

  “Especially be with the doctors helping Joey and Sandra.” Candice added in a serious tone. “We miss them.”

  Jessica smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Yes, we miss them very much.”

  “Amen again.” Sharon said, reaching for Candice’s plate and starting to dish scrambled eggs and grits onto it. “How many pieces of bacon do you want?”

  “Three.” Candice answered.

  “Three?” Sharon said with a chuckle. “Are you going to have room for any French toast?”

  “Yes.” Candice said with a firm nod.

  “Alright then.” Sharon used her fingers to transfer three strips of crispy bacon onto the plate and held it out to the girl. “There you go sweetie.”

  “Thank you.” Candice set the plate in front of her and picked up her spoon. “Mom, pass the butter please.”

  Jessica leaned forward to slide the butter dish closer to her daughter, then used her fork to maneuver a stuffed French toast onto her plate. Her mother had already put the powdered sugar and syrup near her, and she sprinkled a generous spoonful of sugar across the top before lacing it with just the lightest touch of syrup in a swirl.

  When she applied knife and fork, warm filling oozed out from between the two pieces of egg soaked bread. The taste was heaven, dense and chewy bread contrasting with the cream cheese, flavored with mashed up banana and blueberries.

  She closed her eyes as she chewed, then made an appreciative noise. “Mom, it’s never quite the same when I try to make it.” Jessica said when she opened her eyes to see Sharon smiling as she watched.

  “I keep telling you, you beat the eggs too much.” her mother said as she loaded grits and eggs onto her own plate. “It makes them too tough when they’re cooked.”

  “Grandma let me scramble the eggs.” Candice said as she used her spoon to stir butter through her grits. “I used the whisk.”

  “When it comes to French toast and scrambled eggs, listen to grandma.” Jessica said as she cut another bite. “She’s right.”

  * * * * *

  Peter

  “Sergeant.”

  Peter’s eyes flicked open and his head came up with a start. His mouth was dry from having hung open while he’d slept, and he could feel a wet spot on the shoulder of his utilities where he’d drooled. His eyes darted around the room for a quick moment, memories flooding through his brain and slotting into place as he remembered where he was and what was going on.

  The apartment, townhouse, whatever. Downtown. They were taking shelter here. Zombies.

  Peter blinked and looked around more closely, but everything was calm. No one was in the process of trying to eat someone else. Roper and Swanson were sitting up and looking around like he was, while Barker was still trying to wake Crawford. The woman was laying on the floor against one of the walls curled up almost in a fetal position, and by the looks of it was a heavy sleeper.

  Blinking again, Peter met the gaze of Whitley as his hand dropped away from the grip of his holstered M45. She said nothing about his instinct reaction to grab for the weapon, merely leaned in a little closer so she didn’t have to talk loudly. Peter wasn’t sure it mattered, those who were sleeping looked like they were out, but it was probably the polite thing to do.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Your turn for watch.” she said in a quiet voice.

  Peter nodded slowly, then sat up and perched on the edge of the couch for a moment. He felt like hell, and it wasn’t just the room either, which was warm with no power and no windows or doors open. His eyes were gummy beneath lids that felt like their insides were covered in grit, and his body ached like it hadn’t in years. The couple hours of rest felt like they’d done nothing to ease his fatigue, and a lot to make him stiff and sore.

  “I’m up. Sack out.” Peter said to Whitley, gesturing vaguely around the room. After handing him the tactical light, she backed off and picked her way through the motionless bodies to an empty spot on the carpet large enough for her to stretch out in. As she settled down, Peter scrubbed his hands across his face briskly for a few moments, trying to force some blood flow to help drive away the desire to go back to sleep.

  Grabbing his AR, Peter stood up and slung it behind his shoulder before cautiously trying some in-place stretching. He twisted his arms and torso around a few times, then did some slow and even more cautious bends at the knees and waist. It helped a little, but hurt a lot. He glanced down at his feet and bent with a groan to hook one of his hands through his pack’s top handle.

  Hoisting it up, he stepped over the expansive back of Mendez who was stretched out face down almost in the middle of the space that served as the open ‘doorway’ between living room and kitchen. The man’s snores were light but constant, and oddly reassuring. Snores meant he was still breathing, which meant he was still alive. Peter didn’t figure zombies snored, or slept for that matter.

  One of the glow sticks he’d given Whitley was on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. Peter heaved his pack up next to the stick, then began poking through the pouches and compartments. The pale green light of the glow stick was sufficient for him to find and verify the label on the small pill bottle he turned up.

  As he opened it and started pulling out the cotton balls squished inside to keep the pills from rattling, Roper joined him at the counter. His face was eager and hopeful when Peter looked up.

  “Those what I think they are?”

  Peter shrugged. “Just a little something to cut the edge. Fuck!” A couple of dull pings and clatters sounded as the first cotton ball came out and a number of pills dropped out onto the counter. Peter clapped his hand down, capturing some, but he was sure several more had gone off on Roper’s side.

  “Can I have some?”

  “Look around on the floor. I think some fell on the carpet.” Peter looked under his hand. There were five pills there. He separated two out, then scooped the other three back into the bottle. He kept the bottle in his hand as Roper picked up the glow stick and knelt down with it. As the light level dropped, Peter fumbled for the sip tube of his CamelBak pouch.

  The pills went down with several mouthfuls of tepid water. He drank some more, focusing on the wetness to better ignore the warmth his body had applied to the pouch that went down his back. An idea occurred to him, and he peered through the near darkness until he identified the stove. His fingers searched across it until he found the knobs, and he twisted one of them experimentally.

  “Hot damn.” Peter exclaimed quietly as he heard the gas flowing from the burner. It wasn’t going to light without help, since the power was out and the igniters were electric, but he was pretty sure they could handle that.

  “What?” Roper asked. The green light of the glow stick had returned, and Peter turned to see Roper standing on the other side of the counter. He was counting through something in his palm.

  “Gas is separate from power.” Peter said with a wry grin.

  “Yeah, that’s usually the case.” Roper said, sounding distracted. “Is the water still working?”

  Peter turned the stove off and tried the sink. Water pattered out of the faucet when he lifted the handle. “Things are looking up.”

  “Yeah. Two of these is a dose?”

  “Two, give me the rest.” Peter said, turning the sink off as well and returning to the counter. Roper handed him a couple more pills, then came around the counter and started rummaging in cabinets. Peter got the pills back in the bottle, stuffed the cotton in after them, and tucked it away in his pack once more.

&nbs
p; “Well, the good news is after these kick in, I can put something edible together. Assuming there’s anything edible around here.” Roper said. Peter turned to see Roper was leaving the cabinets he checked open. “Ah, finally.” The soldier took down a glass and filled it from the sink, then swallowed the pills. “Fifteen minutes and the power of acetaminophen will chase my pain away.”

  “Good for what ails ya.” Peter agreed. He was studying the cabinet contents in the glow stick’s circle of light. Pots and pans, plates and bowls, one of glasses and cups that Roper had been searching for, but the one he focused on held a number of cans on the bottom shelf, with some familiar boxes and packages on the upper one. “Are those ramen noodles I see?”

  “Sure are.” Roper said, putting the glass down and reaching up to poke among the food. “And whoever stocked this stuff did us a favor. Just with this alone I can put together a batch of hearty soup that’ll feed everyone.”

  “You a cook?”

  “Was. I switched to logistics when I reenlisted.”

  Peter leaned back against the counter. “Why?”

  Roper shrugged, though it took Peter a moment to recognize and decipher the gesture in the odd green light. “I guess I found out cooking isn’t as much fun when you’re doing it for hundreds, three times a day. Plus the career opportunities are a lot better in logistics. Warehouse management jobs pay good, and there are a lot of them. Well paying cook jobs, uh, not so much.”

  Peter grinned. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.” He sensed movement behind him and turned, his hand drifting towards his holstered pistol. The impulse to draw temporarily abated when he recognized Swanson. Peter studied him however, long enough that apparently the other man realized what Peter was doing.

  “Hey, I’m still me.” Swanson said, holding his hands up.

  Peter moved his hand away from the M45. “Good.” Then he realized he was actually violating his own order, and changed his position. Where he’d been standing let him watch only the kitchen, which wasn’t the reason he and the other three were supposed to be up, so he shifted over to lean on the opposite counters. Now he could see the living room, though some of the floor was out of sight behind the divider counter. He frowned as his eyes swept through the room.

  “Where’s Crawford?”

  “Bathroom.” Swanson said, shrugging. “Hey, I heard something about the stove working?”

  “Yeah.” Roper grunted, now busy taking cans of food down out of the cabinet.

  “So, what’s the chance of coffee then?” Swanson asked, the hopeful tone in his voice almost comical.

  “Depends on if there’s coffee in here somewhere.” Roper said, still absorbed in the contents of the cabinet.

  “How long then?”

  Roper turned and gave Swanson a look. “What, you jonesing for a fix or something?”

  Swanson held his hands up again. “Hey, I’d love some, but I’m okay. But Crawford, she’s a fiend all the way through, and she’s not the only one. She said something about having a headache. It’ll help us out if you can come up with something.”

  “Us?” Peter gave him a look.

  Swanson shrugged again. “I know her. She can get pretty unpleasant if she doesn’t get her fix.”

  “What does she normally do on deployments?” Peter asked curiously.

  “Bitch a lot.” Swanson said, his tone completely devoid of any humor.

  Peter opened his mouth, then saw a silhouette appear in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. He flinched, his hand starting to move back down to his holster once more, before he saw the figure was picking its way through the sleeping figures scattered around the living room. A zombie wouldn’t move past, it would start snacking.

  “Fuck me, I need some coffee.” Crawford said as she arrived and leaned on the counter next to Swanson. “What’re the chances the people who lived here were civilized?”

  “Christ, give me some time to figure out what’s going on.” Roper said in an annoyed voice.

  “I’m not in the mood.” Crawford said.

  “Patience.” Peter said, trying to intercede before things had time to really light off. Morale could yaw wildly on even small matters unless a firm hand was taken.

  “Look, I have a raging headache. I need coffee.”

  “Sarge has some pills that might help.” Roper said as he moved over to the stove and started opening cabinets there.

  “Tylenol.” Peter said with a shrug when he saw Crawford’s eyes move to him.

  “No good. I need coffee.” Crawford said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Peter hesitated, then turned and fished a bowl out of the cabinets behind him. He stepped forward and dropped it on the counter in front of her, then retreated to his spot. Crawford stuck a cigarette between her lips, then sparked a small lighter to ignite the end.

  “Hey, light me too.” Swanson said, pulling out a pack of his own. Crawford waited while he got one out and positioned, then lit it before putting everything back in her pockets. “Aaahhh, that’s better. Thanks Cindy.”

  Peter started as Roper made a sort of strangled sound that was somewhere between a bark of laughter and inhalation of surprise. He glanced over, a little annoyed, and saw Roper had spun around and was staring at the two smokers with a wide grin on his face. “Cindy?”

  “Swanson you stupid fuck-head.” Crawford said in resignation, shoving at him.

  “Ouch. I forgot. Lay off, okay?” Swanson swayed away from her.

  “Fuck you.” She hit him in the arm again. “You’re just lucky I’m too tired to kick your ass right now.”

  “Your name is Cindy Crawford?” Roper asked, sounding like this was the greatest news ever.

  Crawford said nothing, just glared steadily at him as she drew on her cigarette. Roper returned the gaze with interest, polite but expectant. Peter opened his mouth, then decided to see how things played out. So far the only one in any trouble was Swanson, and even that was probably not going to boil over until later.

  “Look, I found coffee filters, so there’s probably some coffee around here.” Roper finally said after about half a minute. “And since it’s not in any of the cabinets, I bet I know where.”

  “If you can find it, so can I.” Crawford told him.

  “Yeah, but can you make it without the coffee maker?” Roper asked with an even wider grin.

  “Sarge might know how to.” Swanson said, apparently eager to try and earn some good behavior points for himself.

  “Leave sarge out of this.” Roper said. “So, how about it Crawford?”

  Crawford glared at him for another couple of moments, then sighed heavily. A cloud of smoke roiled up around her, lit eerily in the greenish light of the glow stick. “My mother was pretty doped up from the pain drugs and labor when she had me. She didn’t catch what dad had put on my birth certificate until they got me home from the hospital.”

  “How old are you?” Peter asked, finally injecting himself back into the conversation.

  “Twenty-four.” Crawford said. She tapped ash into the bowl, glanced briefly at Peter, then returned her steady glare to Roper. “My dad was a fan.”

  “I’ll bet.” Roper said, sounding highly amused.

  “Look, I answered your question.” she said with a touch of desperation. “Now are you going to hold up your end or not?”

  Roper went over to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. A moment later he pulled out a foil bag that had the Starbucks logo on it. “Hipsters always keep their stash in the freezer.”

  Peter sighed. “I don’t even want to know.” When the other three, all decades younger, gave him an odd look, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. This was probably not the time to try to explain what ‘yuppies’ had been. In his opinion, a precursor to the ‘hipster’ label making the rounds today. “Forget it. Just make the coffee. In fact, if there’s a pitcher or something around here, make a lot. The other watches–”

  He trailed off as a tremendously loud and ominous sound
came from outside. Peter’s hand dropped again to the grip of his holstered pistol, but even as his fingers closed on the grip he knew he was being foolish. There was no way that was something zombies were doing. If nothing else it was way too loud. He pushed away from the counter, heading for the sliding glass doors that led to the apartment’s balcony.

  When he got there and swept the vertical blinds aside with one hand, he stood peering out curiously. Nothing seemed out of order for a moment, then his eyes were drawn to motion. His gaze went up, and up, and up some more, until he was looking south at the city skyline.

  “Jesus.” Peter breathed. The Westin Peachtree, having been on fire since the previous day, was finally giving up the fight. It was barely four blocks away, and as he watched its torturously slow collapse he wondered if that was far enough away.

  The hotel’s structure was making tormented sounds, slow and groaning and punctuated with other more complicated sounds of breaking and fracturing as the building tipped eastward. He could see fragments of the building cracking and shattering to fall free of the structure, hear the steel and metal of its frame protesting its own weight as it bent away from vertical.

  “Fuck me.” he heard someone say next to him. Looking over quickly, Peter saw Candles had awakened and was looking out at the same scene. In fact most of the room was conscious now, and staring like they couldn’t believe it was happening.

  Peter heard something snap in the collapsing building, a sound so loud it reverberated through the city like a titan’s gunshot. He noticed several of the upper floors had already folded up against others below them. A serious shower of debris began as the building tipped further to the east, far enough that gravity was able to begin pulling pieces out rather than down. Abruptly the building’s tilt became too much to resist any further. As the angle reached about thirty degrees off vertical its sideways motion abruptly accelerated.

  Peter knew the hotel was on Peachtree Street. He was trying to remember what buildings were east of the Westin, but he couldn’t get his thoughts to summon the information forth. He felt trapped, unable to look away yet sickened to be watching as the landmark building disintegrated and spread itself across the even more historic street.