by David Rogers
Which was good, because he knew there was a lot left still coming at them all.
“We’re still seeing some leakers.” Mendez remarked, and Peter glanced at the tall soldier. “But no sign of a heavy horde so far.”
“Here’s hoping.” Peter nodded. It was a sentiment all the surviving soldiers shared. Being chased and hounded all over downtown Atlanta for a day and a half had given them more than their fill of that experience. Though they were better armed and ammunitioned now, Peter knew no one wanted to see a couple hundred walking corpses show up for a repeat performance.
“We were able to get a good amount of stuff out of the gas stations and up here where we can get at it at need, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last with fifty mouths munching on it.”
“It’s just to tide us over a day or so. We’ll see about making some more substantial arrangements tomorrow.”
“Good. I’m going to sack out.”
“With any luck I’ll only need a couple of the first watch back for the dusk guard.”
“Civilians?”
“Gonna do my best. With us to stiffen them up, we only need their eyes.”
Mendez shrugged tiredly. “You’re the boss.” He opened one of the room doors and disappeared inside, leaving Peter to ponder the likelihood of finding those eyeballs. The Marine settled his AR a little more comfortably on his shoulder, then headed left along the walkway to check the barricades. The second floor was preferred because of the separation it gave from any potential zombie problems, but the manpower shortage didn’t allow for the unit and rescuees to spread out very much.
There were stairwells at each corner, and all had been blocked with furniture; the west side of the motel much more significantly than the east. Peter’s thinking was it kept his guards in position to survey the entire walkway with occupied rooms, but still prevented any zombies from sneaking up from the unobserved west stairwells. He was also counting on any zombies that wandered by being drawn to the humans visible on those eastern corners. So far as anyone had seen to this point, zombies didn’t seem clever enough to sneak up the back way for a surprise attack.
Some empty cans weighted with gravel, and a few glasses, had been positioned on the west barricades. Hopefully they’d create some noticeable noise if anything hungry did come knocking against the piled up furniture, but the guards were supposed to check west every couple of minutes, and a roamer was detailed to walk the second floor on a slow circuit that would similarly offer some coverage. Peter had designated himself as that roamer for the ‘second watch’, which ran from early afternoon until sundown.
“Gunny, you look like hell.” Roper remarked as Peter approached the northeast corner.
“Guess the sleep did me some good.”
“Yeah, you are a little improved from dawn. You were really a wreck then.”
“Everyone’s a comedian.” Peter shook his head. “Guess the shock is wearing off.”
“Calm before the storm. Just wait until nightfall.”
“Knock it off.” Whitley told him. “We’ve been through enough. Don’t go begging for trouble.”
“Not like it can get any—hey!” Roper began, then stopped when Whitley shoved at him.
“I’m not kidding. Not funny.”
“Tough crowd.”
“Tough is right.” Peter nodded. “Roper, you might want to remember we’re the ones that survived. Whitley might not be Crawford, but she’s as tough as any of us. Do yourself a favor and don’t tempt her.”
Roper’s face fell a little, but he nodded with a somber look. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Try knock-knock jokes. Those are innocent enough.”
“I don’t want to hear the zombie knock-knock.” Whitley said immediately.
“There’s only one?”
“Think about it Roper.” Whitley told him with a snort.
Peter left them to it and headed west toward the ‘back side’ of the motel. The piles of liberated furniture at the top and bottom of the stairs were intact, which Peter was glad to see. It meant, so far, no zombies had wandered up to try banging and shoving on the makeshift barricades. The motel was about forty miles north of I-285, and nearly fifty from the heart of downtown Atlanta, but the area was still populated enough with zombies to be dangerous.
A little south of them was Cartersville, which had been a FEMA evacuation point for people fleeing the undead hell Atlanta had become. Their respite had been brief, because the outbreak had followed the living, and the thousands of displaced had either fallen or fled when zombies began eating their way through the camp early Sunday morning. Now all those who had ‘survived’ long enough to rise and join the mobile dinner party were apparently spreading out.
Continuing along the walkway, Peter checked the southwest corner barricades as he let his thoughts pick away at what to do about the situation he and the other survivors and refugees were in. Maybe his unfocused mind could come up with something. He wasn’t sure what, but that’s what the thinking was supposed to fix.
Georgia’s population was decidedly lopsided in terms of distribution; Atlanta and its multitude of attached suburbs and counties had equaled the population of the rest of the state combined before Friday. But, as far as he knew, the estimates of how many former metro area residents had fallen to the zombie horde were somewhere between half and three-quarters.
The problem hadn’t been limited to the metropolitan borders, even before people began fleeing. At this point it was academic and futile to speculate whether or not the movements of survivors had quickened the spread of the outbreak, if they’d fueled it further in areas where it was already occurring, or if they’d simply changed the location of their deaths. Now, as far as he knew, zombies were everywhere. Last reports indicated the entire world was barely holding on, and both governments and society were crumbling.
Peter stopped on the south side of the motel and leaned against the walkway, staring at the trees on the other side of the road. Bodies lay scattered around and across the asphalt in ones and twos and threes; not enough to block traffic, but definitely enough to alert anyone who’d somehow not been paying attention for the past few days that strange things were afoot. I-75 lay to his left, east.
They were out in rural Georgia, but the flood of evacuation and the surrounding population was apparently sustaining the zombie numbers. Assuming the estimates floating around were accurate, even the low ones, that would make for at least five million zombies just in Georgia, minus however many had been killed or immobilized so far. The population of America was in excess of three hundred million, which probably meant there could be as many as two hundred million plus hungry corpses wandering around. And that didn’t even count Canada or Mexico.
He didn’t even try to do the math on that one. Just collecting all the ammunition required to put a bullet in each zombie’s head would take months. Possibly more than a year. Then there’d be the matter of finding all of them to shoot. He couldn’t begin to fathom how it would be possible, at least not without a major leadership effort of the surviving humans.
And ultimately, that was the problem. The zombies were an immediate problem, true, but the utter collapse of all things related to the concept of ‘someone being in charge’ was his major concern. He’d been to too many backwater hellholes in the world to hold any hope out for sweetness and light to prevail without the oversight of strong leadership that had societal stability at least in its top handful of overall goals.
The civilian refugees they’d rescued hours before were a perfect example. They’d run to that FEMA camp because the government had said to. Getting trapped there wasn’t their fault, but now that they were out he’d already seen the signs. A lot of them were desperate to cling to the little unit of National Guardsmen as their saviors. Not because they were incapable of fending for themselves, but because they couldn’t fathom what to do without the structure and guidance provided by a leadership layer.
Part of him was disappoin
ted and exasperated by their attitude; surely Americans, of all people, could hold up and make due. But he knew he really wasn’t surprised, not if he allowed himself to be honest. Modern civilization didn’t encourage independent thought, not on this sort of subject and on this scale. There were strong people out there, but that was likely only going to make a screwed up situation worse.
People were selfish even in normal times. Throw in this level of chaos and breakdown, and that self-centered motivation would combine in the strong willed to lead to factionalism and fighting. Over food and water, over weapons, over safety, and just because some people liked to fight. With no government, no law, left to exert control . . . he’d seen it before. Just never here. Never at home.
The zombies were the problem now, but before long whoever was left would be competing for all the things necessary for survival. Compromise was difficult when both sides of an argument were hungry and scared, who couldn’t know if the things they gave up in the spirit of cooperation might be what did them in later because they no longer had them. When their friends and family needed those things. When they needed those things. That was the ongoing problem Peter feared.
He’d seen it before. And it was almost fall. It was about half a year before anyone who knew how, and who had the resources, could see about planting the next wave of crops. He was no farmer, but he knew it took time even after seed was in the ground for edible food to sprout. Plus there was the zombie problem; could a field of grain or corn or whatever be tended and harvested with walking corpses around? Was there enough food already in cans and boxes to last any survival farmers until this time next year?
And even if there was, what was going to stop those selfish strong types from rolling in to take either the food or the crops?
Peter had never seriously considered the end of civilization. Not seriously. Not a nuts-and-bolts consideration. But as a zombie staggered into view on the western road, he knew he needed to start. Fast.
Close to dusk, as others in his little makeshift unit of soldiers came on watch, Peter knocked on one of the motel doors. It opened to reveal the florid, round face of the former city manager of Cartersville. Peter nodded politely to him. “Hey BB, mind if I come in?”
Bennett Burns stepped back from the door and gestured vaguely. “Sure sergeant. Uh, Master Gunnery Sergeant I mean. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Peter shrugged as he stepped into the motel room. “Call me Gunny.”
The television was on, but the picture was just a static strewn image of a map of Georgia; more static than map. He heard a hesitant voice, far less than the usual strong, polished tones typically heard on television, describing what sounded like zombie sightings; but the audio was heavily distorted and fading in and out irregularly. A wire coat hanger was propped up against the wall behind the television, disappearing behind the set.
“Anything useful on the tube?”
Burns shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I knew the major Atlanta stations had all evacuated out of their usual studios, but for a while there on Saturday their transmitters were still going and broadcasting what could be sent from other locations. Now all I can find is PBS, and the TV’s not set up for anything except cable. I managed to rig up just enough antenna to get the one station, but so far they don’t sound like they know much more than we do.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I figured as much. We might want to see about holding this little talk outside on the walkway so everyone can listen in.” BB said, gesturing at the half open door.
“You’re their leader.”
BB shook his head. “No I’m not.”
“You’re as good as they’ve got.”
“No, that’d be you.”
Now Peter shook his head. “I’m in charge of eleven reservists, one of whom is injured. And they’re all volunteers at this point. They could decide to split if they want to.”
“I hope not. Anyway, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still the one in charge.”
“You’re the politician.”
BB’s voice was calm, but stressed. “No I’m not. I was an employee of the city of Cartersville. Emphasis on employee. The mayor recommended me and the city council hired me. They were voted on; they were the politicians.”
Peter sat himself at the room’s little table and rested his AR against the arm of his chair. “The refugees seem to be responding to you. They did when we were rescuing you anyway, near as I can tell. And to date I’d say you’re keeping your head better than any of the rest of them. As far as I’m concerned you’re the guy.”
BB frowned as he sank down on the bed. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then sighed. “I’m an accountant with a touch of experience in project planning. If they’re counting on me then we’re in deep shit. I’m the guy who makes sure the bills get paid and the supplies in the warehouses are kept stocked. Next to you I’m a joke.”
“I’m a senior Marine NCO, retired.” Peter said calmly. “But as far as managing civilians, I’m barely a novice. The kind of leadership that works on Marines and soldiers doesn’t transfer all that readily to civilians used to a gentler hand.”
“I guess you might have a point there, but I’d be surprised if anyone was willing to argue with you about it.”
“They don’t have to. I know my limits.” Peter shrugged.
“So neither of us are suited to riding herd over our little group. What’s the rest of the bad news?” BB asked.
“My logistics guy, who used to be a cook even though he’ll tell anyone in earshot he quit working in the kitchen for a reason, ran some numbers for me. As long as the power holds out,” he began – mentally adding “and as long as no one else wanders by and wants to lay a claim to it.” without voicing the qualifier – “the freezer in the Wendy’s on the other side of the Interstate has enough food to feed everyone here for at least a week, maybe ten days.”
“But the power’s not going to hold.”
The Marine nodded. “Exactly. I’m surprised it’s even still on here. Atlanta was all but completely dark when we got out yesterday. Between here and there we saw a lot of other spots that were out too. Once the power goes, anything we can cook might hold for another day, maybe, then it’ll be asking for a case of food poisoning to eat it without proper storage. Which we won’t have without ice or refrigerators.”
“The truck stop’s got bagged stuff that’ll buy some time.”
“True, but potato chips and jerky only go so far. There are nearly fifty mouths here that need feeding.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Scavenging.” Peter said with a slight sigh. “It’s not original, but it’s that or starve. Problem is my guys can’t take thirty-six people traipsing around with us and get a whole lot done, and we can’t just take off and expect you civilians to hold on here while we’re gone. There are still wandering zombies showing up far too frequently to count on there not being something of a repeat of Cartersville when we get back.”
“Do you have more weapons you could equip some of us with?” BB asked with a flick of his eyes at the big MARTA bus parked outside just past the edge of the walkway.
“We do, at least for some of you.” Peter admitted. “And the ammunition to go with it, but I’m concerned about experience levels and panic.”
“See, you’re the guy. What’s your solution.”
“Split us up.”
“The hell with that.” a voice said from the doorway. Both men turned as a brown haired man pushed the door all the way opened and stepped inside. “You can’t just ditch us.”
“Now hang on—” BB began.
“Mr. Harris, that’s not my intention at this time.” Peter said calmly, recognizing the man from earlier in the morning, before the group had settled into the motel.
“We need your help.” Harris said, his tone intense but still on the safe side of angry. Not by much, in Peter’s judgment, but enough.
“
If you were listening, you just heard me say I don’t have enough people to cover both areas of responsibility.”
“Which only underscores how much we need you.”
“Steve, you need to relax a little.” BB said.
“I can’t afford to relax.” Harris replied hotly. “I’ve got a wife who’s a week shy of eight months pregnant, and everything has gone to hell. She’s depending on me, my baby’s depending on me, and that means I have to do whatever it takes.”
“Mr. Harris, I understand your concerns.” Harris snorted, but Peter took it calmly and offered a firm nod. “I do, really. And I respect you for your determination to see your family safely through the situation we’re all in. But food and water are a critical priority for everyone, including you and your wife.”
“So what’s your plan? For us to just squat here and hope for the best?”
“No, but without some supplies any other plan won’t work.”
“We should be loading up and looking for a hospital.”
“Steve, you know what happened to the hospitals.” BB said a little tiredly.
“What, all of them? That’s crap and you know it. There’s got to be at least one left somewhere that can help.”
“And how are we supposed to find it?” Peter asked, still marshaling his years of experience to keep his voice even. He really did appreciate Steve Harris’ concerns, which meant he understood the pressure the soon-to-be father was under. One of his earliest lessons in the Corp had been how hard waiting for a situation to develop could be. Doing something wasn’t always the right thing. Sometimes doing nothing was best.
But it could be hard. Very, very hard.
“I don’t know, look around maybe?”
However much Peter empathized with Harris, now he stood and faced the man. “My people were trapped in Atlanta for over twenty-four hours, and we only barely got clear. When we went into downtown we had two companies, and barely two squads came out. If you need a translation, that’s over three hundred people with less than twenty surviving.”