by David Rogers
“You four make sure you’re not scheduled for watch tonight, and get some sleep. Don’t sit up worrying or I’ll bench you come morning. I need people who’re rested and alert.”
“So we’re going to stay here until things settle down?” a woman asked.
“Yeah, is that why we’re stocking up? So we can just ride this thing out?”
Peter raised his arms again. “That’s a fair question, and I wish I had a great answer, but unfortunately we’re stuck here the same as you. Information about what we’re dealing with is sketchy at best. I suppose now would be a good time to ask if anyone has something you think the rest of us haven’t heard about.”
“Like what?”
“Like any sort of relief effort or secure evacuation plans anywhere within a couple of days’ travel.” Peter clarified.
A beefy older man spoke up. “How would we know more than you would?”
Peter spoke quickly as he saw and heard a bit of agreement with that statement starting. “Listen, wait a minute. My people and I were deployed into Atlanta Friday night, and spent the next twenty-four hours cut off and fighting for our lives. A lot of those who deployed in with us died in that fighting. Since we got out, we’ve seen and heard nothing but devastation. None of the military bases we’ve visited or contacted are intact or operating. TV and radio have been intermittent and full of rumor more than anything.
“What I’m asking about though is maybe someone here has a friend or family member who works for the government or the military, or a news service, or anything that put them in a position to have a better idea what’s been happening. If so, they might have passed something along to you before you lost contact, something that could help.”
He looked around as expressions grew thoughtful and the civilians fell silent. “Anything like that? Anything you think might be worth mentioning?”
“I’ve got family in Macon, my sister and her husband and kids.” a man ventured after a few moments. “She was a DOT worker who was called in to help monitor the roads as everything started going to hell. Last time I talked with her, she said something about the DOT Commissioner trying to get people shifted over toward Eatonton to help with setting up some emergency shelters. But that was Saturday, about three in the morning. I don’t know if anything came of it.”
“Macon is as bad as Atlanta last I heard.” someone in the back of the crowd mentioned.
Peter agreed. Mendez had gathered that much from the satellite internet connection the unit had managed to get hold of before breaking out of the zombie hellhole in Atlanta; none of the state’s major cities were intact.
“I’m a dispatcher for a trucking company.” another woman spoke up. “My boss tried to get me to come back in. Said he needed help coordinating deliveries for FEMA.”
“Did he say where?” Peter asked.
“Said there were a bunch of places all over, but I remember he mentioned Buford and Cumming.”
“My son works for a construction firm, a big one.” a middle aged woman offered. “He’s been on a project out past Athens. When he called me Saturday, he said he was headed to Washington with the rest of the crews to work on an emergency project for the State.”
“Washington DC?” someone asked.
“No, Washington, Georgia. He said it was way out on 78 between Athens and Augusta.”
“My dad’s an adjunct teacher at UGA. Athens was falling fast by Friday night. He was trapped in one of the classrooms with a few other students. The call was cut off and I couldn’t get another to go through when I tried calling back. But he said zombies were everywhere in town, especially all over the campus.” a pasty white man with a gut said sadly.
“My brother was a maintenance contractor at Fort Gordon near Augusta.” another man offered. “He said just about everyone on the base was activated and deployed Friday, including a lot of local reservists that were called in. Then when I talked to him Saturday morning he said all the soldiers who’d been left to cover the base had become zombies and that’s when he left. He wanted me to try and meet up with him at our parents’ house in Dahlonega, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him or them since.”
Peter listened as others related similar stories, but none of the details given seemed to indicate any sort of organized safe point closer than the list of FEMA sites he already had marked down. He hadn’t been holding his breath, but something closer might have been nice. But he let everyone share whatever they were willing to talk about until finally the accounts trickled off and ended.
“Okay, so things are bad all over. We’re all dealing with a lot of scary things, a lot of grief, but unfortunately it doesn’t sound like anyone’s got a line on something closer than what I’ve already got in mind.” Peter told the crowd.
“So what’s the plan then?”
“Where are we going to go?”
“We’ve got a list of places where FEMA camps are supposed to be operating.” Peter said when he could edge in between the eager queries. “That’s how we ended up stumbling across you folks earlier. The closest one is in Cumming.”
“Another FEMA camp?”
“Oh please, you’re kidding, right?”
“No way man.”
It took a couple of minutes to get the dissention and questions calmed down enough for Peter to have a chance to speak. Most of the civilians, all of whom had survived the eruption of the Cartersville FEMA camp outbreak, were less than reassured that he proposed heading for another FEMA site to try again. As the initial wave of outbursts finally slowed and lost steam, he managed to draw everyone’s attention back to him again.
“I’m not saying it isn’t a risk, but at this point anything is a risk. Including staying here.”
“What’s wrong with staying here?”
“Why couldn’t we just look for a town somewhere that isn’t overrun?”
“Anything is a risk.” Peter repeated loudly. “Staying here could see a couple thousand zombies, or more, show up at any time. The same goes for any town or other location we might go to, no matter how big or small. There could be hordes overrunning it right now that we’d just be headed into. The roads here or there or anywhere could be blocked off and swarming with zombies.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Yeah, what are you going to do about it?”
Peter looked at the speaker of the last question, a short woman with an angry expression. “There’s no easy way to say this, but here goes. Even if every one of you turns out to be handy with a gun and willing to enlist with my squad, there’s no way we can do something like save the world. Or even the state. The fact is we’re all refugees. The only option we have, regardless of if we work together or split up into smaller groups, is to just try to survive this thing.”
“So you’re giving up?” the woman demanded.
“My plan is to survive.” Peter said, stressing the word carefully. “Beyond that goal, I’m hoping to eventually find somewhere that’s not only safe, but is still under proper control by state or federal leadership. Any sort of resolution to the zombie problem is going to need that level of leadership or nothing’s going to get any better. For anyone.”
“Fuck that.”
“Yeah, the government hasn’t done a whole lot so far.”
“Hell, the military just made things worse when all the soldiers turned into zombies.”
“Not all of them” someone objected.
“Enough to fuck the rest of us.” came a retort. Others voiced agreement with that sentiment, which Peter honestly couldn’t fault. Over half the losses in Atlanta on Friday night had come from spontaneous ‘conversions’ of Guardsmen and women into zombies. A lot of those had taken a non-zombie soldier with them before they were dealt with, and usually the newly hungry zombie or zombies had appeared just in time to complicate things for the still human soldiers.
Peter looked around, keeping his expression impassive only with effort and his decades of experience. He honestly cou
ldn’t blame the reactions being expressed, even if he also felt none of them were helping. He was feeling the same things a little himself. He’d never, not ever, been so cutoff.
There was always a chain-of-command, a level of structure and control that he and every one of his fellow Marines could turn to and lean on. Even in the worst spots in the world, like third world scrub country or following some major natural disaster, he and his fellow Marines had always had contact with the rest of the military, at least. Having all traces of anything remotely resembling contact, beyond those people with him, removed left him feeling more than a little unsure, despite his determination to put a brave foot forward.
But he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“Look, I asked, and I’ll ask again, if anyone knows something that might help.” Peter said when the accusations quieted once more. “We’re all stuck here, and I promise you there’s nothing I’m holding back.”
“You’ve got radios.” someone half-shouted. “What about that?”
“They’re tactical radios.” Peter shook his head. “The range is only a few miles without a repeater. And even when our units still had the repeaters in the vehicles, we weren’t getting anything. None of the military bases around Atlanta responded to us when we tried to reach them. And we physically checked the National Guard base in Marietta; it was overrun, like I said.”
The two Humvees they’d liberated from Clay in Marietta did not have installed radios, and he was beginning to regret more and more not having looked around to try and find some. He knew how to connect them, and their absence was starting to complicate his plans. Nor had he thought to grab off any backpack units, which – while heavy – were designed specifically to keep detached units in contact over larger distances.
“So we’re fucked.”
Peter shrugged, slowly, almost unwillingly. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but sure, if you like, yeah.”
“We can’t just sit here and wait to die.”
“If we go out on the roads that’s just as bad.”
“Well what’s your idea then?”
“Look asshole—” the man said hotly, glaring through the crowd at the man he was arguing with.
Several gunshots rang out from the back of the crowd, on the edge of the north side of the walkway. Peter whipped his head around to see Whitley with the pistol she’d added to her belt earlier in her hand and smoking. She lowered it from the upward angle that pointed out across the parking lot when she seemed sure she had everyone’s attention.
“Arguing and bickering doesn’t help anyone.” the woman said loudly. “The gunny already told you the situation is fucked up, and you’ve had several chances to offer something that’ll help make it better. I’d think you people, out of probably a lot who might still be alive anywhere near here, would know how fucked things are. I mean, we found you trapped and surrounded by zombies for Christ’s sake.”
“Corporal Whitley is right.” Bennett Burns spoke up for the first time in the meeting. “Gunny Gibson and his people risked their lives to save all of us. And they’re proposing to risk them again tomorrow to go and bring back food and other supplies that we need even more than they do.”
“Yeah but—” someone started to say.
“But nothing.” Burns broke in, raising his voice. “Arguing about what to do is a waste of time. The only rule here if you stay is to work with the soldiers who are protecting us. No one has to stay, and if the gunny decides to move out and is willing to take us with him, no one has to join up; but if you do stay or stick with them, then all you have to do is stay calm and not make things worse. Is that really such a hard thing to ask?”
“We’re all scared.” Peter said, stepping in quickly before anyone else could. “And trust me, I know how hard it is to make decisions when you’re scared. I’m not singling anyone out. I’m scared, my people are scared, you’re scared; we’re all scared. The things that are happening . . . anyone who tells you they’re not scared is fucking lying to you. Or is a damn fool, because this shit is fucked up.
“Right now, at this moment, it looks like we’re safe. That could change if we stay, and it could change if we leave. But while things are quiet, everyone needs to take the opportunity to do some thinking. Mr. Burns is right, the only condition I’m imposing while you’re with my unit is to not make things worse. Right now that just means staying calm and not working against us. No one has to stay, and if you want to go off on your own then feel free.
“Some of the soldiers who got out of Atlanta with us left shortly afterwards, and I didn’t stop them. I’m not interested in running roughshod over anyone, and I don’t have the time or inclination to force people to follow me. Everyone who stayed with me did because we all thought working together was the best option.”
“And because he’s old and knows stuff.” Swanson laughed.
Peter grimaced, but a few nervous chuckles joined Swanson’s. “Yeah, I’m a career senior NCO, over thirty years with the Marines. I guess I’m the guy elected to carry the torch, but as long as you’re willing to work with me, this isn’t a dictatorship. I asked for volunteers to help with standing watch, because it’ll keep everyone safe. I asked for volunteers to help us bring back supplies, because the help will keep everyone safe. Volunteers, not draftees.
“I am planning on heading out fairly soon, probably to check on the FEMA sites, because I think just staying here isn’t the best plan for the coming weeks. Or, God forbid, months. But I’ll point this out. The reason you’re all even here to fight over what to do next is because eleven soldiers decided to stick with me, and we found you and got you out. That doesn’t mean you owe us anything, but it does mean you’re alive and in a position that has options because we helped.
“I’m sure there are other people that need help, and if we run across them we’ll do what we can to help them too. And if we can find a place that has safety and resources, a place with leadership that is trying to help on a larger scale, then that’s a place I want to be.”
“What are you, a fucking hero?”
Peter stepped on his temper firmly, even as he caught others glaring at the man who’d asked the rude question. He shrugged. “The most important six inches on a battlefield is between your ears. A Marine general I respect very much said that, and it’s never been more right than it is now. He also said engage your brain before you engage your weapon. They both mean thinking is more important than doing, because if you’re not thinking, you won’t know what to do.
“My thinking is that if I wander around out here alone, it doesn’t matter how much training I have, how many weapons I have, or where I go with them. My thinking is that finding someplace I can fortify and just sitting in it doesn’t help solve the problem. That problem is zombies. My plan is to – sooner or later, though I’d pick sooner over later – find a place that is working on that problem. That place will probably be safe, but it’ll also be where I can do the most good.”
He looked around calmly, then shrugged again. “I’m not a hero. I’m just trying to help.”
* * * * *
Chapter Four – Crying in the dark
Darryl
Darryl opened his eyes and looked around the dim room. The only light was a floor lamp next to the door, one with an upside down shade that sent all the light up so the scatter and bounce was indirect. It was enough to see by, but not overly distracting when you tried to sleep. His sleeping bag – which he was on top of, because the room was warm – was laid out right against the base of the bar in the big party room.
He was still trying to figure what had woken him when he heard two more gunshots go off outside. No, above him, from the roof. Darryl frowned as he saw others scattered out across the floor on their own sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses begin to stir. Then the back door slammed open against the wall and he heard running footsteps. A dark shape appeared in the doorway.
“Bobo! Bobo!”
“What?” Darryl asked as he r
eached for his boots. The only reason for Spider to have left the roof and come running in here had to be a bad one.
“DJ, Tiny say we got us a big fucking problem outside the fence.”
“More survivors?” Darryl was tugging his boots on without socks. Spider’s edge of panic and impatience made Darryl think he probably didn’t have time for the socks.
“Naw, Tiny say they’re fucking zombies.”
“Shit.” Darryl said, finishing with his boots with enough haste to hurt as he got his feet jammed into them. Not bothering to lace them up, or to grab for the shirt he’d discarded out of deference to the heat, he scrambled up with the holstered Glock in hand; pausing only to make sure the extra magazines were still in place in his back pocket.
“What’s that about zombies?” someone asked in the darkness.
“Spider, get everyone up. Make sure Bobo know.” Darryl said as more gunshots went off above. It sounded like the two rifles. The Dogz still didn’t have but a few people who’d showed any sort of aptitude with the long guns. Shooting at range, and with a scope to boot, wasn’t nearly as simple and straight forward as plinking away with a pistol. Most of the brothers were carrying shotguns to back up their pistols, simply because giving them a rifle would be a waste of time. Darryl himself was good with a pistol, but was still struggling to pick up how to use the rifle.
“Okay. Hey, wake the fuck up.” Spider said, turning his attention to the rest of the room as he raised his voice. “Dogz, let’s go. Up and out.”
“Make sure Bobo knows.” Darryl repeated as he picked up his shotgun from the bar top and headed for the back door. Bobo, he knew, was a heavy sleeper. The old biker was notorious for sleeping through the tail end of the parties that had been the clubhouse’s only previous function; and anyone who could sleep, without being stone drunk, when the Dogz were partying needed special attention to get awake.