by David Rogers
Ten, mostly the more able bodied survivors plus a couple less able ones who had managed to attach themselves, had decided to strike out for greener pastures elsewhere. There had been some mention of finding a small town somewhere in the area and setting up shop, but Peter hadn’t really listened – or contributed much – to their plans. It was their problem.
Of the others, eleven wanted to stay on at the motel. They liked the location and the building, which was concrete over wood framing; plus they’d decided the elevation the second story with its walkway afforded was pretty secure. Peter couldn’t really fault their logic, even if they were only piggybacking off what he and the unit had already set up for them. The close proximity to I-75 also gave them a chance to keep an eye out for a better option.
That left fifteen, including the ever anxious Harris couple, who had made it more or less clear they weren’t going to be separated from the National Guard unit short of force. Peter wasn’t interested in squatting in place when there might be an organized body of proactive survivors somewhere. Even though he’d made it clear his plan was to start by going nearly fifty miles east to check the situation in Cumming, he and the other soldiers were saddled with a collection of survivors that were determined to tag along.
They saw the unit as security, more than the motel or whatever the other group was hoping to find. Even when he pointed out the travel was likely to bring more zombie encounters, and that Cumming or the FEMA camp supposed to have been located there might be as bad or worse than the Cartersville site had been, they wanted to go.
So he’d spent most of the midday rounding up some vehicles for the factions. A couple of the refugees looked over his shoulder as he hotwired the vehicles and bypassed ignition key circuits, but he knew most of them would find getting the vehicles going on their own difficult. It wasn’t his problem. Vehicles, some advice on how to get fuel out of gas stations at need, and three pistols with a couple boxes of ammunition for each of the groups not staying with him had been the limit of his generosity.
Well, that and a share of the food the unit had brought in. He’d allowed the ones leaving enough to last them for two days, plus whatever they wanted to bring out of the Wendy’s, on the theory they’d be able to find more while moving. He figured if they couldn’t come up with more calories to keep going before they ran through that, they were hopeless anyway. The motel group he allotted enough for a week, plus making sure they had a map marked up with some suggested areas he and the Guardsmen had spotted while collecting vehicles.
The rest, enough for maybe nine or ten days, was going with him. The MARTA bus had turned into their primary warehouse. Most of the extra weapons and ammo retrieved out of Clay’s armory were still aboard it, and now the bulk of their pantry was as well. Most of the seats had been removed and dumped in the parking lot, though some of the cleverer members of the motel faction had appropriated them fairly quickly to add to the barricades on the stairs.
Ropes, bungee cords and layered sheets serving as nets had been used to rig up storage areas throughout the bus. The stacked supplies would probably still jumble themselves about during travel, but at least they wouldn’t be rolling and sliding all over the interior. The remaining seats had been selected to allow three firing positions on each side, where shooters could stand and use the windows without seats being in their way.
He was keeping the Tundra and Ranger because they were trucks, and might be useful, but he had overruled adding any other vehicles to the convoy. That left both Humvees with three passengers each, plus nine people riding in the truck beds, but he was already concerned with keeping everything fueled as it was. A little bit of discomfort was something they’d just have to put up with; he wasn’t interested in the upkeep costs of two more passenger vehicles atop what the convoy already faced.
The bus in particular was an issue; it was handy as hell as a mobile warehouse and fighting position, but based on how much they’d put into the tank it needed about seventy gallons of diesel to fill up. If he remembered correctly it might average three or four miles a gallon, but he knew the weight it was hauling would bring that figure down. And he wasn’t counting on being able to get up to cruising speed for any significant amount of the driving time he had planned. Its range could easily be below two hundred miles. Maybe well below.
They’d managed to come up with nearly forty gallons worth of fuel containers, counting what he’d liberated from the mechanic’s bay back at Clay plus little dinky one and two gallon cans from nearby gas stations. They were all filled with diesel, even though the civilian vehicles ran on regular unleaded gasoline. He was prepared to abandon them if it came to it, but he wasn’t overly concerned just yet. Diesel could sometimes be a pain to find, but it wasn’t like they were in the middle of nowhere.
“Sure you don’t want to wait until morning?” Whitley asked as Peter looked over the waiting vehicles and their passenger loads.
“What? Oh, no. I’d rather get going. No sense waiting around any longer.”
“Well, it’s not like we haven’t done some night fighting already.” she observed.
“We’ve got wheels this time.” Peter smiled slightly. “And we’re not out of ammo. Worst case, we might have to do some back and side tracking, but if we don’t run into too much of that we could make Cumming by early evening.”
“Famous last words.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.” she shrugged.
“Soldier, electrician, comedian. We should put you through med school next.”
“Probably the only way we’re going to get Harris off our backs.”
“Ha!” Peter snorted. “Just for that I’m going to keep an eye for any med textbooks so you can start studying.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Just want to prove you wrong.”
Whitley shook her head, glanced at the Harrises sitting in Mendez’s Humvee, and headed for the bus.
She was the designated bus driver because she was the one Peter trusted the most. And he had a soldier in the driver’s seat of the other vehicles for mostly the same reason; he didn’t want to have to go chasing after anyone who took off on their own. When push came to shove, he was more willing to put his faith in someone who’d gone through boot camp and maintained their reserve status over a mere civilian. And who had made it through Atlanta and stuck with him. It might be unfair, but he was the one in charge. And he wasn’t advertising his reasoning either.
“Bravo, Gunny.” Peter said, turning his head to his radio. “Drivers, are we ready?”
Everyone reported they were good, and he took a last look around before heading for ‘his’ Humvee. When he was settled in, he hit the horn and flashed a thumbs up out the window at Mendez, who led the convoy off. Whitley followed, then the trucks, and Peter swung in at the rear of the line. He took a last look in the mirrors at the watching people up on the second floor of the motel, then put them out of his mind.
He couldn’t save everyone. And nothing said their choice was the wrong one.
Mendez had become the soldier Peter was most comfortable with being the advance recon guy, which was why he was leading. Peter was a little less thrilled that the Harrises were the two civilian ride-alongs, but it was either Mendez or him who had to take them. While he was trying to temper his empathy, it just didn’t seem right to make a pregnant woman ride in the back of a truck. And Steve Harris refused to be separated from his wife, not even by the rear window of a truck.
And, frankly, Peter was getting a little tired of the vocal Steve’s tireless determination to find the help he wanted for his wife. That left Mendez’s ride as the only place to put them, since Peter didn’t want any of the civilians aboard the bus for the same reason he had soldiers driving. Trust.
If Mr. Harris was jawboning, Mendez wasn’t bothered by it. The tall Guardsmen led the convoy south on I-75 to SR-20. The Interstate was only lightly populated with wrecked or abandoned
vehicles, most of which were off to the side. And they only passed three wandering zombies, none of which had time to react to the vehicles beyond a few staggering steps and a futile clawing at the air left by their passage.
SR-20 took them east without incident. The number of vacant vehicles dropped, but the zombie count rose somewhat. Not enough to be a problem, but the convoy started needing to veer around them. Peter’s instructions had been clear; spare the vehicles whenever possible. That meant no running over zombies just as much as it meant avoiding off-roading, high speeds, sharp turns, or anything else that could stress the engines, suspensions, or bodies. He was a good mechanic, but there was a limit to what could be fixed on the side of a road.
They’d been on SR-20 long enough for him to get a little bored when Mendez came on the radio. “Gunny, Mendez.”
“Go.”
“Got what looks like an occupied building up here, and some people working on the grounds. They don’t look all that unfriendly. You still interested in talking to anyone we run across?”
Peter considered for a moment. “Yeah, stop us if it looks good.”
“Roger.”
The vehicles ahead started slowing, and came to a halt in the west-bound lanes next to a large lot of grass. The terrain thus far had mostly been tree-lined, but this was one of the larger open areas he’d seen since leaving the Interstate. It was a church, he saw as he parked behind Swanson in the Ranger, and a pretty big one from the looks of it. The building was warehouse sized, but nicely sided and well maintained, with a secondary building on its right and a large playground on the left with colorful plastic slides and climbing tubes positioned in the middle of a large sand pit.
The lot had a simple little wooden rail fence, which didn’t look sturdy or closed enough to hold off any zombies even if it had completely encircled the property. It didn’t, which his present slant on defensive evaluation left him questioning how secure the location was. About the only thing he particularly liked about the spot was how all the open ground would make it easy to maintain visual coverage of anything trying to get near the church building.
However, the occupants seemed to realize that. As he stepped from the Humvee – after double checking the road and shoulder to make sure he hadn’t missed anything hungry nearby – he saw most of the work parties stopping and turning to look back at the line of vehicles on the road. They had a stack of lumber they were using to reinforce the doors he saw down the side of the building, but they were leaving off the task to eye up the convoy.
Actually, he realized after a second glance, they were boarding the building’s doors over. Or, at least, had been. More of the lumber was going up around the covered front entrance, turning the decorative overhead into a reasonable barricade. He was no carpenter, but what he could see of their progress so far seemed to him they were doing a pretty decent job of the modifications.
“Barker, stay with the vehicle.” Peter said after a moment’s thought, then he reached for his radio. “Nailor, you want to unass and accompany me?”
“Just him?” Whitley asked.
“Yeah, but everyone else don’t fall asleep. And don’t ignore the south side of the road either. Let’s remember where we are.”
“The middle of the end of the woooooorld.” Swanson joked.
Peter turned the volume knob down before Crawford’s reflexive retort could come across clearly. He heard the bus’ door hiss open, and a few moments later Nailor appeared slinging his M-16. Peter followed suit with his AR so as to not appear too aggressive, then with Nailor in tow, started trudging up the simple little driveway connecting the road to the property.
“Are you here to tell us we’re saved?” a sweaty faced man in jeans and a faded T-shirt asked, coming out to meet them about twenty feet from the front of the church. Most of the others had returned to their labor, though frequent glances were being directed at the trio.
“We’re headed to Cumming to check on the FEMA camp that’s supposed to be set up there.” Peter answered. “Just wanted to talk if that’s okay.”
“Happy to. We’ve got well water if you like, running off a generator, but it’s still clear and cold.”
“We’re okay at the moment.” Peter said politely, glancing around. He saw a handful of children present, most of whom looked like they’d been designated as sentries to watch the grounds while the adults worked. And about one in four of the adults had a pistol on their belts. “How are conditions here?”
“The good with the bad.” the man shrugged. “We’re relatively remote, and since yesterday the cross-traffic on the road has dropped off some. But we’re seeing more of the sick wandering around.”
“You okay?”
“So far. We’re working on building the church up so we don’t have to worry so much. The sick don’t seem to get too interested unless they see someone. When they do, they’re attracted like sinners on Sunday.”
Peter grinned. “Sounds like you’ve got as good of a handle on the situation as anyone else I’ve met since all this started. I’m Peter Gibson.”
“Evan Turner. I’m the assistant pastor here.” he nodded, reaching to shake hands.
“How many are you?”
“About seventy so far. A few of my braver members are out checking empty houses for food and useful items, but I’m not sure how many others of the congregation who aren’t already here will be joining us. It’s been bad.”
“That it has.” Peter nodded. “I’m glad you’ve been able to save so many.”
“That’s the job, saving souls.” Turner shrugged with a smile. “Though I’ll grant you I never figured on it being quite this literal of a job description.”
He heard a gunshot behind him and turned, quickly but not overly alarmed. Another shot sounded, then two more in rapid succession, but he couldn’t see who was doing the shooting. A moment later he saw Whitley’s hand come out of the driver’s window of the bus and give a thumbs up.
“Everything okay back there?” Peter asked, keying his radio.
“Just a zombie. Oliver and Dorne are arguing about who got it. All clear.” she answered.
“Pastor Turner, I’ve got some civilians who are tagging along with us.” Peter said as he faced the man again. “A pair of them are a married couple that are pregnant. If I don’t ask, the husband’ll be over here anyway; I don’t suppose you’ve got a doctor or nurse with you that could help out. She’s due about a month from now.”
Turner’s expression became thoughtful. “Mrs. Bell is a retired hospital nurse, but she’s eighty-two, and I don’t think she ever worked in a maternity ward.”
“Like I said, I had to ask.”
“You rescued them?”
“Long story.” Nailor said.
“Not that long, but yes.” Peter nodded. “We came across them in Cartersville Saturday night. Mr. Harris is frantic to find a place with medical care before the baby comes.”
“I could talk with Mrs. Bell about what she thinks, but without meaning to impugn her, my guess would be that she might not be as much help as your Mr. Harris probably hopes for.”
“I won’t be able to leave until I tell him, but I suspect you’re right. Beyond that, I wanted to ask about any news you might have come across.”
“News about the situation?”
“That’s as good a word as any.” Peter reflected mentally as he nodded. Turner’s face screwed into consideration again.
“Like I said, we’re pretty rural here. Things were mostly quiet on Friday and Saturday, not too many reports that were nearby, though I’m sorry to say there were some victims that came down with the disease. I started getting a lot of calls on Saturday night from the congregation, and I decided to come open the church up. Word spread, and we’ve been gathering since then.”
“Safety in numbers.”
“Moral support at first, but as the television and radio channels started dropping off the air it became more about safety, yes.” Turner allowed. “Now we’re focuse
d on a longer stay than I think most of us had initially thought.”
“Are you or any of your people aware of any other intact groups in the area?” Peter asked. “Maybe city or county groups, or any military units that might be nearby?”
“There were reports of the federal government preparing evacuation centers in Cartersville and Cumming, but from what you said a minute ago I suspect Cartersville isn’t a safe area anymore.”
“No, it’s not.” Peter agreed. “Neither is Calhoun, if you’re wondering. We were up there earlier gathering supplies, and it’s pretty thoroughly infested. Be ready for problems with sick people if you head that way. Most of the area along I-75 between there and Atlanta has the same problem, and I’ll assume you know what’s going on in Atlanta.”
“We do, thank you. You said you’re headed to Cumming?”
“We are. We want to check on the FEMA situation there, see if they’re intact or not.”
Turner nodded. “Then this might be relevant to your inquiry. One of my parishioners is a Cherokee County water treatment employee who arrived last night. He’s told us of talking to people, refugees from Atlanta mostly, with stories of having been turned away from Cumming by the state government.”
“Turned away?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes a little.
“He says it’s part of why he came here. That, and the sick were starting to become a problem at his home.”
Peter considered that for several seconds. Even incomplete as the tale was, it still didn’t make much sense. “Can I talk to him? Please?”
Turner swiveled and looked across the people in front of the church. Some of them were working, but about half were watching the show. “Derick, could you join us please.”
One of the men who was still working handed his hammer to one of the others and walked over. “This is . . . I’m sorry Peter, I didn’t get your rank.”
“Gunny Gibson.” Peter said, nodding to the newcomer. “Just Gunny’s fine. My rank can be sort of a mouthful if you’re not used to how the Marines work.”