by David Rogers
“Bobo, it just pooling on this side. Hole still dry.”
“Takes time for it to get through the filter fool. If it run right through it ain’t getting filtered.”
“I guess.” Joker shrugged. “We done?”
“Yeah, that it. Come on, we done enough standing around out here in the open. Let’s get back behind the fence. There more work to do on the loose fill Tank pulling out.”
Shouldering their shovels, the small group headed back to the clubhouse. Spider and two of the other bikers piled into the flatbed to head around the lake to one of the empty houses to dump the sacks. Bobo didn’t want them blowing around, but a couple thousand pounds of bagged material came in a lot of bags. EZ had suggested they be stuffed into one of the houses where they’d be contained, and no one had come up with a better idea.
Darryl had a feeling those vacant homes were going to turn into garbage dumps as the months went by. Where else were the Dogz going to put all the trash they generated as they went through canned and boxed food?
As he neared the clubhouse, Darryl saw Tank and Bobo had been correct; the digging the backhoe was doing was going fast, even going down six feet. Two scoops and a section of trench four feet wide was at the desired depth, spaced a couple of feet from the fence to avoid undermining it unduly. The loose earth was being dumped inside the fence, where most of the Dogz were busy with more shovels – and their feet – piling any that spilled too far back before packing it down.
What had been a fence was rapidly turning into a wood fronted earth berm, the compacted clay soil behind it reinforcing the boards against any outside pressure that might be put against them. Though with the moat, Darryl wasn’t sure how anyone would manage that. He couldn’t see how zombies would do anything other than just fall in and mill around inside. As far as he knew, zombies didn’t climb. They barely even walked.
As for any more able attackers, the trench would still be a significant problem. Jumping it was possible for someone in shape, but they’d smack into the fence with a good chance of falling back into the moat. Doing so while carrying a lot of weight would be even more difficult. And it would definitely slow down anyone trying, which would give the defenders time to do something about the incursion. And ramming the fence with a vehicle was right out. Darryl didn’t like to think of how much of a mess it would make when anything short of an Army tank tried.
The only real problem was the gate. Some discussion had occurred about some sort of bridge or drawbridge, but neither Tank nor Bobo seemed enthusiastic about the idea. Tank was certain they could come up with something sturdy enough to hold vehicles crossing over, but Bobo was concerned about getting it pulled up quickly in an emergency. Even Tank admitted anything sturdy enough to drive over would be a bitch to move fast.
So a compromise solution had been hit upon. A series of holes had been dug as deeply as the drilling augers could reach; all the way down until the bits were fully buried and the auger engines were flat against the ground. Spaced a foot apart and right up against the gate, which was the only section of the fence that wasn’t going to be facing trench, they were intended to hold four-by-four wooden posts. Darryl couldn’t see how they’d stop everything that tried to bust through the fence, but they’d certainly make it hard as hell to do.
The fence posts themselves were sunk in concrete, and with ten additional removable posts supporting the gate if it had to hold off any impacts, even a vehicle would take serious damage trying it. He thought the Home Depot flatbeds they’d made great use of might manage it, but even they’d likely be wrecked after the attempt. He certainly wouldn’t want to be the one driving the truck that tackled the task.
Darryl had decided it was as good as they could do short of getting really serious about the engineering involved in something more elaborate. None of the Dogz had any skill at that level of construction. And, Darryl had privately decided, if they ended up in some sort of a siege against breathing opponents who looked like ramming their way in, a couple of the Dogz vehicles parked behind the gate and posts would frustrate those attempts quite severely.
He wasn’t expecting they’d need to hold up against anything like that though. The news still coming in was getting sparser and more local every time Mr. Soul gave them an update on what he was getting via radio, but there was still nothing about any sort of warlord gangs rampaging around like Vikings or something. Darryl wasn’t ruling the possibility out, but he didn’t really expect it to happen either.
The Dogz were probably the closest to any kind of group that might be able to transform themselves into something out of a wasteland movie, Mad Max style, and they were all too busy digging themselves in for the long haul. He couldn’t see how a wandering gang would fare better than simply copying what the Dogz were doing. Especially considering that fighting anyone who had supplies worth fighting for would probably result in a lot of death and injury for all involved, even if the attackers won.
But, like everyone else at the clubhouse, Darryl was taking his cues from Bobo. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.
Shouting alerted him to a problem, and he looked automatically to the clubhouse roof. Two of the guards were pointing northeast, and Darryl swung around to look in that direction. A trio of staggering figures were just coming clear of the trees. He sighed as he checked automatically for his holstered pistol.
Hope was starting to look worse and worse as the days kept ticking by.
* * * * *
Chapter Nine – Bad Moon Rising
Peter
“Gunny, Mendez.”
“Go.”
“Got a police checkpoint up here.”
Peter glanced at Barker, who looked up from the map and shrugged. “Looks like we’re in the right place.” the Guardsman said.
“Confirm police?” Peter asked into the radio.
“Confirmed. They just turned their lights on, and they’re all wearing those stupid fucking hats. They look silly on Drill Instructors and even worse on civilians.”
“Okay, I’m taking the convoy lead. Mendez, when I’m up there, drop your vehicle back and assume the rear position.”
Peter swung the Humvee into the left lane and accelerated, moving up the line of vehicles. He pulled ahead of the second Humvee, which slid over behind him as he passed and started dropping back. “Everyone slow down. No sense in alarming them.”
“What, you don’t want us racing up on a bunch of idiot cops like a bat outta hell?” Crawford asked in an amused tone.
“Have you even actually listened to that album?” Peter retorted, feeling free to frown at that comment.
“What?”
“Meat Loaf, Bat Outta Hell. Great fucking album.”
“Isn’t that guy dead?” Smith asked curiously.
“I hope not, I like Meat Loaf.” Peter muttered.
“Damn Gunny, I don’t believe I would’ve copped to that.” Crawford laughed. “And no, I haven’t listened to it. See, there’s this thing called progress. They make new music all the time.”
“Not anymore they don’t.” Swanson cut in.
“Bet they are.” Crawford sneered. “Can’t stop the signal.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s a whole slew of zombie tunes up on You Tube right now. Let’s stop and find a computer. We’re missing out on valuable culture.”
“Focus.” Peter ordered. “And shut up. I draw the line at ripping on my music.”
“Just how old are you anyway?” Barker asked from the passenger seat.
Peter glared at him, making it clear he was unamused. Barker shrugged and grinned. “Everyone focus. Take it easy and keep your eyes open.” Peter said into the radio.
“Are we assuming hostile intentions?” Whitley asked.
“We’re assuming nothing, so be ready. Follow my lead.”
“All you Gunny.” Mendez said.
The sun was getting high in the sky, but it wasn’t noon yet. The stop at the Baptist church had turned into more than a news gathering
session. The congregation had taken in four of the Cartersville refugees, and didn’t take them all because the others who refused preferred to stick with the unit and take their chances in Cumming.
But the congregation had offered up sleeping and cooking space, and everyone had shared a meal as dark had fallen. In gratitude, the unit had spent the rest of the afternoon helping around the church, then spent the night out front sleeping in the bus. It had turned into a welcome little working break, and Peter had enjoyed the respite.
Smith, whose MOS was infantry, had assisted with sighting their barricades and pointing out good places to add additional defenses. Peter had given the generators they had on hand a quick look, advising them on how to ensure they’d keep running; and Whitley had gotten them tied into the church’s electrical system directly so there weren’t extension cords running everywhere. Roper had even chipped in with some suggestions for food storage and meal preparation for large numbers.
Peter had left earlier in the morning feeling good about it, and with a promise to make sure any authorities the unit came across would know about the church and its occupants. Now, in Cumming, Peter was back to feeling curious and apprehensive about the FEMA situation. That the police were blocking the road couldn’t be a good sign.
It was a trio of Georgia State Patrol cruisers, parked to completely obstruct the road. Four figures stood behind the cars, the ‘Smokey Bear’ hats on their heads reinforcing their image as police. Each had a long gun clutched in his hands, though whether they were rifles or shotguns Peter couldn’t tell yet. What he could tell was all four seemed focused on the approaching line of vehicles, which was beyond mere carelessness.
The unit had already seen more than a hundred zombies in the past twenty minutes alone. Dead levels had definitely thickened once they’d entered the Cumming area, and he couldn’t fathom how the cops ahead didn’t understand what the true danger was. Especially standing around out in the open like they were. Even one of them designated to keep an eye on the rest of the area would be a measureable level of useful safety they were completely throwing away.
Peter let the Humvee’s speed drop to below ten miles per hour as he came within fifty yards, then rolled forward slowly; hoping his low speed made his peaceful intentions clear. He drove to within thirty feet, then stopped and set the parking brake. “Oliver, Dorne, mind joining me?” he said into the radio.
“Coming.”
The bus’ door hissed open and the two Guardsmen emerged. Peter stepped out and waved to the police behind their cards, but waited until Oliver and Dorne reached him before heading toward the roadblock. “Don’t sling your weapons, but keep them down unless there’s trouble.” Peter said out of the side of his mouth, demonstrating his intention by holding his AR in patrol position in front of him. He could have it ready to fire in a second or two, but it didn’t look terribly threatening.
“There’s not gonna be trouble is there?” Oliver asked in a low voice.
“Dunno. Did we get this far by assuming there wouldn’t be?”
“You’re the boss.” Dorne shrugged.
Peter smiled at the policemen as he entered easy earshot of the roadblock. “Morning. You fellas with the FEMA camp?”
“This is a secured area.” one of the officers all but barked. To an untrained ear it probably sounded commanding, but Peter was familiar with the sort of jumped up expectations of authority most civilian cops had. To him, it just sounded like a guy who was used to being obeyed. But there was an undertone of uncertainty to it, which Peter knew dictated caution so as not to alarm the man.
“We’re Georgia National Guard, looking for the FEMA camp that’s supposed to be operating in Cumming. Are you perimeter security?”
“Who are you?”
“Master Gunnery Sergeant Peter Gibson, United States Marine Corps.” Peter answered, deciding to leave off the part about being retired. “Attached to the Guard by Captain Dan Foreman, 4th Civil Support out of Clay in Marietta.”
“You guys are Guard, in a fucking MARTA bus?”
Peter frowned. “We were deployed into downtown Atlanta Friday night and got cut off. After being cornered and chased by zombies over half the city, suffering heavy casualties, we managed to appropriate transport for our survivors and gear. So far the bus is working out well, so we’re keeping it.”
“Oh come on.” Oliver laughed quietly. “When you say it like that you leave all the fun bits out.”
“Shut it.” Peter shot back out of the corner of his mouth, barely moving his lips. The other two were half turned to the sides, covering the road shoulders and tree line without quite turning completely away from the police.
One of the other cops said something to the one who’d been doing all the talking, who shrugged after a moment. “Where’s your CO?”
“I’m senior.” Peter replied. “Captain Foreman died in Atlanta, along with most of the rest of our unit. Look, is this the FEMA camp or not? Standing around out here with zombies in the area is a danger we’ve learned to avoid if possible.” he added pointedly.
“Hang on.” the officer said, and reached for his radio.
Peter waited, glancing around casually. The area wasn’t a horrible spot for a roadblock, but only if you were considering vehicles. The trees weren’t overly thick on either side, so anyone on foot would probably be spotted. If someone were paying attention. And the ditches bordering the road’s shoulders would give civilian vehicles almost zero chance of making it around off-road; the Humvees could handle it, but the bus and trucks with them would either flip or get stuck.
He heard a tinny voice answer whatever transmission the cop had made, and returned his full attention to the man. The officer said something further, heard another response, then looked up at Peter. “How many are you?”
“Eleven, one wounded, plus some civilians we’ve picked up along the way.”
Another radio exchange, then the cop nodded and released the microphone clipped to his shirt. “Our lieutenant is headed over to escort you in.”
“So this is the Cumming FEMA camp?”
“It is.”
“Set up at the high school, like we heard?”
“That’s right.”
“Fine. We’ll wait in our vehicles. Safer under cover.” he said, still trying to make his point about how they were handling their position. “Let’s go.” he told his two backups.
“What do you think Gunny?” Oliver asked as they walked back to the convoy.
“I think they’re a bunch of retarded idiots.” Peter said calmly. “I’m amazed they haven’t been eaten yet. And if this is the extent of their ‘security arrangements’ I’m more amazed the camp’s still there.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”
“Get back on the bus, but don’t flake out. Stay sharp.”
“Count on it.” Dorne nodded.
“Everyone, we’re being led into the camp. Stand by and don’t go to sleep.” Peter said into the radio before he reached his Humvee. Peter slid back into the seat and closed the door, then sat, drumming his fingers slowly on the steering wheel as several minutes ticked by. Finally he saw another State Patrol cruiser appear on the road behind the roadblock, its police lights also on.
“They think those lights are going to scare zombies or something?” Barker asked incredulously.
“I think they’re not thinking much at all.” Peter sighed. “Scared leads to bad decisions.”
The lights drew the attention of the cops on the roadblock, and one got into the cruiser on the right and moved it back out of the way. Peter reached for his radio. “Okay guys, we’re rolling. When we get to the camp, everyone park with the bus, and Whitley, make sure you’re not blocked in so it can get moving again in a hurry.”
“Roger. We’re still assuming nothing?”
“Bet your ass we’re not.” Peter nodded unconsciously as he started the Humvee moving, holding the speed down. “Trucks, keep your passengers in the vehicles. When we get in,
Whitley, you and Smith are with me while we go see what’s happening. Mendez, you’re in charge on the vehicles. Keep everyone together, and nothing gets unloaded or turned over to anyone until I get back; I don’t care how good their story is. You read me?”
“Five by five Gunny.” Mendez answered. “ROE?”
“Try to keep things conversational if someone gets pushy, but if they’re not willing to wait then do what you have to, but everything we’re rolling in with is ours until I say otherwise. Don’t take any shit off anyone, and if they keep pushing then deal with it.”
“No sweat.”
“Got it.” Whitley said.
“I’ll be with you.” Smith added.
“Okay, eyes open.”
The newly arrived cruiser reversed in a fast U-turn before Peter got near it, and accelerated out ahead of them. Peter followed, keeping his distance as it drove a couple of blocks before turning left on a suburban neighborhood street that looked well maintained. About half a mile later they broke out of the houses and the cruiser turned into the front parking lot of a sprawling school. The sign out front labeled it as North Forsyth High School, home of the Raiders.
Peter eyed the setup swiftly. There were multiple parking lots all connected together, but only one that was right up front and close to the school building. The more outlying lots were only partially filled with vehicles – mostly civilian trucks and SUVs, though some had Georgia Department of something or another markings on their doors, and there were nearly two dozen police cars mixed evenly between State Patrol, City of Cumming, and Forsyth County – but he didn’t want to let the convoy get buried behind a lot of turns and potential obstacles.
“Whitley, right up on the curb near the main entrance.” Peter ordered on the radio. “Everyone else, slot in behind or beside her.”