Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum

by Rogers, David

  His first shot missed, which didn’t really surprise him too much. The cold really was taking a toll on him, and his aim was going to suck. But then the second shot missed, and the third and fourth as well. The zombie was only a couple of feet away. His stiff fingers found the selector lever and flipped the weapon into burst mode, and he compressed his finger on the trigger several times.

  Bullets spat from the barrel, and still they missed. Splashing off to his left alerted him to what was probably, he hoped, Smith making landfall, but even if it was another zombie Peter was already busy with this one. He couldn’t understand how he was missing, especially with the zombie right atop him.

  “Holy shit!” he blurted as his numbed reactions registered the zombie was, in fact, right on him. The thing’s dead arms were outstretched, fingers already gripping down as it reached for him. Peter swayed backwards half a step and shifted his hands. The left rotated the AR around horizontally while his right dropped to the holstered M45 on his belt.

  The zombie rammed into his outstretched rifle, and Peter shoved violently with his arm as he struggled to latch onto his pistol. The zombie stumbled back, but its hands got a grip on the AR-15 to either side of his own hand. Peter shoved again, this time releasing the weapon, but the zombie was leaning forward for a step and shrugged off his attempt to push it away.

  As Peter’s hand left the weapon, the zombie was the only thing holding it up. A human might have tried to bring it to bear, or maybe dropped or thrown it aside; but the zombie didn’t even seem to notice it had it in its hands. He noticed absently some of its teeth were missing, having been knocked out and broken off; but the jagged stumps and others that remained more or less intact would be quite sufficient to bite very effectively.

  “Gunny!” Smith shouted.

  The M45 finally came free of the holster. Peter fell backwards as the zombie reached out further for him. The AR was starting to drop from its grasp. The Marine got the pistol up as he hit back first in the water lapped sand and mud, gasping against the impact as his pack was driven against him and he tried to point the gun. He didn’t think he had time to fool with the sights, so he just let his left hand curl around his right on the weapon’s butt and squeezed the trigger.

  His shot ripped through the zombie’s midsection, a little low and to the left of center point. As usual, the zombie ignored this; but the forty-five caliber round did rock the zombie off balance as it leaned down for him. Instead of collapsing straight down atop him, it sort of stumbled to its knees across his legs. The AR hit the mud to one side as the zombie finally released it fully.

  Adjusting his aim, still not using the sights, Peter put another bullet into the creature’s sternum, then a third into the hollow just below its neck. That one seemed to screw up its ability to fully control its head, and the zombie’s skull sort of sagged back a little like a doll with nothing but cloth to support it once the child playing with it removed its hands.

  Peter finally felt like he could take the fraction of a second to try and aim properly. He lifted the pistol a little more and cast his eye down the sights. All three dots — two at the back and one on the end of the barrel — lined up with the zombie’s mouth and he fired a fourth time.

  A gout of gore erupted out the back of the zombie’s head as its mouth caved in under the impact of the slug. He tried to yank his legs clear, but it was already more or less on them; and as it folded down ended up sprawled right across his lower body. Peter shifted and scrabbled backwards through the water and mud hastily, wary of the zombie somehow still retaining the ability to bite or injure; but it didn’t move as he pulled himself clear.

  “F-f-f-uck!” he stammered.

  “D-d-d-ude.” Smith said as he emerged from the water. Peter glanced at him. The Guardsman was unslinging his weapon. A thought finally bubbled up from his leaden thoughts, and Peter’s eyes widened some.

  “W-w-w-ait!” he blurted as Smith aimed at the zombie Peter had just shot. The other man either didn’t hear or couldn’t process the order in time, because he fired anyway. A bullet smacked into the mud several feet from the zombie; thankfully inland from where Peter and Whitley lay.

  “B-b-arrel’s d-d-amaged-d-d.” Peter stuttered, trying to force his voice to cooperate as he struggled upright. “Heat, w-w-ater.”

  “W-w-hat?”

  “W-w-warped it.” Peter answered as he rose to his knees, trying to control every part of his body’s — including his jaw and tongue and throat — need to incessantly shake. The zombie he’d shot wasn’t moving, but he kind of wanted to shoot it in the head again anyway. The problem was, even from this close, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to. The adrenaline was combining with the cold to really set his muscles jittering.

  “How?” Smith demanded.

  “Hot from shooting.” Peter said. “Cold water. It’s not true now.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” the soldier swore.

  “Pistol.” Peter pointed his own at the downed zombie and put another bullet through what was left of its skull.

  At least, that had been his goal. The slug opened up a sizable divot in the mud. The next did the same, but on the opposite side. Peter drew a deep breath and closed his left hand around his right on the pistol’s grip; that took him two tries as well. When he had both hands in place, he leaned forward and down, and fired once more. This time he managed to hit the zombie’s skull, but he was sure it was by luck more than anything else; his arms had spasmed just as he’d fired.

  Ignoring the scattering of brains and bone that produced, he started reloading the now empty weapon. Only muscle memory was pulling him through even the most basic activities now; hundreds and thousands of lifetime hours drilling the ebb and flow of the actions into his body. The cold was a physical thing, making itself felt deep within him.

  He fumbled through finding the magazine release on the pistol, through finding a fresh magazine for it in his equipment harness, and through getting the replacement loaded in. The nearly empty one fell; his coordination wasn’t up to catching it, but he ignored it for the moment.

  Smith had his pistol — a nine millimeter Beretta from the armory at Clay back in Atlanta — out and up by the time Peter was finished with his reload cycle. The soldier was shooting at the other two zombies in view. Peter lifted his own weapon and joined him. The pair of hungry threats were only fifteen or twenty feet away, and beyond the usual zombie stagger not doing anything defensive, but it still took Peter and Smith combined over a double handful of shots to bring the targets down.

  “R-r-r-eload.” Peter said, picking up the magazine he’d dropped. With the rifles useless, he was down to only the pistol and didn’t want to leave a magazine for it he could reload with fresh bullets if he didn’t have to. There was no telling what was going to happen now; but he didn’t want to throw any possible resources away.

  “N-n-ow w-w-hat?” Smith stuttered they both fumbled with their pistols.

  Peter got the partial magazine tucked away and a full one slotted into his M45, then managed to put the safety back on before he jammed the pistol back in its holster. It took him four tries before the weapon was put away, and three to push himself up from his knees. His body really didn’t want to cooperate with what he wanted, needed, it to do.

  “Help me with Whitley.” he got out, reaching down and trying to lift her. He wasn’t in the shape he’d been in when he was younger, but he wasn’t a soft civilian either. Whitley wasn’t that heavy, nor was she terribly large; but he was having trouble getting her lifted off the ground. She was still out of it, and he could see violent shuddering rippling through her body. Her teeth were audibly chattering; the sound was like wind-up joke teeth at a Halloween party.

  Smith staggered over and took her other arm. Between both men, they got Whitley upright. Her head lolled around on her neck in a manner that struck Peter as dangerous, but he couldn’t do much to help that right now. It was taking an enormous amount of his willpower to hold her and himself uprigh
t without dropping her. If the worst she suffered from all of this was whiplash, that was fine. He looked around again as he got her arm draped around his shoulders, holding it there with one hand while he got his other around her waist so he could grip her belt.

  “That way.” he nodded with his head. “S-s-straight for that roof there.” Peter added when he realized Smith wasn’t watching him, and even if he was the Marine’s head gesture was so spastic to have indicated anything in the western half of the continent.

  “T-t-they t-t-train you f-f-f-or t-t-t-his?” Smith stuttered as the two of them stumbled away from the Mississippi.

  “F-f-for what?”

  “Cold.”

  Peter shrugged, though the motion was indistinguishable from his shivering. “N-n-no.”

  “S-s-shit.”

  “I kn-kn-know what to do.” Peter said as they left the river behind and their soaked boots found dry dirt instead of damp sand and mud.

  “W-w-what?”

  “Fire.” Peter said. “G-g-get warm.”

  “D-d-didn’t n-n-need you to t-t-t-ell me that.” Smith got out as they started climbing the rise at the edge of the ‘beach’.

  Peter tripped over the ground as his feet started to cooperate less and less. He stumbled down to one knee with a curse, but he managed to keep from falling all the way over. Or from dropping Whitley. Which was notable considering his fall had dragged Smith down on the other side of the Guardswoman, and made him sway toward Peter as he was pulled off balance.

  “We n-n-n-need to hur-hur-ry though.” Peter said as he pushed himself upright again. He was so cold, so far beyond his normal limits, that even the force of will he was summoning to keep himself going hurt. Just thinking about what he needed to do was pain, and then doing it hurt all over again; and then he had to do it yet again for the next step, and the next, and then then next once more. There were still a few zombies in view, but even as screwed up as he and his two companions were, the hungry horrors weren’t fast enough to catch them.

  As long as they kept moving. And as long as more zombies didn’t show up ahead of them.

  “Rig-g-g-ht.”

  At the top of the bank they found a simple little two lane road. On the other side was a scattering of moderately dense underbrush and trees, with buildings visible beyond, and to the right he saw other buildings with the bridge in the background. But to the left there were some rather cheap looking houses; the closest maybe three or four blocks down.

  Whitley wasn’t walking — even a little — and as he and Smith dragged her along between them Peter realized she’d mostly stopped shivering as well. Something tweaked in the back of his brain at that; something about how the most serious stage of hypothermia was marked by the body beginning to shut down in a final bid to preserve itself. The muscle activity that was generating heat was stopped in an effort to hold on to as much core temperature as possible.

  Even if he hadn’t been starting to feel the fringes of panic setting in within himself, that told him they had to hurry. There wasn’t much time.

  The closest house wasn’t much to look at; a standard looking affair that was at least forty years old and suffering from more than a little skipped maintenance. But however peeling the paint and loose the roof shingles looked; it had four walls. That was enough for now. As long as no more hordes showed up, it would work.

  He had no idea what they’d do if a horde did appear. Pray maybe.

  Peter stumbled across the yard with Smith, and nearly fell when Smith angled for the door instead of the closest window Peter had picked out. The Guardsman looked at him questioningly, and Peter managed to get a coherent jerk out of his head to indicate the window. Smith changed course and they got there without further incident.

  “H-h-old her.” Peter got out as they reached the building. Smith nearly dropped Whitley as Peter shifted the semi-conscious woman in his direction — her head lolling about as she shivered in his arms — but he managed to keep her upright as Peter unslung his AR. Reversing the weapon, he smashed out the window with two unsteady strikes of the stock; then scraped at the opening to clear it of shards.

  “C-c-comp-p-pany.”

  Turning his head at Smith’s stuttering warning, Peter saw the zombie rounding the far corner of the house. It was nearly naked, and from the massive collection of scrapes and cuts on its skin Peter judged its clothing had probably been lost along the way as it staggered and wandered around in undeath. The only remnant of its attire was a sagging dirty sock and a pair of pants that had been shredded and torn into just a bit of waistband and flap of cloth hanging on the outside of one thigh.

  Drawing his M-45 once more, Peter blew his breath out and willed his hands to steady as he tried to aim. His body’s shivering and shaking was starting to get quite pronounced; and his first two shots weren’t even close. But as the zombie passed the front door, coming within fifteen feet, Peter had a bigger target. That outweighed his reaction to the cold — and his growing panic — and allowed him to put a round through the thing’s skull.

  Switching magazines for a full one — a seemingly simple task that again took him far longer than it should have to accomplish — Peter checked through the broken out window quickly before pulling himself through; after tossing his pack in first. It wasn’t the easiest thing he’d ever done, but he managed to heave his freezing and old body inside. Glass crunched beneath him as he stumbled to the carpet, but he managed to remember the danger and simply roll it out rather than putting his hands down to try and brace his fall. Getting cut up would be bad; but he needed his hands right now more than he needed to avoid a laceration on his torso.

  Staggering to his feet, he checked around himself three times; listening to the voice in his head that warned him against going too fast or making any assumptions in his current condition. A clock was ticking down towards serious injury and likely death right along with that voice, but a zombie would kill just as much as hypothermia.

  He was in a kid’s room or day room of some sort; cheap and old furniture scattered around and facing an old-style tube television with a game system on the floor in front of it. The décor didn’t extend past some decorative coasters on the battered wooden end tables — plastic discs emblazoned with the Bass Pro Shop logo — but he didn’t care. It was empty except for him.

  “Ok-k-kay.” he got out, turning back to the window. It took him three tries to holster the pistol, then he extended his hands out. “You push, I’ll pull.” he stammered. “And t-t-t-ry to keep a look out behind me.”

  Smith nodded and shifted Whitley around. Peter got his hands under her arms and pulled while Smith lifted her by the belt, then her legs. The Marine knew she was probably going to have bruises, maybe even scrapes, the way they had to shove her across the window sill but there wasn’t much either of the men could do. That clock was still ticking in his head, and it was getting louder.

  They managed to get her inside without banging her around too badly, and Peter dragged her clear of the broken glass while Smith tumbled himself inside. Laying Whitley in the corner, Peter straightened and reached for his AR. Clicking back the fasteners, he detached the tactical light from the underbarrel rail, then drew the M-45 again. His wrist bones knocked together unpleasantly as he crossed his arms to put weapon and light in alignment, but Peter ignored that like he was so much else right now.

  “The list’s getting dangerously long.” he thought tiredly. “If too much more gets added to it . . .” Out loud, though, he jerked his head at the shelving unit that was serving as the room’s entertainment center. “Get that moved.” he got out around his chattering teeth. “Block the window.”

  “W-w-what are you doing?” Smith asked as he picked himself up off the carpet.

  “Checking the kitchen.”

  “What?”

  Peter ignored the query and stepped to the room’s door. It was standing half open, and swung freely when he nudged — unsteadily slammed it back, really — with his shoulder. He got the t
ac-light activated, and checked the hallway beyond. Nothing but thin carpet and old paint. The right side looked like it headed for bedrooms, so he went left. He almost immediately found what he’d consider a more proper living room, though the furniture was just as worn and battered.

  The directly connected dining room had a semi decent table — albeit one that could stand to be refinished — with some semi-matched chairs, but he didn’t care right now. It was all empty, and adjacent to the dining area was the kitchen. He scanned the area, then the kitchen as he stumbled to its doorway, then started jerking open cabinets.

  “Come on, come on.” he muttered. The fourth one he tried paid off, and he grabbed. Metal bowls clattered, but he managed to latch his stiff and unresponsive fingers onto a big metal bowl like Amy had used for serving salads. This one was the size of a wok; somewhere around two feet in diameter he judged tiredly, and deep enough to be useful. Clamping it under his left arm, he staggered back into the day room.

  Smith had managed to shove the shelving unit over in front of the window; it blocked the opening up to neck level. Nothing was coming through the opening without going through the piece of furniture. Peter took one look and nodded as he dropped the bowl. “Start breaking up the furniture.”

  “How?” Smith asked.

  “Figure it out.”

  “Why?”

  “We need the wood.” he said as he turned.

  “W-w-where are you g-g-g-going?”

  “Blankets.” Peter said without turning as he checked the hallway again, then went right. He bounced off the walls a number of times, and doorways too, but the pain of the bruises helped him keep focused as he checked rooms. Three bedrooms — two obviously for kids —yielded plenty of sheets and blankets. He got back to the day room with his armfuls of cloth, and dropped them out of the way against the wall before closing the door behind himself. He moved an end table out of the way, then managed to shove the couch over in front of the door.