Swaying slightly as he recovered his balance, Peter waited with her for the moment they both took to reevaluate. When nothing tried to eat them, Whitley shoved the door back and went through, pivoting immediately to the left. Following, Peter gripped his gun in both hands and pressed forward into the house.
There was a wall directly on his right side as he stepped over the threshold, but ahead he could see a kitchen of some kind. And a few feet from the front door was an opening for another room on his right. Everything was still as empty and deserted as it had looked from outside. Sliding up, Peter glanced around the wall into the right side room, then pivoted around pointing his weapon at the area. He saw some sort of sitting room, maybe even something his mother might have called a parlor way back in the day, but except for furniture and dust . . . nothing.
“Clear here.”
“Same.” Whitley answered. “Kitchen or full sweep?”
Peter hesitated a moment, then shrugged mentally. “Keep lead, sweep right and we’ll circle around to the kitchen while we make a lot of noise.”
“And if nothing shows up?”
“I’ll keep covering while you strip the cabinets clean of anything useful, then we’ll head for the warehouse.”
“It’s a plan.” she answered. Peter shifted back and aside a little to clear the doorway, and she moved past him a moment later. After a few steps, Peter followed and kept his attention on the sides as much as he could by himself, constantly checking in either direction. As they moved, they stomped their feet and bumped into furniture to make it scrape against the floor or fall over.
But they found nothing untoward — no problems, no bodies, and definitely no zombies — by the time they’d cleared the rest of the rooms in that half of the house. If there were any zombies, Peter knew the bastards would have reacted to the noise and be coming. Any that might be hanging around upstairs would make noise walking, especially when they fell down the stairs. If there were any on the other side of the ground floor, they’d be along momentarily.
Their partial sweep finished in the kitchen when, as Peter had expected, they were able to move from room to room in a loop back to it. As far as either of them could tell, they were the only two things moving about inside the structure. He positioned himself where he could keep an eye on the doorway and the hall beyond while he listened to Whitley rattling and banging around among the drawers and cabinets.
“Shit.” she finally said after a minute.
“What?”
“Nothing. Not a damned thing.”
Peter glanced over her shoulder, then swiftly across the storage spaces she’d left standing open or pulled out. “Hmmm.”
“Not even crackers. How’s that—”
“Suicides.” Peter said shortly, gesturing upwards with his left hand.
Whitley’s face cleared and she nodded soberly. Peter shrugged in response as he turned back forward. “Anything else of use?”
“Box with some matches left in it, another can opener, but unless we need to scour for some soft goods or clothes . . .”
“No, let’s get on with step two.”
“Right. Front or back?”
“Back. You keep point.”
Whitley nodded and headed for the attached dining room. The back door was right there, unlockable from the inside without incident. Peter waited while she checked through it, then stepped out and stood momentarily for another look. When she cleared the opening, he followed and took his own survey. The area was quiet, with just two zombies that might bother them as they went from the house to the storage structure.
“Avoid or kill?” Whitley asked as she headed for the warehouse.
“Clubs.”
“Right.” she nodded, switching the shotgun to her left hand and tugging the pair of shovel handles she’d taped together into a single club out of the side of her belt where she’d stuck it like a sword. Peter holstered his M45 and hefted the axe he’d been hauling around.
The first zombie was a good deal fresher than most of the ones Peter had been seeing in recent weeks, suggesting it was probably a more recent conversion. The man had been in his forties and wearing camouflage clothing when he died; hunter’s garb plus a blood stained, dirty, and tattered bandage encircling his left thigh. Pieces of his decaying flesh showed in the gap between the bandage and the edges of the huge tear in his pants.
Whatever the zombie’s story had been, he made right for Whitley. She took no chances, and hit it in the knee with a huge windup swing like a batter swinging at a fastball down low. From the maximum reach of her converted club, she managed to knock the zombie over. Then, still staying as far from it as she could, she brought the taped handles down twice more on the zombie’s neck, until a decently loud crack echoed up from the ground.
As the zombie lost what was left of its motor function below the upper vertebrae Whitley had broken, Peter went past it and her with the axe upraised. The second zombie was an older one — an early twenties guy that had lost one shoe and his shirt — that looked like he’d been stumbling around at room temperature since Labor Day.
Ignoring the zombie’s condition, Peter jabbed at it with the axe head like he was stabbing with a spear. The zombie swayed back from the impact to its chest, and Peter stepped back as he went for a proper windup swing. Copying Whitley, he hit the monster in the legs. Even though Peter used the blunt back end of the axe, the heavy metal head still carried enough mass when swung to inflict a serious amount of damage when it hit.
The zombie’s leg shattered just below the knee, and it toppled over sideways. Shattered explosively; jagged ends of bone erupted from beneath the pallid skin, and shards sprayed out unpleasantly to patter down against the weed strewn ground. The zombie fell over as it stepped forward on the now useless leg. Its knee was nothing more than some flaps of skin surrounding the jumbled carnage of disconnected bone; and the joint folded up as the skin wasn’t up to the task of supporting the creature’s weight.
Moving around it, being careful to stay out of grabbing range, Peter flipped the axe around and brought the blade down on the skull. The crunch was sickening as the zombie’s head collapsed inward, but Peter was basically inured to it these days. Zombies were zombies; they all needed killing. Better them than him.
He had to stand on what was left of the cranium and neck to tug the axe loose from the bone. Fortunately there wasn’t much gore on the axe; zombies were so desiccated that it was dusty rather than sticky after the execution. Tucking the weapon back into the loop on his equipment harness, Peter filled his hand with the pistol once more as they got to the warehouse.
To his surprise, the normal sized door set in the front-facing wall next to the corner opened when Whitley tried it. She pulled it all the way back, then reversed her shotgun and hammered on the warehouse wall several times to create a rattling and banging noise that would surely reverberate through the building.
“Give it a minute.” she said.
“Yeah.” Peter agreed, looking around again. They had time. At least ninety seconds before any of the nearest zombies could stagger over, and most of those hadn’t even really taken note of the activity at the house yet. Glancing back to the east, he saw the several-hundred-strong horde was still trailing behind Smith. The Guardsman was on the back end of a lap, but he waved back when Peter raised a hand and swung it several times in an exaggerated gesture.
“How’s he doing?”
“Looks like he’s okay.”
“Good.” she said. After a few moments, she gave an unhappy sigh. “Hope he calms down.”
“We’re all under a lot of stress.”
“Some more than others it seems.”
“Cut him some slack. He’s holding up his end.”
“We could’ve used the house to break off again.”
“He’s got a point that they might have gotten stuck in against the warehouse here.”
“So? It’s a big building. I’m sure we can duck out the back door if need be.”
“Might not be a back door.”
Whitley stepped back several steps from the door before glancing at him speculatively. “And what was your plan for if there wasn’t one?”
“What makes you think I thought of one?”
“Because you think of everything.”
“I’m not inviolate you know.”
“Not saying you are, but I’ll bet you thought of something.”
Peter shrugged. “Warehouses usually aren’t built like houses and offices and other structures. I figure a little work with the axe and maybe some prying action would get us out without much of a problem.”
“Hah, see?” she almost-chuckled, then she glanced at him once more; this time her expression unhappy. “But if the walls are that thin . . .”
“Yeah, a zombie horde could probably bust through pretty easily.” he pointed out. This close, it was easy to see the warehouse was little more than simple corrugated metal spread over the load-bearing framework. Peter had seen plenty of buildings like it; they were cheap to build, maintain, and fix. Which was good, since he’d seen more than a few holes get busted in them to all sorts of incidents that could require a proper contractor’s attention in a more substantial building.
“Great.” she sighed. “Wait, isn’t this tornado country?”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know, we’re sort of in the central part of the nation now aren’t we? Isn’t that tornado alley?”
“I don’t remember. So what if it is?”
She gestured at the warehouse. “Wouldn’t they want something more resilient?”
He laughed without humor, more of a grim chuckle than anything amused. “Ah, yeah, that’s insurance for you.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Cheaper to rebuild something that gets flattened and carried off than repair something that only partially holds up.” he said. “Especially something like this, which doesn’t cost that much anyway.”
“That’s fucked up.” Whitley frowned. “And what about the house?”
“Bet there’s a really good basement we missed somewhere. Not like we ran a full sweep.”
“I can’t figure living like that.”
“Better than what a lot of us are putting up with now. Come on, let’s check it out inside.” he said, motioning at the door.
Whitley held the shotgun level and eased up to, then through, the door. Peter followed, his weapon back in a two handed grip; both her and him swiveling the guns in unison with their eyes as they entered.
Sure enough, the cavernous space was scribed by evenly spaced metal I-beams that rose along the walls before bending together into a peaked roof. The wind rattled and compressed the thin walls, making odd echoes and distracting groans fill the interior. And even with the window panels set high up near the tops of the walls, it was dim.
“Hold.” Peter said loudly enough for Whitley to hear.
“What’s up?”
“Pulling a light, then I’ll cover you while you do the same.”
“All I’ve got is one of those cheap flashlights we picked up after Cartersville.” she said.
Peter got the tactical light that usually fitted onto the under barrel rail of his now abandoned AR and clutched it in his left hand before thumbing it on and crossing his wrists so M45 and light were held in parallel. “See if it still works.”
Whitley fumbled in one of her pockets and produced the device. After a few moments of fiddling, she did something to it that produced a click, and a so-so beam of light appeared. “Shit, it still works.”
“Good.” Peter nodded. “It had time to dry out.”
“Can’t double it up with the shotgun though.”
“Your call.” he shrugged. “I’ve got some tape, or you can switch over to the Beretta.”
“I’ll go Beretta for now.” she decided after a second. “Maybe I’ll screw around with it while you work on one of the vehicles.”
“Your call. But we’ll probably be fucking around in the dark again at some point, sooner or later.” Peter repeated. He could only guess at the moment, because they were little more than shapes scattered around beneath the high ceiling, but there were a number of vehicles parked in the building. A closer, better lit, look would be needed to figure out what they all were.
Whitley slid the shotgun into a retaining loop on her equipment harness and got her pistol out. When she was ready, she glanced swiftly at him and got a nod before moving off again.
The building was dim, not dark. Just enough to make him slightly nervous; but not nearly as bad as the big superstores he’d spent hours clearing and helping strip of supplies since the outbreaks started. A building that covered several city blocks — like a super store such as a Walmart or regional grocery store — got dark when the lights were out. This wasn’t that bad, and he was grateful for the respite. He didn’t think his nerves would be easily up to handling that kind of investigation with only two people. Especially not right now.
Taking their time, methodically checking in and around the support beams and parked trucks and tractors, he and Whitley cleared the space. It took longer than he liked, even though they moved pretty fast after the first quarter was checked. There was just too much to eyeball quickly. And zombies were too dangerous to risk missing one.
But zombies also weren’t subtle. They inevitably made noise when moving around, even just crawling. By the time the two of them finished their sweep of the interior, Peter was allowing himself to relax just a bit. Not all the way, but slightly. The building was empty, no monsters.
“Okay, now you cover me.” he said, turning his attention more fully to the vehicles. There was a little workstation set up next to one of the support pillars that had tools; nothing like a full mechanic’s set, but enough to give him a chance. He selected some key items and then headed for the first vehicle. He wouldn’t have to worry too much about anything except the mechanics of getting them going since there was a key box bolted to the side of the workstation. It was alarmed, but that was meaningless now since the power was out.
“Looks like we’ve got some options.” Whitley remarked, gesturing at machines.
“Depends on how many are running.”
“They look like they’re in good shape.” she pointed out. “And in here out of the weather . . . come on, we’ve got a good shot. Right?”
“Now you’re an expert too?”
“Just get to it.” she shrugged. “Before Smith has another meltdown, they eat him, and the zombies who don’t get a Smith-burger head this way.”
“Just keep an eye on me so any over-eager fuckers don’t sneak up on me while I’m busy.” he said as he walked over to the closest pickup truck. There were two, both extended crew cab Chevy 3500 duallies that clearly had logged a lot of miles doing the kinds of things trucks liked to do. Namely, hauling and working, as opposed to cruising around on asphalt and sitting in rush hour traffic. Even though both had dirt clinging to their bodywork around the wheel wells, they looked pretty good to him.
Unfortunately, neither turned over. When he checked under the hoods, he was less enthused. One was missing both the battery and entire radiator block, while the other one . . . he wasn’t quite sure. He’d need to spend some time to be sure, but it looked like at least one of the pistons had managed to rust or otherwise jam itself in a stuck position. That would require at least a partial tear down to get operational.
Resolving to come back to it if necessary, Peter moved on. There was a large combine that he remembered from movies and television as being used for harvesting wheat or whatever, and a collection of tractors. One of them was just a simple standard tractor, the oldest vehicle in the building. Another had an elaborate oversized sprayer attachment and holding tank connected to it for spreading fertilizer or whatever else it was farmers sprayed. The third had a front end loader bucket attached to the front.
The loader drew him, and Peter gave it a quick once over before he hauled himself up into the cab. Its e
ngine looked like it was in decent shape. It even turned over when he tried it; but the industrial grade diesel didn’t want to catch.
“That’s good, right?” Whitley asked as he climbed down. The motor chugging as he turned the key had been loud and unmistakable.
“Maybe.” Peter said, half grunting as he looked at the engine again. There wasn’t much of a covering over the engine; basically just a spartan top mounted hood that served as little more than an umbrella against rain. The sides were wide open. He started checking things that occurred to him, trying to think ahead of his fingers and eyes to save time. And limiting himself only to things he might be able to resolve in these conditions.
The battery seemed to have good fire, the plugs looked like they were in solid shape, oil level was okay, wiring wasn’t degraded, fuel filter was a little dirty but not enough to be blocked and causing a problem, fuel lines—
“Ah.” Peter said, peering closely at them with the light. They were supposed to feed fuel, but he clearly saw air bubbles in them. When he put his head next to one and manipulated it around, he heard the distinctive sound of air wheezing in as liquid sloshed. It was a common enough problem, and one of the reasons diesels often needed their lines replaced regularly. But there were a few quick fixes he could try. They wouldn’t hold the problem completely at bay for long; but as far as he was concerned the damned thing only needed to work for the next day or so.
Just long enough to get free of the stragglers around Memphis, and into something more suited for getting back on the road to South Dakota.
“That a good ah or a bad ah?” Whitley asked.
“Hang on and we’ll find out.”
Returning to the workstation, Peter turned up a roll of electrical tape. It sufficed for him to seal up the fittings on the fuel lines, wrapping layer after layer of the plastic tape over the leaky lines in an effort to seal them up. Then he primed the engine again and climbed back up to the cab.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 17