“But who do you miss the most?”
“Lay off.” Whitley said, this time punctuating her comment with a shove at the back of his shoulder.
“What? It was your question.”
“I was just making conversation; to pass the time.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but you could be less of an ass about it.”
“Like any of this is my fault?” Smith protested.
“Stop the car.” Peter ordered, lifting the binoculars to his eyes. He adjusted the focus while the car rolled to a halt, then took a long, careful look northward.
“Lemme guess.” Smith said. “Who did my dad like?”
“You’re going to be walking you keep it up.” Peter said mildly.
“Oh come on Gunny, that’s not a crack. You’re about the same age as he was.”
“How old are you again, nineteen?”
“Twenty-five, thanks.”
“Same difference. And I bet I’m older than your parents.” Peter snorted as he studied the landscape. It was flat, with a pair of two-lane stretches of asphalt heading straight north. Some scrub underbrush lined the eastern shoulder, but the western was clear; and regardless he saw nothing but more farmland. Occasional trees here and there, but otherwise nothing but flat fields with overgrown crops and healthy weeds that were rippling in the wind.
The road itself looked to be in okay shape. Without actually counting he figured there were probably three, maybe four dozen vehicles abandoned that he could see; but someone had been along at some point and cleared a lane in each direction. On the northbound side this was the outside one, with the ‘fast’ lane on the inside and the eastern side of the median littered with rusting cars, trucks, vans, and the like.
It was almost saddening, he realized after a moment, that he noticed the motionless bodies last of all. They were just becoming so ubiquitous. If they were laying down and not trying to eat someone, they were the bottom of his list. Only the ones that were upright and coming straight in with hunger in their eyes were something he checked for first. Any that were dead — whether it was really dead or twice-dead — didn’t even count.
There were about as many bodies as cars, at least, that he could see from here. Most had been moved out of the road, but there were a few spots where he saw a corpse had been mashed into the pavement like so much road kill. His mouth tightened a little when he saw the red pasty streaks on the road where that had happened; he didn’t like it when it was an animal, and it was far, far worse when a human — or even a zombie — body ended up like that.
“Looks clear.” Smith remarked.
“Yeah.” Peter said. “That’s the important part.” He lowered the binoculars. “Okay, take it easy in case there’s anything ready to eat us sheltering behind a car. This thing can’t take collisions too well.” he said, patting the dashboard.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“What was the best concert you ever saw Gunny?” Whitley asked as Smith took his foot off the brake and the car got rolling again.
“Zeppelin, ’73.” Peter said immediately.
“Shit, seriously?” Smith asked.
“Yeah, no contest.”
“You saw Zeppelin live?”
“Age has advantages.” Peter said, smiling slightly.
“How many times?” Smith demanded.
“Why do you care?”
“Because Zeppelin rocks man, and they broke up before I was born. I never had the pleasure.”
“How old are you again?”
“Twenty-fucking-five.” Smith replied as he made the turn at the northbound on-ramp.
Peter did some mental math then nodded. “Okay, yeah, they did.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
“Oh man.”
“Me and four buddies skipped school and drove to Atlanta for the show.” Peter said, thinking back. “That’s where Zeppelin launched the ‘73 tour, at the old stadium, the one they tore down after the Olympics. Man, my mom was pissed, but it was a hell of a show.”
“Just your mom?”
“Dad didn’t care that I missed school — classes were almost over for the year anyway — but he was mad I didn’t come up with a better excuse so he didn’t have to hear Mom raising hell over it.”
“Zombies.” Whitley said, leaning forward and pointing through the glass.
Smith nodded. “Got it.”
“Don’t ram them.” Peter said immediately.
“Relax, I’m not Crawford. Or Whitley.”
“I’m going to act like her and smack you upside the head if you don’t shut up.” Whitley said.
“You girls don’t scare me.”
“Do I?” Peter asked mildly. “Because if you wreck this vehicle just after we got it I’m going to make your life hell at least until we make it to Iowa.”
“I thought we were going to South Dakota.”
“And we’ll probably go through Iowa to get there.”
“Smith.” Whitley said warningly.
“I got it.” he muttered again. The pair of zombies that had staggered out from between two cars on the left were now right in the cleared lane, and quite close. Smith slowed a little, but he didn’t stand on the brakes until the last moment. Peter’s hand was bracing against the dashboard even though he was wearing his seatbelt just as the front bumper smacked into the zombies just above the knee. Both went down as the vehicle’s residual energy transferred into them just before it came to a complete stop.
Smith put his foot back on the accelerator, and Peter winced as the car rolled roughly over both bodies. He didn’t look back — either over his shoulder or via the side mirror — but instead fixed a tired gaze at Smith. The man felt Peter’s eyes and glanced over after a moment.
“What?”
“It’s all fun and games until we’re walking again.” Peter said as mildly as he could manage.
“Yeah, yesterday you were bitching that we didn’t have wheels.” Whitley put in.
“Is the car broke? Are we still driving?”
“For now.” she muttered.
“Just take it fucking easy.” Peter said. “This ain’t a Hummer.”
“Yeah, no shit. What about you Whitley, what was your favorite concert? Did Maroon 5 ever take their synthesizer on the road near you?”
“If Gunny doesn’t kick your ass, I just might.” Whitley observed from the back seat.
“Yeah yeah. Spill, we’ve got a thousand miles to go you know.”
“Are we going to have to listen to you for all of them?”
“Come on, pick something.”
“Okay, fine. Dave Matthews.”
“Oh my God!” Smith exclaimed. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Have you ever seen them live?”
“No, because I’m not totally gay like you.”
“Everyone likes what they like.” Peter interjected.
“And some people shouldn’t.” Smith said.
“There’s nothing wrong with Dave Matthews.” Whitley replied.
“Except they’ve been eaten by zombies.”
“How do you know?” she demanded. “Maybe they made out okay.”
Smith shook his head. “Of all the bands in the world, that’s the one I’d wish the most to have been eaten.”
“What’s wrong with Dave Matthews?” Peter asked idly.
“Don’t tell me you like them too?”
“They’re just a name to me, but you seem to have a strong opinion.”
“There’s music, then there’s crap, then there’s what Dave Matthews does.”
“Harsh.” Whitley said.
“Okay, so you hate Dave Matthews.” Peter said. “Move on.”
“Tool.” Whitley said.
“Yeah, they rock too.” Smith replied.
“You don’t.”
“But—”
“Move on.” Peter said with a touch of command in his tone. “Actually, that’s the intersection up ahead
. Shut up and peel an eye for Crawford.”
Smith scowled. “Dave fucking Matthews.” he muttered, glancing in the rear view mirror.
“Drop it.”
On the map, the coming together of I-55 and US-61 was a proper interchange, with a lazy sort of almost-half-assed cloverleaf design of connections and ramps and loop arounds. But in person, it was really just the four lanes of Interstate running beneath a pair of simple bridges that carried the highway and one of the ramps over I-55. He peered through the windshield as Smith slowed, casting his gaze around for any sign of their wayward companion.
“I don’t see anything.” Whitley said after several moments.
“What if she’s not here?”
“We’ll give her a day.” Peter said, though inwardly he was both disappointed and sad. It had been over thirty-six hours since the river; he and the two with him had managed to make a good start on recovering from the disastrous crossing. Even alone, he would have hoped Crawford — as resilient as she was — would’ve done the same and made the rendezvous.
But at first glance, he was forced to admit it didn’t look as if she had. The number of abandoned cars was higher here, probably a result of some of those that had been on -61 ending up crashing or being pushed off to land on or beside the Interstate below; but there was still a clear lane through. Smith drove carefully beneath the first bridge, and Peter looked around one more time before twisting in his seat and lifting the binoculars for a good look at the highway above.
“See anything?” Whitley asked.
“Nothing that looks like her.” Peter sighed after a few more moments.
“Well, now what?” Smith wondered.
“Turn around and head back to the ramp so we can transfer up to the highway. Let’s take a closer look.”
“Are we going to set up here, or leave a sign or something, or what?”
“I don’t know yet.” Peter admitted. “Let’s get up there and eyeball it first.”
Smith stopped and pulled a three-point turn to reverse course. Going south in the northbound lanes didn’t reveal anything new except two bodies that had been masked behind the bridge abutments. Both were old corpses that couldn’t possibly be Crawford; even if she’d met her end here the body would still be fresh.
Smith made the turn and followed the ramp around on its broad curve up to the highway. The design of the interchange put them a decent ways from the actual crossing of highway and Interstate. Peter twisted in his seat once more to bring the binoculars into play, but before he could put them to his eyes again he noticed a flickering light, and Whitley spoke.
“Someone’s camping in that van. I think.”
“What?” Smith asked, glancing briefly away from his driving. The ramp was a single lane, and bordered by concrete barriers to prevent vehicles from running off and falling to the Interstate below. He was having to curve around a few wrecked vehicles or bodies, and once a zombie that had been run over and reduced to dragging itself with the one functional limb — an arm — it had left.
Peter focused the binoculars. On the southern side of the highway, just before the bridge crossing started, was a large step van with faded FedEx markings. It lay on its side in the middle of a handful of passenger cars, boxed in by them. All the vehicles were crumpled from wrecks and impacts. There was a flickering light shining through the van’s windshield that could only be from a fire.
“Maybe it’s just on fire?” Smith said.
“Why would it be?” Whitley asked. “When nothing else is?”
Peter lowered the binoculars. “Let’s have a closer look.”
“Yeah.”
The ramp merged with the highway, and again Smith turned against the proper flow of ‘traffic’ and drove the wrong way on the road. Peter noticed there were no active zombies on the roadway, not in either direction; just bodies. It was almost impossible to tell how long a zombie had been dead-dead, but he thought it was a notable development considering the van’s sign of occupation.
“Horn or investigate?” Smith asked, slowing when they were close to the cluster of vehicles.
“You stay with the car, watch the area. Whitley, with me and cover my ass.”
“Why do I have to sit in here alone?” Smith asked.
“Because you hate Dave Matthews.” Peter said, checking around outside the vehicle before opening his door.
“Low Gunny.”
Peter drew his M45 while Whitley emerged and readied her shotgun, then both headed for the van. Now that they were closer, it was unmistakably a fire inside the vehicle. He could smell burning wood, but the fire was emitting little visible smoke that he could see. He angled around to get a direct look through the windshield, but saw nothing except empty front seats and a sliding door panel to the cargo area that was pulled closed. There was a window in the door, but he didn’t have an angle to see much through it except the firelight.
“Guess we’re going to have to knock.” Whitley suggested.
“Carefully.” Peter agreed. “Don’t want to startle them. These days people are like to shoot first if they’re surprised.”
Peter climbed carefully up atop the nearest car and checked the far side for any sign of a zombie before crossing and easing himself back down to the pavement. Whitley stayed on the crumpled vehicle, using the height to better survey the area while he stopped next to the van’s roof and used the barrel of his pistol to knock loudly on the metal.
He heard creaking inside as the vehicle’s structure and bodywork shifted around, then a female voice called out. “Who’s there?”
“US Marine.” Peter answered. “That you Crawford?”
More noise from within as the bodywork compressed and flexed audibly. A moment later the inside panel slid back and he saw Crawford looking at him.
“About time, I’ve been freezing my ass off.” she said with a wry grin, her voice muffled but clear enough to make out. “And please tell me you’ve got wheels.”
“We’ve got wheels.” Peter confirmed with a grin, feeling heartened for the first time since the river. They’d all taken a dive, but it was four for four to the good and that wasn’t bad considering. “Grab your shit.”
“Yeah, hang on.”
She let go of the inner door, which slid back down as gravity pulled it closed. Peter waited, glancing around the area to ensure nothing was sneaking up on him, while he heard her moving about within the vehicle. A minute later he heard one of the rear doors bang open, and she appeared at the back gripping two plastic shopping bags full of cans and bottles in one hand, and a pink AR-15 in the other.
“Where have you guys been?”
“Drying out, scrounging, staying alive.” Peter said. “You okay?”
“Cold and bored.” she said. “I was going to give it until tomorrow morning before thinking of something else.”
“What the hell are you carrying?” Whitley asked from atop the wrecked car.
“Food and water.” Crawford answered, hefting the bags.
“No, that rifle.”
Crawford scowled. “My -16 was busted.”
“Yeah, us too.” Peter nodded. “Barrels warped after the temperature change.”
“Whatever. I had to take what I could find.” Crawford said unhappily. “And all I could come up with before getting here was this.”
Peter studied the weapon she hefted. It was unmistakably an AR-15; but it was also definitely bright pink and white. A white cat wearing a bow was painted or printed on the stock, and the weapon’s magazine was white with pink flowers on it. “I’ve heard about those.” he said slowly. “Themed gun.”
“It sucks.”
“It suits you.” Whitley laughed.
“Shut up.” Crawford snapped. “I hate it.”
“Does it shoot?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, but—”
“Then suck it up and let’s go.”
“Did you find the matching tea set?” Whitley asked.
“Whit I’m going to kick yo
ur ass.” Crawford said.
Whitley made a show of looking at her wrist, where she wasn’t wearing a watch. “Less than a minute and the first death threat.” she observed.
“What happened to you guys?” Crawford asked, her tone making it clear she was trying to ignore Whitley.
“Long story.” Peter answered. “Tell you about it in the car.”
Crawford climbed across the hood of the car next to where Whitley stood, then stopped to stare at the vehicle Smith was waiting in. “A Dodge Neon? Jeez, couldn’t you find a real car?”
Peter sighed. “Don’t you start too.”
Chapter Fourteen - Other side
“You guys slept on the roof of a house?” Crawford asked.
“It was that or take turns on watch.” Smith said.
“I think I would’ve taken a watch to avoid spending the night on a roof.”
“Yeah, but we were wiped.”
“Still—”
Peter shrugged. The roof had been his idea, and he wasn’t ashamed of it either. “It worked out; it’s not like it was raining.”
“Or snowing I guess.” Crawford observed.
Everyone’s eyes cast out the windows and up at the sky, which had been growing steadily grayer and more bleak as they traveled. US-63 had taken them into Missouri, steering them clear of bigger cities like Springfield and Columbia. Kansas City was already on Peter’s list of places to avoid for the time being, and the condition of I-70 when they passed to the east of the metropolis, and then I-35 as they circled around well to the north of it had reinforced his decision.
The reunited foursome had seen some cluttered and blocked roadways since Atlanta, but whatever chaos had gripped Kansas City must have really been something; because even eighty and or a hundred miles out it showed signs of serious hysteria having gripped the region.
It wasn’t just abandoned cars and trucks, even semi-trucks and other commercial sized transport vehicles; it was wreck after wreck after wreck. Abandoned collisions that started with just two vehicles and grew to dozens, one after the other having slammed into the growing tangled mess of metal and flesh. Wrecks that extended for hundreds of yards, littering the pavement and shoulders and even trees and underbrush with pieces of engines, side panels, trailers, tires . . . bodies.
Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Page 20