by David Rogers
“Fucking move!” he swore, shoving his way through the two bikers. He made it out into the living room and leaned against the couch. He wasn’t above showing the garage upset him, but he really didn’t want to vomit. It was stupid, but it was what it was. He was supposed to be a guy the others could look to.
“What—shit!” he heard Stony say, then the man started gagging.
“Lemme see.” Psycho said. Darryl closed his eyes, concentrating on trying to keep the fresher air in the living room moving in and out of his lungs, on the empty street outside; on anything but the garage. Breathe in. Think happy thoughts. Breathe out. Oh man.
“Huh.” Psycho remarked in a voice that was not just calm, but almost interested. “Guess someone else who lived here took care of them before they got to be a problem.”
“Shut up.” Darryl muttered.
Psycho clearly didn’t hear him, and Darryl heard boots thump loudly on the concrete in the garage. “Saves someone else the trouble. Hey look, there’s some gas, and a chainsaw. Those on the list ain’t they?”
“Man, how can you . . .” Stony started, then gagged again. He staggered past Darryl, heading for the kitchen. A moment later, Darryl heard him vomiting into the kitchen sink. It wasn’t what Darryl needed to hear, not when he was still struggling to hang onto his own gorge.
“Turn the water on.” Darryl said as he turned a little more away from the kitchen, facing the window that showed a perfectly normal back yard beyond the curtains.
“What?” Psycho asked.
“Stony, turn the fucking water on!” Darryl snapped louder as Stony continued to retch. “There enough foul shit in here.”
“DJ, you okay?”
“Close that damn door.” Darryl said.
“Why, I got the stuff. Or did you want to go through the rest of the garage. There some bins in there, and a tool chest.”
Darryl went for the front door and walked out into the front yard. He had to get out of that house before he lost it. Outside, he turned his face up against the sun, hoping its warmth would drive away some of the chills rippling down his spine.
“DJ, what up?” he heard Chrome ask.
“They both tripping.” Psycho said before Darryl could answer. “Garage got a bunch of dead folks in it.”
“Throw that shit in the trucks.” Darryl said without turning. “We heading back.”
“Without Stony?”
Darryl reminded himself Psycho was a little crazy, and definitely more than moderately macabre, but still a Dog. It wasn’t Psycho’s fault he wasn’t fazed by the garage. It was even arguable that Psycho’s lack of reaction might be handy with the way things were now. Darryl made sure his voice was even and calm, with none of the disgust or irritation over the other biker’s even keel audible. “Bro, just load that shit and go fetch Stony. We about full up anyway.”
“We done for the day?”
“Naw, there still a few hours before we lose the light. But let’s run back what we got before we go looking for more.” Somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t so gory. He really hoped this was an isolated example. Having to wade through this every third or fourth house would be tough.
“Shit bad in there?” Chrome asked.
“Yeah.” Darryl answered shortly, heading for the Chevy and opening the door.
Psycho dumped a battered looking chainsaw and axe into the other truck, then wedged two gas cans in more carefully so they wouldn’t tip over. “It ain’t that bad.” he said without a trace of smirk before he went back to the open front door. “Yo, Stony. Wash your fucking mouth out and let’s go. We rolling out.”
Chrome climbed into the other side of the Chevy and sat waiting with Darryl while Psycho stayed near the house until Stony emerged, wiping at his mouth with his hands. The other two bikers got in the Nissan. Darryl turned around on the front yard and drove back out onto the road. Psycho followed, driving while Stony rode shotgun, still looking green. The wind blowing in the window Darryl kept open helped him finish settling his own stomach, and by the time he turned back onto the lake road leading to the Dogz clubhouse he was more or less content. So long as he continued to not think about that garage.
“Hey, what up with this?” Chrome asked as they curved around the little man-made lake, really more of a fishing hole than a proper lake. Darryl squinted against the sun as the hastily constructed fence surrounding the clubhouse came into view.
“Shit.” he said.
“Them people or zombies?”
“Zombies don’t stand around talking.” Darryl said. “Don’t do nothing, but be ready if they don’t like what they hearing?”
Chrome patted the shotgun. “Sure thing.”
“Don’t start nothing Chrome.” Darryl repeated. “That Bobo out there talking to them. Let him handle it.”
“No problem.”
Darryl turned off the paved road to the pot marked gravel drive that led to the clubhouse. Heads were turning in his direction, most of them amid the double handful of people outside the fence. They were at the northeast corner of the fence, with Bobo and about five other Dogz standing inside facing them. The afternoon watch was up on the roof, though at least three of them were still watching in the other directions as they were supposed to.
Darryl stopped the truck twenty feet from the gate and put the transmission in park before stepping on the brake and opening his door. Moving up around the front of the truck, he laid the shotgun across his shoulder with the barrel canted up at an angle. The voices began to resolve into words as he got close enough to hear the argument.
“—ust tell us to take a hike with everything that’s going on.”
“Y’all walked this far, walk a little more.” Bobo replied to the angry man standing nearest the fence. “Follow the road there and keep east and you’ll find houses and Watkinsville if you go about five miles or so.”
“On foot? Jesus, listen to me.”
“I done listened.” Bobo retorted. “We ain’t too interested in getting sick, and you done already said you been wandering around with zombies.”
“What about them?” he said, gesturing at Darryl and the two trucks behind him. “They’re coming and going.”
“They already with us. You ain’t.”
“You ain’t worried about them bringing zombie plague in?”
“They know better. And I know them.”
“At least give us a ride.” one of the women in the group said. “We’ve got kids with us.” She had a pair of children by the hands; the oldest couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.
“We got kids in here too. That one won’t wash. We busy staying alive.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Longer you stand around arguing, longer it gonna take you to get under cover.” Bobo pointed out, not entirely unreasonably in Darryl’s opinion. The houses on the other side of the lake were all vacant by now, and those were only ten or fifteen minutes’ walk from the clubhouse. There was even a car parked in front of one of them, assuming someone in the group knew as much about stealing as EZ did.
Darryl was in complete agreement with Bobo on a number of things, least of which was Dogz first. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about others, but the bikers were already desperately short on room for themselves and what of their families and girlfriends they’d been able to gather before things went from worse to apocalypse. And they were working hard to gather food for that many without needing to feed every straggler that wandered by.
“You’re really not going to help us even a little?”
Bobo shook his head. “We ain’t bothering you, don’t bother us. Too much going on for charity to be nothing but a risk.”
One of the men, one who’d been silent during the back and forth, shifted. Darryl’s eyes flicked to him automatically, then he frowned. The man had a pistol stuck in his belt. So did two others in the group. Something about the one moving lit his instincts off, and Darryl started to bring the shotgun down off his shoulder.
The man’s hand closed around the gun and brought it up and around, holding it and turning to face Darryl like he knew what he was doing with it. Darryl got his shotgun down and pointed vaguely in the direction of the group with both hands on the weapon, but not before the pistol was centered on him. The pistol wasn’t that large, but looking at it pointed straight at him made it seem a lot larger.
Darryl froze, not sure if continuing to bring the shotgun up to a proper aiming position against his shoulder would provoke the man enough to fire. He was kicking himself for not being more ready for something like this, but it was a distant voice at the moment. All he could think about was getting shot.
“All we’re asking for at this point is a ride.” the man said loudly. “That’s not asking for much, especially considering what’s going on. Now there’s two trucks here, and we’ll all fit in the back. If there’s a town five miles from here, it won’t take long for your guys to get us there and be back.”
“You done been told no, and now you’re threatening my man.” Bobo said, his tone trading its edge of dangerous patience for just plain danger.
“You, get in the truck and get ready to drive us.” the man said, jerking the pistol slightly at Darryl.
Before Darryl could begin to formulate a response, the man’s head abruptly shattered in unison with a booming gunshot that echoed across the landscape. The bloody spray of bone and brain erupting from the side of the man’s skull was one of those frozen moments in time that he knew would stick with him for a while.
Darryl flinched as the man’s hand on the pistol jerked and started dropping, and Darryl dropped into a crouch, finally getting the shotgun into position where he had a chance to put it properly on target. The man with the pistol was collapsing, his head a shattered ruin that was barely recognizable as a person. People were screaming and yelling.
“Oh my God!”
“John!”
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
“Drop them guns!”
A series of gunshots cut through all the noise. Darryl saw Bobo with his Beretta pointed up in the air, firing steadily as the other Dogz on the ground with him, and those on the roof too, pointed weapons at the people beyond the fence. The yelling subsided, and Bobo brought the pistol in his hand down level to point at them.
“You bother us, we bother you. We ain’t thugs, but we ain’t gonna be shot at neither. Now start walking, and make sure you don’t make us any more nervous than you already done or whether or not you get going won’t be an issue.”
Darryl stayed in his crouch, gazing at the group over the shotgun’s barrel. He saw the children clinging to the woman’s legs, both crying as the woman stood bent over with her hands clasped protectively around them. The others in the group who were armed had their hands carefully outstretched. Two were staring in horror at the dead man, who lay on the grass with his brains leaking out of the ruin the hunting rifle had left of his head.
“I ain’t gonna ask again.” Bobo said flatly.
“Fuck you, we’re going!” the woman with the children screamed. She pried the kids’ hands off her legs and ushered them into motion, heading down the gentle slope toward the lake and the road that bordered it.
“Bastards.” one of the men said.
“Like you any different were it us come knocking at your fucking door.” Bobo replied. “Go on now, before you lose daylight or any damn zombies show up.”
The group went, carefully staying well clear of the two trucks waiting on the gravel drive. Darryl didn’t rise until they were all past him, and stood watching until they were all on the road and following it south. He kept picturing the pistol pointing at him, and the shattered skull of his would-be attacker. One squeeze of the trigger, and that could’ve been him airing out the inside of his head. He lit a cigarette and took deep pulls on it to try and steady his nerve. One fucking squeeze. Jesus.
“Get the damn gate open.” he heard Bobo order, and turned. A couple of Dogz unlatched the hinged fence section and pulled it back. That prompted Darryl to get back in the truck so he could drive it in.
“Holy shit.” Chrome said as Darryl slid back behind the wheel.
“Yeah, lot of that going around.” Darryl shrugged, playing it cool.
Pulling around to the back of the barn, he untwisted the wires EZ had helpfully marked with electrical tape tags to shut the engine off before he got out. Stepping away from the barn as people started converging on the truck to unload its contents, he stood with his back to the sun and called up to the roof of the stone clubhouse.
“Shooter, that you that took that shot?”
“Shit, who else you think bro?” Shooter appeared at the edge, the 30-06 scoped rifle cradled in his arms, looking down at Darryl. “You and me about the only two fools around here who know how to shoot, and you was at gunpoint.”
“Hey fuck you.” one of the Dogz on the roof next to Shooter complained. “We ain’t that bad.”
“Yeah you is.” Shooter told him.
“Thanks man.” Darryl said, amazed at how level he was able to keep his voice. He was still struggling to get past the moment when the pistol pointed at him.
“Ain’t no thing. I need you to help teach everyone else which end’s the dangerous one anyway.”
“Dog, don’t start that again.” the biker on the roof complained.
“Then learn when I show you how to shoot.” Shooter shrugged as he propped the rifle up against his hip like a hunter.
Darryl forced a grin, then turned as Bobo rounded the corner of the barn. Above them, on the roof, the Dogz were arguing about how bad they actually were with the weapons. Darryl ignored them; they all had a lot to learn about being dangerous. He focused on Bobo. The old biker looked grim as he walked up to Darryl.
“How’d y’all do?”
Blinking, Darryl looked at the supplies in the trucks. “Uh, not bad. All that came out of just a handful of houses.”
“Hmmm.” Bobo grunted as he eyed the unloading. “It ain’t gonna be enough.”
“It better than nothing.”
“Yeah, but if this shit don’t stop, we looking at a lot of meals we gotta come up with.” Bobo sighed.
“Jody still working out numbers.”
“Yeah, but ballpark, we gonna need a lot more than this to get through to spring.”
“What happens in spring?” Darryl asked. “We gonna start farming?”
“If it comes to it.” Bobo told him. “But between here and then we gotta eat.”
Darryl didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t sure where they’d put enough food to carry everyone at the clubhouse for six months, more if they had to plant food and wait for it to grow. The basement was already getting pretty full. “Where’d them assholes come from?”
“78.” Bobo answered. “Said they was heading west on 78 when they hit a huge wreck that blocked all the lanes.”
“Why they ain’t just turn around?”
“Said they was fleeing a shitpot of zombies coming out of Athens, and said they’d already tried the other turn-offs they could get to. Said they was all blocked, by wrecks or zombies.”
“Shit.” Darryl said, unable to think of anything more clever to say. US-78, also known as Athens Highway, was the main road between Atlanta and Athens. By road it was about ten or fifteen minutes from the clubhouse, but if you went through the trees to the north or northwest it was only about a mile.
Bobo nodded. “Right.”
“Bobo, if zombies wandering around on 78, that ain’t that far from us. And—”
“Yeah. I’m with you bro. We gonna have us some problems unless they all pick some other direction to head.”
* * * * *
Peter
Blinking against the sun, Peter stepped out onto the motel walkway and peered around the parking lot. He was unsurprised to see over a dozen zombie corpses laying on the pavement in the general vicinity of the exits and edges of sightlines created by the gas station and other buildi
ngs at the exit. He’d noted the occasional gunshots while he was sleeping, and ignored them out of trained habit. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept through gunfire, and he’d long since learned to ignore them and snuggle back down into slumber on the theory that a real problem would result in lots of shooting. Or someone to have to come and got him.
It also wasn’t the first time he’d been short on sleep, not even in the past few days, but that was also old hat. Price of being in charge. He could have pulled rank and gotten a comfortable eight hours in, but it would’ve cut across the respect he needed from the rest of the erstwhile unit. Sometimes the littlest thing could loom large when someone made their mental notes over whether or not to trust you, to take you seriously.
Skipping a full rest in lieu of taking his turn on watch was a small price to pay to keep the rest of the soldiers on point and on board.
The watch was changing over as he glanced to either side; Swanson and Oliver being replaced by Whitley and Roper, and Barker and Dorne replacing Crawford and Smith. Peter knew there was no way he could man an effective and alert guard around the clock with only ten able bodied soldiers, twelve counting himself and the injured Jenkins, but for now he was hoping to give the civilians a chance to calm down from their ordeal.
Personally he found the ‘ordeal’ the civilians had endured to have been fairly mild, but civilians operated a different scale of trauma. Being treed by zombies who couldn’t get at you wasn’t all that alarming for him, at least not if the problem didn’t go on for days, but the civilians had been shaken by the experience. He was hoping by the time he needed to switch out the observers again some of the stronger rescuees would be a little steadier so he could mix them in with the National Guard personnel.
Still, the soldiers had been chased through half of downtown Atlanta all Friday night by thousands of zombies, being whittled down to the handful that were still with him now. Compared to that, the civilians had no idea what trauma was.
He still couldn’t believe the soldiers were adapting so well to the chaos. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful, but it was still a surprise. He would have expected more hysterics to have cropped up at some point, and so far they were all keeping their heads on straight.