by David Rogers
Something, he was sure it was a bullet, hit the concrete behind him as he rolled. Fragments spalled from the ground and cut into his back, but he had the pistol in his hand now and kept rolling. When he came down on his left side again he was already raising the M45. Most of the cops or deputized cops or whatever the hell they were weren’t on their feet anymore. He saw three with their hands in the air, two of them with wet spots staining their pants at the groin and thighs.
Of the others, blood was everywhere around them as they lay writhing on the sidewalk. Bulletproof vests did little to stop rifle bullets, especially from close range. Two of Kinney’s group were barely moving and Peter’s instant evaluation judged they were probably mortally wounded. His hearing snapped back into place as guns stopped going off, and he heard a lot of yelling.
“Drop it!”
“Hands, hands, show me your hands.”
“Don’t kill me!”
“Don’t move! Just lay there.”
“Oh God, oh God!”
Beyond the mingled orders of his people and the more panicked yelling of the survivors of Kinney’s group, he could hear, more distantly, the civilians in the bus crying out in alarm at what was happening. He supposed most of them had an excellent view of the little standoff.
Peter bellowed loudly enough that he felt his throat protest. “Quiet!”
The shouting subsided, leaving only the groans and whimpering of dying men. Peter stayed where he was, surveying the wounded cops over the sights of his pistol. “Whitley.”
“Yeah.” she sounded calm and serious, which didn’t surprise him. She’d made it this far without losing it, so he supposed a little shootout with civilian police wasn’t going to phase her either.
“You and two others, secure their weapons. Mendez.”
“Right here.” The Guardsman’s voice was a little tense, but level and confident.
“Pick two more, cover Whitley tight.”
Whitley eased past with Oliver and Roper following, all three holding their weapons at the ready against their shoulders. Oliver was limping, the leg of his uniform bloodstained, but the man’s M-16 was steady as he covered the cops. Peter heard boots on the sidewalk to his right but kept his attention fixed forward. Whitley started kicking rifles and shotguns away from the men, leaving some streaks as blood on the weapons splattered the concrete. Then she bent and began removing pistols from holsters.
“Gunny.”
“Crawford, this isn’t the time.” Peter said.
“There a doctor inside?”
“Mendez, you on target?” Peter asked.
“They’re covered.” the soldier answered from his right, sounding very serious.
“No one fucking moves.” Peter ordered, then pushed himself to his knees with a grunt of pain. Whatever had happened to his back, it hurt like a bitch. He got to a one-knee position and turned with a wince as he allowed himself a moment to try and get a handle on his injuries.
Smith and Dorne were visible at the edge of the MARTA bus’ roof, their M-16 barrels poking past it as they covered the scene below. Crawford was on her knees next to a bloody figure in fatigues on the sidewalk. Her hands were pressed against his chest.
“Gunny, you okay? You’re bleeding.” Jenkins asked from one of the front windows of the bus. The previously wounded Guardsman had his rifle leveled out the window. The man maybe couldn’t walk unaided, but his weapon was steady as he surveyed things from the window.
“I’ll live.” Peter said. “I think.”
“Swanson’s hit bad.” Crawford said as she dug in one of her pouches.
Peter staggered to his feet, feeling like he was thirty years older than he actually was. Crawford had some thick battle dressings in her hand and started ripping open Swanson’s uniform shirt. Peter’s back twinged as he straightened, but he was able to hold himself erect as he looked around swiftly before turning back to Whitley. She was just finishing with the last of the weapons. Peter ignored the wounded men as she backed away, then gestured with his pistol at the three who had their hands up.
“On your knees, hands behind your head, and don’t fucking move.” he ordered. As they dropped obediently, Peter looked at Whitley. “They all stay right here. They move, shoot them.”
“Got it.” she said, her face very calm.
“Mendez, you and your guys with me, now. Smith, you and Dorne stop gawking and cover the parking lot. There’s been enough killing, let’s not let any zombies join in. Crawford, do what you can for Swanson.”
“He needs a doctor.” she said as she pressed bandages into place. Swanson’s breathing was wet and labored. It didn’t sound good.
“I know. I’m going to check right now. Do what you can. Mendez, let’s go. Weapons at the ready.”
Peter started for front door, wanting to wince with every step. He tried to ignore his back, but it was getting harder as he pulled the door open and went inside. With his pistol still naked in his hand, he headed right for the school’s office. The people there were standing behind the long counter, their faces shocked and pale. A couple started visibly as the four uniformed figures appeared, but Peter didn’t see any weapons.
“If anyone raises a weapon, shoot.” he said before he got to the office door.
“No sweat.” Mendez said behind him.
“Where’s the medical area set up?” Peter asked loudly, using his command voice when he opened the door. No one answered him, and he started to gather himself for a good old fashioned roar when he heard Shellie Sawyer’s voice.
“Gymnasium. I’ve only got four staff for it though, nurses and paramedics.”
She appeared at the doorway leading back to the administrative offices. Her face was drawn with stress, but she didn’t flinch at the sight of Peter and the Guardsmen standing with weapons at hand. Not slung, but ready to point and shoot. All four of the men wore dour expressions devoid of any pleasantness, and Peter knew his was probably shocking with lethal focus.
“Get them out front. Tend to my guy first, gunshot wound.” Peter ordered, then his voice went from authoritative to cold. “Where’s Senator Carlson?”
“I think he’s in ‘his room’.” she answered. “One of the English classrooms in the green hallway.” She pointed down the main hallway that connected the front doors to the rest of the school. “Through the lunchroom, far left side. I don’t know which room, I’ve been too busy to go back there and none of them checked with me when they picked spots out.”
“There are six buses full of refugees outside and more coming as soon as I finish up with Carlson.” Peter said as he started to turn. “Get your people moving and let’s get working on shelters so they can get settled.”
“Gunny, you’re bleeding.” Sawyer said in alarm.
“Do your job Ms. Sawyer.” Peter said as Barker opened the door. “Carlson’s not going to be a problem anymore.”
Peter followed her directions, his expression stony to control his anger and pain as he walked. His back was killing him, but the rage was enough to keep him on his feet and moving as he stalked through the lunchroom. There were maybe a dozen people sitting at the tables in a few small groups, some of them with food in front of them, but no one appeared armed, nor did they try to obstruct his way. The hallways were obviously color coded, connecting the various wings of the school to the large lunchroom, and he made right for the green one.
“Nailor, start opening doors.” Peter ordered as they entered the hallway.
The Guardsman lowered his weapon but kept it ready as he reached for the first door. Barker took up a covering position on the door at Mendez’s gesture, while Peter just stood waiting. It took five doors and a couple of cries of alarm from people inside before Peter finally saw Carlson seated behind the teacher’s desk in the fifth room. He looked up from a map as Peter peered in, then brushed past Nailor and Barker when he saw the Senator.
“I was just reviewing some plans for scavenging operations tomorrow.” Carlson said, then faltered
when Peter raised his pistol and pointed it. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Carlson, you’re history.” Peter said. Apparently the building was big enough that Carlson hadn’t heard all the shooting a few minutes ago.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is—” Carlson began, only to stop as Peter thumbed the hammer back and fired past the man’s head. The senator flinched violently as the forty-five caliber slug gouged a rather large hole out of the wall behind him, putting an even more impressive spider-webbing of cracks into the whiteboard hanging there.
“History.” Peter repeated. “Come on. Keep your mouth shut and your hands where we can see them. You’re going to take us to every one of your fellow senators, and we’re all going out front for a little chat.”
The man opened his mouth, and Peter fired again, closer this time. “One more word, and so help me God the next one goes right through your spineless yellow back.” he said coldly. “And then I’ll put you in the back of one of the Humvees and we’ll drop you near some zombies so you can get a taste of what you’ve been putting people through. Let’s go.”
It took ten minutes, but eventually Peter had all ten of the senators out front, along with six wives and over twenty other assorted family members. He ran into Sawyer on his way out with the group and sent her to use the school’s intercom to make an announcement calling everyone to come outside. He’d worry later about whether or not everyone in the building had heeded the announcement. If any hadn’t, they wouldn’t like it, because he was going to do a sweep of the building as soon as he sorted out those who had responded.
Two people were kneeling beside Swanson, boxes of supplies open and at hand as they worked on him. Two portable IVs – one of blood and another of saline – were hooked up and draining into the Guardsman. Peter didn’t think it looked very good, even though the pair of medics moved like they knew what they were doing. Four of the cops, including Kinney, were dead, and the other three wounded ones ranged from merely injured to badly hurt. The other two medical people were tending to them, while the soldiers stood around with their weapons still in hand.
“This is Shellie Sawyer.” Peter said loudly when there was a crowd of about thirty-five or forty people from the school standing around, clear of the pools of blood and away from the wounded. And the soldiers. All the windows on the school buses were down, and more than a few refugees were hanging out to watch and listen.
Peter pointed at Sawyer as he looked around at the faces watching him. “She is in charge. She is the senior FEMA coordinator for this site. What she says, goes. If you have any questions, you ask her or anyone she cares to designate to act under her. The answers are the same as orders. You do what she says.
“Not because I said so, though you’d damn well better listen to me on this. And not because I’m threatening you, though I most certainly am. Ms. Sawyer is in charge because she was placed in charge by the Federal Emergency Management Agency. She has training and experience in relief operations. She’s familiar with the procedures and activities needed to ensure clean food and water are made available even in these kinds of conditions, in how to provide shelter and living space for thousands on short notice, and in a whole bunch of other things you and I and everyone else here probably isn’t even thinking about.
“She is the right person for this job. She has been prevented from doing her job, and people have died because of it. And not just these assholes here.” Peter continued, gesturing at the dead and wounded cops. “There are people who’ve been sent away from this designated refugee site who are dead because she was prevented from acting according to her mandate. Who are injured or sick because of it. That stops now. Is anyone, in anyway, unclear on Ms. Sawyer’s authority?”
Peter glared at the assembly of people from the building, saving his most dead-eyed look for the ten state senators. No one spoke. He waited, letting the seconds tick by in silence to emphasize his point. Finally he nodded briskly and made his tone almost conversational, though still loud enough to carry. “Ms. Sawyer, what’s first?”
The redhead stepped forward and looked around. Her voice was a little hesitant initially, but she seemed to settle her strength and resolve as she continued speaking. “It’s already dark, so we need anyone who’s able bodied to help with setting up tents and pavilions out back. They’re mostly in place, they just need to be assembled. We’ve got instructions and five people who know how it’s supposed to go to guide the assembly.”
“Can we get out now?” one of the civilians asked from a bus window.
Sawyer looked at Peter, but he just gestured back at her. “Yes, everyone off. Let’s start with the football field. There are a couple thousand more people who’re going to be here soon, but we’ve got more than enough space to shelter everyone. Go in the front door there and out through the blue hallway, and the football field is directly ahead as you leave the school on the other side.
“If you’ve got any training with weapons and are willing to help with patrolling the fences, stay in the lunchroom. I’ll have Master Gunnery Sergeant Gibson or one of his people talk with you shortly, and get you started on what you need to know to handle the perimeter. We haven’t seen a lot of zombie activity so far, but it’s stupid to not stay watchful. Come on, let’s go, there’s a lot to do.”
* * * * *
Jessica
“Tell me if you see anything moving.” Jessica said quietly as the SUV bumped off the pavement onto a gravel driveway. A badly maintained gravel driveway. There were numerous potholes and ridges where rain and wind and time had beaten at the underlying clay soil. She held her speed down to just above creep and eyed the house at the end of the gravel path.
It was very weathered, two stories of paint peeling clapboards and loose roof shingles. Some of the shutters hung at angles next to their windows. One of the upper windows was open, curtains flipping slowly in the light breeze. There was a lot of cleared land behind the house, a few trees mixed in with what she thought was a rather large garden of some sort. Everything looked quiet, but she knew better.
“It only takes a single mistake.” she told herself as she left the high beams on and studied the scene.
“Garage.” Austin said, coughing twice before he could get the word out.
Jessica turned the wheel slightly, adjusting the SUV’s approach so the headlights fell more fully on the attached garage. The broad door was open, revealing a grease and oil stained section of concrete wide enough for two cars to park side by side. The detritus of a long lived in house lined the walls; shelves and hooks and racks, lawn mowers, bicycles, paint cans, tool chests and more visible on and among them.
“I don’t see anything mom.” Candice said quietly, though her voice was sleepy. Jessica had tracked west along unfamiliar roads, simply seeking to put miles – and Knoxville – behind them. She wasn’t sure where they were, but she really didn’t much care at the moment. Whatever was going on in Knoxville was over an hour away now, and she was a couple of miles down a little side road that intersected with US-80. If she’d thought they were out in the sticks earlier, she’d been wrong. This was the most middle of nowhere she’d ever seen with her own eyes, in person. They hadn’t passed any cars nor seen any signs of active civilization since leaving US-80, and even then the settled look had barely existed.
Austin was sounding bad, and Candice was getting sleepy. So was Jessica, so she’d started looking for somewhere to stop and take some time to rest and figure out the next move. This farmhouse looked empty but intact, which was all she really needed. But she’d have to make sure.
“Okay then, here’s how this is gonna happen.” she said finally as her eyes continued tracing over the house and property. There were no vehicles in sight anywhere, which she hoped meant the house was vacant. Though if some friendly humans turned up inside, she was prepared to accept an offer of a bedroom so long as the door locked. But it looked empty. “Candice, you stay here in the car. No matter what, yo
u stay in the car. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Jessica turned and eyed her daughter with a fierce expression. “Stay in the car.”
“I will.” Candice whispered, squirming in her seat.
“Austin, you’re staying too.”
“You can’t—” he began, but she cut him off.
“You can’t stay on your feet, so you’re staying here.”
“Jessica—”
“Discussion over.” Jessica said firmly. “Hold the fort here while I check the house. If anything happens one of you honk the horn, but stay put.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Damn straight.” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear. She eased the SUV into the garage, purposefully positioning it right in the center of the available space. Shifting into park, she set the brake, then turned on the overhead light. Carefully she extracted the MP5 from beneath the bigger rifle and looked it over.
“Safety’s there.” Austin said, reaching to point it out.
“I need another mag for it.”
“Here.” he said thickly, opening a pocket with a rip of Velcro releasing. “Actually, give me the damn thing for a moment.” he said as he held out a full magazine to her. She traded him and looked at the bullets in the top of the mag, then wedged it into her purse between the boxes of bullets from the range earlier so she could get at it. The purse she moved around so it hung in front of her belt buckle.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she heard a metallic scraping sound and turned.
“Attaching the light for you.” he said. There was a solid sounding click, then a quieter one and a small flashlight lit beneath the stubby barrel of the weapon. “You going to let me give you some pointers?”