Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (19 page)

“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 engine 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.

The engine chugged without catching for ten seconds on his first try, but it rumbled to life on the second attempt.  Peter goosed the pedal several times, making the diesel blatt throatily.  The idle was rougher than he liked, but that mostly settled down after he let it run for a few moments.

“Alright!” Whitley said loudly over the engine, smiling at him when he looked down from the cab.  “And quick too.”

“Gotta catch a break every now and again.” he called down before pointing forward.  “Go check if you can get the big door opened.”

“How?”

“Just see if it’ll slide.”

She moved toward the front of the warehouse, sweeping her pistol and flashlight in front of her as she walked.  Peter let her get clear, then dropped the tractor into first gear.  Carefully he pulled out of the parking spot along the southern wall and drove down the center line of the warehouse toward the doors after her.

Whitley tugged on the doors one by one, pulling and then leaning with her whole body weight on each in turn, but they resisted her efforts.  She held up a finger to him and spent a minute futzing around on the left side near the hinges while he waited in the cab, but the door still didn’t move when she tried it.  Peter finally decided they might have a problem and shouted to get her attention.

“It’s not moving.” she called back when she looked at him.

“Just get clear.” he yelled, waving her aside.

“Why?”

“Move!” he repeated.

When she slid sideways, he fiddled with the controls for the bucket on the front until he got it positioned several feet high and in position to shield against impacts on the tractor itself.  Then he clutched and rolled the vehicle forward, right into the doors.  The tractor wasn’t capable of any great speed — especially in first gear — but what it
did
have was a lot of torque.

And the warehouse’s walls were thin metal.

With a wrenching groan, the sheet of corrugated tin or steel or aluminum or whatever it was that was fastened over the door frame buckled outward as the tractor pressed on it.  Then it split in several places and peeled away from its frame.  Peter blinked against the weak sunlight of the overcast sky outside as the tractor forced its way out of the warehouse and into the ‘back yard’ of the farmhouse.  He checked around himself for problems, but he was nearly seven feet off the ground in the tractor’s cab.  He wasn’t too worried.

There also weren’t any zombies near enough to bother him yet.  He drove the tractor a dozen yards from the warehouse, then adjusted the loader bucket and backed up to shed the door section that had been clinging to the vehicle.  Once free of it, he cranked the wheel around to the left and drove straight for the fuel station.

“Where are all three of us going to fit in that thing?” Whitley asked loudly, catching up to him at the tank as he climbed down.

“You two can ride on the back there.” Peter answered, pointing at the rear mounted engine with its cover.

“On that?”

“Or the roof.” Peter shrugged.  The cab was fully enclosed, though he hadn’t bothered to look closely enough at the ‘glass’ to determine if it was actually glass or something more durable like plexi or Lexan.  But there was a metal roof that was easily large enough for a person to ride on, assuming they remembered to stay low and hold on.

“Why not in the bucket?” she asked as he lifted the fuel nozzle.

“Because that’s where the zombies we run over will be hitting.” he answered, spinning the cap on the tank off so he could slot the nozzle into place.

“This is going to suck.”

“Better than walking.”

The fueling station was a style he was well familiar with, designed to work without needing power or even a hand operated pump.  Since the tank was above ground, simple gravity allowed fuel to pour out through the hose and into the vehicle.  Peter felt the hose and put his head near the nozzle to ensure himself it was filling, then looked at Whitley.

“Why in the hell are you standing around?  Climb up on the fucker and make sure no zombies eat us.”

She blinked at him for a moment, then nodded and started climbing.

“We’re going to need to stop soon.”

Peter tugged the sliding window on the tractor’s cab open wider and leaned out some after removing one of his earplugs.  “What?”

“Sun’s going down.” Smith said louder from his position on the tractor’s roof.  “Gonna need to find a spot to hole up in.”

The gas gauge on the very limited dashboard agreed with the statement; it was down to a quarter tank.  It was the most useful — to their progress — instrument available; since the vehicle otherwise only offered indicators for oil pressure, electrical charge, and engine temperature.  The lack of a speedometer didn’t really matter considering the fastest he’d been able to get the tractor up to was maybe a little more than someone running at a brisk clip might manage.

“You’ve got the high ground.” Peter said in reply.  “Anything look good?”

“Not unless we want to climb a tree or dig ourselves a hidey hole.”

“This is a loader, not a digger.”

“I was joking.”

“Yeah.” Peter shrugged.  The tractor’s attachment was a broad bucket with bladed teeth on it, like a bulldozer, but able to scoop and lift rather than only push.  It could only dig out, poorly, something like a hillside; not put a hole into flat ground.  But he didn’t mind that; he didn’t much like the idea of trying to trench themselves into the ground as an anti-zombie defense.  And the bucket had come in quite handy so far.

It was designed for rough handling, and even small groups of zombies all at the same time weren’t enough to phase it when he drove the vehicle and its wide battering ram right into — and over — them.  Even at the slow and steady speeds the tractor put out, being hit by solid steel was enough to do noticeable damage to the creatures.  Peter didn’t like watching the results, but he
did
like how it allowed him to just plow right through anything short of a tree or other serious obstacle without stopping.

For all the trouble they could cause, zombies versus tractor didn’t work out well for the zombies.

Unfortunately, the ability to ride and not have to swerve around zombies was about the end of the afternoon’s good news.  Whatever was going on in Memphis, whatever had gone on in Memphis, it had generated thousands upon thousands of zombies that prevented the trio from going straight north.  He’d ended up having to detour
much
further west than he liked because of the teeming hordes in and around the city’s immediate proximity.

That wasn’t necessarily a problem, but it had been nothing but farmland with little in the way of options.  The number of buildings had dropped off, making him think they were into an area that was more corporate than family farmed; he wasn’t sure what else to think when the fields got to the size they were without any structures attached to them.

And north of Memphis was the first of the rendezvous points he’d named.  Eventually he’d need to swing back that way to make it to I-55 and Route-63 to try and link up with Crawford.  Either by meeting her or waiting there for her arrival.  Even though it was nearly twenty-four hours since the bridge, he honestly had no idea if she’d be there waiting or not at this point.

The last half hour or so he’d finally been able to start cutting north.  For whatever reason the zombie numbers had thinned out, removing the mobile obstacle changing direction would have presented.  For the last fifteen minutes they’d been tracking along a standard two lane road that ran straight north.  There were a few bodies — mostly zombie, though some were animal carcasses that had fallen afoul of hungry dead — here and there, but the pavement was otherwise uncluttered and unobstructed.

If it weren’t for the farming, even though it was all overgrown and untended, he would have said they were well and truly out in the middle of nowhere.  America was an enormous country, and people who lived in cities tended to forget just
how
big it was.  Even Peter occasionally had to remind himself.  There was plenty of room once a person got away from the crush of the Northeast, or the major metropolises that dotted the nation astride the various Interstates.

That was the problem now.  Fewer zombies was good, but the tractor wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel; even if the fuel to maintain its pace had been available.  Which it wasn’t out here away from everything.  At least, not that he’d noticed.

He’d stopped — partially for fuel and also to see if they could change out for something better than the tractor — to investigate two pickups that had tanks occupying their backs.  One had been some chemical mix, and the other was empty; but both had been a no go as far as their own engines had been concerned.  A handful of other vehicles had likewise been a waste of time to check out, as not a one had been running.  Some even showed obvious signs of having been stripped for key parts.

His initial plan for the trip when they’d left Georgia had been to stop only for fuel, and otherwise keep switching out drivers so they stayed in motion.  That was obviously out; they were down to Murphy and his incessant interference with the best laid plans.  The latest joke by the apocryphal trickster was that the tractor was getting low on fuel.

Smith’s crack about climbing a tree might be necessary.  Peter knew that would suck, and could easily lead to problems come morning if zombies showed up to wait around beneath them; but he also knew all three of them were tired.  The afternoon had been easier than the morning, but the morning had been
hard
after a tough night.  And — easier or not — riding on the tractor wasn’t exactly conducive to rest.

The best thing would be for all three of them to be able to sleep without having to maintain a watch.  And that only worked if they could find somewhere securable.  Somewhere they could be certain, truly certain, zombies weren’t going to wake them unexpectedly with teeth.

But there was nothing.  He was convinced the three of them wouldn’t fit atop the tractor; not all at once while asleep.  The cab wasn’t really safe; if the tractor stopped, it was in reach of zombies.  And the roof and engine cover weren’t that large.  The roof was at least high enough from the ground to be secure, but the engine cover was sort of iffy.

He rolled along, thinking while hoping for something to develop, for several more minutes before Smith called down once more.

“Hey.”

Peter leaned out of the window again.  “Got something?”

“Maybe.  Looks like a holdout a few miles ahead.”

“How big?”

“Dunno, but there’s signs of fresh construction.” Smith answered after a moment.  “And I’m positive I see at least one sentry.”

Peter considered.  He couldn’t see anything yet, but he’d passed his binoculars up to Smith for just this reason.  The Guardsman was serving as lookout; mostly to keep him occupied, but also because the engine cover was a warmer spot than sitting atop the cab.  Both men had sort of contrived to ensure Whitley got that spot without having to discuss, or mention, why.

“Straight up?” the Marine asked after a few moments.

“Yeah, just follow the road.”

“Let’s take a look then.”

“Not like we’ve got many other choices.”

Peter nodded unhappily.  Well, that was a bit unfair.  He was relieved to hear there was a shot at something usable; but it
would
have been nicer if they could’ve found something they could make work on their own.

A few minutes later he was able to see what Smith was talking about, and a few minutes after that the tractor was close enough for even his old eyes to start picking specific details out.

The first sign was the farmland giving over to simple grass.  Then a handful of houses on either side of the road; each spaced well back and apart from one another.  Any of the ‘neighbors’ would’ve had a good five minute walk to visit each other on foot; but it was a definite sign of a settlement that they were even that close to one another.  He might have considered investigating some of them, except as the road continued straight north he saw what Smith had obviously noticed.

Cutting directly across the pavement was a section of fencing, with a big vehicle sized gate right in the middle.  Both fence and gate were several layers of standard chain link backed by lumber, the gate secured with a length of padlocked chain and backed by several vehicles that had been parked specifically behind it as reinforcement.  And it was much taller than was normal, more like a prison or secure base barrier than the typical ‘yes this is a fence, so don’t cross it’ kind of fence Peter usually saw.

Flanking the pavement on either side was more of the same fencing, but with the lower portion more or less buried in a pile of dirt.  The earth had been dug out from a sort of trench just in front of the fence line.  The combination of the dug-out section and piled up soil put the chain link out of reach of anyone standing right outside and in front of the obstruction.

And along the top of the dirt, attached to the back of the fence, was a line of spikes that protruded out and down.  They looked like sharpened wood, but they were numerous and regularly spaced, and of varying lengths.  The result was a fairly alarming amount of jagged danger pointing right at anyone who might try climbing up the fence.  The only way to do so would be to break off or otherwise remove the spikes, and then actually figure out the climb.

Peter had never seen anything like it, not even in movies.  As he studied the layout, he decided it was someone’s ‘modern’ idea of an anti-melee barrier; a fence laid against an opponent that needed to close with hands and teeth, rather than one who would simply get within gunshot range and start shooting.  Standard chain link fencing would bow and flex under pressure, but the lumber stiffened it; and both metal and wood combined looked quite sturdy to him.  Plus the dirt bottom would add mass that would help resist anyone — anything — that might try to press up against it.

But the whole arrangement wasn’t just a passive defense.  At least, not entirely.  There were two platforms or towers or something positioned behind and to either side of the road.  They looked big enough for several people to stand side by side, and one of them had a pair of people watching the tractor approach.  Each was armed, the unmistakable shape of rifles in their hands.  The positions would let people sweep the fence with gunfire if the need presented itself; or if they simply felt like being unfriendly.

“Smith.” Peter called as he finished his initial evaluation.

“Yeah.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Looks like a pair of country guys.” Smith answered immediately.  “They’ve got a radio too, and were just using it.”

“So we’re not exactly sneaking up on them then.”

“Were we trying to?”

Peter shook his head.  “No, I guess not.  Do they look happy to see us?”

“Gunny, they look like bored hicks.”

“Great.”

The land stretched out as flat as it had all afternoon, out in either direction.  As near as he could tell, the fence ran a couple hundred yards to the east and maybe about a hundred to the west before curving north.  Beyond that, he was just guessing, but from that he figured this was probably some little town that had somehow pulled itself together at some point between zombies and now to fortify themselves.

There wasn’t much to stopping the tractor, just taking it out of gear was enough to pull it all the way down to a pace that someone could probably keep up with on their hands and feet. Peter rolled straight up to the gate, watching the two lookouts discretely — but as politely as he could manage — for any sign they weren’t happy with what he was doing.  He finally stopped several car lengths away, close enough that conversation wouldn’t be too difficult.

Shutting the tractor off, he waited a couple of seconds for the diesel to die down before tugging his earplugs out.  Before he could start the process of extracting himself from the cab, the lookouts were already calling down.

“The town of Crawfordsville is closed, so just keep going.”

“What?” Peter said in surprise.

“What?” Whitley and Smith both said at the same time, their voices merging in surprised unison.

“I said the town’s closed.  Whatever you’re looking for, it ain’t here.” the lookout repeated.

Sitting in the cab all afternoon had left him stiff.  Peter could feel his knees and back especially protesting as he climbed down.  First the walking, then the sitting, it had done a number on him. 
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
he thought tiredly. 
“Can’t be happy with anything can you.  Shut up and get on with it.”

“Where did you say we are?” Smith called back.

“Does it matter?”

Peter stepped to the front of the tractor, concealing his urge to wince as his joints and limbs were pressed into use after hours of sitting.  “Crawfordsville?” he asked loudly, barely keeping his groan out of his face as his back fired an especially noticeable twinge out when his boot slid slightly off a rock and caused him to need to adjust his balance abruptly.

“Yeah, so what?”

“Oh man, please tell me she hasn’t started conquering the country.” Smith muttered just loud enough for Peter to hear.

“Maybe she saved them and they renamed the town in her honor.” Whitley replied.  Peter glanced at them both.  Whitley was still on the engine cover, though she’d risen to her feet so she could see and be seen better past the cab.  On the roof, above where Peter had been sitting all afternoon, Smith was kneeling with one foot propped up beneath him so he’d be ready to move quickly.