Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum (21 page)

“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 your 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.”

“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.

Some of the bodies were ‘just’ dead humans, but even with months of decomposition they weren’t even close to being the worst.  Zombies were scattered throughout the maelstrom of rubble.  Trapped behind the wheels of cars that were overturned and crushed into a fraction of their usual size, caught beneath trucks that had tipped over and pinned the monsters to the ground, corralled within rings of detritus that had once been vehicles; the litany of horror went on and on.  And all of them still eager to grab and eat, if anything with a pulse got close enough.

“It’s not going to snow.” Whitley said.

“How can you know that?” Smith demanded.

“It’s freaking October.  Way too early for snow.

“It’ll be November in two days.”

“Yeah, and we’re getting pretty far north.” Crawford added.

“Maybe if we were north of the border I’d be worried, but in Missouri in October?  Snow?”  Whitley made a dismissive sound and flipped her hand casually.  “Relax.”

“We’re almost to Iowa.” Smith pointed out.

“And we
are
north of the border.” Crawford said.

“Canadian, not Mexican.” Whitley replied.

“We’ll figure snow out if it comes up.” Peter said calmly.  “And we’re in pretty good shape even if it does start coming down.”

“This thing isn’t going to handle ice well.” Smith sighed.

“It’s not going to snow.” Whitley said again.

“Keep saying it, maybe it’ll come true.”

“You’ve been a real downer lately, you know that Smith?”

“Someone’s gotta counterbalance your fucking optimism.”

“Ha-fucking-ha.” Whitley said.  “Hey, Iowa . . . weren’t you due for an ass kicking when we got to Iowa?”

“That was
if
I pissed Gunny off.”

“What if I piss Gunny off and blame it on you?”

“What if you piss me off?” Crawford asked.  “Can I kick ass?”

“No.” Smith said.

“No.” Peter said at the same time.

“Too bad.” Whitley sighed.

“Why not?” Crawford demanded.

“I hand out the ass kickings,
when
they’re needed, so everyone just relax.” Peter said.

“You’re no fun.” Crawford said in a hurt tone.

“Tell us again how you managed to nearly drown?” Smith asked, angling his gaze in the rearview mirror to look at Crawford.

“You have a zombie nearly land on you after falling off a damned bridge and see how well you make out.” Crawford said in annoyed tone.

“Did it
actually
fall on you?”

“No, but if it’d missed me by any less I wouldn’t be here.”

“So it didn’t fall on you.”

“Don’t let Gunny know, but I’m so about to kick your ass.” she warned him.

“So you got rattled by not being hit by a falling zombie, nearly drowned, dragged yourself out of the river, and slept naked in a hayloft?”

Crawford leaned forward, and Peter put a hand out.  “No.” he said in a annoyed tone of his own.

“Just one smack.” Crawford said, glaring at Smith past Peter’s intervening arm.

“No.” Peter said again.  “Sit back.  Teamwork.”

“I’m a team player.” Crawford said in a voice that was suddenly bright.

“Lies.” Smith said, sounding bored.

“You’ll sleep sometime.” she said, still sounding like she was talking about sunshine and daisies.

“Not until we’re to South Dakota.” Peter warned her.

“Oh come on!” both Smith and Crawford said at the same time.

“Hey, you could’ve knocked it off.” Whitley told Smith with a chuckle.  “But no, you had to keep pushing.”

“We’re in Iowa now?” Crawford asked.

Peter eyed her one more time, lacing his gaze with warning, then checked the map.  “Just about.” he said.

“Let’s see, Iowa, then South Dakota.” she mused.  “Okay, I can wait.”

“Thanks a lot Gunny.” Smith said sourly.

“Once we’re out of travel mode I don’t care if you guys bicker a little.” Peter said with a grin.

“How long do you figure?” Whitley asked as Smith sulked behind the wheel.

Peter consulted the map again.  “Well, that gas stop we pulled off a little while ago put us in pretty good shape.”  The gas station had actually not been stripped clean, inside or underground; they’d pressed a number of soda bottles into service as temporary gas cans.  It didn’t make him terribly happy to know there were twenty-five two-liter bottles full of gas in the trunk, but they only had to hold up for the next day or so without leaking or melting or something.

The station had also yielded water — in soda form — to last them three days, and even some candy bars and other quick foods that offered cold calories without needing to be heated.  And, arguably best of all for his piece of mind, he had state road maps for Arkansas and Missouri, as well as a Midwest map that showed the major roads for a big chunk of the region from Illinois to Nebraska along the east-west axis, and Missouri to Canada along the north-south.

“Unless we have to do some serious backtracking I think we can make Ellsworth by morning; at least to South Dakota by then even allowing for some routine problems if we have any sort of luck.”

“Are any problems routine anymore?” Whitley asked.

“Maybe.” Peter shrugged.  “What matters is we’re something like five, maybe six hundred miles away, and now that we’re past Kansas City we should be in the clear as far as major urban areas go.  Cornfields and flatland might be boring to drive through, but it should be safe.”

“Twelve gallons of gas will be enough?”

“I thought it was thirteen.” Crawford said.  “Something like half a gallon per two liter, right?”

“Since when did you start doing math?”

“Keep pushing Smith.” she told him.  “South Dakota is on the horizon.”

“Empty threats.  And anyway, twelve or thirteen, this thing sucks in many ways, but a piss ant little four cylinder just doesn’t burn gas.” Smith pointed out.  “What we’ve got in the trunk is a full tank just waiting to be poured in whenever we need it.”

“It’ll be enough.” Peter said.  “If we run into any major snags, we’ll top up and look to refill our backups again before continuing.”

“I hope we don’t.” Crawford said calmly.  “The quicker we get to South Dakota, the quicker it’ll be payback time.”

“Do you, like, ever take a break?” Smith asked.

“You’ll never know.” she told him sweetly.

“You know I actually did really well in hand-to-hand in basic.”

“You know I actually hold a belt in both Karate and Judo.”

“What rank?” Whitley asked curiously.

Crawford grinned and cracked her knuckles.  “Ask Smith in five or six hundred miles.”

Peter rolled his eyes.  “Just spend the time between here and there apologizing.” he said, leaning over to Smith.  “Maybe she’ll cut you some slack.”

“I heard that.” Crawford said.

“Good.” Peter shot back.  “Fun and games is all fine, but remember where we are.”

Crawford sighed.  “You take a lot of the fun out of this.”

Peter shrugged.  “Bruises are one thing; but if either of you cripples the other I’m going to take the winner out.”

“Yeah right.” Smith said.

“Oh really?” Crawford said at the same time.

“Believe it.” Peter said firmly.  “I’m old, which means I fight to win, and I fight dirty.”