Apocalypse Aftermath (70 page)

“It might come up though.” Crawford said as she followed the road around, passing a sign indicating which lanes to get into for the turns to I-985.

“It might.  I don’t think it’s likely to anytime soon, but it might.  We just need to do some more feeling out of the security roster before we decide who we’re going to invest time training.”

“What we need are some more psychologists.” Crawford grinned.  “Some that aren’t as shell shocked as the
two who already fessed up to being shrinks.”

“Yeah, they’re no help.” Smith laughed.

“Be thankful we turned up a physician’s assistant.  And even with her, I’ll still take a crazy doctor over a sane psychologist considering what’s going on.”

“You sure about that?” Crawford asked.  “The psychologist might be more useful.”

“Until all hell breaks loose.” Peter shrugged.  “What we need is time.  For starters, we’ll pick the best candidates out and start bringing them with us on these runs.” Peter said.  “See who doesn’t freak out when we go into big buildings after supplies.  Everything so far has been light looting in calm areas.  Let’s see who can hold up when it gets real, then go from there.”

“Sure, kill two birds with one stone.” Crawford nodded.  “Bulk up the supply situation and get a feel for who’s holding up.”

“Exactly.  We evaluate them, blood them a little when they’re out on their feet, and stock up enough supplies to take a few days and do some real training.”

“Would take a load off us, that’s for sure.” Smith agreed reluctantly.

“Yeah, I’m getting a little tired of carrying you guys on these scouting trips.” Crawford pointed out.

“Carrying, is it?” Peter answered.

“Yeah.  I’m awesome, but you guys seriously need to start pulling more of your own weight.”

Peter grinned.  She still wasn’t all the way back to her old wise-cracking irreverent self, but she was starting to move past the funk Swanson’s death had put her in.  He tried to help, by asking himself what Swanson would say every time she threw something sharp at him.  If running her mouth was what helped her cope, he’d put up with worse from others in his time.  “Awesome is as awesome does.”

“Don’t you go mangling Forrest Gump quotes at me Gunny.  Sometimes I don’t know who’s harder to haul around, you or Roper.”

“Roper is assigned to the camp.” Peter said mildly.  “Ready reserve
, plus he’s taking a big load off Sawyer’s people on the inventory management side.”

“Roper’s younger and more virile.  You’re old
er and need more tending.”

“More virile?” Peter raised his eyebrows at her.  “Girl, don’t test me.  I’m more man than even you could handle.”

She shot him a look of surprise, just for an instant, and he chalked himself up for a brownie point.  Small steps.  Then her expression flashed to malicious amusement and her mouth opened for a retort.

“Wait a minute, what’s that?” Smith said before she could speak.

“What?” Peter turned his full attention forward.

“That.” Smith pointed to the left of the road.

“It’s a fucking gas station.” Crawford said after a moment’s study.

“With people on the island awning?” Peter disagreed.  “And those vehicles aren’t abandoned; they were parked there as a barricade.”  He reached for his radio.  “Whitley, Gunny.”

“Go.” she answered from the other Humvee, following behind them.

“Looks like some fortified survivors up ahead.  We’re going to check it out.”

“Want us close or far?”

“Hold on the street.” Peter said after a few moment’s consideration.  “But be ready.”

“Always.”

“Pull onto the edge of the lot, but slow.” Peter ordered, pointing.  “And play it soft unless there’s trouble.”

“Right, right, let you do the talking.” Crawford griped, but she slowed and drifted the Humvee over the grassy meridian to the west-bound lanes in preparation for pulling up to the lot in question.

The gas station was large enough to service the traffic
– not that there was any to speak of now – on I-985, with ten pump stations.  If the tanks had been reasonably full before the carnage started, the station probably had enough to last even a very active group of survivors months.  Possibly even clear through to spring.  And the number of vehicles he saw present would certainly allow them to do whatever driving they might want.

Forming a wall around the pumps were U-Haul trucks, parked nose to tail across the front facing the street before both ends of the line of vehicles curved around.  It wasn’t just a gas station, he saw as Crawford got closer.  There was a convenience store, but off-set to the right and sharing the same parking lot was a Waffle House.  The windows on both buildings had been boarded up, but he saw steam rising from the restaurant’s roof exhaust.

“Looks like they’re open.” Smith mused.

“Sure, why not.” Crawford snorted.  “Let’s see if they’re doing to-go orders.”

“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen since all this started.” Peter shrugged.  “Smith, cover us from the hummer.  Crawford, you’re with me.”

There were six people up on the awning, all armed with rifles of some sort; at least two had assault weapons. 
Peter saw a tall ladder leaning against the back side of the island’s roof, facing the convenience store.  Four were watching the pair of approaching Humvees, though their weapons were merely ready rather than aimed.  He saw Whitley stop in the road as Crawford turned into the lot and rolled the Humvee into the grass bordering the concrete.

“I think they’ve seen some action around here.” Smith said.

Peter nodded.  There were bloodstains on the pavement surrounding the gas station, and some streaks that indicated bodies had been dragged clear.  But he was starting to get very familiar with how zombies died.  They never seemed to bleed very much, like they were dried out.  None of the stains looked substantial enough to indicate humans had died.  People bled, a lot.  Zombies, for whatever reason, didn’t.  At least, not very much.

“Okay, let’s have a chat.  Crawford, try not to scare them.”

“Awwww.” she said as he checked his mirror and then looked over his shoulder out the windows before opening his door.  He slung his AR into patrol carry and walked around the front of the Humvee as Crawford finished setting the brake and got out.  She dropped in behind and to his left as he approached the wall of U-Hauls.

“Y’all Army?” a voice called down from the awning.

Peter adjusted his cap to shade his eyes as he looked up.  “Mostly, yeah.  We’re attached to the FEMA camp in Cumming.”

“FEMA?”

“Refugee center.” Peter nodded.  “Currently home to a few thousand survivors.”

“You here to try and rescue us?”

“Why, you need rescuing?” Peter replied, making a show of glancing around.  “Looks to me like you fellas aren’t doing too bad.”

“That’s right, we’re holding up just fine.”

“So what’s the story here?”

One of the men moved closer to the edge and went down on one knee.  He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but over the shirt he had
an equipment harness as festooned with pouches as Peter’s was.  “Why you interested?”

“Just neighborly curiosity.  We’re scouting the area, checking for survivors and supplies.” Peter answered calmly.  “Already helped a couple hundred folks who were doing a lot worse than you.”

“Well, we’re neighborly, but we’re also independent.  Don’t nobody here need no rescuing.”

Peter held up his hand reassuringly.  “Just looking to talk.  That’s all.”

“We had us a few incidents with some cops.  They seemed to have it in their heads that we needed to cease and desist.”

“Well, I got no problem with what you’re up to so long as you’re not planning on rampaging around like third-world warlords.”

“That’s good, though we all pretty much in the third world now.”

“Still no cause to go shooting people up.”

“Had some of that going on have you?”

Peter shrugged.  “Nothing too serious, but we’ve picked up a few isolated rumors of people getting unfriendly
toward folks they find.”

“We’re friendly, we’re just not ready to believe things are everywhere else.”

“That’s smart.  So, if we’re both satisfied as to our friendly nature, what say you share some news?”

The man on the awning shifted his rifle to rest against his upraised knee and shrugged.  “Let’s see.  Fucking zombies eating whoever they can get their hands on,
govr’ment falling down on the job as usual, and hell on Earth.  That about sum it up for you?”

“Pretty much.” Peter agreed.  “So other than the cops you said wandered by, you haven’t seen anything more organized?”

“Organized how?”

“Government, military, anything that looks like it might be working on solving the zombie problem.”

“Can’t say we have, until you and your people about a minute ago.  That what you’re doing; solving the problem?”

Peter shook his head.  “We’re supporting the FEMA camp.  It’s the closest we’ve found to any sort help for everyone still breathing, so we’re doing what we can
to keep people fed and sheltered.”

“Guess someone’s gotta do it.” the man shrugged again.  “Traffic on 985’s pretty down, maybe a few cars a day
, on the busy days.  If you’re thinking about checking out Suwanee, don’t bother.  Zombies fucking thick as politicians at a barbecue there.  Same goes for 85 down into Gwinnett.  You head that way, be ready to do some serious shooting.”

“Not sure how useful it’ll be to you, but I-75 from Marietta at least up to Calhoun is just
about as bad.” Peter offered.  “We went through there about a week ago and it’s not pretty.”

“Good to know, but we’re keeping a little closer to home than that.”

“So, what’s your story then?  We’ve run into a number of holdouts, but you guys are the pick of the litter, I got to say.”

The man grinned.  “Welcome to the Whitfield Family Trading Post.”

“Trading Post?” Crawford asked quietly.

“Barter?” Peter inquired, ignoring her.

“Sure enough.”

“What’s on offer and what are you looking for?”

“We got us a pretty broad selection we’ve been pulling in from around the area.  Seems a shame to just leave it for zombies to chew on.  Gas, cigarettes, survival gear, clothes, some tires and stuff for cars – though I don’t know that we’ve got anything too likely to fit yours – food, weapons, all kinds of stuff.”

“What about the Waffle House?” Peter asked, gesturing at the restaurant.

“What about it?”

“Smells like the grill’s working.”

“Sure is.  Why, you folks hungry?”

“Depends on what you’ve got, and who’s doing the cooking?”

The man grinned.  “Well, it just so happens we got us a real live Waffle House cook, and we’re stocked to the rafters with food for him to work with.”

“How’d you manage that?” Crawford called.  “Power’s been out for a while now.”

“Well ma’am, we got here before it failed and hooked us up some generators.  And we managed to fill the freezers, and the coolers in the store, with stuff before the power kicked.”

Peter grinned.  “What’re you looking for in trade?”

“For what?”

“Six hot meals, and six more to-go orders.”

“Gunny, you can’t be fucking serious.” Crawford said.

Peter held up a hand to the man above and
turned to Crawford with a grin.  “It’s getting toward noon, and we were planning on scouting most of the day.  You want to eat canned food or something hot?”

“This is really weird, you know that, right?”

“Crawford, we’ve been in the middle of a zombie apocalypse for two damned weeks now.  You can open a can if you want, but I’m in the mood for the kind of meal my wife – God bless her departed soul – would tear a strip off me a mile wide for even thinking about.”

“She didn’t like you eating at Waffle House?”

“She didn’t like me eating anything that wasn’t grease free and green, preferably without having been touched with salt at any point.” Peter said.  “But what the hell, I’m going to live a little.”

Crawford’s face spread a smile slowly across from cheek to cheek.  “You know what, fuck it.  You’re right.”

“So, twelve meals, let’s talk.” Peter called up to the man.

“I guess y’all got five five six rounds?”

“Some.  Depends on the deal.”

The man grinned.  “
The cook tells me we should be looking to move eggs since they’re going to be the first to go bad on us.  Give you a pretty good deal if you’re willing to eat some for us.”

“I like mine three at a time and over easy with
hash browns scattered, smothered and covered.  And bacon.  Double bacon.  I can check with the rest of my folks, but if they’re going to say no to some good fried eggs by someone who does them right, fuck them.”

Chuckles drifted down from the top of the awning. 
“Guess y’all don’t need a menu.”