Apocalypse Atlanta (40 page)

The bandages were sticking from the blood by now, so he left them alone long enough to pull out some tape.  Long strips went down across the bandages in big Xs, long because he was hurrying and also because it gave more surface area to stick and hold the bandages down with.

“Captain, talk to me.” Peter said, shaking the man a little rougher than was probably necessary as he glanced up and around.  Most of the zombies to the north were down, but there were still enough that it would be risky to try and move that way.  Someone would probably get grabbed.  And not only were the zombies from the North Avenue overpass beginning to make their way in this direction, he also saw that more zombies were headed to them from West Peachtree.

“Fuck!  Fuck!” Peter cursed, shaking Foreman again.  “Damnit captain, talk to me.”

Foreman’s eyes fluttered several times, then stayed about two-thirds open as they fixed on Peter.  “Gunny.”

“Yes.” Peter exclaimed.  “It’s Gunny.  How you doing sir?”

“Not good.” Foreman said with a faint smile that was far more grimace than grin.  “Hurts.”

“I know sir, but I don’t know if we have any shots.”  In fact Peter was certain they didn’t.  One more thing they hadn’t been issued due to the hasty deployment and the fact they weren’t supposed to have gone into combat.  And Peter didn’t have any, because having morphine when you weren’t a doctor could get you in pretty serious trouble.

Foreman shrugged very slightly.  “Doesn’t matter.”  His eyes drooped.

“Fuck, stay awake sir.” Peter shook him.  “Don’t clock out on me yet.”

“You–” Foreman coughed twice, and Peter saw flecks of red appear on his lips.  His lips pressed together.  Damnit, if Dan was coughing up blood, then it was bad.  “You got an ambulance in your back pocket?”

“Fuck!” Peter swore, looking around again, willing something good to happen.  The scene seemed to snap back into focus for him.  Zombies closing from three sides, four whenever the ones to the south got done eating everyone in the convoy.  There were screams and yells, mostly coming from the trapped vehicles a block away, but also coming from right around him.  “Fuck!” he shouted again, frustrated at the helplessness of the situation.

“Slipping.” Foreman coughed again, drawing Peter’s eyes back to his.  He smiled again, revealing bloody teeth this time, when he saw Peter’s angry expression.  “Retirement . . . you’re slipping.”

“So are you sir.  Stay with us.” Peter said.

“You could . . . get whatever . . . needed.” Foreman said, his breathing coming in labored gasps.  “Now I’ve . . . seen everything.”

“Captain, don’t let go.  I can get you out of here.”

“Hell you say.” Foreman chuckled, just for an instant, before grimacing painfully.  “What’s . . . what’s the word . . . to the south.”

Peter looked again.  The vehicles were well and truly swamped with zombies.  He saw maybe half as many muzzle flashes as before, and he could clearly see zombies had made it through the windows of a number of the humvees.

“They’re gone sir.”

“Right.” Foreman drew a deep breath, then lifted his head a few inches and looked around at the Guardsmen nearby.  “Okay, you’re in charge.”

“Don’t need the headache.” Peter said.  “I’m getting you out of here.  I’ll find a doctor, there’s got to be one, or a nurse or a fucking vet somewhere.  I’ll get you to one.”

Foreman reached up and grabbed hold of the front of Peter’s utilities.  “Asshole.” he muttered.  “Shut up.  Listen.”

“Sir, you’re giving up.” Peter said, reaching to put his hands around Foreman’s.  “Don’t give up.”

“No, I’m doing the last thing I can.” Foreman said.  “Wounded . . . whoever can’t walk.  One mag, leave ’em here, cover you.  Get the fuck out.”

“Sir.”

“Damnit!” Foreman said sharply, then lapsed immediately into a coughing fit.  He sprayed blood across the front of Peter’s utilities, then released his grip and covered his mouth with his hand.  It took him a while to get control of himself, long enough that Peter looked around again.

There was maybe thirty seconds, if that, before the first zombie made it to the intersection.  There were just too many coming from the north and west, with a whole bunch more less than a minute away to the east.  Zombies, ready to chow down.

“Pete.” Peter looked back down, and saw Foreman staring up at him.  “Look south.”

“They’re gone sir.”

“Fuck!” Foreman cursed softly.  “Stop arguing.  Look . . . parking garage.”

Peter turned his head and looked south again.  On this side of Spring and Linden, on the right, was a parking structure.  He opened his mouth, then his eyes noticed, really noticed for the first time, the tube that stretched across the street from the garage’s third floor to the building opposite it.  The horde besieging the convoy was beyond the parking garage!  The road between here and that garage was clear.

When he looked back at Foreman, the captain gave a weak nod at the light in his friend’s eyes.  “Good man.  Now go.  Get out of here.”

“Sir–”

Foreman’s hand went to the holster on his right hip, and he drew his pistol.  The weapon was covered in his blood, but that wouldn’t keep it from working.  “Get or I’ll shoot you before I do myself.”

Peter hesitated.  More than anything, more even than he’d wanted the doctor at Gwinnett Medical to give him good news, he wanted Dan Foreman to live.  A corner of his mind scolded him, but he’d been through more with Dan than he had with Amy.  “I can carry you out.” he began.

Foreman thumbed the pistol’s hammer back.  It took him three tries, but Peter didn’t interfere.  The officer raised the gun even more slowly than he’d cocked it, and Peter frowned as the barrel poked at the front of his utilities.  “I just gave you an order Marine.” Foreman said weakly.

“Goddamnit all to hell!” Peter swore.

“Good, anger, good.” Foreman said.  “Use that.  Now take everyone who can run and go.”

Peter sat back, hesitated, then opened his mouth.  Foreman stopped him with a shake of his head.  “I know.  Take care Pete.”

Peter looked south again, but the shooting was largely stopped.  Or, rather, he couldn’t see much of it anymore.  He heard some distant gunfire from that direction, but it was behind enough zombie bodies that stray rounds probably couldn’t threaten the other survivors.

“Form up!” Peter shouted, grabbing the medical kit and his knife as he popped to his feet.  Heads snapped to him, and he made a winding signal above his head with one hand.  “Form up, everyone who can move.”

“We’re leaving the wounded?” A swarthy man asked, sounding shocked.

“Anyone who can’t keep up gets left behind.” Peter shouted, hating every word as much as he hated himself for saying them.  “We’re moving out, right now.  You wanna stay and get eaten, that’s your choice.”  He got the medical kit closed back up and stuffed it into the pouch on his pack.

Gripping his AR-15, he ignored the sticky blood on his hand and pointed at the pedestrian tube.  He wouldn’t blame anyone for not following him south.  It looked like he’d be headed right into the horde swarming over the convoy, so he gave just enough explanation to hopefully convince them.  “We’re going to duck in that garage, then cross through the tube into the hotel.  There we can hole up or break out on the other side of the block.  Let’s go.”

“But–”

“No time, no argument.  Anyone who’s coming, follow me.” Peter shouted.  He jogged south with his weapon held at port arms.  He was leaving his friend to die, and quite honestly wasn’t sure if he really cared whether anyone followed him or not.  Things had been disintegrating rapidly over the past few hours.  He wasn’t sure if things like military discipline, once so important to him, even applied any longer.  He did know he didn’t have the time to ponder things, not now.  Later.

Booted footsteps behind him told that at least some Guardsmen were coming.  Peter looked the convoy with its zombie besiegers over almost casually, fairly disinterested in it if he was truthful.  He just wanted the zombies to stay focused on the vehicles for another fifteen seconds.  That’s all.  Just fifteen more seconds and he could be at the parking garage.  There weren’t any zombies spilling out of it, so he figured its levels would be clear for the moment.

However, as he ran, Peter saw people inside the vehicles.  The humvees were going to fall, it was just a matter of time.  Maybe if one of the hummer passengers was packing a minigun with a huge box of ammo they might be able to shoot their way clear.  Since Peter wasn’t betting on a minigun being handy, those people were effectively dead.  The unit hadn’t even been able to hold the intersection to the north; the only chance they had to clear Spring and Linden was if a couple of God’s angels came down to lend a hand.

The fire trucks though . . . he saw other people in there too.  The trucks were higher off the ground; the zombies couldn’t get at the windows.  Their doors were also sturdier, fire trucks were still built pretty solidly even in the modern era of efficiency.  It didn’t change whether or not Peter and his people could cut the firefighters out of there, but maybe if they stayed locked up in the trucks they could hold out for a while.

For all the good it would do.

Shrugging mentally, Peter switched his attention to the parking structure.  Fumbling with the tactical light he’d fixed to the under barrel mounting rail, he got it on and panned through the garage quickly as he approached.  The main entrance was closer to the intersection, along with the pedestrian doors, but he didn’t see any need to go that close to the horde.  The garage used half-walls everywhere a load bearing wall wasn’t needed, and he could see right into the dark interior of the open building.

It looked clear.  He hoped it was.  He reached the wall and went over it with the same tumbling and rolling motion he’d used back on the Connector.  His boots slammed down inside a little quicker than he’d expected, and he winced as something in his ankle protested a bit.  The last thing he needed was to fuck up one of his legs.  But he was in, and he brought the AR-15 up.

Only a little moonlight filtered in through the open walls, leaving his tactical flashlight to probe through the gloom alone.  From what he could see it was deserted, of both zombies and cars.  He considered the hotel across the street for a moment as he looked around, trying to make sure there wasn’t a zombie about to lurch out of the darkness at him while he waited for a couple more guys to get over the wall to back him up.

“Maybe we can grab off a ride?” one of them panted as he joined Peter.

Peter hesitated, then shook his head twice.  “No.  What happened to the convoy outside could just as easily happen to us.  That’s why the captain had us moving on foot.”

“Fat lot of good it’s done us.” someone muttered.

“You’re welcome to take off anytime you want.” Peter said without looking to see who was complaining.  “When the shit’s this deep . . . I ain’t got time to file a report.”  His light was reflecting off something that turned it red, and he stepped off in that direction.  He moved quickly, but as quietly as he could, swinging the AR from side to side to cover his front as best he could.

Nothing came out of the darkness to try and eat him.  He made it to the stairwell as he heard a particularly gut wrenching series of screams coming from the intersection outside.  Peter ignored them, reaching for the doorknob with one hand while trying to keep his weapon leveled at the ready.

“Cover me, I got the door sarge.” a Guardswoman said, slipping up on his left.  He couldn’t remember her name . . . she had climbed up and cut through the fence back at the Connector.  Peter shrugged it off, not important right now.  He realized she was looking at him, and he nodded slightly.  In one quick motion she jerked the door open and stood back out of the way.  Peter’s light revealed only a vacant concrete stairwell.

He moved inside, checked up to make sure something was maybe lingering, then started climbing the stairs.  They had a gritty surface that gave good traction, but also was loud beneath his boots.  As he reached the half-landing and swung around to check the rest of the stairs up to the second level, the noise level increased as others started up behind him.

Peter led the way up to the third level, pausing only to check that the way was clear of any hungry zombies.  The same Guardswoman pushed up next to him when he got to the door.  He could have kicked the door open, using his foot to depress the panic bar across its interior, but he let her push it outward while he covered.

The third level did have a few cars on it, maybe a dozen or so, but he ignored them.  He really didn’t want to screw around with vehicles right now.  He wanted to break contact and think, catch his breath, wait for daylight.  The cars would be here, and if they weren’t then there were bound to be others around somewhere.  He wasn’t concerned about it.

There was another Exit sign hanging over the pedestrian tube on the east side of the level.  The lights were out, but its lettering reflected red when his light swept over it.  Peter went that way, still cautious.  The gloom retreated as the tube, covered with a circular glass or maybe plastic roof and sides, let in enough moonlight to see by.

As he crossed through it, Peter took one glance down at the intersection to see what the zombies were doing.  He saw a couple wandering toward the parking deck, probably following soldiers they’d spotted, but the horde was still thronging the wrecked convoy.  Peter very purposefully did not look north.  Instead he reached the far side and checked the door.