Apocalypse Aftermath (33 page)

And, frankly, Peter was getting a little tired of the vocal Steve’s tireless determination to find the help he wanted for his wife.  That left Mendez’s ride as the only place to put them, since Peter didn’t want any of the civilians aboard the bus for the same reason he had soldiers driving.  Trust.

If Mr. Harris was jawboning, Mendez wasn’t bothered by it.  The tall Guardsmen led the convoy south on I-75 to SR-20.  The Interstate was only lightly populated with wrecked or abandoned vehicles, most of which were off to the side.  And they only passed three wandering zombies, none of which had time to react to the vehicles beyond a few staggering steps and a futile clawing at the air left by their passage.

SR-20 took them east without incident.  The number of vacant vehicles dropped, but the zombie count rose somewhat.  Not enough to be a problem, but the convoy started needing to veer around them.  Peter’s instructions had been clear; spare the vehicles whenever possible.  That meant no running over zombies just as much as it meant avoiding off-roading, high speeds, sharp turns, or anything else that could stress the engines, suspensions, or bodies.  He was a good mechanic, but there was a limit to what could be fixed on the side of a road.

They’d been on SR-20 long enough for him to get a little bored when Mendez came on the radio.  “Gunny, Mendez.”

“Go.”

“Got what looks like an occupied building up here, and some people working on the grounds.  They don’t look all that unfriendly.  You still interested in talking to anyone we run across?”

Peter considered for a moment.  “Yeah, stop us if it looks good.”

“Roger.”

The vehicles ahead started slowing, and came to a halt in the west-bound lanes next to a large lot of grass.  The terrain thus far had mostly been tree-lined, but this was one of the larger open areas he’d seen since leaving the Interstate.  It was a church, he saw as he parked behind Swanson in the Ranger, and a pretty big one from the looks of it.  The building was warehouse sized, but nicely sided and well maintained, with a secondary building on its right and a large playground on the left with colorful plastic slides and climbing tubes positioned in the middle of a large sand pit.

The lot had a simple little wooden rail fence, which didn’t look sturdy or closed enough to hold off any zombies even if it had completely encircled the property.  It didn’t, which his present slant on defensive evaluation left him questioning how secure the location was.  About the only thing he particularly liked about the spot was how all the open ground would make it easy to maintain visual coverage of anything trying to get near the church building.

However, the occupants seemed to realize that.  As he stepped from the Humvee – after double checking the road and shoulder to make sure he ha
dn’t missed anything hungry nearby – he saw most of the work parties stopping and turning to look back at the line of vehicles on the road.  They had a stack of lumber they were using to reinforce the doors he saw down the side of the building, but they were leaving off the task to eye up the convoy.

Actually, he realized after a second glance, they were boarding
the building’s doors over.  Or, at least, had been.  More of the lumber was going up around the covered front entrance, turning the decorative overhead into a reasonable barricade.  He was no carpenter, but what he could see of their progress so far seemed to him they were doing a pretty decent job of the modifications.

“Barker, stay with the vehicle.” Peter said after a moment’s thought, then he reached for his radio.  “Nailor, you want to unass and accompany me?”

“Just him?” Whitley asked.

“Yeah, but everyone else don’t fall asleep.  And don’t ignore the south side of the road either.  Let’s remember where we are.”

“The middle of the end of the woooooorld.” Swanson joked.

Peter turned the volume knob down before Crawford’s reflexive retort could come across clearly.  He heard the bus’ door hiss open, and a few moments later Nailor appeared slinging his M-16.  Peter followed suit with his AR so as to not appear too aggressive, then with Nailor in tow
, started trudging up the simple little driveway connecting the road to the property.

“Are you here to tell us we’re saved?” a sweaty faced man in jeans and a faded T-shirt asked, coming out to meet them about twenty feet from the front of the church.
  Most of the others had returned to their labor, though frequent glances were being directed at the trio.

“We’re headed to Cumming to check on the FEMA camp that’s supposed to be
set up there.” Peter answered.  “Just wanted to talk if that’s okay.”

“Happy to.  We’ve got well water if you like, running off a generator, but it’s still clear and cold.”

“We’re okay at the moment.” Peter said politely, glancing around.  He saw a handful of children present, most of whom looked like they’d been designated as sentries to watch the grounds while the adults worked.  And about one in four of the adults had a pistol on their belts.  “How are conditions here?”

“The good with the bad.” the man shrugged.  “We’re relatively remote, and since yesterday the cross-traffic on the road has dropped off some.  But we’re seeing more of the sick wandering around.”

“You okay?”

“So far.  We’re working on building the church up so we don’t have to worry so much.  The sick don’t seem to get too interested unless they see someone.  When they do, they’re attracted like sinners on Sunday.”

Peter grinned.  “Sounds like you’ve got as good of a handle on the situation as anyone else I’ve met since all this started.  I’m Peter Gibson.”

“Evan Turner.  I’m the assistant pastor here.” he nodded, reaching to shake hands.

“How many are you?”

“About seventy so far.  A few of my braver members are out checking empty houses for food and useful items, but I’m not sure how many others of the congregation who aren’t already here will be joining us.  It’s been bad.”

“That it has.” Peter nodded.  “I’m glad you’ve been able to save so many.”

“That’s the job, saving souls.” Turner shrugged with a smile.  “Though I’ll grant you I never figured on it being quite this literal of a job description.”

He heard a gunshot behind him and turned, quickly but not overly alarmed.  Another shot sounded, then two more in rapid succession, but he couldn’t see who was doing the shooting.  A moment later he saw Whitley’s hand come out of the driver’s window of the bus and give a thumbs up.

“Everything okay back there?” Peter asked, keying his radio.

“Just a zombie.  Oliver and Dorne are arguing about who got it.  All clear.” she answered.

“Pastor Turner, I’ve got some civilians who are tagging along with us.” Peter said as he faced the man again.  “A pair of them are a married couple that are pregnant.  If I don’t ask
, the husband’ll be over here anyway; I don’t suppose you’ve got a doctor or nurse with you that could help out.  She’s due about a month from now.”

Turner’s expression became thoughtful.  “Mrs. Bell is a retired hospital nurse, but she’s eighty-two, and I don’t think she ever worked in a maternity ward.”

“Like I said, I had to ask.”

“You rescued them
?”

“Long story.” Nailor said.

“Not that long, but yes.” Peter nodded.  “We came across them in Cartersville Saturday night.  Mr. Harris is frantic to find a place with medical care before the baby comes.”

“I could talk with Mrs. Bell
about what she thinks, but without meaning to impugn her, my guess would be that she might not be as much help as your Mr. Harris probably hopes for.”

“I won’t be able to leave until I tell him, but I suspect you’re right.  Beyond that, I wanted to ask about any news you might have come across.”

“News about the situation?”

“That’s as good a word as any.”
Peter reflected mentally as he nodded.  Turner’s face screwed into consideration again.

“Like I said, we’re pretty rural here.  Things were mostly quiet on Friday and Saturday, not too many reports that were nearby, though I’m sorry to say there were some victims that came down with the disease.  I started getting a lot of calls on Saturday night from the congregation, and I decided to come open the church up.  Word spread, and we’ve been gathering since then.”

“Safety in numbers.”

“Moral support at first, but as the television and radio channels started dropping off the air it became more about safety, yes.” Turner allowed.  “Now we’re focused on a longer stay than I think most of us had initially thought.”

“Are you or any of your people aware of any other intact groups in the area?” Peter asked.  “Maybe city or county groups, or any military units that might be nearby?”

“There were reports of the federal government preparing evacuation centers in Cartersville and Cumming, but from what you said a minute ago I suspect Cartersville isn’t a safe area anymore.”

“No, it’s not.” Peter agreed.  “Neither is Calhoun, if you’re wondering.  We were up there earlier gathering supplies, and it’s pretty thoroughly infested.  Be ready for problems with sick people if you head that way.  Most of the area along I-75 between there and Atlanta has the same problem, and I’ll assume you know what’s going on in Atlanta.”

“We do, thank you.  You said you’re headed to Cumming?”

“We are.  We want to check on the FEMA situation there, see if they’re intact or not.”

Turner nodded.  “Then this might be relevant to your inquiry.  One of my parishioners is a Cherokee County water treatment employee who arrived last night.  He’s told us of talking to people, refugees from Atlanta mostly, with stories of having been turned away from Cumming by the state government.”

“Turned away?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes a little.

“He says it’s part of why he came here.  That, and the sick were starting to become a problem at his home.”

Peter considered that for several seconds.  Even incomplete as the tale was, it still didn’t make much sense.  “Can I talk to him?  Please?”

Turner swiveled and looked across the people in front of the church.  Some of them were working, but about half were watching the show.  “Derick, could you join us please.”

One of the men who was still working handed his hammer to one of the others and walked over.  “This is . . . I’m sorry Peter, I didn’t get your rank.”

“Gunny Gibson.” Peter said, nodding to the newcomer.  “Just Gunny’s fine.  My rank can be sort of a mouthful if you’re not used to how the Marines work.”

“Derick Hill.”

“Derick, Gunny Gibson wanted to hear what you can tell him about what you said was happening out of Cumming.”

Hill’s expression became a little confused, but his tone was clear as he shrugged.  “I live just off Knox Bridge near 575.  Uh, -20 I guess is how it’s on most of the maps.  SR-20 and I-575” he added when he saw Peter’s eyes flicker.  “On the east side of 575.  My house isn’t that far off Knox Bridge.  I was keeping an eye out on the traffic outside while I listened to the news, and I know some of the cars I saw pass sometimes I’d seen before going the other way into Cumming.”

“How do you know they were coming and going from the FEMA site?”

Hill shrugged.  “Some of them started stopping Saturday night when they saw my lights were on.  I’ve got a generator.  I talked to them, mostly just to keep them from trying to invite themselves in.  I know it might not be terribly Christian, but I’m responsible for my wife and kids, and strangers sleeping in my house with everything that’s going on didn’t seem too prudent.”

“It’s fine.” Turner murmured.

“I understand.” Peter told him.  “You’re not alone in being cautious.  But about what they said?”

“Oh, right.  Uh, the first time I heard it, I didn’t think too much of it.  I mean, I was okay where I was.  Then a couple others had the same story, and it got me thinking.  Then I had to take my shotgun to zomb– uh, sick people, a few times in the yard, and that’s when I decided to pack up and come to church.

“They said there were State Patrol in Cumming, meeting everyone near where the news was saying to go.  The cops were telling people the camp was closed, and sending them to temporary sites in the city.  Said it was a take it or leave it kind of thing.”

“Did any of them go to the other locations?” Peter asked, thinking hard.  He could see how the main site might fill up to capacity pretty quickly, especially with how hard Atlanta and the immediate suburbs had been hit by the zombie outbreak.  There was a limit to any location’s ability to house and handle incoming people.”

“Sure did.  The ones I talked to said the other places weren’t anything other than schools that had people camping in them.  No supplies or help except what they could come up with on their own.”

“There weren’t any FEMA people or other officials coordinating the other sites?”

Hill shook his head.  “Not that they saw.  And a couple of the places were seeing a lot of wandering . . . sick around them.  And some of the schools were pretty chaotic with arguments and such about how to get along with each other.  The ones I talked to were looking for someplace else because they didn’t like what they saw.”

Peter frowned.  Even if the main camp was at its limit, he couldn’t envision no arrangements being made for the overflow.  Particularly with regards to supplies and supervision.  Even if they were short on trained bodies, they would have done something to try and keep order.  He’d participated in similar situations as a sort of cadre, providing structure for volunteers as a relief operation spread to deal with the volume of incoming refugees.