Apocalypse Atlanta (17 page)

He was ashamed to face what he had been blithely assuming would be her burden to bear.  Now that he knew, he regretted every risk and every bit of absence.  He could have spent that time with her, and instead he’d been off here and there, across some ocean or another, or on the other side of the country.  Leaving her to deal with his absence, leaving her with the possibility of his never coming back.

It was not fair.  Then or now.

Eventually he managed to get himself off the kitchen floor.  The bag of groceries was still on the counter where he’d left it.  It had been there for, what, a couple of hours or something now.  He didn’t even try to decide if the milk and meat were spoiled or not.  It was pretty far down the list of things he gave a shit about right now.

The bag went into the garbage can without a second thought.  He carefully made sure the lid was all the way down, just the way Amy preferred it to be, then looked in the refrigerator.  The twelve pack of the one vice he was still allowed was on the bottom shelf, and he took a can with him before going into the living room.

Turning on the television, he settled back in his recliner and popped the top on the Coke while he waited for the fifteen year old picture tube to warm up.  The soda was cold and sweet as he took a long drink.  When it hit his mouth he realized how thirsty he was and tipped head and can alike back eagerly.

The last couple of mouthfuls were gurgling out as the television finally decided it could stop being decorative.  The sound came up first, and the screen slowly began changing from uniform black to a lighter shade, then towards gray, then individual colors.  He put the can down on the table next to the chair and lifted the remote again.  He flicked over to CNN using the numbers on the remote, then thumbed the volume control a few times while the screen finished sorting itself out.

“–ill trying to get a statement from the President or at least a member of his cabinet.” Peter heard an unfamiliar reporter saying.  “Those members of Congress who have issued statements or spoken with members of the press are asking more questions than they’re answering.  No one in Washington seems to have any information, and frankly, people are getting a little desperate for some.”

The screen finally resolved into something coherent.  He saw one of the nighttime anchors sitting behind a desk.  The backdrop was one of those new computer generated ones the big news channels had fallen in love with over the last couple of years.  Peter didn’t see the point, news was news.  What was the point of trying to dress it up in fancy clothes.  But he barely even acknowledged his mental tisk over the practice.

Instead, he was studying the screen.  The backdrop right now was showing a map of the continental United States, with shades of red and orange and yellow splashed across it.  From what he could tell, nearly all the colored patches corresponded to a major city or metropolitan area.  The caption above it read ‘Outbreak in America’.

The bottom of the screen had the usual scroll of text, but instead of stock prices or something else he didn’t care about there were what looked like city names and numbers.  After a moment he realized they had to be some sort of a casualty count, and frowned, barely listening as the anchor continued lamenting how they were having difficulty getting anyone at the Federal level to issue a statement.

If the numbers were indeed a count or estimate of . . . well he assumed they were concerned with sick people at the moment, then they were bad.  Really bad.  Off the top of his head he wouldn’t want to have to try and pass any sort of test on geographical census data, but if there really were two million people in New York who had been afflicted by this zombie disease, then that was bad.  That had to be a significant percentage of the city’s population.  And seventy thousand in Orlando?  He knew that was a huge piece of the total citizen count there, even allowing for whatever tourists might be at the nearby theme parks.

Peter tuned his ears back into the anchor, realized the man was still blathering about what they didn’t know, and frowned.  Changing channels, he tried Fox News, but they were basically doing the same thing as CNN–complaining about the lack of response from senior administration officials and running the same kind of graphics and counts just in a slightly different format.  Peter tried one of the local stations, hoping to find some actual news.  He needed to know what was going on.

WXIA had similar text scroll filling the bottom of their feed.  The image was of downtown, right next to the capital he realized after a few seconds when the caption on the video registered with him.  ‘Governor evacuates capitol’  He turned the volume up further as he saw a helicopter with state police markings lifting off, and the camera tracked along with it for a few moments before swinging down to frame a street full of people who looked barely able to walk as they slowly staggered toward the camera.

A reporter approached, trying to ask the sick people questions.  Peter watched as he let himself get too close to the approaching horde and was brought down.  When teeth sank into the man’s shoulder, Peter cursed.  “Fucking idiot.”  He watched as the cameraman teamed up with the idiotic reporter left off trying to cover the scene and helped his colleague away from the zombies.

“Again, that was the scene less than an hour ago at the capitol downtown.” one of the news anchors said as the feed switched back to the news desk.  “Since shortly after getting airborne, the governor has taken the extraordinary step of asking the population of downtown Atlanta to evacuate.  Atlanta and Fulton police and fire are currently involved in this effort, and are asking anyone needing assistance to please contact nine-one-one.”

Peter frowned, pursing his lips in a silent whistle.  That was a lot of people . . . he frowned again.  The news seemed to anticipate the line of his thoughts, or perhaps it was just the most obvious place for the flow of information to go next.  Regardless, he saw a map of metro Atlanta replace the anchors.  And not the usual cutesy type of graphic they would normally throw up during a typical newscast’s traffic report.

It took him only a moment to recognize it as being drawn directly from the Georgia Navigator website.  Peter often considered the network of traffic cameras that enabled a real-time view of what was happening on the area’s interstates the best of the legacy left to the city following the 1996 Olympics.  It wasn’t as picturesque as the parks and tourist spots with their plaques, but it was a whole lot more useful.

As the anchors’ voiceover continued, Peter shook his head at the information on the screen.  All three – technically four – interstates leading out of the heart of the city were showing blockages, many blockages.  Some insert videos appeared in the corners of the screen and began cycling through various cameras.  He had to squint to make out the labels on each, but it didn’t really matter.

They all showed a similar scene; highway lanes that should have been filled with flowing traffic instead depicted cars lined up motionless behind tangled masses of vehicles turned sideways or off their wheels.  Some of the video revealed people on foot, moving along the shoulders of the roads, even between the stationary vehicles.  While Peter admired their initiative in getting themselves away from danger however they had to, he knew ultimately the abandoned cars were only going to make an already disastrous circumstance worse.

Abruptly he rose from the chair and  headed for the bedroom he’d shared with his wife.  Perversely, his half of the closet was more neatly organized and laid out than hers.  Part of that was that he had less in his half, even accounting for the uniforms and associated items he’d retained despite his having retired.  But most of it was long habit.  Once you got into a good one, it could be hard to break.

Forcing himself to ignore the dresses and shawls on the other side, Peter pulled a set of neatly folded utilities off the back shelf and tossed them on the bed.  He emptied his jeans pockets out onto the bed as well, then paused and cursed.  His phone, he’d dropped his phone at the hospital and left without finding it.  Annoyed, he checked his pockets again to make sure they were empty, then sat down and stripped off his clothing.

The only thing unfamiliar about the utilities when he put them on was the faint scent of the fabric softener Amy used on the laundry.  He wasn’t used to the utilities smelling Downey fresh.  It was odd.  He shook his head and laced his boots back up, then filled his pockets once more.  With a second set of clothing tucked under his arm he left the bedroom and went into his ‘man cave’.

The closet there was dominated by a large object with an old blanket draped over it.  Pulling the blanket aside, he bent to the keypad of the gun safe to enter the combination.  His fingers hesitated a little over the numbers, as yet again something reminded him of Amy.  The combination was Amy’s birthday added to his in a certain order.  He drew a deep breath as he managed to get it entered correctly and opened the safe.

The interior was divided into two halves; the left filled with shelves for pistols and other small items while the right was left open for long guns.  He only had two, the AR-15 that had all the modifications and toys that made shooting it a lot more fun than a military issue M-16 was, and a Benelli Super 90 shotgun.  He had never had any interest in hunting or long range shooting, so those two weapons were all he needed if he wanted to shoot something besides a pistol.

His holstered M45 was on the top shelf, where he could get to it quickly at need.  The next shelf down had filled magazines and a partial box of rounds, and the one below that more unopened boxes of .45 and 5.56 rounds and twelve gauge shells.  All neat and orderly, ready for whenever he wanted to head out to the range.

The M45 was ready to go, he knew, but he checked it over anyway out of habit.  He was as particular about his weapons as he was about anything else he did.  Or, he liked to tell people who commented on it, especially about his weapons.  Mistakes could result in something getting killed, and not always the right someone either.

His fingers flew over the modified 1911, his eyes a little distant as worked.  The pistol reminded him of his lost phone.  When he was satisfied with his inspection, he loaded and safed the M45, then reholstered it and clipped the holster onto his belt.  The remaining filled magazines went into his breast pocket, and he left the safe open for the moment and dropped into the desk chair.

He kept his address book, the same one he’d had since he was a teenager, in the top right drawer.  The creased leather binding creaked a little as he opened it, and he had to remind himself to be careful as he flipped through the age stiffened pages.  There, his finger tapped the entry he wanted, and he turned to the phone.

Scooping it up, he cradled the receiver against his shoulder and dialed quickly, then sat back and waited.  It seemed to take a long time, longer than was normal, but finally the call went through and he heard it start ringing.  And ring, and ring, and ring some more.

Peter listened with an absent frown, paging idly through the address book and staring at the names while he waited.  If Dan didn’t answer, he could maybe try to reach him through the administrative office at Clay, but failing that he’d have to decide if he’d call someone else or–

The line was picked up, and he heard Dan’s voice.  “Foreman.”

“Captain, it’s Gunny Gibson.” Peter said quickly, letting the chair come forward.  Dan sounded distracted, he thought.

“This isn’t a good time Pete.”

“That’s why I’m calling sir.”  He thought he heard activity, a lot of activity, in the background of Dan Foreman’s side of the conversation.  Voices, engines.  Something was going on.  “I know a little about what’s going on.”

Foreman laughed humorlessly.  “Then you know I’m busy.”

“Sir, I was wondering if maybe you could use another man.”

Peter waited.  He heard a few engines starting up in the background.  “Pete, we’re only being called up as a precaution.  We haven’t been given any deployment orders yet.” said Foreman finally.

“It’s only a matter of time sir.” Peter said.  “You know how long it takes higher authority to decide.  Especially civilian authority.”

“I think you might be over reacting just a bit.” Foreman said, a note of careful patience creeping into his tone.  “And anyway, I don’t have a shortage of bodies.”

Peter frowned.  “What, everyone’s already reported in?”  Foreman hesitated.  Peter waited a few moments, giving him a chance to maybe say something, then pounced on the pause.  “How many have acknowledged the call up?”

Foreman still hesitated, and Peter stepped in again after another couple of seconds of pause.  “You need me sir.”

“What about your wife?” Foreman finally said.  “You’re out Gunny.  Doesn’t she need you?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to hesitate.  “Amy’s–” he closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and forced himself to say the words.  “Amy’s dead sir.”

“Oh – I’m sorry Gunny.”

“Thank you sir.” Peter replied.  “But I need something to do, I want something to do.  I can’t just sit on my hands and watch this on the damned television.”

“Okay look, I’m not gonna lie.  There’s . . . it’s half cluster-fuck and half sky-is-falling right now.  A lot of the command staff at Clay isn’t even on base.  The civvies are doing a lot of yelling and screaming right now.  It might take hours before we even get the confirmations we need to legally roll out.”

Peter shrugged involuntarily.  “Then there’s time for me to maybe get there sir.”