Apocalypse Atlanta (24 page)

“Cuff him.” Peter got out through teeth still clenched around the zip tie.  Orders were still to detain and transport the ‘sick’ and ‘diseased’ to the nearest hospital or CDC designated holding area.  Peter thought it was dangerously stupid, but orders were orders.  Apparently people, including the leadership and command structure of the city and National Guard, were not ready to begin shooting without there being an imminent threat to life.

Peter wondered, just a little as he struggled with the zombie, if it was wrong to want to just start shooting them.  Then he thought about what had happened at the hospital and shrugged mentally.  Time enough to sort out morality later.  Death didn’t allow for much time to weigh pros and cons.  Only the living had the luxury of philosophy and scruples.

After a moment, as he had to press harder on the zombie to hold him in place, Peter glanced quickly to the side.  The Guardsman was standing there with a sick expression on his face, not moving.

“Goddamnit!” Peter roared, first almost losing, then almost swallowing, the long strip of plastic in his mouth.  “Cuff him!”

Blinking, the Guardsman came forward and took the zip tie, then reached hesitantly to fit it around the zombie’s wrists.  Peter grunted again as the zombie flexed its arms against his hold, not twisting or fighting as a normal person would, but merely pushing with raw strength alone.

He heard the distinctive sound that gave the zip ties their name as the Guardsman finally got the end seated in the zipper and pulled.  Peter grabbed the end from him and gave it a second tug when the Guardsman stepped back.  Then, satisfied, he took hold of the zombie’s upper arms and kicked its legs out from under him.

As the man fell, Peter caught and lowered him so he didn’t crack his jaw or nose on the asphalt.  He stepped back hastily when he saw the man’s head turn, starting to chew on the toe of his boot.  Pulling out another zip tie, Peter secured the victim’s ankles, then straightened and stepped away and rotated his wrist as if feeling for an injury.

“Fucker is strong.” he muttered, then turned, eyes searching across the scene.  He spotted one of the Cobb County police officers who were ‘supervising’ the accident scene.  Mentally marking the man’s location, Peter then turned back to the Guardsman and grabbed him by the arm.  Heaving with his shoulder to start him off, Peter walked him away from the victim, then shoved him back against the hood of the SUV and jabbed his finger in the man’s chest.

“When you’re given an order, you fucking follow it.  Immediately!”  He said, face furious as he leaned in to put his nose inches away from the Guardsman’s.

“But sarge–” the man began, only to have Peter poke him in the chest again.

“That’s Master Gunnery Sergeant.” he growled.  “I don’t care what you do when you’re not out playing soldier in the woods one weekend a month, you’re active now, and you will follow the chain of command and obey and execute the orders you’re given by your superiors!  Is that clear?”

The Guardsman hesitated, and Peter saw his eyes flick worriedly in the direction of Foreman, still standing a short distance away.  “I asked, is that clear?” Peter repeated.  The ad-hoc and sudden appearance of Peter in the unit’s midst hadn’t been taken with the automatic acceptance that might have been hoped for.  It wasn’t anything like open revolt or disdain, but there was an undertone of uncertainty in how some of the Guardsmen reacted to him.

Peter had to keep reminding himself the Guardsmen were reservists, many of whom weren’t even former active service.  One weekend a month and two weeks a year wasn’t always enough to do much more than really offer an introduction into proper military protocol.  But he had assured Dan he could handle it, and he never said something he didn’t intend to follow up on.

“Clear, Master Gunnery Sergeant.” the Guardsman said with a nod as Peter glared at him.

“Good.” Peter growled, stepping back.  “Now check the back of this vehicle to make sure there’s not another one in it, then see if the engine will start.  If it does, move it off the road.”

Peter spun and headed for the police officer he’d spotted.  As he passed Foreman, he saw the captain wink at him, and just shook his head slightly with an even more faint shrug in response.  “Officer?  Officer, we got another one over here.” Peter called when he was a dozen strides from the policeman.

* * * * *

“You think anything gonna come of all the bullshit they dealing with up in Atlanta?” Tiny asked.

Darryl shrugged.  “Dunno.”

“Think we far enough away if something does happen.”

“Dunno.”

“Shit DJ, you know anything?”

Darryl grinned.  “Dunno.”

The party had spilled out of the clubhouse.  Or, rather, it had been induced to migrate outside by the smells of grilling meat and the folding table of condiments and side dishes.  The outdoor speakers had been hung, both front and back, and turned up enough to risk one of the neighbors across the lake calling in a noise complaint if any of them wanted to use their patios or back yards and didn’t like the selection being played.

In the backyard, a fire had been started and allowed to collapse into coals in the fire pit, and the iron grates had been set in place over it for cooking.  Burgers and hot dogs had gone on first, enough stack up several plates to beyond full.  Now ribs were grilling, smelling wonderful.  Darryl knew they’d have been better if they’d been done slower, but people were hungry, and even quick cooked ribs would work out okay.

People had continued to arrive.  True to his promise, Darryl had kept an eye on the newcomers; setting himself into one of the comfortable wooden chairs on the front porch.  The little table next to him was big enough for an ashtray, a fresh beer, and his pack of smokes.  The kids who were roaming around sufficed to fetch him a fresh beer at need, and with the tunes and some conversation, Darryl was enjoying the last vestiges of the afternoon quite a bit.

He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been this many people at the clubhouse.  It had to be up past a hundred now, probably more like a hundred and twenty.  The kids were hard to get a count on, most of them only stopped moving if they were glued to a video game controller.  It was pretty unusual for this many kids, really any, to be here.  There wasn’t a rule against it, exactly, but the clubhouse was considered to be an adults hangout.

But whatever anyone other than Bobo thought about what was happening today, just about every Dog or Dog family member had decided a trip out to the clubhouse was a fine idea.  Dozens of cars were lined up next to the barn, which itself was so full of motorcycles some had been parked up against the back of the farmhouse.

Fortunately most of the newcomers had brought things with them.  Some had dragged along sleeping bags and pillows for later, others had thought to bring more chairs and lawn furniture.  Most had brought drinks, beer winning out by a three to one ratio over soft drinks or hard liquor.  A number of bottles had been added to the bar though, and the bar was definitely open.  The music kept getting louder as the party got busier.

Soon, Darryl thought as he tapped out a fresh smoke, the serious drinking would begin.  Without the promise of a ride, which Bobo was flatly forbidding through sheer force of personality, the only thing to do would be drink and party.  Darryl knew that’s exactly what was going to happen; was happening in fact.  If there was no reason to stay sober enough to take a ride on the bikes, most of the Dogz would not bother limiting what they drank.

It suited him just fine.  He lit his latest smoke and reached for his beer.  Just as his hand closed on the cold can, he heard something over the music that made him pause.  The music was loud, coming from multiple points in and around the clubhouse, but beneath it he heard something else.

“Someone screaming?” Tiny asked in his deep, rumbling voice.  The biker was one of two Dogz in the club who were taller than Darryl, in fact Tiny was the tallest by a good bit.  He towered a full head past Darryl’s own six foot four, and was built like the construction worker he was.

“I ain’t sure.” Darryl said, straining his ears.

“Man, people need to relax.  Party just getting started.” Tiny said, shaking his head and sipping from the plastic cup he’d brought out to the porch with him.  Darryl had already asked; it had a generous measure Jägermeister in it.

Darryl stood up, his hand drifting towards the Glock still riding his belt beneath his shirt.  “Watch the front for me.”  He said, turning to go into the clubhouse.

“Watch for what?” Tiny called after him.  Darryl didn’t pause, he just went through the clubhouse at a fast walk.  The screams seemed to be coming from the backyard.  As he went past the kitchen he saw a couple of the girls who were tending to whatever tasks needed doing looking curiously at him. 

As he neared the back door, the screaming grew louder.  Not just louder, there were more screams now.  It wasn’t just one person, or even two or three.  It sounded like more.  He didn’t run, but he quickened his pace until he was almost jogging by the time he reached the back door.  Bursting outside, Darryl paused as he surveyed the scene.

At first glance, he thought maybe a brawl was happening.  It was rare for any serious fighting, defined as something that sent a brother to either the hospital or jail, to occur, but it did happen occasionally.  But Darryl discounted this theory almost immediately when he saw at least two children visible amid the knots of tussling bodies.

Now that he was out back, the screaming had resolved itself into two kinds.  The first was the kind that happened during almost any fight, people yelling advice or making calls for the participants to knock it the hell off.  The second kind though, that was what had drawn his attention.  It was pain fueled, filled with a measure of panic and adrenaline that allowed it to carry over every other noise competing for listening space.

“What the fuck is going on?” Darryl asked loudly.  He saw a couple of children sitting on the ground near the fire pit with adults leaning down over them.  There was blood visible, and one of the kids looked to be having a seizure of some kind, he was shaking so much.  The wounds they were bleeding from were raw and ugly, not scrapes or minor cuts; but gaping injuries that looked serious.

“Some of the kids just collapsed, then started attacking people.” Evil said.

Darryl glanced at him briefly, partially in shock, but mostly struck by recollection from the news he’d seen in the Del Rey earlier.  And Bobo’s urgings as well.  People were getting sick.  Be looking for people who are sick.  And now it was here.  “Oh fuck.” Darryl said slowly, not really cursing as much as groaning verbally.

Evil’s comment told Darryl what to look for, and now it was easy to pick the details out.  There were three separate fights ongoing, each one centered around a kid.  Two of the kids were small, definitely in elementary school; but the third was old enough to be taller and bigger.  Not quite up to full adult size, but close.  And all three, big or small, were ignoring the adults who were trying to pull them off whoever they were clinging to.

Darryl saw Ratboy, Ape and Hooligan were the ones doing a lot of the second kind of yelling at the moment.  They were the ones the three kids who were the cause of everything were attached to.  Each Dog had a child hanging off an arm, or in Ratboy’s case his neck, where the child seemed to be busy chewing and gnawing.  Blood was flowing, thick and bright, around each child’s mouth.

Two or three Dogz were trying to pry the kids off their current victims, with little success.  Darryl wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t looking at it with his own eyes, here in person, but a girl who had to be six or maybe seven was resisting the combined efforts of Bones, Shooter and Fish as they tried to pull her away.  Her arms and legs were locked around Ratboy’s chest and midsection, her face buried against the side of his neck.  Ratboy’s screams were starting to weaken.

“Move!  Fucking move!” Darryl heard.  His eyes snapped over as Bobo suddenly appeared, running with surprising speed for someone of his age and size.  It wasn’t fair to call Bobo fat, but he was heavy, and he was nearing sixty.  Yet the old biker sprinted toward the closest brawl, a familiar and deadly shape visible in his hand.

A woman behind Darryl started screaming abruptly.  A couple of other people in the backyard were yelling or screaming as well.  Darryl made out a few calls of ‘stop’ or ‘what you doing?’, but if Bobo heard them or thought they were directed at him, he ignored them.

Bobo arrived at the first group of wrestling, pulling bodies and shouted again.  Darryl watched as brothers abruptly stepped back from Ape and the boy chewing on him as they registered the pistol in Bobo’s hand.  When everyone was out of the way, Bobo leaned in and put the gun to the side of the assailant’s head and pulled the trigger without delay.

Darryl didn’t even have time to blink.  The gunshot sounded in unison with shouts of surprise and anguish, and with a sudden shower of . . . stuff . . . from the far side of the boy’s head.  Despite the shocking suddenness of the incident, Darryl dimly noted there wasn’t nearly as much blood as he would have expected.

The boy went limp immediately, falling away from Ape as the biker scrambled back on his ass.  The man’s arm was bleeding heavily, and Darryl made another observation almost absently as he saw Ape’s wound seemed to be far more bloody than the kill shot on the boy who’d caused it.

Bobo took one quick look at the boy he’d shot, then darted for the next one.  Here the bikers trying to pry the girl off Ratboy had already scattered.  Bobo was able to run up and jam the gun in between the girl’s head and Ratboy’s neck without having to wait for people to get clear.  Darryl had time to recognize Bobo was angling the gun so the shot would go past, not into, Ratboy, then it went off a second time.

Another spray of gore, again more chunky than bloody, and the girl abruptly went limp and released Ratboy.  The biker staggered back a couple of steps and collapsed to his knees.  Blood gushed out around his fingers, running over his hands that were clapped over the wound in his neck.  His eyes kept darting around, looking for a lifeline that could save him.  Darryl didn’t know if there was anything they could do.  It looked like a lot of blood coming from Ratboy’s neck.

He heard a third gunshot, and jerked his eyes to the final child attacker.  While he’d been looking at Ratboy’s dire straits, Bobo had dealt with the last problem.  The little body, corpse now, tumbled away from the Dog he’d been trying to eat.  There was a pause of maybe a couple of seconds, where almost everything seemed to stop.  Then, just as abruptly, it seemed like everyone was yelling or shouting or screaming all at once.

A couple of people pushed past Darryl, and he dimly realized he was still sort of standing in the doorway.  As he moved, he further realized the people coming past him were women, and they were running towards the children.  No, that wasn’t entirely true.  Two of them were running at Bobo.  And they weren’t the only ones; three more Dogz were just beginning to step toward him.  They looked angry.

Darryl swore and broke into a run.  His boots weren’t the best for running, but they’d do in a pinch.  It wasn’t like he was about to do twelve minutes on the court.  It never occurred to him to draw his gun; he wasn’t intended on shooting anyone.  He’d never needed a gun to solve problems before, and wasn’t about to start now.  This was something he could handle, though he wasn’t sure, yet, how he’d keep five people from piling onto Bobo all at once.

Bobo apparently had other thoughts, about guns and being piled on.  He raised the pistol into the air and fired twice, then dropped it level to point at those who were encroaching upon him.  They froze.  Well, four of them.  The fifth, one of the women, was blubbering at the top of her lungs as she continued toward Bobo.

Darryl lengthened his stride, reached out, and managed to wrap her up in a bear hug only a few steps short of Bobo.  Staggering, trying to keep from knocking her over, Darryl spun her away from the older biker.  He let her go, but she turned almost immediately and tried to get past him again.  Darryl pushed her back twice, then went back in for another bear hug when she kept trying to reach Bobo.

“Let her go!” Zeebo shouted.

“Put the fucking gun down.” Chrome yelled.

“Back off.” Bobo yelled back.  “Y’all need to calm down.”

Darryl felt the woman in his arms shifting and leaned his head over to the side just in time.  Hers snapped back, trying to head butt him, but only thumped against his neck fairly uselessly.  He had her arms enfolded, so she couldn’t do much except wiggle and strain against his, but a moment later she was trying to kick him.

Frowning, Darryl realized he wasn’t sure how to proceed.  Normally, at this point when someone he needed to restrain was doing this, he’d apply a pain hold to get them to comply.  Occasionally he would do a little damage of his own to encourage them to knock it off.  He didn’t want to do either of those things now.

But as she tried to inflict damage on him, she was crying loudly, and didn’t seem to be really very interested in actually hurting him.  She just wanted him to let her go.  Through her tears she kept repeating ‘Michael’ and ‘killed’ over and over.  He didn’t want to escalate things, or actually hurt her.  He just didn’t want her to hurt anyone else, or force Bobo into maybe shooting her.

As he tried to think of something to do, a trained voice boomed out and cut through the chaos in an instant.  “In the name of the Lord our God, stop this madness!”

All the yelling and talking went silent immediately.  The woman in his arms stopped struggling.  Darryl looked over at the clubhouse, where an elderly man wearing slacks and a buttoned shirt was standing in the doorway, seeming to look at everyone at once.  The man’s stooped shoulders straightened as much as they were able for someone in his eighties, but when he spoke again, there was no doubt he was who had shouted a moment ago.