Apocalypse Atlanta (72 page)

“Sarge, we’re barely making a dent!” Peter heard Whitley yell loudly.  Peter, in the instant of attention he gave over to the thought, figured there were maybe half the rifles still shooting.  He closed his eyes and kept throwing his strength against the knife’s hilt, willing the brake to move.

His hands were screaming in agony, but the pad finally wedged out and away from the wheel.  “Okay, done.” Peter gasped, and dropped the knife as soon as Hernandez’s hands left his.  Peter couldn’t get all of his fingers to work properly, but he didn’t need his fingers right now.  He scrabbled back out from under the SUV and staggered to his feet.

“Push the car!” he yelled over the sound of the rifle fire that was targeting incoming zombies.

“Did you fix it?” Candles asked.

“Push damnit.” Peter gasped as loudly as he could, reaching for the wheel well again.  He could barely feel it when his hands came into contact with the inner edge of the well again, but when he tugged along with the others he felt the car move.

“Yes!  Move motherfucker!” Smith shouted as the SUV rolled back from the overturned semi trailer.  After the SUV had moved a few feet a couple of the soldiers were able to move around and push on it properly from the front end.  That got it going pretty good after a few seconds, and abruptly the path was clear.

Except for about a thousand zombies.  A double handful were only a few staggering steps from being within arm’s reach of the closest soldiers.

“Bus!” Peter gasped, turning.  There were spots in his vision, and he suddenly felt a little light headed.  He stumbled and almost went down as he tried to break into a jog.  As he caught himself just in time, an arm abruptly looped itself around his waist, lifting.  Whitley got her shoulder braced up under his as he threw his own arm across her shoulders, and with her help he managed to break into a fairly ugly looking stagger towards the bus.

He heaved himself up the steps and collapsed into the handicap seats right behind the driver.  His hands were both bleeding, the left more than the right, from compression cuts and wide abrasions the knife’s hilt had left across his palms.  There were also white marks on the insides of his fingers that were throbbing steadily.

“Team leads, sound off!” Whitley shouted.  Peter looked up, trying to blink away the blurriness in his vision.

“Two.”

“Three good.”

“Four go go go!” Mendez said.

“Am I driving?” Jenkins asked.

“Yes!” about half the people on the bus shouted back.

“Okay!” Jenkins blurted.  There was a hiss and a rattle as the doors closed, then a rumble as the brakes released.  They’d barely started rolling forward when the bus suddenly braked hard enough to throw Peter sideways into the back of the divider that separated the driver’s seat from the handicap section.

“She cut me off!” he heard Jenkins mutter.  Peter craned his neck and saw the CRX, Crawford presumably back behind the wheel, was in front of the bus and rolling straight for the pack of zombies that was squeezing through the opening in the tangle of wrecked vehicles.

“Close up behind her.” Peter said, shaking his head.  The pain was receding, and his head wasn’t feeling quite as thick.

“What’s she doing?” Whitley asked wonderingly.

“Trying to act as a cow catcher.” Peter said, pushing against the seat and standing.  He managed to get himself leaning forward against the driver’s divider as Jenkins stepped on the gas again.  With his feet and legs pushing on the floor, he was able to wedge himself against the divider somewhat securely.  “Follow her.”

“How close?” Jenkins asked.  “Hang on!” he added quickly, much louder.  There was a crunch of metal as the bus scraped through the blockage.  The driver’s side of the bus was dragging along the back of the trailer on the left, but they were still moving.  It was just a scrape, not enough to stop them.  Peter saw the CRX cutting, pushing, through the zombies, but he figured it couldn’t last.

“She’s probably going to stall out pretty damn quick.” Peter said, blinking a few times.  He was so tired.  “Probably after the first few ranks of zombies.  Just ram into her from the back and keep going.”

“Uh, okay.” Jenkins said, sounding uncertain.

Peter said nothing, just watching through the windshield.  The little CRX was about fifteen or so feet ahead of the accelerating bus, but it was slowing rapidly as it plowed through zombies.  Bodies flew, mostly back, but some off to one side or the other.  Just as he’d expected, the car was tuned for looks and going fast on a street, and that cost it much of the torque and power that would keep it moving against the mass of zombies in its path.  However, as it stalled the bus was abruptly closing on it fast enough to be alarming.

“Keep going!” Peter said as he felt the bus slow a little.

“We’re going to hit her.”

“Hit her then!” Whitley said in an annoyed voice.

Peter managed to get the fingers of his right hand to close around the railing on the outer edge of the driver’s divider just as they hit the back bumper of the CRX.  Peter felt a shudder, dimly heard a faint crunch of metal on metal, but they were still moving.  “Put your foot down!” Peter said.

“How fast?”

“Put the fucking pedal on the fucking floor.” Peter yelled.  He saw the CRX weaving, just a touch, as the bus pushed it from behind; saw Crawford visibly struggling with the steering wheel as she tried to keep the racer lined up ahead of the bus.  Jenkins finally complied, and the bus’ engine roared very loudly.  There wasn’t a dramatic burst of acceleration, but there was enough to be felt.

“Yeah man, yeah!” he heard Teves yell as their speed crept up slowly, a bow wave of zombies tumbling over and around the CRX as it plowed forward with the bus’ power behind it.  There was a crack as one zombie went all the way over the top of the Honda and managed to smack head first into the passenger side of the windshield.  It slid down against the glass, but with the bus jammed up against the CRX’s back bumper that was where it stopped.  Peter saw it moving, under its own power, and starting to try and stand up.

Peter saw Whitley’s lips moving, and thought his hearing was going out again.  He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it looked like she was voicing some sort of prayer.  Shrugging it off, he focused on the path ahead.  They were maybe halfway through the mass of zombies and still going strong.  He could see the far side of the pack approaching, where it thinned out rapidly and became road with some zombies rather than a whole lot of zombies covering the road.

The zombie caught between the CRX and the bus turned its head and saw the humans on the other side of the large panes of safety glass.  It paused on one knee and slammed a fist into the windshield.  Peter wasn’t sure if he would be able to shoot effectively, his hands were still trembling and throbbing.  He also wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea to take out the windshield.  The longer they could keep that glass intact, the better it probably would be for them.

He was saved from having to decide when the zombie slipped suddenly and fell off to the side.  Refocusing, he looked at the CRX critically.  He saw Crawford still struggling behind the wheel, but now with more than just steering.  Some shots sounded, and he realized her windshield had probably collapsed.  The CRX’s shape, the same shape that made it so good as a make-shift cowcatcher, also tended to roll a lot of what it hit forward over the hood where it then impacted the windshield.  There were only so many impacts it could take before breaking.

“She’s going to die.” he heard Jenkins moan.

“Keep going.” Peter repeated.

“I’m going!”

“Good.”

The bus roared through the zombies, rocking as some zombies managed to get under the wheels one way or another.  But the weight and mass and power of the big vehicle were telling, keeping it in motion.  Bodies were being ground beneath the bus, causing it to judder as zombies fell beneath.  And an enormous percentage were being shunted aside by the CRX.

It was working.  They were breaking through.  Peter heard cheers start again as they broke out the far side of the pack and back into open road.  He felt the bus slow almost immediately.

“Christ, what are you stopping for?” he heard Candles ask.

“I think Crawford might be hurt or something.” Jenkins said.  “She’s weaving a lot.”

“Don’t stop here!” Candles said.  “The damn zombies are right behind us.  Go some more.”

“I don’t want to drive anymore.” Jenkins muttered, loud enough for Peter to hear, but he kept going.  Peter was ignoring everything else as he focused on the CRX.  He could see Crawford in the driver’s seat, her left hand still on the steering wheel making corrections.  But she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her ‘driving’.  Jenkins might be right, the CRX was weaving a lot more as the bus pushed it along.

“Slow down.” Peter said abruptly.

“Sarge, we’re too damn close to the pack.” Candles said immediately.

“I said slow down, not stop.” Peter shot back.  “Something’s wrong with her, and I’m concerned she might lose control of the car.  We can drop down to ten miles an hour and still keep opening the distance to the zombies.”

Candles muttered something Peter didn’t hear, but the Guardsman didn’t object further as Jenkins eased up on the accelerator.  The bus shed speed, falling to about jogging pace.  Peter shifted his position, finding places where he could look in the mirror on the passenger side.  The zombie pack was being left behind, and the channel the bus had rammed through was slowly filling in as the zombies turned to pursue their prey.

They traveled about half a mile like that, the CRX being shoved along by the MARTA bus, until Peter finally tapped Jenkins on the shoulder.  “Stop for a minute.  Open the door.”

“Here?”

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, flexing his fingers.  The pain wasn’t gone, his joints ached whether he was using them or holding still, but the throbbing was slowly receding and feeling was starting to return.  He put his hand on the grip of the M45 in his holster as an experiment, and decided if necessary he’d be able to draw and fire with at least some facility.  “Whitley, cover right when we stop, okay?”

“Got it.” Whitley said.  Her expression was strained, with wide eyes and pale skin, but she shifted her M-16 into firing position and gave a single jerky nod.  Jenkins braked to a halt, and the doors hissed open.  Whitley clumped down and turned to the right, facing back the way they’d come.  Before Peter could follow her, Swanson shoved past him abruptly.

“Sarge, you’re dead on your feet.” the soldier said.  “Stay here, I’ll get her.”

Peter had time to blink, then Swanson was down the steps and sprinting for the CRX.  The little Honda had rolled forward about twenty or twenty-five feet when the bus stopped, coming to a halt off to the right a little.  Peter saw Swanson pull on the handle of the driver’s door, then pull again with both hands.

“Is it locked?” Barker asked from behind Peter.

Before anyone could answer, Peter saw Swanson abruptly duck away from the door.  He got clear, moving toward the rear of the Honda, just as a trio of shots sounded and the safety glass on the driver’s window exploded outward.  The barrel of Crawford’s M-16 poked out of the opening, followed a moment later by her hand groping at the roof.

“How long to get her?” Whitley yelled.

“Coming out now.” Peter heard Swanson holler back.  He was back at the window, pulling on Crawford’s arm and shoulder to help her through the shattered window.

“Hurry.” Whitley replied.  Peter looked out the right side bus windows and saw a pair of zombies only fifteen feet distant, staggering closer.  He descended to the bottom step and reached into his ammunition pouch to check what was left in it.

“Whitley, kill those two.”

“I’ve got maybe half a magazine left.” she replied.

“I’ve got more.  Kill them, then take this mag.” Peter said, pulling a fully loaded thirty-round magazine out of the pouch.  He had two left, the one in his AR and one more, then he was down to the loose rounds in the boxes that were buried in the bottom of his pack.

Whitley’s weapon barked almost immediately.  Her first shot dropped one of the zombies immediately, but it took her another four to track in for a killing blow on the other.  She ejected the magazine and turned to Peter with it.  He traded her for the full one, stuffing her nearly empty one in with his other empties.  As he got it tucked away he glanced forward again.

Crawford was out of the CRX now, walking to the bus cradling her right arm by the wrist.  Swanson was right behind her, acting as if he expected her to collapse or stagger at any moment.  But Crawford’s stride stayed sure, and she made it to the bus without incident.  Peter moved back from the door as she mounted the steps, still closely followed by Swanson.

“You okay?” Peter asked.  There was gore all across her front, from her face down to her legs, and her right sleeve had a long tear on the forearm.  No, a burn, he realized after a moment’s inspection.  The edges were scorched black, and the opening lacked any of the loose threads that would be present with a normal rip.

“Did you get bit or something?” Hernandez spoke up.

“Yes, and no.” Crawford said.

“You don’t look like it’s no.” Hernandez observed.

“Yes I’m okay, no I didn’t get bit.  This is zombie blood.” Crawford said.  “The windshield caved in, and I had to shoot a bunch of them that were hanging on and trying to pull me out.”