Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum by David Rogers

hit by a post-outbreak bombing, but the chaos wrought by the zombies looked to have done a respectable job of duplicating plane delivered ordinance.
    Bodies were everywhere; at least a couple per block, and usually more.  Though ‘bodies’ was stretching the definition past the breaking point.  Skeletons was more like it, usually.  Most of them had been eaten down to the bone by the undead hordes roaming through the dead city.  The remains were scattered around a little, but not nearly as badly as they would’ve if animals had done the deeds; zombies didn’t spread their dinner all over the place it seemed.
    The carnage didn’t bug Peter nearly as much as the isolation and sense of desertion.  A city the size of Memphis just felt wrong when it was so empty.  Even if it were a Sunday morning, there would be people around.  Cars would be moving about.  Some of the businesses and offices would be open.  Lights would be on.  There would be — even faintly — a background hum of noise as engines ran and machines operated, even the distant chatter of voices; the sounds of civilization.
    Not here.  The only cars were leftovers from wrecks, or occasionally simply abandoned.  Once they passed a little two seater sports coupe that had a zombie determinedly pulling at the seatbelts holding it in place behind the steering wheel.  The car itself had wrecked head-on into a panel van, but the car’s driver had ‘survived’ the collision by rising from the dead.  Of whoever had been driving the van, there was no sign.
    The zombies infesting the streets were eerie, but compared to the lack of people, they weren’t that troubling.  Peter shook his head mentally as Whitley threaded through the constant zombie presence and persistent wreckage of city and vehicles; working back and forth from block to block, turn to turn, as she directed the truck toward the southwest corner of the devastated settlement.  It wasn’t anything new at this point, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
    “Where’s my action?” Crawford complained as Whitley slowed to weave the truck through a particularly crowded intersection.  There was just barely a passable amount of space between the vehicles left all across it.  Bones crunched beneath the truck’s tires as she had no choice but to drive over the remains of dead and twice-dead bodies.  Skulls were the worst; they made a hollow crackling sound that tended to be much louder than anything else.  Though, once, a mostly intact rib cage was close to overtaking the aural title.
    And the rapid-fire popping and snapping and cracking of the ribs left Peter flinching as ice crawled along his spine.  He really didn’t enjoy listening to it.
    “We’re not out of the city yet.” Smith said.
    “Dude, don’t encourage her.” Whitley said.
    “Watch it.” Peter said sharply as she started to swing around the corner when she cleared the latest building and overturned car.  Ahead, the road she’d been about to take was completely obstructed by a delivery truck that had skidded around sideways to jam itself nearly end to end across the street.  There might have been enough room to squeeze past on the sidewalk, maybe, but the truck had come to a halt between two utility poles that left no room.
    “Yeah, shit, sorry.” Whitley said, braking.
    “Oh man, what a waste.” Smith said.
    “Yeah, no shit.” Crawford added.
    “What?” Peter asked, looking back.  He glanced at the two soldiers, but he was mostly interested in looking at what they were now backing toward as Whitley shifted into reverse and accelerated again.
    “All that beer.” Smith said, sounding mournful.
    “Finally, something we agree on.” Crawford said.
    Peter looked forward again and registered what had spilled from the truck’s cargo area.  Case after case of beer, with more visible on the shelves lining the truck’s side.  Loose cans were strewn across the pavement, cardboard flats of