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

plastic-wrapped cans having tumbled to a rest in large numbers as well; and some dried stains that showed some had broken open in the wreck to spill the cans’ contents out.
    “You’re kidding me, right?” he asked as he looked back again.
    “No, it’s seriously a huge waste.” Crawford answered.
    Peter shook his head in mild amusement, but the mirth faded as he saw the ground floor windows of the building they were backing up towards suddenly shatter from within.  It had to be the structure’s lobby, with floor-to-ceiling plate glass that was typical for a corporate layout.  He didn’t have a chance to catch anything about the interior though, because zombies were pouring out.
    “Oh shit.” Whitley said, seeing it in the mirrors.
    “Don’t hit any cars.” Peter snapped as he registered just how many zombies were staggering out onto the sidewalk.  There were . . . it had to be close to a hundred of the nightmares, all shoving their way through the glass that wasn’t up to the task of resisting that many bodies pushing on it.  Window after window broke apart with sharp cracks and the tinkle of falling shards that were audible even over the truck’s engine.  What that many zombies had been doing inside the building, he couldn’t guess; but they weren’t inside anymore.
    “Rock on.” Crawford said, hitting the button to roll her window down.
    Peter didn’t bother trying to warn her off; he just jammed his hand into his breast pocket and scooped out his earplugs.  Her first bursts made him wince — the noise of the M-16’s reports echoing loudly through the truck’s interior — but then he managed to get the plugs stuffed hastily into place which cut the sound down to something he could bear.
    Whitley drove the truck straight back into the emerging crowd.  She was braking as the rear tires hit the curb and bounced up, but the vehicle’s back end sent over a dozen breathless bodies tumbling.  Inevitably, the uneven footing and tumbling corpses tripped up and slowed down the zombies, who never seemed to pay attention to where they were stepping or what they were about to walk over.  Crawford’s fire was sending more down, but the truck had done most of the damage.
    Shifting into drive as upright zombies close enough to reach slammed and banged against the rear panels of the truck, Whitley pulled forward and curved around left then braked again suddenly.  Peter caught himself against the dashboard and looked forward to see what she was considering.  There were more wrecked vehicles in the block and a half in that direction that he could see, but it didn’t look impossible.  But there was also the makings of another forming zombie horde.
    “Yeah, no.” Whitley said, catching his eye when she felt his gaze move to her.
    “Good call.” he said loudly.
    The truck accelerated backwards again, and Crawford cursed.
    “Oh come on, let me—”
    “Shut up!” Whitley said as she reversed the truck away from the lobby horde.
    “Damnit.”
    “I think you hit maybe two.” Smith observed.
    “Fuck you.” Crawford shot back.  “It’s not like I had chance to aim.”
    “It’s not like you don’t suck or anything.”
    “Shut up!” Peter ordered as Whitley reached the end of the last block they’d just crossed.
    Smith and Crawford both muttered something — different things, he was pretty sure — that he didn’t quite catch through the earplugs, but Peter ignored that too.  Whitley stopped the truck and turned away from the zombie infested street to try a different route.  She sped to the next intersection, looked south and saw another street covered in upright corpses.
    “Fuck.” she and Peter both said at the same time.  She stepped on the gas again and drove one more block to check that street.
    “Ah.” she said, sounding satisfied as she saw mostly clear pavement and a sign that indicated US-61 and I-55 were both ahead.  She made the turn and accelerated aggressively to where