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

the Interstate crossed through the city and made that turn as well; putting them on a western course again that should —if he remembered the map correctly — take them right to the southern bridge.
    There were still a lot of zombies in view, but not enough to be a problem as long as the truck kept moving.  Peter trusted Whitley to — at worst — simply crack the headlights when she needed to use some bumper to get through a zombie that wasn’t avoidable.  Headlights being out he could deal with.  Even at night.  Those he could fix one way or another.  A busted radiator, on the other hand . . . not so much.
    “This is better.” Smith said.
    “Boring.” Crawford complained.
    Whitley sighed as the road curved slightly and the bridge came into view.  It was a more squat construction than the other one; thicker beams that didn’t soar nearly as majestically into the air above the roadway.  The number of lanes dropped to two in each direction, but even so it had a more modern feel than the I-40 bridge.
    “The point is to make it to South Dakota,” Whitley said as the truck whipped past a clump of zombies.  One of the creatures reached out to the vehicle and was both knocked down and had its arm torn off at the elbow as it made contact.  The truck didn’t even slow down or sway at the slight contact, though the zombie tumbled across the pavement behind them in one direction as its arm went skittering away in another.
    “This is totally dull.” Crawford said.
    “Safe.”
    “Boring.”
    “Christ, are we back to that?” Smith said.
    “Still on it, you mean.” Whitley replied.
    Peter was squinting at the travel lanes ahead.  Whitley drove onto the bridge, slowing some despite the zombies investing the area as she started weaving around some abandoned vehicles.  Peter was fumbling his binoculars up into his hands so he could look through them.  When he finally got them into place and focused he groaned.
    “Goddamnit.” he swore.
    “How bad is it?” Whitley asked.
    “What?” Crawford and Smith asked.
    Peter shook his head, lowering the binoculars.  The road ahead was well and truly obstructed; in both directions.  This time it was simple cars and trucks; but they stretched as far as he could see.  Hundreds, all of them packing the lanes on both sides of the bridge and rendering wheeled passage impossible.  They weren’t wrecked this time; but it would be quite an undertaking to move them all, even if each one still moved under its own power.  “We’re not getting through that unless we get out and walk.”
    “We could.” Smith suggested.  “I mean, it’s not like we wouldn’t be able to find another vehicle on the other side, is it?”
    “We could, I guess.” Peter started — even though he really didn’t think it was necessary to do something like that so early in the journey — but Crawford broke out laughing.  He turned and gave her a tolerant look.  She looked at him with an obscenely cheerful expression.  “Okay, what now?”
    “Gunny, look over there.” she said, pointing past him.
    Peter turned and looked to the right of the I-55 bridge.  A rust-brown bridge was just north of them, a curved trestle affair that looked old but sturdy.  There were railroad tracks on it, the rails shiny enough to show that even allowing for the time since the apocalypse had hit; the tracks had seen regular use.
    “Yeah, it’s a railway brid—” he began, then trailed off abruptly.  He brought the binoculars back up and scanned the length of the bridge as best he could.  “Mother fucker.”  A bridge was a bridge; what did he care if it had tracks instead of road?  The truck wouldn’t mind.  And he’d ridden rougher rides than tires over railroad ties would give.
    “Looks clear to me.” Crawford said.
    “Turning around.” Whitley said.
    “Come on, say it.” Crawford laughed.
    “Say what?” Smith asked.
    “Shut up.” Crawford said immediately.  “I wasn’t talking