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

buildings to the right of the roadway.  Signage they’d already passed indicated it was some sort of casino, which was borne out by the enormous amount of blacktop parking and lack of anything even remotely industrial.
    The problem was the buildings and parking lot had a very healthy population of zombies populating them; easily threatening four digits in number.  The creatures were wandering around aimlessly amid the vehicles present on the blacktop, in and around the buildings, and spilling out into the moderately landscaped grass and grounds surrounding the construction.
    “Not our problem.” Peter said.  “Yet.”
    “Looks like it might have been some sort of refugee op.” Whitley said as she looked past Smith at the scene.  The view was getting better as the truck rose along with the roadway, boosting them up to the level of the river crossing.  Peter had already looked, and saw no real reason to look further.  Unless they decided to stop and set up camp for some reason, the casino and its host of undead were no threat to them.
    “Yeah, well, it’s starting to look like not so many of those made out very good.” Smith said.
    “What d’ya expect?” Crawford asked as the truck went past some treetops to either side.  They were starting to level out as they got close to the bridge, which looked like an old fashioned and heavily built affair of steel trusses that rose up several stories above the pavement they supported.  “Get a bunch of panicked people all in one place, poor planning and some of them about to turn; and zombie math kicks into gear.”
    “Harsh.” Whitley sighed.
    “True.” Crawford shot back.  “Not like it’s my fault.”
    “A little empathy wouldn’t kill you, you know.”
    “Empathy was weeks ago.  Today there’s just staying off the slow-food menu.”
    Peter leaned forward unconsciously, looking at the bridge.  The truck was approaching it dead on — so he couldn’t see anything of it beneath the road level — but he could see the river to either side.  And as they crested the ramp and got closer, he saw a number of ships or barges or whatever were present.
    “Stop.” he said.
    “Hey, come on, for me that was downright polite.” Crawford protested.
    “Stop the fucking truck.” Peter commanded, lifting the binoculars he’d draped around his neck.  It had been weeks since he’d carried them, but an hour after starting the trip he’d dug them out of his pack and got back in the habit.  Now he put his eyes to the lenses and focused his view on the boats.
    He could see waves rippling past the watercraft along their sides, but they weren’t moving.  Peter had no idea how heavy of a current the Mississippi carried, but some of the boats were bobbing up and down against its force as they were pushed against the bridge piling.  In some ways the whole mass was sort of an oversized car crash; vehicles having come together and mangled themselves up.  But rather than being twelve to twenty (or, in the case of a semi-truck and trailer; fifty or sixty) feet long; these were hundreds.  To be fair, he saw two smaller boats stuck amid the wreckage; but the rest were all industrial craft.
    Those closest to the bridge were heavily damaged; some of them obviously taking on water as they listed heavily into the river.  Being ground together and against the bridge pilings more or less destroying the barges and boats.  And beyond the physical impact damage, he saw a lot of scorching and blackening indicating fire had taken a toll as well.  Cargo containers on the barges— all of them metal and sized for easy transfer to trains or semi-trucks — were no longer neatly ordered on the decks.  Many of the stacks had toppled, and he saw at least two floating in the water amid the pile up of boats.
    Crawford finally brought the truck to a halt, and Peter dropped the binoculars to his chest.  Looking behind himself, he quickly made sure the roadway was empty of anything