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

the Humvees.  Methodically, he went over the engine.  Hoses and belts; making sure they were tight and intact, without any cuts or weak spots that indicated they might come off or break soon.  Battery and wiring; clean and without any loose connections or wear spots.  Fluids — from oil to radiator — all full.
    He knew what he was looking for, and it only took him a few minutes to decide he was as happy with the truck as he was going to be short of breaking out some tools and getting serious about crawling through, under, and around the vehicle.  Stepping back, he dropped the hood and pulled a rag out of his pocket.
    “We good?” Smith asked.
    “We’re good.” Peter nodded, wiping his hands off.  “Crawford, start it up.”
    The woman hopped up in behind the steering wheel and keyed the ignition.  The F-150’s engine turned over and caught without a hitch, settling into a smooth idle that told Peter reasonable care had been taken by its owner before the truck had been abandoned.
    “Okay, let’s figure out where this shit is going.” Whitley said, lifting one of the packs.
    “Packs in the cab.” Smith said, lifting another.
    “Gonna be crowded.” she said, opening the rear door and regarding the interior.
    “We get some rain and it’ll be a problem.” Smith said.  “And there’s no telling what kind of driving we’re going to go through.”
    “Especially if Crawford’s behind the wheel.” Peter agreed, leaning down and lifting his own pack.
    “Can’t always drive like Gunny when zombies are about to start pounding on the vehicle.” Crawford pointed out as she got out to help with the loading.  “Sometimes you’ve gotta push it.”
    “Yeah, well, this thing’s gotta last us to South Dakota, so take it easy.” Whitley told her as packs started going into the truck.
    “We’ll get there.  Gunny knows how to fix shit.”
    “Gunny doesn’t want to be on foot near a zombie horde because you broke a wheel or blew the engine.” Peter said as he went around to the passenger side and opened the front door.  The leg room in the front seats was spacious; giving him more than enough room to position his ILBE and still put his feet on the floorboard.  His pack was a little bulkier than those the other three were using; but it was his, was familiar, and was what he preferred.  He laid it down to the left of the space, leaning it against the rounded bulge dividing the left and right sides of the floorboards.
    “Rest in the back I guess?” Smith said as the last of the other packs was piled up in the middle of the rear bench seat.
    “Yeah, but let’s rig the cover into place to help keep things from bouncing out.” Peter nodded.  He wasn’t planning on the trip being long enough to need proper camping gear, even if it wasn’t suicidally dangerous to sleep out in the open with zombies wandering around.  In lieu of tarps or tents, he’d laid his hands on some bed sheets and had them loosely sewn together to form a makeshift tarp.  It wasn’t waterproof, but it wasn’t supposed to be.  He just wanted it to serve as a make-shift cargo webbing.
    There wasn’t much talk as they lashed the sheets to the truck bed at the corners, then slid the rest of their gear into the back.  It wasn’t much; some ad hoc gas cans made of other containers that had been converted for the purpose, some ammunition boxes that held a mixed case of rounds — mostly five-five-six for their rifles — and some other containers of water.  Some food, and a few odds and ends of various supplies like water purifiers that might be needed.
    “Make sure everything’s closed up tight, and throw some lines on the containers so they don’t tumble around back here and split open.” Peter said.
    “Got it.” Whitley nodded, producing a tightly coiled length of twine from one of her pouches.  Smith and Crawford pulled out knives, and Peter left them to the measuring and cutting of the twine as he went over to the