Apocalypse Atlanta (Book 4): Apocalypse Asylum Read Free Page B

sweetness almost as much as he did the ice cold temperature.  “Ahhh, now that’s something I never get tired of.”
    “Sugar?”
    “Cold soda.” Peter answered.  “But sugar’s good too.”
    “Why is Crawford trying to make that guy cry?” Whitley asked, looking past him.
    Peter didn’t bother to turn.  “He was already broken up before she got hold of him.  He forgot that weapons have recoil, but he’s fine.”
    “He’s holding his shoulder.”
    “If his shoulder was really broken he’d be a lot more upset.  She’s just explaining physics to him.”
    “Is that what we’re calling it?”
    “I guess.”
    “Does Crawford even get physics?”
    “You want to take over?” Peter arched an eyebrow at her.
    “No, I guess she’s got it.” Whitley allowed with a shrug.
    “I’ll make a decent sergeant out of you yet.”
    “Hey, you promoted me.”
    “Yup.” Peter nodded.
    “You said I was ready.”
    “I also said I didn’t have that many other options to pick from.”
    “Ouch.  Is this what you do on your days off?”
    “Drink soda and make fun of my subordinates?  Pretty much, though I used to substitute beer for the soda.”
    “We don’t have any beer.  Sawyer doesn’t want to set a precedent of spending time on stuff that doesn’t keep people alive.”
    “Mores the pity.  Calories are calories, I say.  My wi—” Peter started, before abruptly cutting himself off.  His wife had used to cook a really great chili that used four cans of beer to make up most of the liquid.  But Amy was dead — undead , actually — and there would be no more of her chili.
    “Anyway, you brought me a soda and are a subordinate.  Two-for-one in my book.” he said after a moment, trying to cover the pause.
    Whitley shook her head wryly at him, while simultaneously ignoring the verbal stumble.  “Doesn’t that earn me any brownie points?”
    Peter chuckled, reaching gratefully for the humor as a way to help put the dark thought out of his mind.  “Maybe.”
    “Hey Crawford.” Whitley called, raising her voice.
    Now Peter did turn.  The other Guardswoman was looking at them, along with the red faced civilian she’d been berating.
    “Leave him alone; get over here.  Sir, go to the infirmary; get some ice to put on it for a while.  Maybe a little Tylenol.”
    Crawford scowled as the civilian stepped back hastily before fleeing at a fast walk in the direction of the sprawling school building.  The unloading of the supplies for sorting and storage continued without him, which was no real loss.  Not only was he hurt, but there were also a lot more people willing to do things inside the secured perimeter of the camp than there were those who’d venture out to bring stuff back.
    A path had been worn into the grass around the sides and up to the back of the school building, marking where repeated trips kept the grass beat down.  Elsewhere, the vegetation was nearly waist high.  Trails led up to the doors of the building, linking them together around it from front to back, and then from the building itself out to the other various areas such as the fenced athletic fields and the ‘commons’ area between them.  That commons, a convenient middle ground centered amongst the ball fields, had become the de facto unloading zone for supply runs.
    Crawford fixed Peter with an exasperated look, then came over to the picnic table.  “I was enjoying myself.” she complained.
    “So is Gunny.” Whitley said.  “Grab a seat or you’ll spoil his mood.”
    Crawford glanced at them suspiciously.  “What’s the catch?”
    “Close your mouth or someone’ll toss a hook in it.” Peter said.
    “I’d like to see ‘someone’ live through that.” she snorted as she dropped onto the far end of the bench from Peter, using her fingers to make little quote marks in the air to punctuate her statement appropriately.
    He shrugged.  “Some of the hunting and fishing crowd are starting to settle down and