The Battle of Gwinnett County (4)
You might be wondering how we knew to dig in where we did. After all, no one had ever sussed a pattern in the way the walkers dispersed from a cylinder. I don’t know the answer, but I’ve seen enough of the Army to puzzle out a theory. One, the cylinder that fell came down somewhere to the southwest of Atlanta proper. Two, walkers usually moved toward higher population density once they reconned the area. Three, walkers didn’t tend to stop or change direction once they’d gotten started, and Lord knows, nothing we could throw at them could dictate otherwise. So the smart money would bet that the walkers would get out of their cylinders – really, would have done it before we even reached Norcross – and then drift in the direction of Atlanta and keep moving through until they reached us.
But actually, I don’t think that was it. What I know of the service and of the politicos who control it, makes me think about point 4. Four, Pike Hill and environs were direct on the line linking Atlanta to Washington, and the very brass wanted to slow down anything headed toward the capital. If the walkers drifted the other way, well, that would be some ordinance Uncle Sam would save. Who the hell cares what happens to some farmer’s field in southwest Georgia? Officially, they couldn’t say that of course, but it isn’t too hard to read between the lines.
Over everything else, of course, you have to remember: As far as we knew at the time, the walkers had a week, maybe eight days before Grace would get ‘em. It wasn’t going to be no turkey shoot – if those walkers came across us, we were going to give them hell and probably still lose – but long term, the problem would solve itself.
Norcross was crowded with refugees when we arrived, but they’d already reached high tide. Anyone who could flee the city had done so; the stream of wretched people dwindled to a trickle even before we had unloaded the train. By the time we’d set up our defensive line on Pike Hill, there wasn’t anyone left to come. No refugees crossed that line. It was eerie, waiting inside our spiderholes, peering out in the direction of Atlanta. Nothing still – not people, not even wildlife. We could see the city burning. You couldn’t tell at this distance: Had someone just been careless in their evacuation? Or had Marty let fly with his heat ray and finished the job Sherman started? A pall of acrid smoke hung over the city and drifted over our line.
“Black Smoke!” someone cried and soon the dreaded words were flashing up and down the line, hopping about like the embers we could see through the binoculars.