by Cody Prough
Patrick peered through the window, it looked like some furniture was left, and the kitchen hadn’t been heavily raided yet from what he could tell. Hell, the windows are still intact in most places. The front door, though bashed in, was still on its hinges and he pushed it open casually. Using the barrel of his rifle, he navigated around the home, starting his way up the stairs and moving to the left, sweeping the upstairs bathroom and bedrooms before moving downwards, checking the rest of the house. Finding it completely empty he decided to make a stop in the kitchen, and came across a few old ramen noodle packets, canned corn, and God’s gift to the world, spicy beef jerky. Combined with the old bottle of vodka Nick had stashed in his closet, Patrick was in for a hell of a night, just as soon as he barricaded the front door.
His supplies were spread out on the ground behind the tipped over pool table in the basement, making a barricade in case anyone rushed down the stairs. He piled up furniture and old shirts, filling in the basement window and blocking it off from the night that was fast approaching. Setting up a MAG light and taking out the journal, he began writing his research for the day in the back of his aging black book.
Patrick McKinley,
Location: Saint Joseph, Illinois
I have uncovered new information about the creatures (popular term appears to be “lurkers”) They appear to be originating from, or making, holes in the ground. The depths of which are unexplored as of yet. I have filed this information in the back of the journal. Intending to stop for ammunition along the way, I am heading towards Mahomet. Ammo for my rifle is scarce, switching to handguns to deal with survivors. Hopefully no snipers are present in this town, though the tagging on the walls seem to indicate otherwise.
I plan on spending many nights here, it looks as though the town itself is relatively untouched. Temperature outside should be rising soon (I hope) melting the snow. Perhaps a sweep for vehicles, they can’t all be gone, the truck proved that. It would just be a matter of finding a clear enough path out of town, the roads are filled with rubble even as the houses are mostly fine, possibly a tactical move to prevent vehicular travel. Derelict vehicles litter all roadways leading in and out of town as well, and several residential streets. The National Guard seemed to claim all working vehicles. View is mostly obstructed by houses when approaching from the east via US-150. Travel to this region will be documented in the back of the book.
Patrick had leaned his rifle against the wall, his journal lay closed by the bottle of vodka and jerky. His main sidearm lay next to his leg, which is where he left it to go relieve himself upstairs. Keeping his compact .25 in his coat pocket.
God, I need new clothes. Too bad Nick was so damn small.
Taking the steps, one at a time, he decided to choose a room upstairs to lay his waste in, the plumbing hadn’t worked in ages. First, up to the kitchen, making a semi-circle to the stairs and going upwards more. The living room had been barricaded shortly after he arrived so as not to let any creatures or uninvited survivors in. But perhaps that’s why, groggy and half-drunk, he had not noticed the slightly smaller set of footprints leading up the stairs, and the slightly adjusted barricade. Dark muddy prints about a size smaller than his, leading off to Nick’s old room as he continued going straight. Rubbing his eyes, pushing open the door and undoing his belt before proceeding to the corner and squatting.
It was during this moment that his new visitor had heard and came out of his room while Patrick was at his most vulnerable. Luckily with his pants already down, as the door creaked open and at the end of a long, single shotgun barrel stood Lamar Jones, shaking and sweating. However, the effect still stood, and Patrick released his bowels much quicker than anticipated. “Don’t fuckin’ move, man!” Lamar shouted, sweat pouring down his forehead, hastily trying to wipe his brow while still aiming at his new captive. “Swear t’God I’ll blow you away, man.” Patrick froze. How long had he been here? Oh God, I’m going to die with my own shit rolling down my leg…
“It’s cool, ma…” Lamar’s finger slipped, the gun moved and jerked forward, and, with some amazement, made the most satisfying noise known to any man on the other end of the barrel.
Click.
Lamar jerked around, sprinting towards the stairs. However, in his panic, he found the doorframe first. Just as Patrick was finding his pants, pulling them up his disgusting legs. It was a quick recovery, Lamar had split his forehead open and lay on the ground, rubbing his head and attempting to get up. Patrick, not being very fond of this idea, decided to use Lamar’s shotgun as a club for the moment, smacking Lamar over the head and knocking him out.
“God damn it…”
Patrick glanced down at his legs, starting to take off his pants. “Hey, you awake?” Patrick nudged Lamar with his foot, glancing around. “I’m borrowing some clothes. Hope you don’t move.” Patrick took the .25 out of his jacket, moving towards Nick’s old room and stumbling as he did so, finding Lamar’s duffel bag and searching through it until he found a cleaner (and somewhat) better smelling outfit. All the while Lamar lay in the hallway, knocked out.
Chapter Nine
When Lamar finally woke up he was tied to a chair in the basement. It wouldn’t be the worst experience of his life, except that one of the chair’s wheels were missing, and the man he had held up with his unloaded gun, sat across from him. Shotgun shells lay around the shotgun, which he would have to assume is now loaded, and a variety of weapons Lamar hadn’t known he’d had. But mostly it was the wheel that was bothering him. “Who the fuck’re you?!” The stranger barked his slurred question at him. His breath smelled, he was wearing Kaden’s clothes, the son of a bitch. “Fuck. You.” Lamar’s head was aching. Had he been bleeding? It felt like it, the entire left side of his head was warm, and it felt sticky, and pounding like someone used a jackhammer on his head. He could still see his breath, his teeth clattering together, it was freezing down here. Why were they in the basement?
“All right, take two.” Patrick took his larger handgun, he lightly tapped Lamar’s head for a few moments before drawing back, quickly pistol-whipping Lamar in the left side of his head.. Pain flared up, racing through his body. His eyes started to tear up, but he wouldn’t let this asshole see him cry. He was done letting people see him cry, not anymore. “So. I’ll start.” Patrick pushed some stuff aside, taking a chair with all its wheels…
Lucky bastard.
…And sat across from Lamar. He seemed to be a little sluggish; he was probably drinking. The guy barely looked to be in his twenties, but still a few years older than himself.
“I’m Patrick. Pleasure to meet you.”
Lamar couldn’t speak, his mouth wouldn’t move. This man had an AK-47 assault rifle, handguns, and had already beaten him and had him tied up.
“Now, why’d you try and get the drop on me?” He tipped back in his chair; a half-eaten block of dry ramen sat next to a bottle of vodka. That explained the way he was behaving, alright. I wonder if it’ll be enough to trick ‘em.
“I’m Lamar, man…” Lamar’s voice trailed off, his voice was weak. He hadn’t had anything to drink for a while and the beating didn’t help.
“Lamar, cool, like in Grand Theft Auto. I dig it.” Patrick pushed back, his chair gliding across the basement floor, over to a tipped over pool table. From behind it, he produced two bottles of water and a protein bar.
“Now, Lamar. Who’re you with?” Lamar could barely hear him; the pain was throbbing and sharp. He eyed the supplies greedily. “With? Man, nobody…” Lamar’s voice trailed off. He watched as a bottle of water sailed towards his face, smacking him in the nose and stunning him momentarily while it bounced down to the floor.
“See, if you were telling the truth your hands would’ve been free to catch that. Y’know?” Patrick bent down in the chair with some difficulty, grabbing the bottle of water and sitting back up. “So, you survived this long by yourself and with an empty shotgun?” Patrick unscrewed the water bottle, tipping it up to Lamar’s mou
th. The liquid, so refreshing, poured into his mouth. He sucked at the bottle, relishing every drop he was allowed before the tide created in the bottle began to go back inside, teasing him with its refreshing flow.
“OK. So, you can talk, now.” Patrick screwed the bottle closed, taking his own and opening the protein bar, tossing a piece in his mouth. “Keep it up and I’ll finish the bar before you even get a piece.” Lamar was looking around; it was all dark except for the blue LED glow of the MAG light. He blinked heavily, letting his eyes adjust. “I had my brother with me, man.” Patrick seemed to consider this, tipping forward and holding the protein bar out to Lamar. “Don’t take more than a couple bites, though. This has to last.” Lamar took one large bite, chewing gratefully. Patrick took another piece, tossing it into his own mouth.
“All right, so how long ago did you two…, well how long since he hasn’t been with you?” Lamar caught the shift in his voice, he had been about to ask when he died wasn’t he? “It’s been a couple of weeks, that’s all.” Lamar replied with a somewhat renewed voice. “An’ I ran out of the last of the food a few days ago, I’ve been looking into houses. When I got into this one I heard you comin’ up the stairs…” Lamar was letting it all pour out of him now. God damn it, Lamar. Get it together. Patrick, as swiftly as he had tipped forward, seemed to lose his drunken state, swinging quickly around behind Lamar, producing a knife. “Hey, the fuck…” Lamar felt a sudden release of tension in his hands, he could move them again. He started to rub them and move them around as his feet became untied as well.
“You see, Lamar. I’m not such a bad guy.” Patrick said as he stood, producing his handgun from his waistline. “But you can’t stay here.” Lamar’s face dropped. This was the first person he had seen since his brother had…. Don’t think about it. Left. And now here he was, being forced out without so much as his gun. “Can I get the shotgun? It was a gift.” Patrick looked as if to consider this briefly, shaking his head. “Sorry, kid. Can’t risk you comin’ back with it and putting buckshot in my ass.” Lamar could practically feel the cold wind outside already, not to mention the monsters. It was dark outside; he was sure of it. “Let me stay, just until it’s bright outside. You know it’s safer during the day, there’s less of them.” Lamar could feel sweat starting to form on his brow, his hands shaking. “You can’t be for real, man. I’ll be dead out there.” Patrick shrugged, his gun waving at the stairs. “You either go up the stairs, or I’m putting bullets in you.” Lamar froze, unsure of the seriousness in his would-be robbery victim’s voice.
Several hours later, Lamar was tied back up to the old bar in the basement and asleep. His hands bound together and tied with some slack to the post on the bar, with a waste bucket, protein bar, and bottle of water. Along with a small pile of blankets. Patrick, however, did not sleep, as he was no longer in the basement.
Chapter Ten
“I can’t believe it.” He heaved. His breath was spiked with icy pain. But who could care at a moment like this? Steve was peering through his rifle scope, explaining his disbelief to himself only. “Fuckin’ trucks, vans, busses an’ all that shit.” The barrel of the rifle traced one such path, following a fully loaded bus, sheets of tin roofing and plywood were attached to the windows, slots cut out (for weapons, Steve imagined). Men shuffled in and out, carrying a variety of weapons and boxes of supplies.
Are they makin’ a break for it? Or just stockpiling?
Steve exhaled, the puffs of his breath leaving his mouth in short, shallow rhythm.
A whole fuckin’ garage, here. An’ all without the monsters. Looks even halfway plowed.
He had found a decent sniper’s nest, making one out of a house on State Street. Just across the road was the Mahomet School, and inside, as Steve expected, was Thomas C. Warlock. What he didn’t know was that Tommy was currently plotting a raid on the Sick Ward with the very bus he was aiming at. As soon as Dorian radioed back about seeing Steve…who, of course, was watching them.
Wonder how hard it’d be to take one of ‘em, now.
Steve stayed on watch for several more hours, surveilling well into the night. Days into his mission, much longer than he planned. Watching, as Tommy’s men started scurrying inside, watching while their vehicles were parked inside, locked up, while the guards were posted, and the first snow of a new storm started down on their heads. He finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep, taking shelter in the garage of the house, piling loose items in to the corner for cushions and warmth, hunkered down until his scouting could resume the next day, his mind drifted off to thoughts about Sarah, and not for the first time since she’d been out of his sight.
At that moment across town at the old Peterson house, in the Sick Ward, Sarah and Doc were sitting up late, talking. Doc wanted Sarah to explain why certain supplies were missing, and she was trying to explain her case without being so painfully obvious. She was, after all, the only other able-bodied person there who would have had access to the medical supplies while Steve was gone. And while Doc may have had a fondness for the bottle, he was still a man of medicine and would not steal from his patients, even in his aging years and in such dire circumstance. So, it was here, that Sarah had to explain an odd list of items.
“Does he know?” Doc had inquired. It’s been a couple days now since Steve left, the first signs of a storm were showing as the night came. Heavy snowfall coming down as Doc and Sarah were discussing matters in their council chambers, the kitchen. “I was supposed to tell him. Before he went and ran off.” Sarah had been close to tears. It’s not as if Steve and she were a thing, the options were just slim. He had been kind, possibly drunk, she had been a little drunk herself. They had gone upstairs, not trying to make any noise, but failing. Somehow the embarrassment of being caught by anyone in the Sick Ward outweighed the monsters in their drunken good stupor that night.
When they finally reached the room at the top of the stairs (where Steve had now made his sentry post, she thought not out of sheer coincidence) he had practically torn her clothing off, and she him. They didn’t bother with a bed, the walls and other furniture worked just fine. It was passionate, but quick. Luckily they didn’t need to be quiet that night, the lurkers were apparently busy somewhere else. And that, by Sarah’s process of elimination, was the time she had gotten pregnant.
Of course, Doc wasn’t told such details, as simply put she mentioned that they had “spent some time together.” Doc, not being terribly outdated, understood. “Well…” He let the word hang there, hoping she’d pick it up. After seeing her face, scared and maybe a bit guilty, he had elected to do it himself. “I suppose this complicates matters a bit. Does it not?” Sarah wasn’t even paying attention to Doc now. Her face was glazed over. She pulled at the leather jacket, wrapping it tighter around her.
Oh Christ. These two had to go at it like rabbits. And damn the rest of us with them. Doc felt a pull towards the bottle under his cot but resisted. He would have to wait. “Sarah.” He was getting impatient now. “Sarah, what shall you be doing?” She seemed to snap back to.
Finally.
“Well, I can’t exactly take care of it. But I can’t…take care of it.” She replied faintly, her eyes returning to Doc’s. He had been looking at her the whole time, hadn’t he? A shiver went up Sarah’s body, Doc had never had this look on his face before. It was…cruel. Something was off about him, was he truly upset with her for just doing what humans do?
“I’ll get you some pills. It will be…” Doc had taken a moment to consider. “Relatively painless, I think.”
“I said I couldn’t do it, Doc.” Sarah started steeling herself. She wasn’t worried about Doc physically attacking her before, but now? He was edging himself towards dangerous behavior. “Besides, when Steve gets back…”
“Steve?!” Doc threw his hands up. “You two kids had to go and screw, and now all of my patients are at risk! Why? So you can bring a screaming baby into this world? Into our quiet home? Where monsters lurk just outside
?! And where did you two fuck exactly?! In my operating area? Upstairs as well? You were supposed to be thinking about the patients, not your damn genitalia!” Doc had been storming around the kitchen, if there was anything on the counters left to throw, he probably would have, he could hardly contain his shouting, keeping it at a raised level that could almost draw in the attention of a lurker if it was close. Sarah, during all this shouting, had hardly heard a word. She was in shock but had been prepared to strike Doc if he had gotten too close. This explosive behavior was so unlike him… His temper reminded her of her father, just a bit. “Doc, calm down.” Sarah’s hands were balled into fists as she watched Doc continue his tantrum.
“There’s nothing to be done about it now, the baby is only a couple months along, probably. We can worry about this later.” Sarah replied.
“Let’s get back inside before we make too much—”
Sarah was cut off; the sound of a rifle firing had punctuated the premature end of her sentence.
Chapter Eleven
Feet kicked up on his desk and a radio sitting next to him, Tommy had been spending all day going over status reports from the field and supply numbers that he double checked; the armory, medicine, and pantry. It was an exhausting day. Now to get up to the roof and see what the area looked like. He rarely ventured up there, but he could use the fresh air. His beard was getting to be a bit itchy, maybe he would trim it down; It had started to give off a real biker look that he wasn’t fond of. The time to shave wasn’t something he found in abundance, after all. God damn, I wonder if Bug found any smokes.
Tommy grabbed the radio, jerking it towards his face.
“Hey Bug, you there?”
Static. Tommy waited for a few moments, spinning the radio absent mindedly on his desk. What was taking him so long?
