Road to Grissom: Part three of the Aftermath series

by Duncan McArdle

  Some individuals chatted happily on the side of the street, while others sat in store windows – all of the road-level buildings now converted into general common areas, canteens, medical centres and other useful posts – watching the world go by. As was effectively tradition at this point, each and every one of them nodded to John as he moved past along the sidewalk, making his way two blocks north of WG.

  Above street-level, almost all of the buildings in the safe-zone were now in use as accommodation. In most cases, this hadn’t been any change from their former roles – realising the area was filled with apartments had been a welcome discovery once the area had been secured – but others had needed refitting. Windowless rooms had been made into storage, rooftops were secured and readied for use as sniper-spots should they be required, and most importantly, all former residing biters had been exterminated.

  All in all, only around fifty or so of the undead had remained in this section of the city, a surprising fact for a series of downtown buildings measuring a sizable three blocks by five, but perhaps not a totally unbelievable one given the warzone this particular area had been not long before. Bullet holes riddled every wall, and almost all of the lower floor windows were smashed, cracked or at least scratched in some way, evidencing the harsh final hours of those that had attempted to hold the city from the approaching dead.

  But the upshot of all of this had been the overwhelming presence of weapons and ammunition, which had in itself been one of the greatest advantages to setting up in that particular area. Geoff and his men had found the place deserted, and so set about constructing barricades in all available positions, until they knew more about just how much of the area could be salvaged. Upon mapping out their target region, they set about using the leftover ammunition to rid the buildings of the remaining stragglers, and to secure the extraction of the final few living that remained. The entire process had gone down surprisingly smoothly, and thus made for a story Geoff adored telling at every opportunity.

  Crossing the now reasonably quiet street, John moved through the open doorway of the apartment building on the corner and into the relatively dark innards that awaited. The ever-worsening sky above gave little light to illuminate the way, but there was a strict policy on wasting electricity on lighting, and the candles placed in various spots around the communal areas were usually reserved for the darker hours of the night. With that in mind, John continued on in relative darkness, a condition he had grown somewhat used to by now.

  Within a few steps, the six-foot, still hooded man, rounded the bottom of the staircase and began his ascent. Step after step, turn after turn, it was a journey that would make anyone relish the idea of using a working elevator just one last time, and it was for that very reason that another rule had been brought in fairly early; everybody stayed on as low a floor as possible. John’s relatively late arrival had seen him assigned an apartment on the fourth floor of this not completely central building, but as a perfectly fit man with the desire to stay so, this caused him little concern.

  Finally emerging into the fourth-floor hallway, John gave a customary shove to the barricade blocking off access to the higher floors. The seemingly desperately constructed mess was actually incredibly sturdy, and had been placed in an attempt to deter anyone or anything from wandering up into the unoccupied areas above. The shove however was merely a test on John’s part, a quick way of making sure that the barricade remained firmly in place, and one that quickly concluded that all was well.

  John’s apartment was immediately in front of the fourth-floor stairs, making for a fantastically quick exit should the time to do so in a hurry ever come. He’d originally been the sole inhabitant of the floor, but now shared it with a series of seemingly friendly folk that had come into the fold even later than he had, right up until the newest residents had been redirected to set up in the next building along just a few weeks prior.

  But more prominent than any of the other doors, just barely illuminated by what little light seeped in from the window at the end of the hallway, was a simple sight right on John’s own front door. Hanging down by two pieces of frayed string, coloured in various bright tones that only a child could have thought to use, was a roughly finished piece of scrap wood, with two single words neatly carved in, and a flower drawn on at the right-most edge.

  “The Parkers”.

  It was one of the few things that made John smile fully nowadays, and never failed to do so each and every time he completed that familiar ascent up the stairs. But it wasn’t the colours used or the incredibly rough and yet fairly creative way the thing had been assembled that made John happy, and nor was it the knowledge that John effectively owned the piece of property behind it. It was the fact that whenever he saw this tiny, seemingly meaningless sign, he knew he’d made it back here, back to his family.

  “Daddy!”, exclaimed the young, delicate voice of John’s six-year-old daughter Hayley, her feet pounding the floor across the room the very first millisecond she heard the door begin to swing open.

  “Heya sweetheart”, John replied happily, leaning down to hug the small girl tight in his arms, closing his eyes and nodding his head down slightly, his right hand gently stroking along the back of her long blonde hair.

  “I thought that was my name?”, came a similarly soft voice from across the room.

  John’s wife Michelle was a beautiful, tall, blonde haired woman who couldn’t have looked much more like her daughter if she’d tried. Her spotless face and beaming grin made her just about as much the opposite to her rugged husband as could be imagined, but that didn’t seem to make an ounce of difference to either of them, as each pair of eyes once more lit up at the sight of the other, just as they did each and every time.

  “I think there’s enough room for both of you to share it, sweetheart”, John remarked happily, “Right Hayley?”, he asked, looking down now.

  “Hmmmmm…”, Hayley contemplated, placing her right index finger on her bottom lip as if deep in thought, her eyes moving between each of her parents. “Okay!”, she exclaimed happily, with an infectious grin.

  “Okay then”, Michelle laughed, now within range to grab her own hug from her husband.

  “Everything go okay?”, she asked lowly, hoping John might forgo mentioning any of the gorier details – should any have occurred – within ear shot of their daughter.

  “All good”, John replied confidently, releasing the newly acquired grip on his wife and proceeding to remove each of his boots. “Went off without a hitch”, he added, his eyes briefly catching the laces of his own shoes, and reminding himself of the one minor issue.

  “Did you get many Daddy?”, Hayley asked enthusiastically, clearly more in the know than she was supposed to be.

  “Hayley!”, Michelle snapped.

  “Everybody at school talks about it Mom”, replied the girl, “Samantha’s Dad works on the wall too”.

  The community in Chicago, while huge for what remained in the world, was fairly small and incredible tight-knit. There was rarely a need for last names when referring to a fellow inhabitant, and almost everybody knew where almost everybody else lived by heart. Accordingly, it was somewhat miraculous that enough knowledge was present in the group that they’d been able to open up the medical and agricultural facilities that they now all so relied on, much less that they’d been able to set up a reasonably functional educational system while they were at it.

  “I hate that she hears about these things”, Michelle said, turning and speaking only to John now.

  “Way of the world nowadays Shell”, John replied, “She’s gonna’ learn about it all soon enough. Hell, she’ll probably be out there long before she turns eighteen”, he added.

  Michelle’s face instantly turned to one of the more malicious expressions she’d ever shown.

  “Or not”, John said, quickly correcting himself, “Or not”.

  “Daddy, another letter came for you today”, Hayley interrupted excitedly, thrusting up a slightly
crumpled up piece of paper she’d obviously been waiting all day to hand him.

  John grabbed the letter and thanked his would-be delivery woman with a smile, before folding out the parchment – some convoluted accountancy invoice printed on its reverse – and reading to himself.

  “Pretty quiet here for the last few days. Not seen a biter now for at least two. We’ve got twenty or so people left here including us. Need to decide what the plan is once everyone’s gone, let us know.

  Sonja.”

  “I can’t believe there’s still twenty of those poor folk over there”, Michelle remarked despite her eyes being focused elsewhere.

  “Reading my mail by any chance?”, John asked sarcastically.

  Michelle shrugged, smirking slightly as she did.

  “We can’t just bring everyone over”, John continued, “It’s too difficult for them to organise and too much of a strain on us once they’re over here”.

  “Why?”, Michelle asked, not fully believing her husband’s answer, itself the same answer all members of the community seemed to give, “We have food, water, supplies, housing, what’ll happen?”.

  “Well for starters, you go introducing a group that big into another in one go, you’re gonna’ rattle people”, John tried again to explain, “And that’s if they don’t all get attacked spending hours loading that many people onto the boats at once”.

  Michelle raised her eyebrows slightly in contemplation, further revealing the beautiful brown eyes that lay just below.

  “Look”, John started once more, taking each of his wife’s hands in his as he spoke”, I want them over here too, I know what it’s like over there, but there’s a system, and that system is working”.

  “I know”, Michelle conceded.

  “Good”, John said firmly, before planting a gentle kiss on his wife’s forehead, “Now what are you two still doing inside, I’d go crazy spending this much time in here during the day”.

  “We were waiting for you Daddy!”, came Hayley’s ever-excited voice from down below.

  “Oh you were, where you?”, John asked, leaning down to pick up his daughter and hoisting her up onto his shoulders, “You were waiting for little old me?”, he continued, now spinning Hayley around.

  “Ahhhhh!”, she exclaimed, “Put me down Daddy!” she yelled happily, her long hair flying behind.

  “Sweetheart I didn’t hear her too good, she said go faster right?”, John asked of his wife.

  “Sounded like it to me!”, Michelle replied, “And I think she said a LOT faster!”.

  “Well then!”, John exclaimed, pausing briefly before restarting the spin at an increased pace.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!”, Hayley yelped, her smile growing with every passing moment.

  It was one of those perfect, classic family moments. So rare had they become nowadays – not least due to the rarity in itself of still having a family intact – that many had all but forgotten they existed. But there and then, in that very moment, John, Michelle and Hayley’s hearts were all filled with the kind of love and emotion that could make a person forget the world had come to an end, forget the pain and heartbreak that now waited around every corner, and forget that there were still good moments to be had if you were willing to fight for them.

  Chapter 4: With a view

  The dull thudding noise of a boot clambering onto the next ladder rung up would, despite it’s fairly low volume, carry great distances in the new world. With no traffic filling the roads, no aircraft flying overhead and no people bustling up and down the sidewalks, noise pollution was effectively at zero in all but the rarest of places. Even the dead were relatively quiet, other than when congregating in some of their larger groups. But despite the world being at one of its quietest points in human history, the sound of John’s boots hitting every last rung of the long metal ladder was still all but drowned out, due in no small part, to him being a few hundred feet up in the air.

  “You alright back there?”, John asked over his shoulder, catching a brief glimpse of the floor below, far enough down to mean a more than certain death should the slightest mistake occur.

  “All good”, came a somewhat sheepish and only half-convincing voice in response, emitted by the visibly shaking Danny, himself having opted to strap in to the railing running up the side of the ladder.

  “If you say so”, John said, continuing on the journey upwards, knowing full well that heights were not his co-climber’s forte, but having accepted the fact that Danny was adamant he come up nonetheless.

  The two men were slowly but surely climbing up one of the city’s highest points, and certainly the highest within their community. Visible for miles around and functional for much, much further, the rusting but still working radio tower for a local radio broadcaster had been in use right up until the last second the power had run out. Of course, its broadcasters had long gone prior to that point, leaving a pre-recorded government issue message to play on loop, but the tower had soldiered on alone nonetheless.

  Starting out life on top of the same building that housed the WG, by the time one had made it to the top of the tower, they were some five-hundred or so feet in the air. The task was no easy feat; the pair had begun their day early in the morning, breaking regularly on their way up the supporting building’s inner stairs and then prior to starting the ladder-based climb also. But once on, they were at the point of no return. Unlike most of the broadcast towers, which had split their ascending facilities into stages or staggered them up the building, this tower had one, single, terrifying ladder, and it had to be climbed in one go. There was a handrail that provided limited safety if you bothered to attach yourself, but that was really it.

  Approaching the top around two hours after setting off – a delay having occurred around the fourteenth floor or so of the building below, when Danny had incorrectly thought he could hear someone or something moving around on the restricted floor – the pair continued to move up relatively quickly, and with little to no sign of tiredness setting in. John was of course the fitter man of the pair, but Danny was considerably younger and more agile, the very same trait that so often saw him used as bait in the camp’s regular clear-outs of the local undead communities.

  “Whoa-hoa-hoah!”, Danny yelped slightly, hugging in close to the ladder as a particularly big gust of wind passed the two men by, barely phasing John.

  “You’re fine”, the bigger man called down, himself more resilient to the wind, and much more comfortable with the height.

  “Easy for you to say”, Danny replied, knowing of John’s time and experience in the military, where he would no doubt have come across all kinds of similar – and no doubt much more terrifying – experiences, “Some of us don’t do this kind of thing every day”.

  “That’s why you’re strapped in isn’t it?”, John said back with a glimmer of a chuckle, choosing not to slow the pace.

  “Yeah”, Danny said sarcastically, stopping briefly to tug on the fairly flimsy harness he was all but certain wouldn’t take even his measly weight, to ensure it was at least still attached, “Right”.

  Soon afterwards the final rung came into view, John spotting it just a few short clangs beforehand, and using it to pull himself speedily up, the pace of his feet quickening as he built up enough momentum to launch upwards onto the platform. Danny followed close behind, but opted for a much steadier ascent that required more effort in the long run, but carried significantly less risk.

  The radio tower’s highest point – aside from the final antenna placed in the centre of the topmost platform and stretching a further twenty feet or so into the sky – was around nine square metres in size, itself a perfect square that marked the highest point for several blocks in each direction. Mercifully, the floor was regularly littered with rubber strips to aid grip, and stretching around all sides of the platform was a reasonably sturdy hand rail, to which Danny proceeded to grip with lightning speed.

  Views from the top of the tower were like no other. Whilst
not the highest point in the city by some distance, the bare and exposed nature and feel of the small patch of metal the two men now stood on gave it an entirely different feel than any other typical viewing platform. There were no walls or struts to interrupt the view, no ceiling to cut out the sky and even the floor was partially see-through due to its grid-like construction. Tourist trap, this was not.

  “Holy…”, Danny tailed off, having found his feet and steadied his mind, but still very much fearing the potential consequences of the current situation.

  “This your first time up here?”, John asked, himself having taken on the task on numerous occasions.

  “Yep”, Danny snapped, keen to give short, concise answers until he had finished scanning the area, familiarising himself with every detail.

  “Makes for one hell of a lookout spot”, John announced, walking over to the far edge and sliding his backpack onto the metal floor below.

  To the tower’s north-east was a truly remarkable view of Lake Michigan, a sight many would have paid good money to see in the years prior, and one made only more incredible by the now almost complete lack of boats and movement that might have made for perhaps the only unsatisfying spectacle once upon a time. The lake had been reclaimed by nature, was populated only by nature, and bore every trait of nature at its most beautiful.

  To the right of the lake, just a short distance from their position in Chicago, was Michigan City. Little was known by any of the camp’s inhabitants about what had happened in Michigan City, other than the fact that many of the soldiers who had made their final stand in Chicago had fled there. It was believed however to be empty of life, no movement having been spotted in some time, and no reason to think that anyone or anything had survived after the military’s final pull-out.