Living Amongst The Dead (Book 2): Dark Days

by J. N. Morgan

  Stepping away from the door, heading back to the living room, she knelt at the coffee table. “I think he’s a priest…” she said to herself curiously without looking to either of the two others in the home. She picked up the loose cartridge that had fallen to the floor, a light scratch on the laquor coating of the casing due to having been squished between bolt and receiver, along with the hint of a dent, but it was nothing to worry about. Putting it on the 10-round clip, it now held 5 rounds, which was the capacity this rifle had. Altered this way when imported for having a magazine of over 5 rounds on a semi auto centerfire rifle was prohibited, save for the M1 Rifle and its 8-round capacity which was exempt by name.

  Putting the clip in her coat pocket, she left the two unopened green boxes on the coffee table. Now, she reflected, she had a rifle with a bayonet, just like Richard’s, and she also had a good bit of ammo. If she had this rifle before, then she’d have been able to take on 20 as well, though modestly considered the fact that this shot 7.62x39 while his shot .303 British, not to mention his has a longer barrel as well as better sights… this rifle would not be as accurate, and not only that but the farthest she had ever shot at the shooting range was 100m and then even with a scope, which had only been able to manage a 6”/15cm grouping. So with irons which she was not as accustomed to, hitting a human head at 150m would probably not be within her capabilities. She scowled at this thought, but conceded that he seemed to be more knowledgeable in the field of firearms, and the expertise with which he worked the Lee bolt suggested that he was far more experienced in shooting than she was. It could be simply from practicing with snapcaps which were false rounds meant to train with and test reliable feeding/ejecting, but the fact he was hitting his targets and not just shooting quickly exposed his hundreds if not thousands of rounds of range time.

  “You ok, Tiffy?...” she asked, looking down from where she stood, the rifle slung over her shoulder with safety engaged and bayonet folded back, holding 4+1 in the mag/chamber. Her eyes were still red, but dried by her sleeves, and she nodded her head.

  “I’m so tired of all the gun-pointing… and the yelling… the violence… the threats…” she sighed exasperatedly and frustratedly, followed by a sniffle, clearly trying to keep her composure even though the insanity of everything was obviously chipping away at her with stress.

  “Wish I… could talk to… him.” The weak man on the floor muttered, looking up at the ceiling. “I buried… his parents. Probably… wants to hear… about it… about how… they were… in the end.” His amateur nurse, kneeling beside him again, rested her injured left hand on his chest thoughtfully with a glance to his face, a brief smile, before she went serious and continued looking to the back door. She expected him to bust through like some terrible action movie, a big pistol in each hand that was hidden in his coat, firing rapidly and wildly at them, massacring the three.

  She jumped as he came through the door, closing and locking it behind him. Walking over to the front door he closed and locked that as well. With a straight back, trying to show an air of strength and confidence in spite of the redness of his face and eyes, he stood to the access between the main ground-floor rooms.

  “This was my parent’s house. Now it is mine. I shall now ask you to leave…” he said it calmly, though directly, yet without rudeness or haste.

  “We’re n-” Nick began in a harsh tone, a fight in her eyes that told him she wouldn’t budge, especially now that he was unarmed. She figured she could take this old bastard one-on-one without the use of this new rifle that she had claimed. Tiff reached her arm out to her left leg, checking the fiery female, wishing her not to start a fight.

  “Please, sir; we don’t have anywhere else to go, and my boyfriend is horribly wounded; he’s lost a lot of blood and can barely move, much less walk out of here.” She pleaded, but he stood rigidly on socked feet, his shoes left by the front door. Her ‘boyfriend’, though not exactly eager to confirm this relationship status, did not dispute it.

  “For all I know, you… you could have killed them in cold blood. I ask that you leave. You have stolen my parents from me, and now my only means of defence. Just take it, take your stuff, and LEAVE!” The tears were coming back now, but in frustration at the helplessness of all this.

  “We didn’t kill them, sir… your mother, she had turned, and we seen your father lying on the porch early in the morning when we got h-” she stopped, he had turned away, head bent down, sleeved arm coming to his eyes, body shivering, shoulders bobbing as the tears came anew at this description. He wanted to be rid of them so badly, to get control over this house, to clean it up as his parents had had it, to mourn and grieve and to think of all the others whom he had lost.

  “Did they… go peacefully…” it was not said as a question, but as a demand, to know what happened, but his back was still turned; unable to look at the three. His tone was harsh now, it would seem that if they would not leave, then at least he would learn of their final moments. He hated them, did not trust them, did not know them; for all he knew every damn word they spoke would be a lie but at least while they spoke he could try to compose himself, leaning there on the kitchen counter, surrounded by memories of better times.

  This time, it was the wounded one on the floor who spoke up. “Denise was… not physically… injured. She appeared… healthy… in spite of… being dead.” A noise came from the older man, but the younger one continued. “Charlie was… cold from… being outside… but otherwi-… otherwise ok… it would… seem. We think he… had a… heart attack… when I… shot my rifle. Asked me… not to use… the ‘pigsticker’… though I just… call it bayo-… net. Did… Denise call… him ‘Charles’?”

  It was not often that weaponry came up into the conversations he had with his dad, though having been in the Military, his uniform likely still under the bed, he had talked of Military history from time to time. Not war, per se, at least not of intimate experience, but of history in general. Still, he recalled explaining his basic training to some eager young ears before who asked about the Military, as well as asking the ignorant question regarding if he ever shot or killed anyone. This would be deflected to how he was trained to do so, but he would not talk about actually shooting people. This was remembered because whenever he mentioned the bayonet, he would call it a pig sticker, and then make a noise like a pig which would get young ones laughing.

  “Why do you want to know?!” He snapped back at them when asked about if she called him ‘Charles’. Information would not come from him easily, not right now, he wanted to see how much they knew, if they actually spoke to him, or if they just killed him outright.

  “I called… him Charles once… and he wept. I assumed… it was what… his wife… called him.” Somewhat wrinkled hands coiled into fists on the kitchen counter as a new wave of shudders and tears attacked, he tried to fight them back. He may be a grown man, but damn it, even grown men have parents, and it was clear he cared very deeply for them.

  “Yes… yes she did…” his voice confirmed shakily, and more softly than it had ever been before in their company. It still raked him, this invasion of privacy, seeing strangers in his parent’s home, here he had hoped to find them and help them survive, hoping that maybe some of his brothers and sisters would have arrived here at some point. “Were there any others here with them?”

  “No, sir…”

  “No.” Tiff added in quickly, supporting him, wishing to help calm this man. She stood, and slowly walked towards him.

  “Tiffy!” Nick whispered from her right where she still stood before the coffee table, just out of sight of the man, but now she stood where her friend had knelt, watching, almost daring the man to make a move on her; she’d put him down without hesitation.

  Seeing her standing next to himself, so tall compared to his low position, and armed, the rifle coming to her hands and the muzzle pointed off to her left though far above him, it made him shiver though he was warm. Being naked under this blanket, likely unabl
e to use the pistol that was hidden beneath his ‘mattress’, too weak to even hope to defend himself from any physical attack, it was a very unpleasant and vulnerable feeling. Not a sensation he was accustomed to during all that time living mostly on his own while the end of the world descended around him.

  The short woman approached the stranger from behind, meekly and carefully. He stood a few inches taller than her, but just a tad shorter than Nick, with his body showing a bit more bulk however not necessarily from muscle. Veronica was all muscle, his modest bulk was mostly fat. His body was smaller than Richard’s, including the stomach, and he did not appear to be a man with much physical capabilities. More capable than Tiffany in spite of being a bit slimmer than her and perhaps a bit lighter than her, but chances are he wouldn’t last in a scrap with the black woman who now stood like an armed guard, watching her friend approach him.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir… I’m sorry that Mr.Winters isn’t here to tell you himself about what happened… I wish he was. He seemed like a nice man.” She was just a couple feet behind him, her hand reaching out to his shoulder however faltering on the way and withdrawing, thinking it best not to physically disturb him. He stood there rigidly, body still shaking, fists on the counter seemingly doing much of the work in keeping him on his feet.

  “I sat with him while Richard… that’s him in there…” she gestured to the living room which he had his back turned to, but being the only other male there of course knew who she was referring to, “… while he went and… laid your mom to rest. She looked like a kind and gentle woman.” Words failing him, he nodded, and then twitched as she brought her right hand to his left shoulder. “I asked him about family, to try and calm him; he was very shaken up from this situation with Mrs. Winters. Said that he had two sons, and… three daughters?”

  “Four…” he said, though without much emotion other than the shakiness in his voice. “I’m his oldest… oldest son that is… Johnathan.”

  “I’m Tiffany, Johnathan… you can call me Tiff if you like, and other than Richard in there is Veronica.” He nodded, though still did not face the living room. “Nicky, give him his rifle back!” She whispered to her, and received a pleading look that showed she really wanted to keep the firearm. Her brown eyes went to the back of the older man’s head, who was probably nearly twice the young woman’s age. He had shaken his head.

  “I don’t want it… it’s not even mine…” he said weakly, defeatedly, and his rigid body seemed to visibly grow limper, the fight gone out of him though almost appearing thankful that he no longer had the thing in his temporary ownership. Veronica pumped her arm silently, happy of the new acquisition, looking down at the rifle in her hands with a smile then noticed the reproving look from her friend. Tiffany was not amused by her happiness in the light of this man’s torment.

  “Sir, are you a priest?” She asked, directing her attention back to him. He yanked his shoulder away from her, walked to the front door facing north, unlocked it, and closed it behind him as he went outside once more. It almost seemed as though he were offended by the question or that it stirred something up in him inside. She watched him go down the steps, but then sit down rather than leaving the house. He lowered his head, his shoulders shook. It was inaudible, but it was obvious he was weeping. It hurt to watch, to see a grown man cry. Richard was different. Still in his 20s, yeah he’s big and rugged, but nearly a decade younger than her, she seen him in a youthful light, but him? He must have been a decade older, the kind of man she felt she should be looking towards for companionship rather than the younger man she desired, but she couldn’t stand to see him cry. Wrenching her eyes from the sight through the front door’s window, the slightly portly female returned to the living room where Nicky had sat down on the couch once he left, and of course, her man continued to lie on his couch-cushion-mattress.

  The can of SPAM on the coffee table was taken along with the last can of chunky soup. Nicky and the man she nearly killed continued to discuss reloading, or rather, she continued to take lessons from him. This newcomer, he was not being of any threat, if he ends up being armed with a hidden firearm then at least Veronica had her new Chinese-made rifle and… less reliable a form of defence… Richard had his Made in Brazil Springfield Armoury M1911A1 Mil Spec pistol. This ‘Johnathan’ was out of the house, dealing with the loss, and so it was decided to just let him be, to deal with him later. Hopefully he won’t kick up a fuss about them staying here, but even if he did, there was nothing he could do about it since he was unarmed and didn’t even appear to want a firearm or weapon. If he wasn’t a priest, then he was a Hell of a pacifist, and in a Hell of a bad part of human history to be one in.

  A plastic tube was taken from within the backpack; she was given permission to do so while his ‘girlfriend’ prepared their meals, no doubt intent on splitting the SPAM into three meals for the three of them while saving the chunky soup for whom she had called her ‘boyfriend’. It would be awkward to call him anything else with the way they acted around each other. ‘Friends’ was far too casual, ‘lovers’ wasn’t favourable to her, ‘husband/wife’ is far too formal since they didn’t have rings nor knew each other for even a month so far, calling him her ‘baby daddy’ would just be absurd, so ‘boyfriend’ seemed the natural thing to gravitate to for the woman even though he was quite a few years younger than her. At least his rugged and scruffy appearance made him look to be within 5 years or so of her age.

  In the plastic tube that was exhumed from the pack was the reprimer, as he called it. It was strange, teaching the woman that almost killed him less than a week ago how to make ammunition, but if he went, she was the only one who could try and support Tiffany. As much as he tried to remain casual with her, in spite of the love talk, he was growing attached to the plump ex-feminist who now doted over him with real affection. It was touching, and although the handjob/blowjob nearly killed him, he enjoyed the sensation of being so utterly desired that even at the risk of his health, she couldn’t help but to satisfy some of her primal, sexual desires with him. The desire to touch, to smell, to taste, to do naughty things, a desire which he himself might be at fault for awakening in her.

  Placing a primer in the pocket that was attached to the reprimer on the piston of the hand press, she closed the arms carefully as the primer was brought up to the die that now served to seat a .303 casing, and giving a little bit of pressure but not too much, opened the arms to reveal that she had just primed a deprimed and resized casing. It was a slow process, very manual and time consuming since these were actions that must go on over and over and over for several cartridges; replacing casings and primers on the press with each repriming, but it was fun! The Lyman 500 scale would need some time to set up, quite a bit of explaining since it had to be reassembled and disassembled for each use in order to fit it within its cardboard box for semi-compact storage. Though it did take up a bit of space, it was at least quite light. Very light. Possibly every piece of that scale was either plastic, aluminium, or rather thin brass.

  Not only that but he had no powder. Only that which was in the other rounds, so they would have to pull some bullets in order to do any reloading. The 7.62x54r bullets could be used in the .303, and he told her such, but the .303 couldn’t handle the same amount of powder as 7.62x54r. Or at least, the Lee bolt couldn’t. It’ll more than likely hold up, but it would cause excessive wear, eventually influencing headspacing since that bolt could experience such issues because of the rear locking lugs instead of forward locking lugs, and well… it just wasn’t a good idea. Though to be fair, even Lee Enfields made a century or more ago that had been fired unknown thousands of times seemingly experienced little to no headspacing issues. Anyways, probably more half-loaded rounds will be made just to be safe. The .30-06 bullets could be used for .308, but again best not give the .308 a full load of commercial .30-06 powder. Whether it could even hold that much powder was unlikely though. With .308 being 7.62x51 and .30-06 being 7.62x63, that’s half an
inch difference in casing length; 12mm. Quite substantial, and he shared all this information with her.

  The 7.62x39 bullets COULD have been used for .303, he imagined, even though they were much lighter than what was typically used for .303, and the powder could have been simply directly poured from the 7.62x39 casings into a .303 casings since it was weaker than that rifle round was typically loaded to so there was no risk of excess wear whatsoever. Just the fact that this surplus ammo was corrosive as opposed to commercial ammo which is generally non-corrosive. Corrosive ammo will more quickly cause wear, pitting, and rust on parts if it’s not cleaned thoroughly and often. It was a lot of information to dump on her all at once, explaining the difference between .308 calibre bullets on .308 and .30-06, as opposed to the .312 cal bullets on 7.62x39, x54r, and of course .303 British. A bit confusing, but in his opinion, interesting, and it wasn’t long into this detailed explanation that she seen that he had far more information memorized than previously expected.

  Their meals came before long, the SPAM having been sliced up then fried and separated onto three plates. Three slices on Johnathan’s and the chef’s, with two on Nick’s since she never did eat much. All the time that those two women lived together, Tiff couldn’t think of a single time when they sat down to a meal and ate the same portions. Still, she offered the friend half of her third slice of meat but it was declined as the young woman began cutting an edible amount from a slice with her fork so as to start enjoying the meal. Richard had a bowl of half a can of that soup, warmed up, and once the new owner of the house returns he will be given the option between his plate of SPAM or a bowl of soup, however preferably not both, and the cook hoped he would choose the SPAM but if both were demanded because it was his roof then while Nicky would probably object due to having brought this food here, and rightly so, the previous heads of household will likely submit to his requests. It’s not like he was making this stuff up; a younger version of him was in some of the pictures in the living room.