Records of the Resistance (Book 1): Better Lucky than Good

by Shaun Meehan

  Clay looked slightly over his shoulder and down at his fallen attacker. His fingers began to loosen around his weapon. Clay was quickly coming to the realization that the brawl had just gone too far. The man was clearly dead and in the unlikelihood that there was any brain activity left, it would soon cease due to the hemorrhaging going on inside of his skull. Clay stood in place, frozen; contemplating the consequences that he assumed he would face as a result of coming to the aid of the woman. While his mind reeled from what had just transpired, deep in his psyche remained all of the strange occurrences that had hounded him during his trip home, even all the way to this very moment. Clay pressed the heels of his palms into his face, digging them hard into his eyes.

  "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Clay shouted. "Why the fuck did I just do that?"

  Clay slid his hands up his face and ran his fingers through his hair, beginning to dizzily walk back towards his SUV. He had always figured that given the right circumstances he could take a life, and the defence of another human being certainly qualified. A thought which was of no consolation to him now.

  The woman whom Clay had saved, had already slipped out of the SUV and was presently charging towards him.

  "Come on! Is there gas in this thing? We have to go! More will have heard us and it won't be long before they get here!" she spoke frantically, grabbing Clay by the shirt.

  "What the fuck are you talking about? That guy is dead! We can't just leave. We have to call the police. If I run, it's my ass and I just did you a favour. You aren't going anywhere until the cops get here!" Clay replied, frustrated that she was so unwilling to understand his situation.

  She stood before him, dumbfounded for a moment by his words. Looking back at the SUV with the canoe on its roof, and then back again at Clay. The woman was obviously no idiot and had begun to quickly piece it all together in her mind.

  "I'm Melanie. Melanie Brenner." Her tone had suddenly changed. It had gone from panicked and hurried, to calm and assuring. Having survival instincts of her own, she knew that if she stood any chance of making it back to the farm house, Clay was it.

  "What's your name?" she asked.

  "Clay..." he replied quietly while rubbing his face with his palms.

  "Clay? Clay what?" she prodded, intent on dragging him from the depths of his mind and back into reality.

  Clay took a deep breath and exhaled. He looked back at her and replied, "Just Clay."

  Although Melanie's voice was calm, her eyes were constantly scanning the distance. Clay could easily discern that she was still very anxious about something.

  "How long have you been gone, Clay?" Melanie asked.

  "Four weeks." he replied.

  "A lot has changed in the four weeks since you've last been home, Clay. I'm sure you're confused and I know what you're thinking. I was there myself only a few weeks ago. But right now, you have to trust me. I know some place safe; a place where a few of us have been hiding. We have food... And water..." Melanie was working hard to convince him. She needed him right now and at this moment, even if he didn't realize it, Clay needed her too.

  Clay's stomach was empty. He had hardly eaten anything all day. He had just ended a man's existence and all he could think about was food. Maybe it had something to do with the thought of eating shitty prison food for the remainder of what could hardly be described as a life.

  Melanie could tell she had him thinking now.

  "I can explain all that I know on the way. It isn't much. But it will help you understand... At least until we get home." she offered.

  "But for now, all I have time to say is that man, wasn't a man at all anymore.” Melanie continued while looking towards Clay's now deceased opponent.

  Clay wasn't sure what to make of the events which had just unfolded. However, he was certain that the town’s current state, clashed with his no so distant memories. The cellular problems, the non-existent traffic during the drive home, the gas station, and certainly this situation that he now found himself in. Clay had never felt more confused before in his entire life. Oddly, what Melanie had said seemed to have struck a cord within him. That man was by no means, a man as Clay had known any to be.

  Clay opened the hatch of his SUV with his key fob. Melanie watched as he began dragging his belongings to the edge of the bed. Clay opened a long duffle bag and withdrew his shotgun and shell belt, reminiscent of those commonly seen in action movies. Afterwards, he threw his dry bag over his shoulders and onto his back. Melanie noted how large the pack was, but also how well Clay carried it. The weathered duffle was now almost entirely empty, save for one thing. Clay reached into the bag and grasped a familiar handle.

  His tomahawk had travelled the province with him. Clay had on one occasion been breaking up wood away from his camp, which was where he had foolishly left his shotgun. He had heard the bear's movement before he saw the animal. Clay could vividly recall looking up, only to realize that he was now closer than any man would ever want to be to a bear while standing eye to eye with one. Drawing his knife with his left hand and grasping his tomahawk in his right, he stood showing no fear in spite of what could potentially transpire between the two of them. Their eyes met, if only for a brief moment. The gaze of the bear held within it, an indescribable life and consciousness. The bear simply turned and walked away peacefully, seeing much of the same from its own perspective.

  Clay would need his tomahawk now, more than ever. Still wearing his brass knuckles, he slipped his tomahawk into a leather loop which had been strung around one of the shoulder straps of his dry bag. Picking his shotgun up off the edge of the bed and closing the trunk, Clay turned to Melanie.

  "You better not be fucking me over here. I just saved your life from that asshole, so I expect some honesty." Clay said while sliding round after round into the tube magazine of his shotgun until it was full; cycling the action upon completion.

  *****

  "So you mean to tell me that they aren't really alive, but they aren't really dead?" Clay asked incredulously.

  “Yup." Melanie replied nonchalantly.

  "And they aren't zombies, but you have no better word to explain what they are?" Clay asked as he continued to try to understand what exactly Melanie was talking about.

  "Pretty much..." Melanie replied, really not having anything definitive to tell him.

  "For a while, there was still a television broadcast. It mostly advised people to stay indoors, avoid contact, so on and so on. But it eventually stopped." she continued.

  The pair were walking quietly along a dirt road into the country side. They had been on foot now for a few hours and the sun had long since set. Along the way, Melanie had explained to Clay that she had not ventured into the town alone, but along with some of those that she had been living with since the outbreak. They had gone on an expedition into the town in search of supplies. The group had amassed enough to last several weeks, but had done so only after completing a number of similar supply runs. A man named David, who was the individual leading their group had enough foresight to realize that they were unlikely to be the only people left, and that there would be others who also were scavenging. Any supplies that remained within the town would soon be depleted. It was during their last supply run that Melanie had become separated from the rest of her party. She went on to explain to Clay that while the infected were easily handled in small numbers, it was when they formed a horde that they became dangerous. To avoid this scenario, her group had formulated a set of standard operating procedures which were designed to prevent attracting the attention of the infected and if confrontation was unavoidable, then how to evade a horde. In this case, the group was forced to split up and flee in separate directions, with the intention of breaking up the gathering undead and therefore increasing their chances of an escape. Everyone that she had been in hiding with was local to the town, so they all knew their way around and how to get back to the farm house where they had been staying. Ultimately the group's greatest fear was being followed back to their h
ideout and having the horde arrive unexpectedly on their door step. Unfortunately for Melanie, she was unable to escape her pursuers entirely, having encountered small groups and individuals of infected repeatedly. That was until she had found Clay.

  "There were other things broadcasted too Clay... Theories about how this all started..." Melanie began.

  "Quiet!" Clay interrupted while she was in mid-sentence.

  Darkness had entirely enveloped the road, and Clay was straining his eyes to see as he focused on the shoulder to their right. He was sure he had heard something. Up until this point, the road had been flanked on both sides by fields of soybeans. It had shifted now to standing corn, which stood taller than he and turned the narrow country road into a tight corridor.

  "... I don't hear anything, Clay. Anyway, if we keep walking we can easily out pace whatever made the sound that you heard. If there are any infected in there, they'll be falling all over themselves just trying to move around." Melanie said as she gestured to the corn with an inverted finger.

  Clay wasn't so sure. Without taking his eyes from the field edge where the sound had emanated from, he grabbed Melanie around her upper arm and pulled her away from the potential threat; placing himself between her and the sound. During the scuffling of feet against gravel, he couldn't be certain but believed he had heard additional movement from the crop. Clay mounted his shotgun but was quickly interrupted by the touch of Melanie's hand on his shoulder, before he could bring the muzzle to bear on the direction of the noise.

  "No." she whispered.

  "If they're out there, you'll only attract more. Its best that we just keep moving... Please Clay..." Melanie said, with an almost pleading tone.

  Clay was getting the picture that she had been away from the group and their safe haven for too long. She was exhausted. The way her heels had been scraping against the gravel as they were walking had not gone unnoticed by Clay. He had actually been impressed by her fortitude. Her feet were cut and bruised from their shoeless travel. Melanie had informed him that she had lost a shoe trying to make her initial escape and found it harder to run with a single piece of footwear, than with none at all. Clay had given her a pair of flip-flops that he kept in his dry bag. But the fear, confusion, and longing for her group, had begun to wear on Melanie. She was ready to go home.

  "You just finished telling me that the worst thing that could happen was being followed back to the farm house... I'm not going to be responsible for that." Clay's voice was insistent.

  Clay removed his pack and instructed Melanie to turn around. He could tell that she wasn't even remotely impressed, but followed his instructions in face of the fact. He lifted the heavy bag onto her shoulders and spun her back around to face him.

  "I'm going to give you the shotgun. If things get a little to close for comfort, I want you to undo these buckles, drop the pack, and run as fast as you can to the farm house with this gun." Clay instructed as he snapped together the buckles of the dry bag across Melanie's chest and waist.

  Clay handed Melanie the shotgun. She received it awkwardly, like someone who had never dreamt of bearing a firearm. Then drawing his tomahawk from the leather loop on the pack, he turned to face the corn.

  "Melanie, face the field on the other side of the road. Tell me if anything comes up behind us. Whatever it is that's in front of us is coming closer." Clay said forebodingly.

  The movement in the corn was certainly coming closer. Clutching his tomahawk in his hand and still possessing his brass knuckles in his opposing fist, Clay prepared himself for the worst that the night could unleash at him.

  Whatever was creating the noise, had seemingly stopped abruptly once it had reached the edge of the field directly in front of Clay. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins while his chest heaved deeply; his heart feeling like it would erupt through his shirt at any moment. Melanie however, was another story. She was doing all she could not to lose control of her bladder.

  Clay thought he could hear his own heart beating, as it pumped hard in his chest in anticipation of the coming moments. The night was silent. The kind of night that seemed to allow any sound made, to travel forever. Not even the crickets were singing. The sky was free of clouds, leaving the stars and bright moon to illuminate the road around them. Clay stood his ground, peering into the black of the corn stalks.

  The crop, which was less then ten feet in front of Clay exploded with movement. Between himself and the corn was a ditch and from it sprang a white tailed deer, shooting between himself and Melanie like it had been riding a rocket. It's hoofed feet thumping hard against the ground while kicking up gravel as it crossed the road.

  Clay's shoulders slumped as he lowered his tomahawk to his side. Turning his head to look back at Melanie, he half expected to see only his pack lying there on the road where he had last seen her standing. To his surprise, there she stood with the shotgun lowered to her waist. Together, they both let out a sigh of relief. Clay smiled to her and was about to speak when the corn thrashed again. This time, instead of a deer, it released two infected men and a woman, all of whom were clambering through the corn. One of the men tripped while making his exit and fell clumsily into the ditch. The other, traversing the depression behind the woman, reached the edge of the road slightly on her heels.

  "Watch the other field!" Clay said, speaking only loud enough to talk over the noise generated by the oncoming threats.

  Clay flung himself towards the woman. Using his momentum to his great advantage over her unsure footing on the edge of the road, Clay drove his boot into her lower body; propelling her backward into the ditch and hard onto the already fallen man.

  The infected behind her swung a stiff arm horizontally, as if it were a meaty club, towards the head of Clay. Ducking underneath of it, he delivered his tomahawk hard into the side of the man’s leg, just below the knee. The head of the weapon sunk home and buried deep into the bone before breaking the limb and sending him tumbling to the gravel. Out of his peripheral vision, Clay could see that the woman had successfully clambered up the ditch, and now stood directly beside him. Clay swung his tomahawk horizontally, hard across his body; the broad edge of the blade burying itself into her face just above the eye. She fell to her knees, the blade locking tightly into the bones of her face. His third opponent was only moments from cresting the ditch. Clay choked up on the handle just below the head of the tomahawk and slammed his boot into the woman's face, beneath the stuck blade. The tomahawk popped free, accompanied by a gruesome sound and releasing a splash of moon illuminated gore and blood into the air. The woman flopped backwards and slid partially into the ditch. The wet grass aided her upper body as it slithered down the incline. Her legs extended, but the friction between them and the gravel prevented her from sinking into the ditch completely. By the time Clay had regained his footing from freeing his tomahawk, the second man had set foot on the road. He twisted back his shoulders as if winding up to swing his arm out, giving Clay the opportunity to get inside of his potential attacker. Grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and palming the head of his tomahawk, Clay began to deliver devastating punches to the man's face. With every punch, the blade drove deeper and deeper into the infected man's features. Clay could hear the cracking and crumpling of bone and flesh as he was being speckled with blood and chunks of tissue. The man struggled wildly against Clay's grip, even landing a few heavy blows of his own with his fists and forearms. The undead attacker could only stand Clay's fury for a moment and his knees soon buckled. Clay, releasing his grasp, stepped aside and let the man collapse to the ground; falling face first into the gravel. Blood began forming a pool around the fallen man's upper body and head, almost immediately after he had come to rest.

  Clay snapped to, the moment he heard Melanie struggling. However, what he saw was the last thing that he had expected. Melanie, having dropped the dry bag, was standing over the first infected whose leg had been broken by Clay's tomahawk. He was struggling to stand upright, despite h
is limb being incapable of bearing his weight. Their remaining aggressor's attempts to regain his footing were being further impeded by Melanie's repeated strikes to the back of his skull with the butt of the shotgun.

  Thunk, Thunk, Thunk!

  His head snapped downward with every strike as he tried to posture up. Melanie's attacks were having little to no effect on her assailant, allowing the man to wrap one of his arms around her leg. It would be from this position that he would begin to use her limb to pull himself up from his hands and knees. Melanie began frantically hitting the man until the crack of Clay's tomahawk impacted into his skull, dropping him at her feet. She paused for a moment after he fell, staring down at the body that was finally absent of life. Clay gazed at Melanie from where he had thrown his tomahawk. From roughly ten feet away, the weapon had flipped end over end through the air until burying itself into its target.