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

by Shaun Meehan

  The moment the guns of his allies had ceased, Clay inhaled a deep breath of air, filling his lungs to their fullest capacity.

  "NOOOOOOWWWWWWW!" he yelled, as long and loud as he could manage.

  He watched as three small metallic objects were tossed from the balconies into the tightest concentrations of undead. All of the balcony shooters took refuge behind the sheet metal walls of their elevated perches. Clay however, hadn't the same luxury. With Melanie's assistance, he continued to engage the infected encroaching on his position.

  Three loud explosions rocked the horde, one after another. Luckily for Clay, the meaty wall had shielded him from the blast, just as he had anticipated it would. The improvised explosives had a devastating effect on the tightly grouped undead, sending the majority crashing to the ground while others tumbled grotesquely through the air. Only the fringes of the horde remained standing, whose movement was now severely hampered while making an attempt to navigate the landscape of now dead, or dismembered infected.

  The balcony shooters stood once again and began to unload their guns into what remained of the horde. This time their shots were more precisely aimed, having targeted the infected that still remained standing. Melanie continued to engage the infected approaching Clay, who all the while was loading more shells between each shot. By the time the last of the infected threatening Clay had fallen, the shots stemming from the balcony had ceased and the shooters had disappeared.

  Clay laid his fully loaded shotgun into the depression and drew his tomahawk from its home tucked within his belt. With his left hand armed with his brass knuckles and his right hand grasping the tomahawk he charged as hard as he could into the centre of the horde.

  *****

  Melanie knew what to do the moment the balcony shooters had emptied their firearms into the horde for the second time. She pulled the magazine from her rifle, stuffing it into her pocket and replaced it with fresh one. She stood, grabbing her pack on the way up and heaved it on to her shoulders.

  She knew that the party would unite in the centre of the horde, engaged in hand to hand combat while those who could not fight, would make their escape through the building's front doors. With the remaining infected engaged in close quarters and Mel providing overwatch, the survivors would stand the greatest chance of success by making a run for Melanie's position.

  Clay had explained all of this to her while he had iterated his plan in the department store. She knew what to expect, but watching Clay rush headlong into the fray armed as he was, still struck her with awe. The likelihood of his survival would depend on Melanie continuing to participate in the attack and she fully intended on doing just that. Melanie came striding out of the cedar row, with her rifle tucked tightly against her shoulder while running directly for the position which Clay had initiated the attack from.

  The moment she sank into the hollow, Melanie reached down and pulled Clay's shotgun close to her feet. After peering through the rifle's optics, she immediately resumed putting down more infected with her well aimed shots.

  *****

  Black powder, upon burning left a uniquely thick and heavy smoke, which now saturated the area and hindered visibility. The success of the rescue depended now on maintaining a clear path through the horde, by which the non-combatants could make their escape. Clay's charge was directed straight toward the front door. The blasts had shattered most of the windows in the vicinity, along with the front entrance which had been composed almost entirely of glass, back by steel bars. If Clay couldn't intercept the infected who were now beginning to recover from the detonations, the whole evacuation could become irreversibly bottle necked at door. Clay leapt over bodies and threw aside any infected threatening to halt his approach. As he neared the door, several undead had already begun to encroach on it. He lowered his shoulders and slammed his body into one of the infected, sending both himself and the recipient of his charge, crashing to the ground. Clay rolled with the fall and shot up to his feet, while fluidly driving his tomahawk deep into the skull of an infected that he had sprung up beside.

  The smoke had begun to clear, lifting the veil and revealing the formidable number of infected who still dotted the parking lot. The asphalt had become a battlefield, being littered with fallen undead, dismembered limbs and gore; all adorned over a surface freshly painted with blood. Clay's earlier concern regarding the potential over estimation of fighting men inside the building began to filter to the forefront of his mind. There were too many infected for him to even fathom handling on his own and Melanie would soon become occupied with directing the refugee's to safety, making her unable to support him from a distance. As he surveyed the number of infected, he could see Melanie had indeed taken up his previous location and the number of undead began to silently thin by her hand.

  Clay waded again into a group of infected, leading with a metal laden punch and hacking away at limbs and skulls. If a killing blow was not feasible, he would disable his opponent and move on to the next; returning later for a fatal strike. Had there of been any onlookers observing Clay's onslaught, it would be obvious to them that his hands were intimately familiar with their armaments. Bodies of fallen infected began to pile around Clay in a semi circle. While intent on keeping the doorway clear of any undead, it was evident to Melanie that Clay was slowly being pushed backwards toward the building's entrance. Without assistance, Clay was sure to meet his end.

  Cries of war erupted from behind him. Several men came pouring through the brick framed door, armed with baseball bats and metal pipes; falling in line with Clay. With the addition of the new combatants, the semi circle of fallen undead began to enlarge and expand outward from the door. Between crushing fatal blows, individual infected were thrown back from the line, creating enough distance for the men to continue to drive their long weapons down onto the skulls of their assailants. Clay maintained his dance, whirring among the infected and serving as inspiration to the other men on the line. They had all begun to punch, shove, parry and swing even harder; pushing the advancing infected back from the door.

  Melanie could see that the small foyer of the apartment had begun to fill with women, children, and elderly, who were all adorned with duffle bags and back packs of various size and description. If Clay was planning on doing something to allow for their escape, now was a good time.

  "Form a line!" Clay yelled to the men on his right, indicating with his tomahawk where the line should take shape.

  The men fell into place alongside one another, perpendicular to the front of the building.

  "Here! Form a line here!" Clay screamed to the men on his left side, who did so according to his second command.

  The combatants now formed a column, with infected advancing on them from both sides. At the head of the column stood Clay who flitted back and forth from each side of the formed pathway, fending off any infected intent on infiltrating their ranks. Although they outnumbered the living, the effectiveness of the undead could not compare to that of an armed and coordinated living, combative effort.

  Clay had essentially formed a hallway through the horde, by which the survivors could travel to make their escape. Melanie recognized that now was the time. Standing and waving her arms in the air at the people in the apartment foyer, signalling that they should run for her position.

  A woman who wore a bag on her back, carried another and grasped a child's hand, yelled over her shoulder to those behind her.

  "There! I see her! Follow me!" she yelled and broke from the door; a long line of similarly equipped individuals in tow behind her.

  The survivors moved as fast as they could while struggling with the weight which they were bearing. Mothers dragged their children and those without children ushered along the elderly. They passed through the column without slowing, successfully reaching Melanie's position.

  The moment the final survivor had run past him, Clay began issuing orders again to his companions.

  "Together! Everyone in line together! Face the building!" he
screamed, and the men fell into formation again. With their backs to their families, they trapped what little remained of the horde between themselves and the apartment building.

  The men had been trapped together for many weeks and had formed a strong bond during their shared ordeal. They fought for each other. They fought for each other's families. They worked together in unison. In issuing his instructions, Clay lowered his guard for just a moment and an infected delivered a heavy blow to his face with a boney fist. Before Clay could counter attack, his assailants skull shattered; fragmenting gruesomely into the air. Standing before Clay was Kevin, armed with an aluminum baseball bat.

  Clay looked back at Melanie, still reeling from the strike he had received to his face.

  "Now! Get them to the tracks!" he yelled.

  The fight was almost over. Clay and those with him would soon follow, but their escape relied on the men occupying the undead here to allow for the slower members of the group to reach the tracks first.

  "We're almost finished here guys! Just hold 'em back a little while longer!" Clay shouted.

  Now having fully recovered from the blow he had sustained, Clay threw himself back into the fray. Their initial gun and grenade attacks had shrunk the size of the horde by no less then half. When Clay had made his charge, he had estimated that there were roughly forty undead scattered across the asphalt. He and his band has easily cut that in half. The explosives had broken up the horde enough to prevent the group from being overwhelmed by a tightly packed enemy during the close quarters fighting. Although the numbers of infected had shrunk drastically, the remainder was still twice the size of their own and were now beginning to regroup.

  Clay looked back in the direction of Melanie's escape and was unable to see her any longer.

  "Now! Let's go! Go!" Clay shouted to his companions.

  The fighting men immediately began to disengage from their battle with the infected. Kevin led the group along the cedar row, in pursuit of Melanie and the newly freed refugees. Clay had lingered a moment, ensuring that everyone had made their escape, but had soon caught up to the others.

  "Kevin, do you remember where to go?" Clay struggled to shout, panting to regain his breath.

  "Yah! I'm good!" by the sound of Kevin's voice, he was reaching his limit as well.

  "Slow down, then. We're too far ahead!" Clay replied.

  The entire group slowed to a walk, all of them looking over their shoulders at the infected as they made an attempt to gain ground on the men's escape.

  One of the men, who was unknown to Clay began to address him as they walked.

  "Man, I sure hope you know what you're doing. We've been stuck in there for the better part of a month. Now that we have a chance to finally get the fuck out, we're going to stand here like a bunch of idiots and let them catch up to..." the man cut his own sentence short the moment he saw one of the infected tumble to the ground.

  "Keep walking." Clay said calmly. "They're in range of Mel now..."

  "Wait a second. Are we bait?" another man chimed in.

  "Quiet down!" Kevin interrupted. "We can't allow any infected to follow us."

  "Then why the hell didn't we just finish them off back there?" the man prodded.

  "We made enough noise to attract every infected from here to the next town over. It's best that if any of them head our way, that our last known position be back there at the apartment building. Not to mention that we had lingered there long enough and we needed to get everyone to the tracks before more infected started to pile up on us." Clay explained.

  The group had reached the ditch that ran along the railroad tracks and could now see Melanie. She had been laying prone on the crest of the ditch, with her rifle resting atop her pack. The combatants began to cross the depression, reuniting with their families. They were finally free of the three story walk-up. Kevin quickly embraced his wife and son, but soon after began walking the length of the rails, getting everyone ready to travel. His young son beaming at superhero his father had become.

  Clay squatted down next to Mel and looked back at what was left of the horde that had been previously blockading the apartment's residents for the past four weeks. Only a single infected remained standing, leaving behind a trail of fallen undead; the remnants of the party's pursuers.

  "Mel... After you finish him, I need you at the front of the column. We need to get back." he said to Melanie.

  Melanie had placed Clay's shotgun horizontally underneath her, should she find the need to rise and relocate to another position in a hurry. He reached down, grabbing the gun's stock and slid it out from underneath of her. Standing up, Clay turned and crossed the ditch, hearing her rifle's action cycle one last time.

  *****

  Clay had instructed Melanie to stay approximately thirty yards ahead of the column. She had expressed some discomfort with the idea, but Clay had eased her thoughts by explaining to her that any infected in the area would likely hear the column and focus their attention on them and not her. All that was required of her was to lead the group and attempt to spot any potential threats along their path. Kevin, although desperately wanting to be with his family had been placed at the head of the column and was to focus on Melanie. He was to maintain a safe distance from her and alert the column, should she issue any warnings. At the column's rear, Clay had positioned two of the armed men who fought alongside him at the apartment building. It would be their task to give aide to anyone who should lag behind the rest of the column, as it was paramount that everyone stay together during the trek to their new home.

  Clay was working his way up the column, assessing injuries and ensuring everyone was in traveling condition. The residents of the apartment building were all carrying bags, which were obviously heavily weighted. Although he was unhappy about its necessity, those who were not capable of fending off any potential infected were required to carry the provisions which had been brought along. Clay needed those who could fight, to be ready to intercept any potential attackers the moment they surfaced.

  Clay kept his conversations with the people both brief and quiet, trying to ascertain their condition as efficiently as possible. He fell into step along side an older gentleman who he approximated to be around sixty years old. While being of small stature, the man wore a greying moustache on his face and a full head of matching hair.

  "You good?" Clay asked, while trying to remain quiet.

  "Yes. Thank you. Thank you, so much." the man replied. His gratitude for being rescued, genuine in his voice.

  "Good. If you need a hand with anything, just let me know. We're almost to the store." Clay smiled and began to quicken his pace, attempting to reach the next person.

  "Wait. I have something that might be of interest to you." the man said, trying to regain Clay's attention.

  "Oh? And what's that?" Clay slowed, matching the column’s speed to place himself abreast with the man.

  "The man in the building who owned all the guns... He had asked me to make him something a long while back." the old man explained.

  "I made it for him, exactly as he had described. At the time, I had no idea what it was. That was until I saw that woman's rifle." the man continued, nodding in Melanie's direction.

  "Her rifle?" Clay said, becoming increasingly curious.

  The moustached man opened the duffle that he had been carrying as they walked. He peered down inside of it, his eyes darting from the bag, to the tracks, then back to the bag; attempting to stay in line with the rest of the column while he swirled his hand around inside the duffle.

  "You see, I was a machinist... Oh, finally... Here it is." the man interrupted himself the moment his hand met with what he had been digging for.

  The old man produced from the duffle, a leg holster containing a pistol and handed it to Clay.

  "A pistol?" Clay asked, taking the firearm.

  "No, no, not just a pistol. Hold on, I'm not done." the man said, reaching back into his duffle bag.

  "Wear that hols
ter. I'll find it... I know it's in here." he continued to stammer.

  Clay struggled to strap the holster to his leg as he walked, stumbling across the stones that were lining each side of the tracks. Just as he had managed to finally secure the buckles, Clay straightened to see the old man with his arm extended towards him. Holding in his hand was what appeared to be a black tube of about six inches in length. Clay accepted the tube and began turning it over in his hands in an attempt to discern its purpose. It took only a moment before Clay believed he had established what exactly the item was. He reached down, putting his hand onto the holster. After feeling the snap which had been securing the pistol in place and releasing it, Clay drew the pistol.

  The stamping on the side of the weapon revealed that it was chambered for twenty-two caliber ammunition; a favourite among target shooters for many of the same reasons held by those who enjoyed shooting twenty-two caliber rifles. However, this pistol had a few slight modifications which only served to reinforce Clay's initial conclusions regarding the purpose of the tube. The barrel had been replaced with one which was slightly more elongated, having threads cut into its muzzle, and protruding slightly beyond the slide. Clay took the pipe that he now recognized as a suppressor and threaded it onto the pistol's barrel.