This is a work of fiction, any character or event portrayed is created solely from the imagination of the author, and is not based on any individual or incident past, present or future. Any resemblance to any real-life entity is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Duncan McArdle 2015. All rights reserved.
Unauthorised copying of this work via any medium is strictly prohibited.
Contents
Chapter 1: Thirty
Chapter 2: Regroup
Chapter 3: Riches to ruins
Chapter 4: Translucent
Chapter 5: Breach and clear
Chapter 6: Communication
Chapter 7: Seeing is believing
Chapter 8: Blue, white and yellow
Chapter 9: Answers
Chapter 10: Soar
Chapter 11: Making plans
Chapter 12: Bang
Chapter 13: Plans
Chapter 14: Execute
Chapter 15: Advance
Chapter 16: Barricade
Chapter 17: Outnumbered
Chapter 18: Grand return
Chapter 19: Recovery
Chapter 20: Crossing paths
Chapter 21: Rebuilding
Chapter 22: Follow the leader
Chapter 23: Discount
Chapter 24: Return to sender
Chapter 25: Over and out
Chapter 26: Answers
Chapter 27: Catch-Up
Chapter 28: Evolve
Chapter 29: Assess
Chapter 30: Clearance
Chapter 31: Start
Chapter 32: The speed of sound
Chapter 33: Hiding in plain sight
Chapter 34: Spreading
Chapter 35: Like old times
Chapter 36: Fishing for something
Chapter 37: Cut it off at the source
Chapter 38: Holding back
Chapter 39: Hatchet
Chapter 40: Transmission
Chapter 41: Precision
Chapter 42: Parting ways
Chapter 1: Thirty
May 21st, 2014. Three months before the conclusion of “Aftermath”.
The rear door of the decrepit looking property had been made of reasonably stern stuff, its wooden frame enough to hold it in place against most obstacles on a normal day. However having been left for so long unattended, unmaintained, and subject to the many varying weather patterns of the north-eastern United States, the now brittle blockade was little more than a minor obstacle, especially given that its low-grade lock had been left ajar.
Slowly the door creaked open, the sound of rusty hinges operating for the first time in some months filling the house with a low whine and occasional crack that had become so common in buildings nowadays. In the gap that formed, a circular outline filled the air, as the barrel of the beautifully crafted shotgun known as the Mossberg 590 slowly crept in from the afternoon sun outside.
In an instant, the darkened room was filled with an artificial glow from the shotgun’s attached flashlight, and suddenly cutlery and cooking utensils alike began to beam various reflections around the deserted kitchen. Still the door continued to slowly open, more and more of the weapon’s barrel entering into the confines of the kitchen, until eventually the first of its operator’s hands were exposed, followed by the second, each one of them as muddied and bruised as the other.
Finally a face began to emerge from the direction of the light, its outline immediately indicating the presence of a bushy beard and a handlebar moustache that remained surprisingly well maintained, despite the conditions. This was the face of Geoff, a leader by nature and the first to enter any unknown property, a right he had been afforded by his past military training with the US Army.
Slowly Geoff’s head leant around the door, looking to every possible source of danger over the course of several seconds, his shotgun’s flashlight targeting each and every spot until he was satisfied that the room was empty. Cautiously he relinquished a small amount of the tension placed on his trigger finger, but chose to keep it in place just in case, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
“Clear”, Geoff whispered to his rear before entering the house, one foot at a time, each step placed with absolute precision.
From behind Geoff came another two figures in quick succession. Each appeared to be of a much larger frame, one accompanied by a set of glasses and an even bigger – albeit less tame – beard than Geoff’s, the other showing off little more to identify himself than a menacing grin. Each of the men were armed with similar weaponry to the Mossberg, and in a presumably pre-determined fashion, both flanked their leader as he continued to search the remainder of the house’s visible interior. Before long, all three of the group’s frontrunners disappeared off into the adjoining room.
Next into the kitchen came three smaller outlines than their predecessors, two of them assisting the central individual, who just barely managed to limp his way through the doorway. Both of the injured man’s arms were draped loosely over his comrade’s shoulders and his clothes bore the tell-tale stains of blood, culminating in a noticeably darker patch towards the top of his torso.
The kitchen was in a poor state, boarded up from prying eyes but dimly lit by the sun that breached the many broken windows in the adjacent, open plan rooms. The drawers were ransacked and smashed across the floor, the fridge appeared empty, and the missing chopping knives gave notion to the idea that the previous tenant had made sure to take everything of use before leaving. It was clearly unlikely that there would be much of interest remaining in this “cleaned-out” property, but all that was really needed for now was a place to rest for a few minutes, and as the creaking of floorboards above indicated the unimpeded movement of their groups lead trio to the upper floor, it seemed they may have found just that.
Bringing up the rear, the final member of the group slowly backed his way through the open door, his pistol raised and pointed outwards as he made every attempt to avoid tripping over the frame beneath his feet. This last individual was of a medium build, bespectacled like one of the larger men, but with only mid-length, curly hair, and a more anger filled look laden on his face. Emblazoned on the back of his hooded top was a large, encircled green star, the words “AH Crew”, and his name, “Michael”.
Having successfully crossed the building’s threshold, the man known as Michael began the process of pushing everything he could find in front of the property’s rear door. It was a thankless and often pointless task, but was one of the many things that had to be done whenever entering a new property. All of this of course, was with one single goal in mind; to make sure that whatever was currently on the other side of that flimsy wooden barricade, stayed there.
“All clear”, yelled Geoff from upstairs.
“There’s a bed up here”, called out another voice, presumably from one of Geoff’s accompanying men.
Upon hearing this confirmation, the walking wounded and his two assistants began quickly shuffling their way out of the kitchen and into the inner depths of the house, taking care not to trip over the various items littering the floor as they did. The house’s state might have been an issue should they be looking at staying for longer, but right now, provided they could avoid it tripping them up and causing their injured member even more damage, it was all they needed. Before long, the trio had made their way over to the foot of the staircase, and begun their ascent.
Meanwhile, having completed his task, Michael began inspecting the rest of the downstairs. The walls of the property had been knocked through and riddled with bullet holes, and various profanities and vulgar images had been spray painted throughout. Looking amongst the mess with wandering eyes, Michael spotted the scat
tered spray paint cans of various colours used to deface the building, most of them presumably now empty. When his gaze did finally come to a stop however, it rested upon two particular cans; the green and black ones that just happened to match the colours of the star logo on the back of his clothes. Suddenly, a smile surfaced.
Now at the top of the steps, the three smaller men slowly limped free of the staircase, before turning left and heading in the direction of their leader’s voice. As they walked, Gavin, the taller of the two assisting the wounded man, began eyeing up the various plain walls that stretched between the stairs and their destination, an idea clearly formulating in his head. Quickly though, such thoughts were put to one side, as the group reached the end of the hallway and entered into the master bedroom, in which Geoff and the other two men were stood waiting.
“Up you go”, groaned Gavin in his trademark British accent, lifting his half of the weight onto the ragged bed in front before moving back towards the door and slipping out into the hallway.
“Ugghhhh”, came a sound from the injured man known as Kerry, “Just… just finish it” he said, clearly already defeated.
“Don’t talk like that Kerry”, came Geoff’s authoritative voice from the corner of the room.
“We don’t even know how bad it is”, concurred the other smaller man, who had remained alongside the bed.
“Oh c… c’mon Ray, you’ve seen w…what happens”, replied Kerry, his eyes now closed as he struggled to stay conscious.
Opting not to argue with a man in Kerry’s state, Ray simply turned to look away, as a single tear began slaloming down the recently scarred landscape that made up one side of his face.
Back out in the corridor, Gavin paced half way towards the staircase, paused, and turned to face the wall. From out of his pocket he then produced a thick black marker pen, and immediately began scrawling.
“This again?”, Michael asked angrily as he too arrived upstairs, his voice bearing with the remnants of a New Jersey accent.
“You done down there?”, Gavin replied, ignoring the question and instead asking his own.
“Done as I can be, but there’s no way we’re sticking around here, the place is like a bomb site”, Michael declared, before continuing to gaze at the forming letters on the wall in front.
A few moments passed like this, Michael absent-mindedly watching the pen as it created a series of words in a vertical list, before it eventually fulfilled its task and returned to Gavin’s side.
“Why do you do it?”, Michael asked, more calmly this time, still staring at the inscription.
Gavin paused for thought, recounting the reason he’d ran over so many times in his head, before eventually opening his mouth.
“Every day we survive, every day longer we live, is another day most people never got”, he began, “Every time I get to write this… well it just feels good that I can, I guess”, Gavin said, stepping back from the wall to admire his work.
“He’s fitting! Guys he’s fitting!”, came a panicked voice from the master bedroom, “Get in here!”.
Quickly both Michael and Gavin sprang into action and headed for the doorway, entering the room to the sight of a body, writhing in the death throes they’d become so accustomed to, before it switched just as quickly to an eerily calm state.
“Kerry!?”, called Ray, “Kerry come on, get out of this!”, he yelled, shaking the body by the shoulders in some vain attempt to stimulate life, “KERRY!?”.
“Ray”, came Geoff’s low tone from behind him, accompanied with a soft but firm hand placed on his shoulder, and a slow shaking of the head.
Every single person in that room suddenly looked to Geoff for some kind of guidance, some reassurance that all was not lost, that the friendship they had shared with Kerry for so many years wasn’t about to come to an abrupt halt. But all Geoff could do was tell the truth, and that came in the form of those same two words he’d repeated so many times before.
“He’s gone”, he said, with a worrying level of calm in his voice.
Immediately everyone found themselves dropping into silence. No matter how accustomed people got to the sight of death – either before or after the apocalypse – rarely was a person un-phased by its sudden presence in situations like these. For the longest time, all those present simply stood there, seconds minutes or maybe even hours passing by without anybody caring, not a single one of them even having noticed. Eventually though, Gavin opted to be the one to break the silence, with a question he hated himself for having to ask.
“Who’s gonna do it?”, he said.
“Why does anybody have to!?”, replied Ray, clearly still in shock and in no way ready for what had to happen.
“You know we have to Ray”, Gavin started, “We’ve been over this”.
Ray looked away from Gavin dismissively, slipping once more into silence, his eyes locked on the corpse of his friend. Ray was one of the youngest in the group, and had so far proved to be the worst at dealing with such situations. But eventually, his lips finally broke, and out came what was a barely audible whisper.
“Goodbye Kerry”, he said.
Almost in tandem, Ray, Michael and the larger bearded man known as Jack all left the room, in what appeared to be notice that they had no intention of carrying out the deed themselves. Suddenly, it was left up to Gavin, Geoff and the other larger man, Ryan.
Geoff withdrew his knife from its holster and paced over to the bed, doing so quickly as if to make the process easier. Holding the blade over Kerry’s head, he struggled and ultimately failed to find the words to say, before eventually opting to say nothing at all. Sometimes it was hard to come up with anything of any real meaning at times like these, especially when times like these had become a fairly common occurrence.
Gavin and Ryan both watched in agony as the blade shook nervously, each of them waiting for the moment it began its deadly descent. But the weapon descended not into Kerry’s skull, but instead back into its leather-bound home, attached to Geoff’s waist.
“I can’t”, Geoff tried to explain, “I just… I can’t”, he insisted, his voice cracking with almost every word.
Geoff was by far the strongest member of the group, something each and every person there knew. But even the strongest sometimes needed a break, a fact evidenced by Geoff’s subsequent departure from the room.
“I’ll do it”, Ryan said firmly, himself now stepping up to the plate, and taking out his own knife.
“Ryan…”, came Gavin’s voice from across the room.
The larger man turned to look at Gavin, and what followed was a long pause, one that enabled the smaller man to consider whether or not he really wanted to speak the words currently on his mind. What he was about to say was controversial, especially when spoken to a man such as Ryan, but he felt it was warranted, and so swallowed hard before opening his mouth, and finally went for it.
“Let’s leave him”, he said nervously.
“Leave him!?”, Ryan called out in horror, “To what? Roam the world for all eternity, waiting for the moment he gets to bring someone else to their grave!?”, he demanded, before turning back to the body in front, knife in hand.
“Look”, Gavin reasoned, “You can stand there as long as you want, but you won’t be able to do it, just like Ray, just like Geoff”, he paused, before realising the full truth of the matter, “Just like all of us”.
Ryan snapped his gaze back to the corpse in front, gripping his blade’s handle tightly in defiance of Gavin’s words. But as he stared down at that now lifeless body, all he could see was various memories of times gone by rushing past, all of them working together to form a reminder of the friendship that had been shared over the course of so many years, and in doing so completely altering Ryan’s perspective. Before long, he too found himself unable to carry out the task, and instead opted simply to say a few final parting words, before joining the others in beginning the long and sobering walk out of the room.
Now alone in the disgusti
ng master bedroom, Gavin walked over to the body of Kerry, and stared for some time into his empty, yellowed eyes.
“I’m sorry Kerry”, he said softly, gripping the blood soaked hand of his once joyful friend, uncaring of the sheer volume of red liquid that now spread from Kerry’s hands to his, a series of tears streaking out from the corners of his eyes.
“I’m gonna miss you”, he whimpered quietly.
Before too long had passed, Gavin finally summed up the strength to walk out of the room, and away from Kerry’s final resting place.
Back in the hallway, Michael was stood waiting for Gavin to exit, ready to speak meaningless words of condolence to him as he arrived. Each and every member of that group knew that at a time like this, nothing any of them could say could really make a difference, but it was the least they could do to try.
“I guess we didn’t all make it another day after all”, Gavin said softly, his tone now that of a defeated man.
Michael tried for a moment to construct some kind of response, but eventually opted to remain silent.
Slowly Gavin turned to the wall of names on his left, and made one final change, using the plentiful supply of Kerry’s blood – which continued to drip from his right hand – in place of ink.
Upon Gavin’s hand coming back to rest at his side a few long moments later, Michael softly patted him on the back, and in conjunction spoke a few simple words.
“Let’s get the hell out of Madison”, he said, to which Gavin nodded, turned, and began walking back towards the staircase.
Before doing the same, Michael faced the wall one final time.
“Geoff, Jack, Ryan, Ray, Michael, Gavin” read the names from the wall, all of them drawn with lines so solid they seemed to symbolise their resilient ways thus far. Finally though came another name; “Kerry”, each letter barely visible behind the red cross that had been drawn over it, written, Michael knew, in the blood of his fallen friend.
Chapter 2: Regroup
Present day, October 15th, 2014.
Slowly an autumn sun began to rise up and pierce the mid-October mist, metre by metre crawling its way towards the vast concrete structure that was the Milwaukee Art Museum’s multi-storey car-park. It was gone 7AM – an indication in itself that the days were getting shorter and shorter as the depths of winter approached – and barely the whistle of wind could be heard in the vicinity. The roads immediately outside the building were clear, and there was no movement to indicate any kind of threat. This of course, was all ascertained through the scope of a military grade M24, perched on top of the building’s north-eastern corner.
Aftermath (Book 2): Chicago Calling Page 1
