Noise of the shot echoed on nearby buildings, reverberating off into the distance until eventually, silence returned, interrupted only by the sound of falling rain. After waiting a moment to confirm that no further life stirred in the body, Brock picked up the radio once more, and clicked in the button.
“Sniper target one down”, he spoke proudly into the radio, before setting it back down on the ground.
Brock then turned his rifle to face the road separating the car-park, and the museum in which the assaulting party had been hiding out within, ready to provide fire as and when it was needed.
Despite the gunshot, the area seemed still, no movement in sight that wasn’t the result of the rain and wind coming in from above. That was of course, until Brock heard what sounded like the crunching of leaves behind him, followed by a slight clicking noise. Turning to investigate, Brock’s eyes widened.
What warranted this change of facial expression was no normal sight. Instead it was the fist of one John Parker, launching forwards with immense pace until it collided hard with Brock’s face. The sound of a nose breaking was clearly audible, and blood immediately splattered out, before the body of the sniper went rolling backwards into a heap on the ground, knocked out cold. John reacted only by shaking his fist, trying to lose both the pain of impact and speckles of blood now attached to each of his knuckles.
Harvey meanwhile disembarked from the car, itself parked just a few metres away thanks to its ability to approach in near silence.
“That worked out pretty well”, Harvey announced as he crouch-walked over to the two men, one of whom remained unconscious.
“Not well enough”, John replied, “He got a shot off, somewhere”, he said, his eyes straining to find the point of impact.
“On the roof”, Harvey said, noting the figure lying on its front.
John went cold. He knew Andrew was on rooftop-duty when they’d left, and he too now saw the body lying motionless on top of the building.
“God damn it”, he said, before withdrawing his own M14.
The scope attached to John’s rifle provided a much needed close up on the situation, and as John peered through its magnifying lens, he got a much better view of the kill that the guard known as Brock had made.
“It’s Andrew isn’t it?”, Harvey asked to John’s rear, the tone of his voice notably saddened.
But John didn’t have time to answer questions, and so instead turned his rifle to the left, down to the entrance of the car-park. As he completed the swivel, he caught the briefest glimpse of a foot disappearing into the dark confines of the ground floor, and knew that the group were inside the building.
* * *
“Boss, remind me again why we can’t all just go in as one?”, the large, burly and dim-witted member of team 2 asked Gerry, who led in front.
“Because this way if one team gets spotted, the whole plan doesn’t go to hell”, Gerry replied, as they crossed out into the open, flanking round to the left of the target building.
“Got it”, the large man pretended to understand, as he watched the other team approach from the right of the entrance.
Suddenly, from up above came the tell-tale gunshot, just as both teams arrived alongside the entrance, each of them holding their position.
“Sniper target 1 down”, came Brock’s voice over the radio after a brief delay.
Immediately, Gerry pointed inwards to the other team, and all four men – each of whom were armed with a variety of automatic weapons – made their way inside. But despite all their planning, things were already a little off kilter.
“Where the hell’s the guard?”, Gerry asked to nobody in particular.
Each of the accompanying three men simply shrugged.
“Alright, get down to your stairwell, go!”, he ordered, to which the other team quickly sprinted off in the direction of the northern stairwell.
Gerry meanwhile began moving towards the south end, assault rifle raised and at the ready, his muscle following close behind. The stairwell was well barricaded, and much to Gerry’s dismay, it appeared to have been physically boarded up, an eventuality they weren’t quite ready for. But then this was exactly why they’d split up, and so he instead turned to watch his other team, who quickly arrived at their destination.
“Ready?”, asked the first member of team one, himself an average sized, well-built individual with a bald head and numerous tattoos visible on every piece of exposed skin.
“Let’s do it”, replied his brother in arms, another well built, averagely sized man, this time with a little more hair and a lot less ink.
With that, the first man clambered up onto the hood of the Ford pickup blocking the path, and began moving towards the doorway. Unlike the south stairwell, this entrance well less troublesome for humans to traverse, presumably to allow people to use it as a regular passageway to the floors above. In fact, the only real evidence of it being properly secured was a few planks of wood attached to the underside of the truck, presumably to stop the undead from crawling through.
Before long, both men were on the other side of the barricade and in a strangely empty gap between the pickup and the stairwell’s entranceway, ready to begin their breach.
“Stay tight”, said the leading man to his follower, as he began moving towards the empty shell where a door might once have been, gun raised and eyes peeking round each corner. Upon becoming satisfied that the small room was empty, the man moved forwards, swinging his left foot first, and in doing so, kicking the thin strand of dental floss that neither person had noticed.
Andrew had been good for very little in the post-apocalyptic world. However in the recent weeks he had well and truly come into his own. He’d managed to setup the solar-powered warning system, he’d been helping out in vehicle maintenance, and apparently, for some strange and unusual reason, he’d discovered how to manufacture low grade traps. Of course, in the interest of saving both ammo and noise, this particular trap remained untested, but as the dental floss surged forwards with the force of the man’s boot, pulling hard on the trigger of the Remington 870 shotgun that had been attached barrel-down to the ceiling above, a very real test of the mechanism was right at hand.
The trigger pulled just far enough before the floss snapped, and before anybody had any idea what was going on, the shotgun unleashed a shell of fury downwards, shards flying out in a small spread, just as the man’s head had begun to enter the room. The entire front of his face was ripped almost clean off, and a series of other pieces of shrapnel embedded themselves throughout his legs, arms and torso, doing far more damage than was necessary to bring even the biggest of people down. His weapon clattered against the floor, and the figure dropped soon after it, now very much deceased.
Before the second man even had a chance to turn, the second part of the plan came into effect. Due to the quickened nature of their movement towards the stairwell, neither of the invaders had bothered to check the wooden planks positioned underneath the truck. If they had, they might have noticed that between the one visible on the driver side of the pickup, and the one visible on the passenger side, there was a gap in between. But of course, it was too late now, and as the slat nearest to the second man suddenly fell down, he became very much aware of this.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a small pop signalled the firing of a pistol, sending a bullet flying through the ankle of the man and immediately sweeping him off his feet. He came down hard, his face slapping against the hard ground and his entire body following soon after. Worse still however, was that with his face now looking towards the truck just a few metres away, he was able to see his attacker, a thirty-something woman with fire in her eyes, and the slightest hints of a sickening smile evident as she placed her finger back on the trigger, repositioned the gun to aim at the man’s head, and fired again.
“What the fuck is going on down there!?”, Gerry demanded angrily into the radio, shortly after the third in a series of gunshots had sounded out. “Team one?”, he said agai
n, but received no response.
At this point, his larger companion began to shift around nervously, his gaze darting around, as if expecting an attack.
“Brock, you see anything?”, Gerry asked into his walkie-talkie, to which only radio silence responded, “BROCK!?”.
There was a delay while they waited for some evidence that Brock was still alive, until eventually the radio sounded out once more.
“I’m sorry, Brock can’t come to the phone right now”, came a voice from the other end of the radio that Gerry just barely recognised, “But if you leave a name and number after the beep, we’ll get back to you”.
“…They got Brock”, Gerry said, himself now wide-eyed and filled with fear.
With that, his companion had had enough. “Let’s get out of here boss!”, he said fearfully, as he turned and ran towards the exit.
“NO, DON’T!”, Gerry yelled, with complete disregard for the noise it created.
But it was too late, the larger man ran out into the outside air, and into the rain that continued to unleash its fury over all of Milwaukee.
“GOD DAMN IT”, Gerry yelled again, knowing that staying here alone would mean almost certain death.
Accordingly, Gerry too ran out into the open, just in time to see his once loyal guard reach the centre of the road, at which point something happened that stopped Gerry in his tracks.
Out of nowhere, hurtling in at god-knows-what speed, came the sight of a Tesla supercar, barrelling its way along the road and colliding with the large man with such force that everyone there knew he would have died upon impact. The car then ground to a halt just a short distance away, its rear hazard lights flashing and Brock’s limp body skidding to a stop soon afterwards.
“SHIT!”, Gerry yelled, before drawing his assault rifle in the direction of the Tesla.
However, as Gerry reached for the trigger and the first shot rang out, it was not the sound of his automatic AK that filled the air, but the slightly more distant sound of an M14, as a single round came flying in from out of view, and ripped clean through Gerry’s right arm, causing him to immediately drop the weapon – as well as himself – to the ground. Harvey then clambered out from the driver-side of the Tesla, his own M16 drawn and ready to fire, and a look of confidence on his face that showed how sure he was that the gun wouldn’t be needed.
“Everybody whole?”, came that same voice over the radio, the one Gerry was sure he’d heard before, but was far too busy whimpering in pain to recollect from where.
“I’m fine”, Sonja replied.
“We’re all good up here”, Lester concurred, presumably referencing both himself and the residents.
“Me too”, said the voice of Andrew, who was just now emerging from his spot behind the walls on top of the building. “But there’s blood all over my glasses”, he added, as he stared down at the body of a biter they had earlier taken down, before fitting it with Andrew’s glasses, and propping it up on top of the roof.
Back on the bridge, John leant out from the scope of his rifle – which was still trained on Gerry lying down on the ground – and smiled.
Chapter 26: Answers
John awoke the next morning feeling fresher than ever. He’d been afforded the luxury of a full night’s sleep by his companions, which much to his surprise, he’d managed to fully utilise. Watch duties had been doubled throughout the night, with Lester, Sonja, Harvey and Andrew all having been on, but John was already coming off the back of a double shift and a raid, and so had been given some downtime.
The doubling of guards on duty had been done for three reasons. The first was that there was uncertainty on whether the attacking group had only comprised of five members, and so of course they had to make sure they were prepared for any potential retaliation. The second reason was to take care of any biters that happened to roam by in the night, attracted to the area by the sound of gunfire the previous day. The final reason however was perhaps the most important, and that was to guard the camp’s latest residents; Gerry, the leader of the attackers, and Brock, his sniper.
In what was almost a morning ritual by now, John’s first stop after waking up was to make his way out of his tent, walk a few feet, and then lean over the edge of the building, to inspect how peacefully the night had passed. To his surprise, only four or five bodies littered the street, and even those were already being cleared up, despite the sun just barely beginning to rise. Normally the group would wait until full light to start the cleaning process, for fear of some more of the undead wandering over in the dark, but for whatever reason, things were already in motion.
John made his way to the roof, and headed over to the makeshift canteen. Just as it was every other day, the canned porridge on offer was hot and disgusting, but a damn sight better than chocolate bars or nothing at all, so John wolfed down his helping gratefully. Unlike most meals, breakfast was never likely to improve, due to there being no fresh food left, or the power required to cook it even if there was. Stale porridge would have to do for the foreseeable future.
Having gotten eating out of the way, John then made a beeline for Andrew, who was sat atop the north-east corner of the building, rifle in hand.
“Morning”, John said as he approached the fidgety man.
“Morning”, Andrew replied, barely looking back at John to acknowledge his presence.
“You alright?”, John asked, knowing something was wrong.
“Yeah”, Andrew replied unconvincingly, “I’m fine”.
“Andrew”, John said, “We both know that’s not true”.
Andrew hesitated, looking to Sonja to make sure she could cover watch duties for a few moments – herself perched on the south-east corner – before turning away to face John.
“I don’t like how things are going here, I don’t like the direction we’re headed”, he said plainly.
“What do you mean?”, John asked.
“All of this, this death, this chaos”, Andrew explained, “I want things to go back to normal, just us, going out on raids. I don’t want to be out killing the living”, he argued.
John stared back at the man. Andrew had never been one for the uglier details of this new world, and had always seemed weak for some of his views on what shouldn’t be done, but for once, this was not an issue that John disagreed with him on.
“You and me both Andrew”, John replied, before patting the man on the shoulder and turning on the spot, heading now in the direction of the northern stairwell. “You and me both”, he repeated.
John quickly made his way down the stairwell to the ground floor, where the smell of bleach and particularly clean patches of floor marked the location of one of the assailants, brought down courtesy of the shotgun which had now been unpinned from the ceiling above. John had been particularly impressed with the trap when he’d found out, and was even more impressed when he learned that it was Andrew’s handiwork. Even John wasn’t sure he could have manufactured something so effective.
Just outside the stairwell’s entranceway was the scene of the other guard’s death, this time from Sonja. But John didn’t pay much attention to any of it, instead walking into the main area of the ground floor – passing by the Nissan which had been placed back into position but pulled back away from the door – and heading towards the entrance instead. Up ahead John could see the large figure of Lester, and the small pile of undead that had been arranged next to him, pointing to a perhaps more interesting night than John had expected.
“Morning”, John said as he neared the man responsible for the pile.
“Morning John”, Lester replied, “Harvey’s already in there”.
“Thanks”, John said, “You have a fun night?”, he asked, looking down at the bodies but not breaking his stride.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle”, he replied.
“Clearly”, John laughed. “I’ll take over here in a little bit, don’t worry about the bodies for now”, John said.
Lester nodded in response, before
turning his attention back to the outside world.
John continued out into the morning air, before turning and heading south briefly, until he was outside the neighbouring apartment block, its multiple floors stretching out above. The mornings were getting cold, and John had wrapped up warm accordingly, but it was still chilly outside the confines of the car park, a fact evidenced by his breath now clearly visible in front.
“Coming in”, he said, rapping his knuckles on the metal door a few times before entering.
“Go ahead”, came Harvey’s voice from inside.
As the metallic obstacle swung on its hinges out of sight, John was confronted by the sight of Harvey, stood up perfectly straight, swinging a baseball bat round in one hand. To his left was the sniper knows as Brock, strapped in tight to an office chair that they had found in one of the apartments, shivering, shaking and sweating near-uncontrollably. To his right, in a similar chair and a similar fashion, was the leader known as Gerry, himself suddenly looking at John in the most confused of ways. From behind the sock that had been stuffed in his mouth, Gerry suddenly began to mumble odd words, trying to speak.
“Hold on”, John said to the man, as he walked towards him, grabbing the gag and pulling it out, allowing it to fall around Gerry’s neck, where it was tied in place.
“I know you! Jimmy isn’t it? From Texas?”, Gerry asked, “C’mon Jimmy buddy you gotta’ tell ‘em this is all just some big misunderstanding? I mean we were just-“, his voice cut off as John stuffed the gag back in.
“First off, I’m not really from Texas, God knows how you believed that”, John said, thinking back to the terrible accent he’d put on back when he and Donald had crossed the Stillwater bridge months earlier. “And second, the only misunderstanding here is the one you had when you thought you could attack this place and not end up dead”, he said, getting angrier now. “Now why don’t you go ahead and tell me what in the hell brought you here”, he instructed, before pulling the gag out once more.
Aftermath (Book 2): Chicago Calling Page 21
