* * *
Having put a decent distance between himself and the Motel, and finally losing line of sight to the guards, John descended into the trees bordering the road. Lowering his back into an almost crouching manner, he began the long, quiet walk to the nearest place of interest, a town just a few miles out, known as Ashton. He’d been there before, and had found a haul of food tucked away in some pre-apocalypse survivalist type’s house, a man who was no doubt laughed at for his ‘end-of-the-world’ preparations, until it actually happened of course. It seemed however that although well prepared for the impending chaos, the man himself had yet to return for his supplies, perhaps because he was far enough away to make getting back difficult, or perhaps because he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, John wasn’t sure.
Hauls like this didn’t come around often, so he was keen to pick it clean while he could. But the position of the house in the centre of town made for a difficult place to get to undetected, and John hadn’t been there in almost two weeks. As such, he wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t already have been ransacked, though he still thought it best to at least afford it a quick check. Quick however was far from the operative word, as John’s own desire to investigate every unusual occurrence – from the rustling of leaves caught in the breeze, to the scampering of small feet in the undergrowth – often turned the smallest trips into the longest journeys. Thankfully however, such caution often rewarded John, sometimes eluding him to the presence of an animal suitable to eat, and other times, to the presence of something that had its eyes set on eating him instead.
The first few noises that morning however were nothing more than wind, save for one occurrence of a rabbit scurrying across John’s path. The little thing had been too fast for him to lunge out and grab, and too small for him to waste a bullet on, but he was disappointed to watch it run away nonetheless. The fact was, bullets had become worth their weight in much more than just gold – due in no small part to them being able to take down one of those ‘things’ in a single shot – and so he knew better than to waste one on a small meal. Unfortunately though, the little metal rounds did have their downsides, carrying enough noise with them to alert anything for miles around, and as such had to be used sparingly, not least because of how rare they’d become. John prayed for the day he’d find a silenced weapon, some means of dispatching the enemy with minimal noise and maximum efficiency, but for the time being, he made do with his knife where possible.
Despite the many false alarms, as John traipsed on further, he gradually became more and more aware of a presence to the rear. With only the occasional sound of crunching leaves or snapping twigs to base it on, he figured it for no more than just another of those ‘things’, though he couldn’t help but wonder if it might in fact be another survivor, or worse, a bandit. Regardless, he had neither the desire nor the time to double back and identify the stalker, and so continued on, listening on the wind for any sign that his new friend might be getting closer, and picking up his own pace in an attempt to make sure that it couldn’t.
* * *
Eventually John arrived at a clearing, right on the outskirts of Ashton, and was presented with a clear view over the town. It was here he had stopped in the past, and utilised the vantage point to assess whether or not the town was worth raiding for supplies. As he gazed out, his eyes darting from derelict buildings to ransacked gas stations, he quickly picked out the survivalist’s house, and began plotting a route to its front door, a route he had travelled along before. “Down the main road, right onto Currell Boulevard, second left, first right, fourth house on the left”, the words rang out in his head over and over, as John stood still, quietly repeating them until they were burnt into his memory. “Down the main road, right onto Currell Boulevard, second left, first right, fourth house on the left”, he said again.
Confident that he knew the way, he began the descent into the town, quickly dashing through a thin line of trees adjacent to the first of the Ashton streets. Hugging close to every trunk, he knew he had to keep a decent pace, but was at the same adamant that he would not put himself in a position that risked being spotted. That said, other than the occasional sound of a rodent scurrying away from his slow footsteps, John heard little else coming from his surroundings to indicate another person’s presence. In a way, it was almost refreshing, no whirring of police sirens, no honking of horns by irate drivers, nothing. Had the world not been predominantly inhabited by the living dead, he might even have considered it peaceful.
Eventually reaching the end of the treeline, and instead switching his path for the main road, John became worried by just how little he could see. Out in the wild the sight of anything moving would be a worrisome thought, but in a town such as this one, small amounts of movement were inevitable, unless of course it had already been picked clean by someone, or something. The absence of wildlife alone pointed to a presence, a human camped out in a house, a group completing a raid on the town, or perhaps a horde of the undead patrolling the street looking to feed. Whatever had caused it, John took no chances, sticking close to every wall he could, darting behind fences and bushes when he couldn’t, finding anything he could to conceal his mass from the preying eyes of any living or dead creature that remained. Eventually however, he reached the turn off for the final road of his journey, and knew he would have to cross the open road in front of him.
Looking in both directions, like a school boy learning to safely cross the road, he positioned himself in an almost athletic pose, one foot behind the other, hands on the ground, ready to sprint across the large deserted street. On small roads, a stealthy approach made more sense, but here, where anything but sprinting would make him a sitting duck and an easy target to any nearby bandits, he had to employ speed, and so he did. John erupted from the standstill in an explosion of raw energy, his legs propelling his large, six-foot-six body across the road as fast as they would allow, skidding across the floor on the other side into the warm embrace of yet another wall, after several terrifying seconds came to a close. John heaved a sigh of relief at a successful crossing, pausing briefly to look around for signs of anybody having seen, before eventually continuing around the corner, confident he remained undetected.
Soon enough he was forced to cross his second road, this time with a more stealthy and tactful approach due to its much smaller width, and before long he began to feel a sense of excitement at nearing his destination. Feelings of being watched lingered on though, the thought of what might be following forever at the forefront of his mind, despite desperate attempts to push such things out. Before long however, a smile crept slowly across his face, as the sight of the target house came suddenly into view, just a few hundred yards along the very street he now walked along.
* * *
The door softly closed behind him, John began to feel more comfortable with the familiar sights. The cooker that by the looks of it had actually appeared post-apocalyptic long before the world went to hell, the books stacked in the corner that might have provided the previous occupant of this place with years of reading, everything helped give a brief and much-misses sense of normality. What John saw finally and most importantly though, was the pantry, still sealed up just as John had left it the last time, ready and waiting to be picked clean.
Sliding off his heavy duty rucksack – a British Assault Pack he had actually found when last here – John began to carefully and quietly load various tinned foods into the bag, as well as numerous bottles of water, some books that took his fancy, and a few comics to give to the children back at camp. With his bag sealed up and ready to leave, he turned and began to head for the door, but before he could reach it, something caught his eye for all but a second, a silver glimmer over in the darkened corner of the room.
Drawing his weapon, John slowly crept towards it, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the growing darkness of the unlit corner, so that he might get some idea of what had shone so brightly and so briefly into his eyes. As he got closer, he saw the dir
ty floorboards, covered in months of dust, he saw the bin filled with mountains of old newspapers and food wrappings, and he saw a single silver bullet, resting on top of the trash. It appeared to be a .22 calibre round – the very same ammo that his Ruger pistol fired – but it was buckled and bent well out of shape, as if thrown aside when it failed to correctly fire.
Normally this would be a relatively normal sight, in this world weapons were fired a lot, with regular misfires the result of poor weapon maintenance. But this bullet had been thrown away, most likely before the apocalypse had occurred, as if the owner of the house had been loading a weapon and throwing out the old, mangled casings that would be of no use. This begged a very important question, were there more in the house, and if so, where?
Till now, John had avoided spending any time upstairs – beyond the initial scan he had conducted to ensure it was at least safe – but now he was forced to consider the possibility that it might hold the key to making this trip worth it. The idea of boxes filled with ammunition just laid out ripe for the taking made John salivate at the very thought. Bullets were essential, they were a part of life now, and he needed them desperately. He had to go up there again.
John made his way quickly to the foot of the stairs, just barely ascending the first of many steps before his attention was drawn elsewhere, to something catching his eye, this time through a front-facing window. Movement of some sort, perhaps the same movement he had heard behind him just outside of the camp, though at the same time, perhaps nothing more than a wild bird taking off from the window ledge. It was a disturbance that John knew should be investigated, but as he thought of the long walk he had back to camp, he knew he didn’t have time to look. Instead John continued upstairs, quietly but quickly darting into the nearest room to begin his search.
As he entered, he realised that he appeared to have found some sort of trophy room. Rather than your run of the mill baseball or golfing accolades however, the heads of various animals littered the walls, proudly showing off the many successful hunting trips the previous occupant had apparently conducted. John was fairly certain there was little of any use here, the shotgun affixed to the wall alongside the many heads was a relic, unlikely to fire at all and certainly not reliably, and a quick scan over the remaining sections of the room showed nothing of any real interest. So he quickly retraced his steps back to the hallway, and continued on to the next room.
This time, as he slid through the slightly ajar door – careful not to open it any further in case anything rested against it – he was greeted by a more civilised sight. A bed, a TV and various magazines and books filled the room, a perfectly normal room for a perfectly normal person, a comforting sight to say the least. Excitedly checking the cupboards though, John was disappointed to find nothing of any value, family photos and clothes for a man much smaller than himself the only things that appeared to have been left behind when the previous occupant left. It was here however, that John heard the most simple and yet worrying noise you could hear when in an empty house all by yourself, the creak of a floorboard, from somewhere else in the building.
John’s neck snapped around to the door, but he saw and heard nothing else. Blood began rushing around his body at an unbelievable pace, the thought of what might have caused such a noise causing him to both create and rehearse a variety of worst case scenarios in his head. John looked around the room, analysing every possible point of usefulness. Quickly he ascertained that the bed posed the best hiding spot, its long quilt covering the gap underneath completely, itself just wide enough for him to fit under. He crept over slowly and climbed under its warm embrace, sliding his last exposed limb under the covered shelter of the bed just as another creak sounded out, this time from much closer, from just outside of the room.
John withdrew the Ruger from its oversized holster, cocking back the cold, metallic slide of the pistol, and being careful to do so slowly, so as to reduce the noise from the clanking of the bullet sliding into the chamber. Having loaded the weapon, he quietly propped open a thin gap in the quilt with his hand – in order to see anyone or anything entering the room – just in time to see the door swing slowly open, and a shadowy figure struggle to remain upright right behind it.
Its claw-like fingers returned to its side having pushed the door completely open, just as its nose began to frantically gasp at the air in front. John could tell from the first second that this thing was not living, it hadn’t been for some time, and was now slow, almost motion-less. It was definitely dead, but it had risen.
Chapter 3: Meet the Dead
Ridiculous as it may have seemed, the smell of the dead was often what people sensed first, long before catching sight of the ragged, flesh splintered bodies that once belonged to a human. They were of course unmistakable by sight – never to be confused with those that were living – but the smell was overpoweringly strong when nearby, an attack of vile stenches on every millimetre of each nostril. The degree of this ranged from the fresh dead, with their minor but still very noticeable odour, to those that had turned long ago, on which months of stench would build up, culminating in the presence of a breathtakingly disgusting smell based warning bell, sent out to anybody within the immediate vicinity. Somewhat ironically however, the only thing more potent than the smell of the dead to the living, was the smell of the living to the dead.
As the creature stumbled across the room, it became clear that it was not guessing, it knew something was in there with it. The question however, was whether it knew that based on a sound John had made, some obscure smell he was emitting, or worst of all, a fleeting glimpse of him entering that godforsaken bedroom. John had just a few seconds, but this gave him enough time to prepare himself, grabbing his hunting knife from its improvised holster with his left hand, his Ruger still gripped tightly in his right, a drip of sweat slowly trickling along his forehead, and his eyes fluttered madly, darting from each end of the bed, eyeing up every point of potential interest.
Planning any kind of defence was a difficult task. Not knowing exactly where this thing would come from, or even whether or not it might drop to the floor or prefer to tunnel its way through the mattress above, meant that there were too many points of entry to cover, and too many possibilities to accurately prepare for. When everything did go down, a headshot would be almost impossible to guarantee, and realistically, the firing of a weapon was something best avoided, the fear of alerting any other nearby dead to the events about to take place crossing John’s mind on multiple occasions.
As the groaning figure took its final steps towards the bed, John prepared himself for what was about to happen. Gripping the small pistol and large knife tightly, his eyes flicked between the small gap in the quilt – which was now completely filled by an almost totally bare leg bone – to the foot and head of the bed, watching for any signs of attempted entry. Before he had time to see any of that though, the sound of a smashing glass drifted in from outside of the room.
A thought quickly rushed through John’s mind, was there another in the house? He was certain that the downstairs was clear, but perhaps one had somehow wandered in, or slipped past his clearly not-so-rigorous checks. In any case, the more worrying notion that it might be another person reigned supreme in the forefront of John’s mind. Regardless of its source however, the noise had thankfully caused the creature to abandon its quest for the man under the bed, and instead sent it on yet another slow waltz back over to the entryway, and out of the room. Pushing the door further ajar as it left, John couldn’t help but notice the large swinging slab of wood bounce back from an object that was not in fact the wall, a small wooden box previously hidden behind the door instead coming into view, as the bounce swung the door back over once more.
A distant, slow sequence of thuds indicated that the creature had begun making its way down the stairs, and so John quickly scurried out from under the bed, grabbing the wooden box from behind the door as he did. If he was being forced to leave earlier than expected, he would at leas
t make sure he got everything he could. Opening the box, growing more and more worried by the various sounds coming from the staircase as the near-lifeless corpse attempted some form of structured descent, his eyes lit up at the sight of what he had found, a small metallic container, quite simply marked, ‘Ammo’.
Tucking it into the pocket of his hooded sweater, John headed out of the room and over to the upstairs bannister, just in time to see the fleshy, bloodied creature arrive at the foot of the stairs. This marked the first time he had seen it in any kind of light, noting instantly that it was somewhat of an ‘in-between’, having obviously turned some time ago, but not so long ago that it was unable to move at moderate speed. John stood watching, in quiet contemplation over what his next move should be – numerous potential escapes crossing his mind – when suddenly he was interrupted by an unexpected noise, again from downstairs. Instantly he was both confused and terrified beyond belief, as the unmistakable, unequivocal and oh so rarely heard sound of someone yelling “Oh Shit!”, came into earshot.
Who was this person in the house with John? Was it the previous owner, returning to gather up his supplies? Or was it a bandit, perhaps the same bandit that had been following him since he had left the camp? Beads of sweat formed on various parts of John’s face as he contemplated his next move, only to be cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a metallic clang, the same metallic clang a weapon made when it was unable to fire. John knew this noise only too well, having heard it more than once, usually after having run his weapon dry of ammo, or somehow managed to jam it completely. It was the same noise John feared hearing every time he was forced to discharge his own weapon, and it was because of that knowledge that John knew, whoever it was down there was in serious trouble, and was about to be in for a world of hurt.
Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down Page 2
