Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down

by Duncan McArdle

  “We should head back, right?”, Andrew asked.

  John’s eyes scanned the area, pinpointing the smallest of holes that might represent the closest thing to a passing point, that simple thing the pair needed so desperately.

  “We go back we’ll probably just end up in the same way someplace else”, John replied dismissively. “I say we try and push through, maybe on the left side up there by the RV?”.

  John was referring to a somewhat thinned section of traffic, spearheaded by an RV that had jack-knifed during the chaos, gaps on either side potentially making it easier to ram through.

  “Good as any I suppose”, answered Andrew unconvinced, his voice so flaky it was clear he was incredibly concerned.

  “Get yourself ready, we’re about to make a whole lot of noise. If we get stuck we’ll need to be out on foot and moving, quick”, John instructed.

  “Understood”, Andrew responded, checking his pockets for the few essentials he had with him – some loose bullets and a few food snacks for the trip – before frantically tightening up the laces of his boots.

  The initial section was easy, some slow tight turning saw the first few wrecks narrowly avoided, but as the huge truck approached the overturned RV, and scratched its rear bumper slightly on one of the harder to pass wrecks, the two knew this would be difficult, if indeed possible at all. Straight in front, a series of SUV’s and station wagons lay side by side, bumper to bumper, some spun sideways most likely due to the chaos the RV had caused. John’s eyes again began scanning for a weak spot, eventually deciding on an old and yellowed station wagon, one of the few cars facing outwards and thus – he hoped – one of the few that were easier to push out of the way.

  As chrome hit chrome, albeit incredibly slowly, various noises began to surface. First it was the roar of the F150’s huge gas guzzling engine, then the screeching of metal on metal, and finally the slight crunching of the station wagon’s body work. The pace was painfully slow, moving just centimetres at a time, in exchange for an increasingly excessive amount of noise. But never-the-less, the metal obstacle began to move, giving them both cause for a much needed sigh of relief.

  This newfound success was enough to lull them both into a near intoxicated state, so much so that neither managed to spot the movement to the side, a relatively small mass, but one that was hurtling to them at incredible pace. This was not uncommon for a fresh biter, yet to be ruined by the lack of feeding and long hours of wandering, and it was clear from its speed that this was most certainly fresh. So fast was it in fact, that it hit the truck with an almighty bang, no doubt misinterpreting the driver-side window for an open gap, its face smashing clean through the pane as it did. Both John and Andrew were snatched from their short-lived navigational success, terrified at the sudden change of situation, both reacting in what seemed like slow motion to the new arrival. The creature’s head seemed to recoil slightly, almost knocked out by the impact, but unfortunately for them these things did not get knocked out, not without serious force, and so it was mere seconds before it was ready to strike again.

  John’s reactions were truly put to the test, his mind considering the situation and its various outcomes in a split second. Catching sight however of yet more bodies encroaching on their position, he decided that the best response was flight, not fight. Putting foot to the floor yet again, John began ramming the station wagon as hard as he could, the huge F150 slowly beginning to gain more ground, and its sheer mass eventually freeing up enough of a gap to pass through.

  Content with the clearing, John quickly slammed the Ford into reverse, pulling away from the now crumpled wagon, ready to accelerate off into the distance. Before it could however, the creature lunged again, this time through the now open window, and directly at John’s face. Suddenly, John felt the cold, dead breath of a deceased human being and the raspy groaning of a lifeless but motion-filled body, as its teeth prepared to sink into the warm, delicious flesh of a living person’s cheek, providing the nourishment and feeding that it so desperately needed. John immediately turned away, putting as much distance between the closing jaw and his own skin as he could, and instead looking to his companion, whose actions sent John’s eyes widening in utter shock.

  This time the bullet came from Andrew’s gun, a much more powerful .45 calibre round hurtling towards the creature’s mouth. The bullets dead centre placement – which saw it fly straight through the centre of the mouth and out of the neck, shattering the brain stem as it went – was extremely surprising. It had the feel of a marksman’s shot, one that had been lined up to utter perfection, though it seemed more likely that this was nothing more than a stroke of luck, or so it seemed.

  As the creature froze, the brain’s connection to the body so abruptly severed – and the brain itself quickly wilting away – it tried frantically to clasp down onto John’s cheek, but it was no use, control had been lost, sending it dropping down to the floor outside the truck in what still felt like slow motion.

  Andrew prepared himself for the seemingly inevitable praise from his leader, whose life he had saved at the absolute last moment. But it didn’t come. Instead, John slowly opened his eyes – each of them having closed at the sight of the bright flash – his mouth trembling with pain as he did, and the sight of blood coming into sight. The liquid was seeping from the gaping gash that had been inflicted on John’s cheek.

  Luckily for John, this was no bite mark, no last injury that marked the start of the turn to the land of the dead. Unluckily for both of them however, this was a bullet wound, a .45 calibre catastrophe, from an M1911 pistol.

  Chapter 7: See through the trees

  “Oh my God!”, Andrew yelped, dropping the pistol to the floor as if to separate it from its victim.

  “ARRRGGGHHHH!!”, John cried out, unable to control the pain, but still slamming his foot to the floor to at least get the vehicle as far from danger as possible.

  John knew what he was doing, he knew that even in the worst case scenario, he had to do what he could to save the most amount of people, the sort of quick thinking that quickly paid off as more undead creatures leapt at where the truck had so recently been stuck.

  “Oh my God!”, Andrew repeated, still staring in awe at the gushing wound. “Oh my G-“.

  “SHUT UP WOULD YOU!?”, John cut him short with an abrupt yell, a yell more akin to a growl that had escaped through gritted teeth.

  “But John, your face! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t-“.

  “I KNOW, OKAY? JUST… I know!”, John cut in again, his eyes seeking the best route around the few remaining obstacles, eventually steering the truck into its first batch of open road since they had begun driving, a sight that would have filled them both with joy, had recent events occurred a little differently.

  “Let’s just relax, and g...get somewhere safe so we can l…look at it, okay?”, John stuttered, unable to get through the sentence without reeling from the pain.

  Andrew could only nod in response, terrified that anything he said might give John the little further encouragement needed for him to return the .45 calibre favour.

  The two dropped into a world of silence, as John went from looking ahead, to inspecting the map resting on the steering wheel, and occasionally to a brief fit of pain, during which Andrew would tense up, ready to take control of the wheel if needed. Eventually, the silence was broken.

  “There’s a patch of w…woodland up ahead. Don’t look too thick but should be enough to cover us up f-for a f-f-few minutes. Have a look r…round for some kind’a first aid kit or something”, John instructed, with an astounding level of calm in his voice that if anything, put Andrew more on edge.

  Andrew complied, immediately undoing his seatbelt in order to start scouring the truck for anything that might be of use, and beginning the process of checking every inch from the glove compartment to the roof lining, before eventually ducking into the rear seats to continue his search.

  After some time he emerged once more, still carefu
lly keeping his distance from John, as if expecting him to exact revenge at any moment.

  “Got a first aid kit!”, he said, unable to hide the excitement – or the fear – in his voice. “Only got plasters and bandages, but should be enough right?”, he asked.

  “Almost, just need something to ste…sterilise it with”, John replied, “Any liquor back there?”, he added, as he briefly removed his hand from the wound, inspecting the damage in the rear view mirror.

  “I saw a bottle of vodka I think, that be okay?”, Andrew timidly inquired, like a school child unsure if the answer they were giving was even close to correct.

  “That’ll do, get that, treeline is just up ahead”, John instructed, noticing the sight of tree-tops a little further along the road.

  Cutting the engine well in advance – so as to reduce the noise made on arrival – John let the truck roll up to an area of freeway alongside the trees, the pair both attempting to spot the slightest sign of movement, but quickly concluding there to be none. With no wrecks in sight, it was unlikely many people had ‘turned’ in the area, and so the conclusion wasn’t actually all that far-fetched. Applying the parking brake and removing the keys, John stepped out of the truck and headed for the trees, Ruger drawn in one hand, the other still applying pressure to his wound. Following closely behind, Andrew was armed somewhat differently, a typically green coloured first-aid bag held in one hand and a half drank bottle of supermarket-brand vodka in the other.

  Arriving at the treeline first, John cautiously descended into the embrace of its cover, stopping a few metres in to survey the area. On completion, he dropped to one knee, ready and waiting to bark instructions at his companion, who arrived seconds later.

  “I’m gonna’ lie down, I want you to pour the vodka over the w…wound, now I’m gonna’ scream like hell when you do it, but you need to keep g-going, get as much in as possible. Then let it run off, and put a couple of those big p…plasters on, rip a few up and put ‘em all around the cut so it’s covered. You follow so far?”, John paused to await a response, as well as to regain some breath.

  “I guess so, I…”, Andrew hesitated, “I’m really not cut out for this sort of thing!”, he replied feverishly.

  “Well right now you need to be”, John responded, dismissing his doubts. “Once the plasters are on, w…wrap those bandages over to keep everything on tight. Wrap ‘em anyway you can think of that puts pressure right on the wound, I’ll help you out with that bit but you need to take the lead on this. Now I’ma’ take the pressure off right now and if it’s stopped bleeding, we’re good to go, got it?”, John said finally.

  “What if it hasn’t stopped bleeding?”, Andrew asked.

  “Then I’ll have to give you a crash course in stitching a wound”, John answered sternly.

  Andrew’s face went white, the thought of having to stich a wound was almost more than he could bear, after all, he was far from comfortable in this sort of situation at the best of times. In addition, their location – something they knew little about aside from the fact it was a grouping of trees most likely not far from the undead – wasn’t making anything any easier.

  John slowly began to remove his hand from the blood drenched wound – an action that seemed to occur in slow motion to both pairs of watching eyes – Andrew letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of an admittedly still bleeding, but not gushing wound. It didn’t appear to need stiches, which meant things could quickly progress. John dropped carefully to the floor. Andrew began preparing himself for the procedure, unscrewing the Vodka cap and taking a swig himself – an action that his clenched face showed he immediately regretted – and getting the plasters and bandages out of the first aid kit. In the meantime, John removed a sock and stuffed it into his mouth with his free hand, a disgusting act that was sadly required, if the two had any hope of staying quiet. Finally, John gave Andrew a nod, and the pouring began.

  The screams were loud, even with the sock in place. Andrew had no doubt that had he been allowed to scream freely, John’s mouth alone would have brought a whole horde of those things out of every corner of that treeline. But as the vodka ran dry, and Andrew watched John go through the various stages of extreme pain, he thanked his lucky stars that none had come, as he was certain that he couldn’t have handled them too.

  Dropping the bottle to the floor, Andrew withdrew a series of large plasters, and began chopping the ends off of them using his recently acquired kitchen knife. Before long, he was able to cover every part of the facial laceration, and judging by a lack of added pain on John’s barely conscious face, he was confident that he had done so correctly. Finally, Andrew took out the bandages, and began wrapping them around John’s head, each in a variety of directions. Strip by strip, he slowly increased the pressure on the wound, keen to ensure that the end product would be effective for as long as possible, and not require Andrew to go through the experience again.

  Leaning back from John to admire his work, Andrew felt his job as medic was just about complete. But as he saw his patients eyes softly close, he began to fear that his job as chauffer was just beginning. John appeared to have passed out from the pain, somewhat understandably so, which meant that it was now time for Andrew to take over.

  Chapter 8: Where are we?

  As he opened his eyes – his eyelids feeling heavier than ever – John felt almost shocked at the realisation he was alive, albeit in a considerable amount of pain. Despite the many doubts he had about his companion, Andrew had evidently managed not only to keep him alive, but to move him clear of their previously dangerous surroundings.

  Looking around – his eyes still adjusting to the light – he couldn’t help but be confused by his new surroundings, sitting there in the trucks passenger seat. They appeared to have stopped in some sort of sleazy looking gas station, the kind that charged twice the going rate because it was on the side of a freeway. Once his eyes had completely adjusted and he’d gotten his bearings though, John couldn’t help but notice an important factor, the fact that he appeared to be alone. That was of course, save for his belongings, and an old, battered looking M1911, which lay on the floor of the passenger foot-well.

  Had Andrew left him? Or had he parked here and then ran into trouble, choosing to lead said trouble away from John who had been sitting here unconscious in the truck? No matter the reason, why had he left his gun? Was it left intentionally or was it forgotten? Questions raced through John’s mind as he attempted to comprehend the situation, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar, reflecting spectacles he had last seen when passing out from pain just a few hours earlier. Ambling over from the gas stations store, bag in one hand, and to John’s surprise, what appeared to be a shotgun in the other, Andrew slowly got wind of his leaders awakening. Before he had a chance to instruct him otherwise, John cringed as Andrew’s excitement at seeing his friend alive once again got the best of him.

  “JOHN!”, he yelled, his voice echoing across the desolate forecourt.

  “Shhhhh!”, John mouthed, perching his lips and making the closest thing to a “Be quiet” gesture he could muster.

  Understanding straight away, Andrew began spinning full circle, looking for signs of any biters his outburst might have stirred, but luckily for both of them, finding none.

  “You’re alive!”, Andrew whispered through the missing driver side window, as he arrived alongside the truck and quickly climbed in, closing the door – much more softly this time – behind him.

  “Apparently”, John responded, clearly still dazed, “Where are we?”, he asked.

  “About six miles down highway 36, hope you don’t mind but I carried on along the route you’d marked on the map”, Andrew said, both proudly and timidly.

  “Six miles?”, John questioned, grabbing the map from the dashboard and staring hard at it for some time. “How long was I out?”, he eventually asked, looking back up as he did.

  “About an hour. I figured you’d wake up feeling pretty rough so stoppe
d to pick up some pain meds”, Andrew stated, shaking the shopping bag he was holding. “Found this shotgun behind the counter too!”, he continued, brandishing the shotgun in his other hand, again apparently very proud of himself.

  “Jesus, you’ve been busy”, John started, grabbing a box of Tylenol from the bag and popping several pills out, “Get any water?”, he asked, to which Andrew smiled and dove back into his bag, before producing several differently branded bottles.

  Thanks in no small part to a dramatic lack of traffic, Andrew had managed to cover a staggering distance during John’s brief absence. In fact, despite knowing little about their route beforehand, he’d propelled them almost to the half-way point of their destination, and right to the end of their time on highway 36. Sadly for both men though, the journey to come was more than likely to slow their pace down quite dramatically, with the highway soon to end and be replaced by an inevitably congested town. But even that wasn’t enough to dampen the spirits of Andrew, who wasn’t sure he’d ever been quite so proud of himself, unable to sit still as he admired the biggest spoil of his efforts, which he held tightly in both arms.

  The gleaming shotgun – a reasonably late model Remington 870 – was in extremely good shape, its tactical stock and attached flashlight making for an impressive sight. Andrew had even managed to find three boxes of 12-gauge shells for it, mostly slugs with a few pellet rounds thrown in, all of which would no doubt prove useful at some point. John did however have his doubts about Andrew’s ability to use it.

  “You ever fired something with that kind of kickback?”, asked John as Andrew started the truck up.