Before long however, it became apparent that it was no good, as a series of muzzle flashes appeared from behind a tree John knew he had only barely covered. The sounds roared quickly across the car-park, the first bullet narrowly missing Donald’s good leg before cascading through a variety of objects in the hotel lobby, coming to rest in the wooden bulk of the front desk. The second was a little further off, curving off into the brickwork above the front entrance, no doubt hastily taken and poorly measured. John reacted as quickly as he could, taking aim at the tree where a third muzzle flash now appeared, and putting three rounds into what small amount of body John could make out, the scope of his rifle just barely able to see such a small target. Seemingly however, it was enough to at least send the attacker back behind their tree, apparently temporarily scared off by the suddenly accurate fire on their position. John lowered his rifle, looking back over to Donald, who still stood just a few feet from his previous position behind the truck.
Something had changed though, something John swore he’d heard when scoping out the shooter, but had hoped to God was not the case. If there was one noise John had had the unfortunate pleasure of becoming accustomed to in his time in service, it was the sound of a bullet tearing through the more fleshy areas of the body, and as John noted a sudden lack of progress in Donald’s movement, he realised just exactly what that third muzzle flash had resulted in. A splatter of blood crashed down onto the tarmac around Donald, his eyes now wide as his posture slumped down onto one knee, the sight of immense streams of red suddenly emerging from underneath his chin. The shot had made near perfect contact, ripping through the flesh of Donald’s neck.
“DONALD!?”, John called out, as he watched his companion rock from one knee to the floor, unable to hold himself up any longer, “DONALD!?”, he called out again, knowing only too well what Donald’s lack of response meant, “GOD DAMN IT!”, he screamed.
John raised his weapon, knowing the exact location of one shooter, and the rough one of another. Immediately he began firing rapidly into each spot, the bark of trees splintering around each target area, not a single shot making contact from what John could tell, but doing enough to keep both men in their respective covers, whilst John quickly moved over to Donald’s position.
Arriving at Donald’s shaking body, he knew he had to at least get him into cover, even if it meant resorting to the nearest cover possible, the truck. John dropped everything, grabbing instead his injured companion underneath each of his shoulders – trying to cause as little trauma to Donald’s already gushing neck as possible – and pulled him quickly over to the truck, slumping him against the huge front wheel as he arrived.
“Talk to me Donald!”, he screamed at his companions near lifeless face.
Donald replied with little more than a gargled mess, his throat so filled with blood that the simplest of words had become an impossibility, something John knew, but refused to accept.
“Where are they!?”, John screamed, “Where are my family? Please!?”.
Donald tried once more to speak, but again managed no conceivable words, as it became apparent he was not long for this world.
“NO! This doesn’t end here, not like this, you tell me, please, mime it, write it, do something!”, John yelled, at this point showing complete disregard for the attackers, who were presumably devising their next move.
But it was no use, and as Donald’s eyes began to close, disturbed only briefly by John’s shaking of his body, John knew that his time with Donald was up, and that the last link he had to his family had just been broken.
John stared at the now lifeless body in front of him, a pool of blood forming around the wheel of the truck it leant against. What little chance John had at a family reunion lay in the now defunct brain of the man in front of him, and every chance of finding them outside of that had left the moment the first few bullets had ripped through the trucks engine bay. John was stranded, helpless, near defenceless, and most importantly, alone.
Thoughts of his next move began to surface, the most prominent of which quickly became clear, giving up.
But giving up wasn’t an option, not for John Parker, not after every mile he had walked, every road he had driven, every tin and bottle he had consumed and every rough night he had barely slept, all with the sole intention of finding his family. All the time he’d spent with the disturbing man that was Donald, the friendship with Andrew he had lost because of this quest. All of it had been reduced to nothing, completely worthless, and why? Most likely because some pathetic bandits wanted some extra beans for the night, and were both too selfish and too lazy to put the effort into finding some themselves. Suddenly all of this began to make sense to John, and the feelings of sadness were all quickly replaced by a white hot rage, a feeling of utter madness that stormed his every bone, transforming John from a man that was ready to give up, to a man that wanted to fight.
Quickly, John got to grips with his surroundings, grabbing Donald’s AK off of the ground and sliding over to the other end of the truck, again taking refuge behind its big, bulky wheels. The beat of John’s heart sounded out loudly all around him, his temperature soaring as every muscle in his body began to tighten, his face growing contorted with rage, and eventually, his legs propelling him up into an upright position. Almost without knowing, John’s mouth opened, a series of sounds that even John couldn’t have identified immediately rushing out of it, like an improvised battle cry at the beginning of a war.
“AAAAARRGGHHHHHH”, John screamed across the open space, the figure of both men quickly coming into view, caught half way through an apparent attempt to cross over the roads separating them. Quickly John raised the AK, the face of the nearest man – who stood not thirty metres away – giving off a look of utter horror, as a barrage of bullets erupted from the fully automatic AK, ripping through the man’s body so many times that his life was lost long before he touched the ground. Before even that though, John turned to the other man, his body narrowly ducking behind a tree just as John swivelled round to face him, his finger holding tight down on the trigger while he did, drawing a line of chaos between each of the attackers. By the time he reached his second target though, the last five bullets of the AK simply slammed into the tree’s heavy wooden exterior, no match for the incredibly dense structure that now separated both men.
Finally, the click of an empty magazine sounded out across the street, and no sooner had the AK been dropped to the floor than John had swiftly pulled out his Ruger and Donald’s M9, unleashing a series of much less powerful – but still very much deadly – shots across the road, all of them penetrating deeper and deeper into the tree’s bark, but none even coming close to the man on the other side. Eventually, the click of the pistols came into earshot, again signifying that the source had run dry, but this time with much more dire consequences. John ducked back behind the tire, dropping the empty magazines to the floor and reaching for his backpack, only to realise that along with both the M14 and his Remington, it sat some twenty metres from the truck, in the wide open area between the lobby of the hotel and the truck he now sat against, the very same route that had seen Donald cut down and murdered right in front of John’s eyes.
John was stranded, with not a bullet to fire, and no more than his knife to defend himself, which even he knew would be no use against whatever weapon the attacker had in his possession. Suddenly he found himself reverting to a sense of defeat, the odds stacked heavily against him. Thoughts turned to the past, his daughter’s first birthday, John’s wedding, his friends both before and after, as suddenly he found his life quite literally flashing before his eyes.
“Seems like you about done!”, yelled a voice from the other side of the truck, the faint sound of footsteps signalling the attackers move away from his beloved tree.
John said and did nothing in response, barely even acknowledging the new voice, content simply to take in the last few moments of life.
“You have any idea what you done to me?”, called out
the voice again, “Three of my friends you’ve killed, and I don’t even know your God damn name!”.
Still John did nothing.
“You shot one in this same god damn truck”, the voice yelled, followed by the sound of a gunshot being fired into the now completely ruined Toyota, “Another back at the hospital, and now here too, I got nothing left!”.
Finally John began to move, but not to attempt some kind of attack, nor to respond to any of the stranger’s accusation. In fact, John’s movement was much more conservative, one hand reaching into a pocket to pull out a bruised and battered old diary, and his other grabbing a pencil from behind Donald’s ear.
“But you couldn’t get me could ya’? Ain’t got the balls to take out old Jay-Jay, ohhhh no, not a god damn chance!”, yelped the voice as it got even closer, again firing off a shot into the Hilux’s defeated shell.
Behind the truck, John opened his diary, and turned to the final page of the book. Since day one he had hoped and prayed he’d never reach that end page, knowing of course that should he ever do so, a long period of time would have passed and yet still he wouldn’t have been reunited with his family. But there was nothing else for it, and so as visions of his wife and daughter danced across the forefront of his mind, John scribbled down one final message.
“I tried sweetheart, I’m so sorry.
All my love,
John.”
John dropped the book to the floor, hoping that somehow, some day, it might be found by the very people he himself had spent so long, and lost so much, searching for. But in the end, it didn’t matter, because right here, right now, things ended.
The sound of encroaching footsteps from behind the truck grew louder, alongside the distant sound of an engine revving, no doubt readying some kind of escape from what John knew would by now be nearby hordes of biters, attracted by the immense amount of noise the gunfight had generated.
Within seconds, John heard the fatal gunshot, three of them in fact, as the roar of gunpowder igniting cut through every other sound in the world, the light from the barrel almost visible against the truck, its illuminative flame reflecting from the few lobby windows that remained intact. Almost immediately the sound of blood splattering on the floor followed, and as the echo of gunshots simmered away, and the clattering of limbs on the ground replaced it, it became clear that blood had been spilled, and life had been lost.
But as John looked down, confused beyond all measure at what was happening, he realised that the shot was not aimed at him. Quickly laying down to look under the truck, he saw the now limp body of his attacker, blood pooling around his body just as it had around Donald’s, and the wheels of a vehicle now visible less than ten metres from where the man’s body lay.
John slowly and cautiously got to his feet, his legs barely able to hold him up after the series of events that had occurred, but his head demanding to know what had just happened. Sure enough, as he stood, the vehicle came into view, a huge truck with massive, chunky wheels, and a roar so loud John was sure it was a muscle car in in a 4x4’s body. But what John was amazed by most of all, was what he saw through the passenger window. The barrel of a pistol still pointed across from the driver’s seat, the shooter looking over to both John and the mess that surrounded the ill-fated Toyota, as John struggled to find something to say, eventually settling on a single word.
“…Andrew?”.
Chapter 29: Old Friends
“For the undead, the difficult and longwinded task of standing up isn’t for everyone. Some choose to spend their time crawling, grasping furiously at the faintest sign of movement, just hoping and praying it might be some succulent, delicious – and preferably living – human flesh, rather than just a leaf caught in the wind. Others though do decide to attempt the feat, starting by getting onto their front, and then using whatever remains of their legs to try and raise themselves off of the ground. In most cases, the creature will stand fine, sometimes with two or three falters, but fine nonetheless. Some however will fall flat, perhaps because they are unable to support their weight after sustaining whatever injuries led to them becoming undead, or more likely, because they are simply too uncoordinated to stay in an upright position.
Eventually however, a group of the dead numbering four or five might equate to three or four ‘walkers’, dead capable not only of standing, but also of walking, usually to follow whatever noise, sight or smell they might have latched on to. Inside of that number, comes another form of the creature, the ‘runner’. ‘Runners’ aren’t normally too common, only usually coming from the death of a human of decent physical fitness, whose death was caused by injuries not pertinent to movement, or wounds perhaps confined to a nondescript part of the torso. In these cases, a creature may be created that is capable of running – sometimes at a similar pace as before they passed away – towards or after a target, who again is identified and tracked through sound, smell or vision.”
“What on earth?”, came a voice from behind the leaflet, Hannah briefly looking upwards to inspect, before returning to reading.
“It is always ill-advised to attempt to flee from a ‘runner’. Their unfailing stamina makes it an incredibly difficult task, often more difficult than standing your ground and fighting. In most cases however, the hiding option should be used. The hiding option simply involves finding a closed or discrete location, preferably only just big enough to fit yourself and any other member of your group inside of, and then staying there until the attacker either loses interest, or is distracted. If possible, it is always good to choose a space with an exit, such as the back room of a store which also has access to a rear alley, allowing you to escape in multiple directions should the attacker find you.”
“Is that… it can’t be?”, called out a voice, again from behind the leaflet.
“What’s going on?”, said another.
“Oh my God…”, started the first voice, “Hold on everybody!”.
Within moments, a heavy thud sounded out as the truck cut immediately to the right, mounting the curb as it did, and sailing straight through the grassy verge alongside a large hotel. This time Hannah was forced to look up, checking first to see if her Mother or Father had anything to say, before realising that neither were looking to Hannah, instead both looking out towards the front of the truck.
“Andrew I’m scared”, said the second voice, spoken softly but with growing volume, by Hannah’s mother, who sat with Hannah on the rear seats of the truck.
“Cover your ears!”, yelled the first voice, who lunged towards the passenger foot-well, returning moments later with an M1911 pistol in hand.
Suddenly Hannah felt the arms of her mother thrown over her, holding tight as the truck screeched to a halt on the tarmac of a car-park, the front passenger window sliding open mere milliseconds before the first of three successive pops lit up the inside of the truck. The source of the light erupted from the end of the pistol like a train from a tunnel, the sound coming out of it just as loud.
Hannah looked through the side window of the truck, its tint enough to hide what she knew would be the sight of blood, but transparent enough to show the body drop, its limbs clattering against the floor as it did. The sight of three bullet holes – two of which were doused in blood – were clearly visible on the side of the pickup truck which the man now lay next to, the bullets evidently having carried through his body. Hannah turned her head away in horror, not fully understanding what she had just seen, but knowing full well that no six year old girl should have seen it, and immediately regretting that she had.
Suddenly both the car and the space around it became utterly silent. Nobody wanted to move or make a sound, and the pistol remained raised – albeit shakily – pointed out of the window, changing direction now to the man that could suddenly be seen rising up from behind the truck. As it turned however, the weapon lowered, and was replaced by a reluctant smile, a smile Hannah hadn’t seen in days, if not weeks, and one she wasn’t sure she’d ever see on her fathe
r ever again. But here and now, for whatever reason, he appeared to be happy once more, albeit not in the traditional sense.
“…Andrew?”, called a voice, presumably from the man Hannah’s father now stared at.
“John”, replied Andrew, the sound of shock and yet relief in his voice audible for everyone in the truck, “I don’t believe it”, he added.
“They’re coming, on the right!”, shrieked Andrew’s wife from the back of the truck before John could speak again, her finger now pointing to an area just fifty or so metres away, where a small grouping of the undead were making their way – at varying speeds – to the source of all the commotion.
Andrew looked over to John once more, scanning him up and down, his face contorted with the difficult decision of whether or not to further help the man who had lied to him so much, and in turn to allow him so close to his family.
“Just go”, said John, the sound of defeat rife in his voice, “I got nothing left now”.
Suddenly, the sight of his former companion, so broken and ruined standing there right in front of him, somehow began to humanise his past actions, and started to make Andrew understand the reason for his lies, if only a little bit. The man that stood before him was no longer the malicious, evil monster Andrew had once known, but was instead the once helpful companion who had saved Andrew’s life on more than one occasion. Almost immediately Andrew knew that, at least for the moment, he had to help him.
Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down Page 22
