Sure enough, as John rounded the next corner, and the line of sight stretched through the open door ahead and deep into the master bedroom, John saw the creature. What was once a relatively small man, apparently blonde haired and no different than most, was now a hunched over wretch, skinnier than the smallest of models, its hair darker than the night sky everywhere but at its roots, dirt long since having died the tips upwards with the various disgusting colours of this post-apocalyptic world.
The walking corpse had certainly been left behind, John imagined as a last effort on the part of its friends to avoid killing him, each of them so sure that there might someday be a means of bringing him back. Unfortunately, that had been a common misconception at the start, evidenced now by the occasional sight of undead still chained up in their old bedrooms, or locked away in the basement of their past homes, their parents certain that before long, they’d get over this ‘illness’ and be back to their usual selves. But that wasn’t the case, and right before John, as Kerry roared into life and began stumbling towards the doorway, was perfect evidence of what really happened to them.
Within a few metres the creature tripped, its foot catching a miss-aligned floorboard and sending it swinging downwards to the ground, the sound of brittle bones smashing against wood echoing around the empty house. John felt almost too sorry for the creature to do anything, but long had it been since he’d last found himself able to show remorse, something that had been drained out over time by the horrific world the Earth had become. With that in mind, staring down at the now slowly crawling monstrosity in front of him, John withdrew his knife, and raised it into the air.
“See ya’ Kerry”, John said, as he brought the knife down into the back of the creature’s head, the sound of the skull cracking overpowering any other noise, silencing everything but itself, as the last piece of life drained out of the body right there in front of John.
Rather than spend any longer than he had to in the clearly infested house he currently stood in, John quickly got to his feet, walking briskly into the room Kerry had come from – his shotgun raised once again – to look for any supplies that the group had been unable to get to, afraid perhaps that their friend might turn and attack before they were able to clear out. Instantly John caught sight of a long wooden chest, most likely once used for children’s toys, but nowadays more fit for both the storage of supplies, and hiding of bodies, the latter of which fuelled John’s careful analysis of the box before opening it. Slowly creaking the large lid open, John was disheartened to find that its contents were empty, not a single bullet or scrap of food for him to take, and not another item to be seen anywhere else in the room. It was starting to look like a well and truly wasted mission, save for being able to put one more creature out of its misery of course.
On the way out of the room, John looked down at Kerry’s body, his mind playing over artificial memories he had invented over what little he knew, as if attempting to give the man some kind of decent funeral, from a person who he had never before met. John might not have known the man, but he was sure that if the people around him couldn’t bring himself to kill him when he turned, he must have been a pretty nice guy, and that, John felt, deserved a little respect. Cautiously he placed a single hand on the man’s back. Back in wartime, this sort of thing might have been done as a means of reassurance, or even just to acknowledge the passing of a fellow soldier, now though, it did little more than say, “There’s nothing else I could do, I’m sorry”.
There was however one other result from the placement of John’s hand, and that was that in doing so, he rather unintentionally highlighted the presence of a very small backpack the man had adorned, obscured before now by the darkness of the room.
Excitement grew abruptly in John’s chest, as he began wondering what might have been left behind in the creature’s possession. There was every chance he could have been responsible for carrying food, or even ammo, and judging by the small but substantial size of the bag, either was very much possible. Both thoughts in mind, John began to quickly but cautiously open up the bag, the drawstring loosening and exposing the insides, which John illuminated thanks to the oh so useful shotgun and its tactical torch. Inside, John was delighted to find two magazines, both of which were stuffed full with .22 calibre rounds for his Ruger, a potential life-saving haul from a house that just thirty seconds ago, John had been sure was a dud.
With this unexpected bonus in mind, John took a moment to ponder his options, before throwing morals to one side, and stuffing a hand into each of the corpses pockets. The first came up empty, something John fully expected but also dreaded. In the second however, was a single key, a Ford logo emblazoned proudly on its exterior, only slightly stained by the blood and dirt that coated the owner’s body. Suddenly it occurred to John, that if this man had been the driver, the vehicle was probably still here, and more importantly, it would almost certainly have fuel inside, or they’d never have been able to make it here in the first place. A grin spread across John’s face as he stood up from the body once more – hoping as he did that this would be for the last time – the thought of fuel just metres away filling his mind, all of it holed up in the very same Ford van he’d seen parked just outside.
As John raised up the barrel of his shotgun however, something he had anticipated for some time, but had thus far been unable to prepare for, occurred. The shotguns torch pointed forwards, its beam of light shining on into the hallway ahead, illuminating an otherwise entirely black space, just far enough for John to plan the route ahead, when almost immediately, the battery finally, and very abruptly, ran dry.
The torch simply gave out, plunging John into sheer darkness, not a single vein of moon light able to get past the heavily boarded up windows, and no candle or torch any nearer to John than those that were back with Andrew and his family. This was well and truly the worst time for this to have happened, with John now at the very back of the house, and up a flight of stairs that had been difficult enough to navigate with light. John felt as if his luck had truly ran out, something that was only compounded by what he heard next; the slow sound of feet scuffling along wooden floor, one foot steady, the other dragged behind it, and heading, John was certain, up the staircase.
Chapter 31: Drained
John’s breathing quickened immediately, beads of sweat suddenly appearing on his brow, trickling their way down before dripping off towards the same floor that John’s last encounter now lay on. Something was making its way up the stairs, and judging by the low groan that accompanied it, and the numerous thuds and scrapes that signalled its difficulty in climbing simple steps, John was positive that it was dead.
In a normal situation, this would have been fine. A simple knife to the head – or, worst case scenario, a bullet – would have seen the attacker downed in a mere second, long before it was able to pose any real risk. But in the moments prior, John had been plunged into a world of utter darkness, his shotgun’s trusty flashlight finally giving in to the restraints of a simple battery, and turning John’s world upside down. The boarded up windows, combined with the time of night outside, meant that no light was able to make it into the house, and John’s increasingly agitated attitude meant that he himself was struggling to adjust to the darkness, something he knew to be a rookie mistake, but something he also knew was difficult to simply ‘turn off’.
In a panic, John reached down to his shotgun, detaching the torch and clicking its button in manually. His heart rate slowed as it burst once more into life, but then quickened again as it died out just as it had before, mere seconds later. John knew that clearly he had little to work with, and that he was unlikely to get more than one or two seconds more light out of the device. More importantly however, was that he knew bad timing of those seconds could mean the difference between a perfectly placed knife in the creature ascending the stairs’ head, and a very large, very deadly bite mark appearing on John’s arm. The numerous potential endings of the situation played out in John’s head,
until eventually, and with great reluctance, he knew he needed to move.
Taking three steps forward, John’s left hand stretched outwards to feel for the frame of the door with the tip of the torch, whilst his right hand continued to clutch the shotgun. Slowly John guided himself to the main landing area, his ears listening out for the slightest of sounds as he moved. Judging by the thuds that separated each scuff, John was sure the creature had yet to reach the top of the stairs, the thuds themselves most likely a product of the corpses’ good foot swinging upwards onto the next step. With that in mind, John moved once more, keen to keep his own noise to a bare minimum, but struggling thanks to the numerous raised floorboards and items of debris that he repeatedly knocked into. Before long though, he reached the end of the landing – his free hand eventually coming into contact with the wall – just in time to hear the unmistakable sound of the other home’s resident, who judging by the volume of its breathing, had now reached the top of the stairs.
Swinging round to face into the ever growing darkness, John’s left hand rose up, torch gripped tight in his palm, and clicked in the button. Instantly the creature came into view. It was small, no more than four foot tall, and looked like it had at some point been a woman or young girl of some sort. Adorning a torn and dirtied blue t-shirt and ripped shorts, its legs appeared incredibly brittle, each of them sliced open in so many places John couldn’t believe it still stood. All in all it looked utterly worthless, no more of a threat to John than the wall it continued to walk in to, unsure perhaps that it had actually reached the second floor.
Quickly swinging the shotgun over his shoulder, and withdrawing his knife in its place, John prepared himself for the fatal blow, just in time to see the creature finally realise where the source of the light was. Its measly stature turned to face John head on, just a metre of dead space standing between them. Suddenly, and with completely unexpected ferocity, the biter lunged, throwing its weight straight at John, and colliding with him head on, knocking the torch – which simultaneously ran dry of power once more – out of John’s hand, and sending it rolling over to the stairs.
“Arrghh!”, John yelped as the creature’s dead weight brought him crashing to the ground, the sound of gnawing teeth originating just millimetres from John’s face. Thinking fast, he gave up on the torch – which from the repeated banging noises he heard coming from the stairs in quick succession, he imagined had begun its own descent to the lower floor – and instead diverted all his power to two simple tasks. With his right arm, he shoved hard against the corpse’s chest, trying with all his might to keep as much distance between them both as possible, the blood that dosed its body dripping all around John like a sudden rain shower of vile stenches. With his left arm, John extended as far as he could away from the attacker, and then pulled in hard, catapulting the blade of his knife deep into the fleshy body in front of him. John of all people knew this would do little, other than give him a good handle on his attacker, but that was exactly what he needed. Using this to his advantage, John pushed both the creature’s chest and its side to his right, using the weight of the body to roll it off of him, just as it finally began to make contact with its flailing claws. Instantly, John felt his shirt rip, followed only by the sound of the creature landing hard onto the floor alongside him.
Using the body’s momentum as his own slingshot, John rolled with it, ending up on top of the biter, and giving him the advantage he so desperately needed. A second or so of utter darkness passed like this, until John felt he had pinpointed the source of the breathing – which now spat out violently as it tried to force its teeth forwards – and withdrew the knife from its side. This time John clutched the blade with both hands, ignoring his attackers numerous attempt for the brief moment it took to recline backwards into the air, and then thrust it downwards at an almighty speed, sending it crashing through the head in front of him, crushing the front of the skull as it did. Instantly he was met with those oh-so-familiar sounds of cracking and squelching, noises that meant a good hit had occurred, and something that was immediately confirmed by an abrupt drop in noise, throwing the room into a sudden and unexpected silence.
Things stayed this way for what seemed like an eternity, the body lying on the ground now dead once and for all, its killer straddling it with his knife still in its killing position, beads of sweat invisible through the darkness dripping down onto the carcass below him, and the one sound of the room – that of a man attempting to catch his breath – growing quieter and quieter. For a brief moment things seemed peaceful, safe, almost comfortable for John, just long enough for him to gather his thoughts, and find his composure. Withdrawing the blade, those same disgusting sounds created by this action as well, he wiped it briefly on the victim’s clothes, before placing it into its holster, and standing back up onto his feet.
John knew there was every chance of finding bullets, food, water, or even batteries in the remaining rooms, but without a light to show him the way, he didn’t fancy just throwing his hand around into the darkness, exposing it to all manner of sharp, exposed bones, and the infection-spreading blood that coated them. Instead, John turned on the spot, doing a quick check to ensure his shotgun was still slung over his shoulder, and that his Ruger still sat tight by his waist, and then began cautiously walking toward the stairs, and beginning his descent.
At the foot of the stairs, John’s footing became suddenly unsteady, the presence of a cylindrical object underneath his left foot near toppling him there and then, and indicating that the torch had indeed beaten him to the lower floor. Reaching down to collect it, John placed his finger over the button, and clicked it in for what he knew could very well be the last time. Instantly the world became a brighter place once more, his own body now visible in amongst the darkness that surrounded him, from the scruffy boots that had needed replacing long before the infection had spread, to the even scruffier pants, so torn and rotten that they just barely fulfilled their job as an item of clothing. Moving the torch further upwards though, past the belt and numerous makeshift holsters attached to it, and up the dirtied shirt that just barely covered his torso, John was met by the sight of blood, presumably passed over from his previous attacker, in a large pool on his left arm.
“For God sake!”, John said angrily as he placed his hand above the area, wiping swiftly downwards so as to clean the liquid off of his own body. But as he did, he was met with an immense pain, as his moving hand opened up the area for viewing, exposing the torn sleeve that he had heard his attacker rip, and the deep cut that that same creature had apparently inflicted upon him. More importantly though, John saw the pool of blood, and had no idea if it was his own, or the very same blood that had covered the biter he had just put down, bursting with infection and ready to spread.
“Shit”, he said, just as the torch gave out, this time for good.
* * *
“When you’re all ready, meet me downstairs okay?”, Andrew asked of his wife, kissing her softly on the cheek as she nodded.
A new morning was rising over the city of Madison, and Andrew was keen to capitalise on it from the moment he could, intending to set out as soon as everyone was ready. Knowing however that he had little trust for John, he opted to head downstairs first, keen to keep his family separate from him for as long as they were together. Andrew didn’t fancy John for the murdering type, at least not when it was done for no reason, but he had seen him at his worst, been fed the lies he’d span, and knew the actions he’d taken, and that was enough for Andrew to want to keep him at arm’s length from someone as impressionable as a child.
“John”, he called out softly as his first foot reached the bottom step, “Rise and shine”.
The voice echoed off every wall in the empty, open plan downstairs, the slivers of light that seeped in from the morning sunrise outside just enough to light up the various areas of the large room.
“John?”, Andrew called out again, seeing a number of items stacked in the corner, but nothing to in
dicate anybody had actually slept here.
“What the hell did you do now?”, he asked nobody in particular, as he began to stride around the empty space checking every crevice for signs of his companion, before eventually coming up empty.
Clearly John was not in the house, and most likely hadn’t been for some time. Suddenly it occurred to Andrew that John might just have gotten exactly what he wanted, the truck.
“Son of a bitch”, he said to himself, as he strode briskly to the front door, swinging it open violently and preparing himself for the empty driveway outside.
Instead though, he found himself staring at the rear of the huge Ford, exactly where he had left it, not a single part of it having moved even an inch.
Cautiously he poked his head just barely out of the door, looking to both sides to ensure nobody was around, before once again calling out.
“John?”, he said softly, but just firmly enough to carry a good distance around the front of the house.
Suddenly, a scuffling noise came from the truck, as the rear of it began to shake slightly, sending Andrew back a step in shock, and causing him to withdraw his M1911 as quickly as he could muster.
“That you John?”, Andrew asked, as he took aim with his pistol, lining it up with the most unsteady of aims as he prepared himself for the very real possibility that it might be someone or something other than his former companion.
Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down Page 24
