Eschaton (The Scott Pfeiffer Story Book 1)

by Shane Woods

  Just as mine and Dave’s manly hug broke apart, a third figure appeared. The man was average height, with thick glasses, and thick, short, curly black hair that looked like it hadn’t seen shampoo in months. He was introduced as Willy Grey, and left the area making retching sounds after taking one look at Seamus’ body lying in the center of the hallway. I looked at Tony, he shrugged, and mouthed the words ‘useless pussy’.

  “So, who was Seamus?” I asked, motioning to the dead guy, “And was he someone important? You’re not acting like it, so I’m guessing…not?”

  “The dude was such an asshole. Name was Seamus Mahoning.” Dave said levelly.

  “Yeah, he pulled the trigger on that old lady downstairs,” Tony explained. “Not the first time he’s fucked up, either. He’s a loose cannon. Or, he was. We were going to sweep the building, and then find some way to get rid of him.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Guy sounds like a real winner.”

  Dave went over and picked up Seamus’ AK-47, and, inspecting it, slung it over his shoulder.

  “It’s mine now,” he said, grinning, then spat, “Fucker.”

  “That’s great that your family is okay, man,” Tony commented, bringing the subject back around, “And Henry, too? How’s the old timer holding up?”

  “Man, you know Mr. Algood,” I said laughing. “Dude’s as level headed as ever, with the same old touch of mean. He’s alright. Been a hell of a help.”

  “Sweet,” Tony replied. “Well, let’s take a moment here man, catch our breath. You down to clear the rest of this place with us?”

  I nodded in the affirmative.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, taking a long swig from his water bottle.

  At some point during our breather, Willy came back, wiping his mouth. He moved far to the other side of the hallway from Seamus’ body, and slumped against the wall with his bottle of water. I’d grabbed the one I threw previously and took a long draw from it.

  “Nice fuckin’ technique, by the way,” Tony said, congratulatorily.

  “Well, yeah, I wasn’t going to just walk right up to the door, man,” I replied. “Especially now that I know the room was full of assholes.”

  “Wait, what?” Tony asked.

  Dave laughed and said, “He called you an asshole, dumb shit!”

  We all had a laugh, except Willy, who still looked pale, and kept taking glances at the body.

  “What’s wrong, dude?” I asked him, trying to draw his attention for a moment.

  He just motioned to Seamus, and I think I could actually see him start sweating heavier, right before my eyes.

  “Yeah?” I replied, “It’s the end of the world, you ain’t seen a body yet? They kept you blindfolded?”

  “He has,” Dave replied, “Little Willy just ain’t cut out for this shit.”

  “I told you to stop calling me that!” Willy nearly wailed.

  “Christ,” I muttered. “Alright, let’s get kitted back up. We have six more floors to push, I’d like to call this dump home by nightfall.”

  “Right?” Dave agreed, “You heard the dumb trucker, let’s go guys!”

  “And you guys are supposed to be friends?” Rich asked, appearing with Chris from the first apartment.

  “With friends like these, right?” I said amiably and reloaded my shotgun. The others all checked their weapons, and we quickly formed up in a new pattern, clearing the rest of the floor with ease.

  EIGHT

  We moved cautiously up the stairs to the next floor. Stacking up on the door like a budget SWAT team of rookies, but damn we felt right together. Unlike the other ones, this door seemed locked. As it would happen, the door handle would turn, but the door would only budge a fraction of an inch. Looking through the window revealed a wooden plank across the door, about midway up. We moved to each side of the door, and I pointed to Chris, then to the door. He grinned.

  One heavy impact from what seemed like a size thirty-seven Air Jordan, and the wood morphed into toothpicks as the door flew open, impacted the wall, and bounced back into the closed position. This time, turning the handle, it swung easily open, and revealed an infected, running full bore down the length of the hallway. Its throat was lain open, long strands of gristle dangling and bouncing with every step it took. He seemed unable to scream, or shriek, or whatever it is they do, because of the damage. I had no further time to contemplate it, however, as Tony’s M1A SOCOM pushed a round out of its barrel on the tip of a fireball and sent it straight into the running freak’s sinus cavity, blowing its skull out. It stumbled, hit the carpet, and slid another ten feet before stopping. No sooner had its motion ceased then two others came out of an apartment to the left. A pair of blasts from mine and Rich’s pump guns cured their infections, and we moved on.

  We swept the open rooms first, since we had an ample rear guard now, we felt a bit more comfortable leaving closed doors shut and dealing with them after the rest of the floor was cleared to limit contact. Moving quickly through the floor, we reached the end, and back-tracked to the first of three locked apartments. Replacing the buckshot in my shotgun with a couple of lead slugs, I placed the muzzle right against the spot where the deadbolt connected into the door frame and waited.

  “Friendly! Anybody home?” Tony shouted, pounding hard three times on the door.

  We waited for a five-count, heard no replies, and I squeezed the trigger. My ears now plugged with scraps of cloth, the report was still devastating but not on the damaging level it had been previously. The locking mechanism of the door buckled a bit but did not give. I worked the slide, ejecting one shell and slamming another home, and repeated the process. The deadbolt gave way in a shower of steel fragments, so I placed the muzzle lower, and blew out the section of frame that the door catch was mounted to. The door swung open slowly, and we flooded the apartment, everybody taking a section of pie, leaving Chris and Willy to provide guard on the door we came through.

  This process was repeated on the next two locked doors; one more empty apartment; one contained a man with a .38 revolver in one hand, face down on the floor in a puddle of dried blood. Looks like he decided to take the easy road.

  We moved up to the next floor and were met with a varied version of the last floor. A couple of infected, no living, but no dead this time. Deciding to take a breather again, we stopped just long enough to intake some water. I tore open one of the packs of jerky and handed out a piece to everybody present. Nothing was said between us, all communication nonverbal. We held no illusions that the reports of heavy caliber weapons, shouts of announcement at doors, and the consequent cries of “CLEAR” announced the presence of an armed group moving through the building, but, when we weren’t moving and looking, it made sense to not announce our positions. The last thing any of us wanted was to be found, jerky in mouth, water in one hand, and a gun cradled uselessly in an armpit.

  We cut our quick break, and, despite the moaning protest from Willy, and sighs from a couple of others, we moved on. Floor five, up to floor six. We stacked up on the door at the beginning of the next floor, and, trying the handle, found this one to be stuck firmly in place. Several boards this time could be seen holding it in its spot.

  “Man, somebody got this fucker barricaded real tight,” I observed, mildly out of breath. “You think they’re still around?”

  “I don’t know man,” Tony replied, and, looking through the narrow window, “Not seeing anybody in the hallway.”

  “Knock, knock!” Dave shouted, pounding on the door. “Anybody home?”

  Rich moved forward, and, butt-stroking the glass from the window with his Mossberg, tried in his own gruff, scratchy voice, “We’re friendlies, anybody in here?”

  We waited several moments and had no response.

  “Ok, well, Chris,” I said, motioning to the door.

  The big man gave a half roll of his eyes, stepped back, and hit the door with a mighty kick. Nothing happened. He nailed it several more times. Nothing happened st
ill. Letting out a frustrated half-yell, half-growl, he booted it three more times before stopping, hands on his knees, and breathing heavily.

  “Fuck, man. No good.” He breathed.

  “Alright. New tactic. Smarter brute force,” I offered, grinning. “Check it out, we got boards here, here, here, and here,” I said, drawing my knife and scratching an ‘X’ into the paint of the door to mark the ends of each board.

  “So, we can also assume there are boards here, here, and here,” I finished, scratching more markings. “Rich, together.” And we began loading slugs into our respective twelve gauges.

  Within moments, we were loaded up. Pressing the muzzles of our guns on each side, we began blasting holes through the door, and through the wood holding up the other side. Even with our ears filled with rags, the noise was immense. Each concussive blast of the shotguns felt as much as heard, shrapnel peppering our arms and faces, and the small area began to quickly fill up with smoke. Reloading for the final few boards, damn near slipping on the quickly growing floor covering of spent green plastic casings, we began blasting again. Once we were satisfied and laughing as Dave and Tony high-fived each other, we called Chris forward again. His next kick nearly cost him his balance as the door didn’t just open, but fell forward, landing flat in the hallway. Man, we felt like some badasses right then and there. I wish it could have been filmed and put on the internet.

  Rich and I slung our long guns over our shoulder, now empty, and followed Tony and Dave through the doorway with our pistols drawn. Nothing came to meet us. Nobody moved in the long, darkened corridor. We swept quickly through the floor, finding that, oddly, every door was unlocked. We reached one about midway down that was locked tight, and, deciding to stick to our M.O. we’d come back, we moved on.

  Nothing.

  No infected, no dead. No food, no drinks, nothing. Every apartment on this floor was swept clear of everything that could be used. Approaching the end of the hallway, we noted that this stairwell door was also blocked up with nearly a dozen lengths of board, all fastened with screws to the surrounds of the doorway.

  I motioned to it, then back to the single locked door. Tony nodded in understanding. Somebody is still here, or at least, they were. We moved back to the locked door. We took a moment to reload the shotguns, mine set with three slugs, and two buckshot. Same as before, we prepped to clear the apartment.

  “We’re friendlies!” Tony shouted. “Looking to make contact with survivors! Five seconds to answer or we assume this space is empty and remove the door!”

  He followed with his usual three pounds on the door, and then the wait. This time, the empty space of apprehension felt more…. loaded… than it had in the past. My muzzle pressed against the deadbolt, hand squeezing the pistol grip, stock buried deep into my shoulder, I waited. The five-count passed, seeming like minutes instead of seconds.

  “Wreck that fucker,” Tony called, patting my shoulder.

  Just as I began applying pressure to the trigger, we were met with a female voice from the other side of the door.

  “Wait!” she said. “Just…just hold on a second.”

  Tony let out a firm, “Hold fire!” The statement unnecessary for myself, likely meant to appease whoever was talking through the door.

  “How do we know you’re good?” the voice asked.

  “Well,” I started, “we’re holding fire, aren’t we?”

  A snicker from Dave and Rich, then the voice again, “Well, okay, that’s a start, but I mean…” she trailed off.

  “I know, I know,” Dave said. “The world’s gone to shit, and now you got guys with guns at your door.”

  “Look,” I added, “we’re trying to find a safe place to call home. We’d decided on this place for SHTF years ago. I have a wife and kids waiting on me to get back and move them here. We’re all friends here. No harm meant.”

  A pause, then, “Okay just hold on. One second,” she replied and said something inaudible behind the door.

  The sounds of screeching, and several heavy objects being moved could be heard. This was followed by another pause, then the metallic clicks of locks being disengaged. The door opened only a little bit, held still by a chain lock, and part of a pale, round face, and single green eye could be seen.

  “You’re sure you guys are okay?” she asked.

  “Ma’am,” I started.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” she replied, cutting me off, “we just haven’t met anybody else.”

  “Lots of room in this building. We just need a safe place to hold up,” Tony implored.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’m sorry, hold on.”

  She closed the door, and we could hear the chain lock sliding loose, more indecipherable talking, hers and a male’s voice, and the door opened slowly. The girl we were talking to was fairly small in stature. Ok, let’s not sugar coat it. She was fucking short. Maybe five-foot-tall in the right shoes. The aforementioned pale, round face and green eyes framed by dark red hair, and, Jesus, no way could those be real. Pulling my eyes back up from her chest in time to catch her outstretched hand and grasp it in a firm shake.

  “I’m Shannon,” she declared, “Shannon Lytle, and the first one to make a joke about my last name, and my height, is getting punched right in the ballbag.”

  This was met with laughter, then, Tony, “We’ll let Willy make the remarks. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a ballbag, anyway.”

  More uproarious laughter from our team, and soon, more people let themselves be shown in the dark of the room. There were seven of them all told, and they looked pretty rough. The odor of B.O. was prevalent in the room, trash bags piled up in one corner of the kitchen that was visible from the door. We moved inside, the small group separating as we walked through. Dave made a beeline to the couch, and sat down heavily, grunting, cursing, and pulling an action figure out from under him.

  “Kids here?” Rich asked, noticing the toy.

  “My husband was with them, they never…” and Shannon trailed off, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks.

  “Ah shit man,” I consoled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, great condolences,” said a wiry man with glasses, who looked like he could be Willy’s shorter, younger brother. “I hope you’re better with rescue than you are with saying the right thing.”

  Great, I thought, one of these. “What’s your name, son?” I asked him.

  “It’s Parker,” he puffed his chest up, trying to impose all 140 pounds of himself. “Parker Elwood, not son.”

  Dave snickered, and responded, “Who the fuck names their kid Parker?”

  “Hey hey hey chill the fuck out,” Tony scolded. “Hearts and minds, dick.”

  “Yeah,” I added. “He can’t help his name. Not his fault his parents are hipsters.”

  Laughter all around, mixed with Shannon scolding Parker.

  “I’m sorry,” Shannon apologized. “We’ve been stuck up here pretty much since the beginning. We’re all just a little tense.”

  “Since the beginning?” I asked. “You mean, you guys haven’t left?”

  “We only had one gun,” said a slightly built guy, tattoos stuck haphazardly to his dark skin. “James, by the way. Name’s James. We stayed here, we still have plenty of food, some water, and we made this floor safe enough. Those things are on the other floors, though.”

  “We tried to get to the other floors,” said a chubby blonde. “James killed one, but I don’t know. There’s just so many of them.”

  “Well,” I said, “we’ve got it cleared up to here. We are going to sweep the other floors and leave a few of us behind to keep guard while I go get the rest of my people. We’ll make this building safe. Promise.”

  “We think a guy on the third floor had guns,” Shannon supplied. “He worked construction, and had a pickup truck covered with gun stickers.”

  “Alright,” I replied, “Rich, Chris, go with her and check that apartment. Willy, stay here, be their new gun w
hile we finish up here. Tony and Dave, with me, let’s go upstairs. Get this whole fuckin’ place locked down so these people can get cleaned up, fed, and have some breathing room. Let’s move, guys.”

  And with that, we all split up and went our own ways. As Rich, Chris, and Shannon went back the way we came, Tony, Dave and I moved to the end of the hallway and began unfastening the boards on the door. Once the wood was removed, we proceeded to move up to the next floor.

  We moved room to room in much the same manner as before. Three infected on floor seven, no survivors. The slow, arduous process continued, much the same for the final two floors. Four infected, two runners and two slow, on floor eight, and only one slow female on the top, floor nine.

  Moving through floor nine, we reached the stairwell at the end. This door was padlocked and chained, presumably leading to the attic. Instead of my shotgun, Tony lined up his .308 on the lock, and blew it into shrapnel with one squeeze of the trigger. Pushing the door open, we moved up the steps, bound for the roof.

  Blowing the second locked door, we stepped out into a beautiful, bright, sunny day. The roof was now in full early afternoon light, no more than a few lazy, fluffy clouds speckled the sky, backed in brilliant blue. The sky was amazing. This had to be the first time I’d had a chance to view it properly since the military blew downtown Akron into a third world country.

  The landscape was a different story. Our immediate surroundings seemed to be frozen in time, barely a thing touched. The only scene to give away the fact that this was no longer our world was had by looking straight off the edge, where the carnage from Tony and his crew could still be seen.

  “Nice fuckin’ work, I forgot to pat your back on that one,” I said to my friends.

  “Dude that was nuts,” Dave added. “We stopped, they came from everywhere.”

  “Yeah man,” Tony continued, “we parked the car and they came, so we got back in, circled the lot, and I just floored it right at the building.”