by J. N. Morgan
1/2 LOAD
The chambered round had the same written on its side, and he told her that there should be 8 more rounds underneath it, if memory served. Those should all be full-power loads however, and would have more recoil; more kick.
“It’s controlled feed. Means the casing naturally goes beneath the… rim as the bolt feeds the cartridge to the chamber. You can unload the rounds easily. Don’t even need to close the bolt.” In spite of all the walking, it helped a great deal to have someone take a good amount of his weight, and the booze certainly didn’t hurt either. Not many gaps in his speaking. Hopefully within the next day or two he’ll be able to more or less walk without help, and in time will be able to dawn all that heavy gear he’d been lugging across the Great White North.
“Ok…” his woman replied observantly as tried to open the bolt, found it locked, disengaged the safety and then went about unlocking and bringing the bolt back. Opening the bolt part of the way, balancing the rifle so that that smooth chunk of metal didn’t glide all the ways back to eject the cartridge, she then brought her hand in front of the open bolt and pushed it back with her thumb. Doing this, her fingers kept the 1/2 loaded cartridge from ejecting, keeping it in her hand, then pulling the bolt the rest of the way back with round in hand she pushed it forward. A series of clicks came from the mag as the round was stripped from its four feet lips, and she watched as the protruding rim of the brass casing on top slipped in under the large extractor on the bolt face.
Nodding his approval as he watched her, she began removing round after round, slipping them into a pocket on her white jacket that wrapped around a red shirt which once matched her hair, before it had paled and the natural roots became exposed. Eventually the rifle was empty, and so she started feeding in the rounds once more.
“Keep track of the half load. Put that one on top. Not as accurate as the other rounds but… good enough for close range.” Nodding as she continued looking down at the rifle, eventually a round came out that had the black lettering on it. She put it in the left hand she had on the wooden stock before going back to load the full-power rounds in. 8 in total; she had counted in her head silently, and then a fumble as she pushed the half loaded round directly into the chamber. Pushing the bolt forward had pushed the top round in the mag until the bullet hit the back of the chambered cartridge causing a double-feed.
“Uh oh…” she gave, and the man chuckled as he observed her reaction. The situation was righted before long and so Tiffany slung the rifle over shoulder with 8 full-power .303 cartridges loaded to Mk.VII Ball specs, followed by a weaker cartridge in the chamber.
Veronica had taken on a brisker walking pace, going ahead of the others to see what lay ahead of them as they took twists and turns in the landscape, going up and down hills. Up was the hardest part.
“For that you… need to get the… post in the… hoo… in the center of… the apert-… aperture.” It wasn’t even a terribly steep incline but the man was clearly struggling with his booted feet dragging. He had been explaining how the sights work on that No.4 Lee Enfield rifle when Tiffany called for a stop. Johnathan, completely uninterested in ‘weapons’ as he would refer to them, was breathing fairly heavily but not too bad. Could probably go on longer, but the young man he was supporting wasn’t doing quite as well. Calling ahead to Nicky, she was just about to the top of the hill when she looked back. Raising a hand and nodding that she understood, she kept going up to see what awaited them over this rise.
It was certainly slow going, mostly due to Rich as well as the woman he was with whom wasn’t used to traveling with so much stuff on her back. A small meal had been eaten before climbing the hill, the food certainly not looking like it would last too long. The former priest had managed to get some of it before escaping the house but ultimately with 4 mouths to feed it just wasn’t going to last long. Ration heavily, especially the water, until they can come along a lake or stream. Johnathan assured them that there were a fair number of both.
In spite of his weakness, the survivalist was keeping ever vigilant of the position of the Sun that continued to drop in the sky. When they had started off, going around the turn at that first rock-cut, of which there were quite a number along this section of highway, it had been just a bit behind his right shoulder; they had started out about east northeast, but it rarely kept in a straight line for long. Most of the time it was a little tiny bit off from directly right; a bit more in the direction they were heading. East southeast.
They were in Ontario, this much he was quite certain of, but since he hadn’t passed by the Great Lakes yet then surely they’d be showing up soon enough. The woods around them opened up as they rounded a small corner; a fork in the road. Off to the right, which appeared to head roughly south, perhaps south southeast, and then to their left a sign told them that the Trans-Canada Highway went in that direction just about straight east.
Nothing was spoken as the group took the TCH, walking directly away the Sun that continued its slow journey down the Sky. Still several hours of sunlight yet, thankfully. Richard looked over to the fellow under his arm, helping him go, a part of him thankful that Johnathan had come to a stop to give him a brief rest however he was looking intently south towards the direction that would naturally lead to the United States of America.
“What’s up, man?” His scruffy, red-cheeked face glanced to the right where he was looking, then up ahead where the two women noticed the men having stopped, now shortening the distance.
“I think…” his deep voice gave lowly, his gaze intent as they steadied themselves south, and with the proximity of the two men’s heads Rich could smell the rum on the fellow’s breath. No doubt he had some on his own as well, and the redness on the older fellow’s face was likely mirrors.
“What is it, Johnathan?” Tiffany asked softly, looking to where his gaze went.
“Maybe we should head down to the States. Autumn isn’t going to get any warmer, won’t be much longer before winter, and they have more… more guns down there-”
“They also have more people, which means more walkers.” The survivalist gave, and noted how Veronica seemed to take keen notice to the mention of more ‘guns’. She looked down at her own rifle, only semi-auto, with a fixed 10-round magazine neutered to 5 rounds, not knowing how to fix it so it could hold 10 once more since the law no longer applied. She imagined having an AKM instead, with 30-round mag, select-fire for semi or full auto. Shorter to be more compact, lighter even with a loaded bakelite mag.
“I think he’s right.” Veronica gave confidently, nodding her head as she looked over to her Tiffy, who returned with a look of worry as she turned her green eyes to Richard’s brown ones. Prominent and arched eyebrows, perhaps comparable to those of Jack Black or Nicholson, were low as he seemed to be studying the pavement beneath them intently. Apparently deep in thought. In truth, he wasn’t, though it wasn’t because of the alcohol running through his ill-populated veins.
“I’m going east.” He gave simply, looking up at the other three gravely. “Even if I have to go myself; the only direction I’ll accept is east.” The holder of the great, black liquor finally adjusted his gaze to look to the one he helped keep on his feet, a look of incredulity.
“Be reasonable, Richard. You’d have a far better chance of surviving the winter down there than up here.” Was that the first time he’d addressed him by name?
“I’m tellin’ yeh.” He shook his head, a frown on his face, and though his accent had been creeping out a little as the booze worked its magic it seemed to be bringing itself out a little bit more noticeably. Sort of like a mix of Irish and English, though leaning more towards the former. Eyes fixed on Johnathan’s after the brief shake of his head. “I’m headin’ east. I’m goin’ t’ Newfoundland. I haven’t made it t’rough all ‘dis shit… from Alberta t’ Ontario, which must be 3000 fuckin’ kilometers, just to head down to the bloody US.”
All eyes were on him now, had he ever even told any of them abou
t this? Silence took the group for a moment as Johnathan considered his argument for heading the way he’d come from while Nicky considered how to support him meanwhile Tiff stood quietly looking on.
“Newfoundland has a low population; only about half a million on the whole island. Lots of hunters, lots of fishermen, a fair number who have grown vegetable gardens just for something to do. Helped out with it meself before. Wood stoves, people who cut down trees to cut down on their electric bill, some people who… use it throughout the winter to barely use electric heat at all.” They listened to the buzzed, wounded man. Right arm hidden within his t-shirt that was mostly hidden within a Navy blue hoodie, the right sleeve of which was empty.
“Besides St.John’s, pretty sparsely populated. That’s way over on the east coast; we probably avoid that. South Coast would be best, I t’ink. West Coast wouldn’ be too bad either. Good chance of some communities… maybe even whole towns, surviving. Hardy people, living off the land, probably already making preparations for… the coming winter.” Rolling his shoulders beneath the taller fellow’s left arm, he was no longer peering south at the road, but rather peering to his right, which happened to be south, as he looked at the one he was keeping up. He’d gotten Johnathan’s attention, and even Veronica was listening intently, though she wasn’t without criticism.
“Well that sounds just dandy, but did you forget the part about it being an ‘island’? How the fuck are we supposed to get there; swim across?” It was a very valid point. Just off the road along the corner where that southbound road turned to the east, not far away, a metallic clunk sounded as a car door opened. A vehicle was just barely in sight from the ditch, a car, and the top of its driver-side window which was just barely in view was steamed up a bit. Either someone was living in it, or more than likely, something was decaying in it.
The tall, finely-muscled black woman was already taking the slung Chinese-made, Russian-designed rifle from her shoulder, staring intently towards the sound that came from roughly east southeast. Eventually, and more slowly, Tiff got the heavier .303 No.4 Lee Enfield from where it was slung on her shoulder, holding it limply in her hands. Worry was marked on her features, determination on those of her friend next to her. She was already marching ahead to check things out, rifle shouldered, muzzle pointed down for now however the buttstock was shouldered, and her finger was off the trigger resting on the strip of metal that served as the simple manual safety, ready to flick it off at a moment’s notice. On the wrist of that right hand down on the stock by the trigger guard was a finely made brushed grey-steel watch with a shiny turquoise face. An odd contrast to her light beige coat or black jeans, but it all had purpose. The other three watched as she went; Tiff too inexperienced, Johnathan unwilling to resort to violence, and Richard still with his right arm out of commission and weak from blood loss.
A tell-tale gurgle sounded from the vehicle parked on the steep incline of a ditch. Well, less parked and more just having come to a stop there at some point. Hearing the familiar sounds of the dead, the scent of decay becoming stronger as she approached, the finger resting on the manual safety came away along with the rest of the hand. Up it went to the latch of the bayonet, which was presently folded back. Pulling it, it disengaged and allowed the spike that was presently pointing in her direction underneath the barrel to swing down. Releasing the latch, the bayonet swung lower until it jutted away from said barrel, almost like a sharp monopod, and grasping it at the base of its length she sharply swung it the rest of the way.
The hoop that would fix itself to the muzzle had half of it cut at an angle, by design, so that it would naturally push the latch to let said hoop lift. Of course once it cleared the end of the barrel, it snapped back down into place under spring tension, keeping it rigidly pointed in the same direction as the barrel transforming the rifle into a spear, more or less. Peer down to the ditch, the passenger-side door of the northeast facing vehicle had opened, which was coated in old, dried, decayed black blood. Two walkers were moving about, a fat one lying on a thin one. Fatso had various bites taken out of him; if his t-shirt ever had a logo on it then it was now completely hidden by just how coated in gore it was. The thin one on the other hand, clad in cargo shorts and a button-up shirt that had a couple buttons popped off, had no bites immediately in view.
Making her way down the embankment, sliding down on her feet almost as much as walking, she walked briskly towards the two deceased males intently. Both extended their arms to the dark woman, clawing at the grassy ground as though that would help, but the overweight Caucasian either couldn’t be bothered to get up or simply couldn’t, meanwhile the possibly Native one beneath him would surely have been on its feet and approaching by now. The smell, of course, was noxious. Who knows how long they had been decaying in that vehicle, the stench building and building, now finally able to be released.
With eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled in disgust, it was easy to remain out of arm’s reach as she thrust the bayonet down on the fat one first. All the flesh on its meaty head, as well as how still it remained, made it an easy target. Tugging, the bayonet was stuck from suction along with the friction of fragmented bone. That hefty cadaver twitched as she tugged again, no good, and she felt that with each tug the scent was somehow getting worse. Coughing, she tried to hold her breath but couldn’t. Giving the rifle a twist, the four ridges along the cruciform spike gritted against bone and so with a final savage tug it came from. Stumbling away she coughed and hacked at the stench, the one remaining dead gurgling and raspily moaning at her.
Bent over, she gagged and retched, fighting back vomit. With hands at her knees, the SKS was in her right hand, and she caught sight of the decayed brain matter, skull fragments, and even some strands of hair. Another powerful retch took her as she held the rifle out, pointing the bayonet away to get it out of sight. A nasty spit was given; she puked in her mouth a little, but otherwise kept things down.
“Nickyyy? Are you alriiiiight?” Tiff called, taking a few steps closer, that Lee Enfield rifle still held weakly in her arms down at her waist. It hung uselessly there, she may as well have had it slung for what use she’d be in trying to use it.
“MMM-HMM!” She hummed out, left hand shooting up and into view as she waved. Bringing it back down she spat again, straightened to standing, and the strong, roughly 5’10 young woman turned to the last walker. No marks that could be seen, yet the fat one had chunks taken out of him at various points. Perhaps what happened was that they were driving at night, maybe the skinny fellow was sick, maybe bitten somewhere she couldn’t see, and at some point he turned while the fat one drove without a seatbelt. They were approaching the turn, the recently-dead former-survivor grasped the man and bit, he panicked and swerved accidentally into the ditch, and with the vehicle turning so violently so suddenly he fell right onto the walker. Panic ensued, bites taken, blood spurted, gurgled screams, and in time silence. Feasting until the fat one turned as well, and then they lazily lay together until now, hearing the voices outside. Johnathan probably walked right by them without even noticing when he came this way.
Holding the rifle with bayonet pointed down, the buttstock high under her arm, skinny arms moved about as it reached for her from under the mass of flesh and fat. Its head swayed left and right as it wriggled, arms tapping against the spike or barrel from time to time as she took aim with it. The tip pierced some of the skin on one of its arms when it jutted up at it, but barely went in at all so with another motion of the dead limb it was released. Trying to just breathe through her mouth instead of her nose, a grunt was given as she thrust down.
Its head moved at just the last moment, the tip struck the flesh amongst the long black hair of its head, and it looked as though a ridge was formed there in its flesh as the bayonet scraped along skull and slipped into skin. A twitch of the flailing one caused the ridge to break, the bayonet ripping out, and Nicky fought back a gag. Pulling the rifle back, she thrust forward again, savagely, just wishing to finish it. This
time the spike went through its gaping mouth, piercing down through the tongue, through the bottom of its jaw, and so pinned its head down as the roughly X-shaped spike pegged into the Earth beneath. Arms still flailed, another moan given, and pale eyes continued to look hungrily up at her.
Yanking it out caused a couple of its front teeth to break, she gagged again, nose opened as it took in a breath, and she recoiled back in disgust. Refusing herself any more time, embarrassed that they were still waiting for her, she turned back towards her foe. Rifle raised in the air, verticle with the buttplate pointed to the sky, a circle in it showing where the trap-door was for the cleaning kit, she thrust it down as though it were a sword and she was about to stick it into a great stone. She who wrenches the sword from this stone shall be Queen of all Canada and redheads everyone shall worship her.
The spike of the bayonet missed its mark again, and once again by quite a margin, but it went through the back of its neck. Wedging itself between platelets of its spine, severing the spinal cord, its arms dropped uselessly. Head went limp, dropping to the green grass, however eyes continued to look around. A rotting breath was given but no moan could be made audible. Tugging, the head flopped, bayonet still stuck. A twist, the disgusting sound of bone grating against the ridges of the cruciform length, and a wicked tug coupled with a powerful feminine grunt as she finally allowed herself distance from the two, staggering away in a fit of gagging.
She cleaned the bayonet off on the lush grass before scrambling up the bank to return to the others. Had she not been a woman of colour, she would probably appear quite pale. Funny how they call black people ‘coloureds’. White people have a whole range of colours they can turn; purple when suffocating, red when tired or embarrassed, green when sick, pale when scared, bright red when sun-burnt, brown or yellow when bruised, it was probably even possible for them to turn orange somehow. Maybe with some sort of disease or with a very strange diet.