Living Amongst The Dead (Book 3): On the Road Again

by J. N. Morgan

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.

  With as straight and dignified a face as she could muster, trying to ignore the awful taste in her mouth, she pushed the latch away from the muzzle to unlock the bayonet and swinging it 180 degrees locked it snuggly back into place under the barrel.

  “Nothin’ to it.” She gave confidently, nodding at the waiting three.

  “Was just able to see you from over the ledge.” Rich gave, “Didn’t see them though, legs broken or somethin’?” He asked, referring to the dead. He also noted how she seemed to be thrusting downwards.

  “Nah, but they weren’t getting up anytime soon I don’t think so it was pretty easy to take them out.”

  “Were they moving around?”

  “Why does it matter?” She was beginning to get defensive at this point; she just took out a couple walkers, two less on the planet they’d have to deal with, why the interrogation?

  “If they weren’t moving, then they weren’t a… a threat. If they weren’t a threat, why put yourself at… risk to take them out?” Tiffany gave a small nod to herself, knowing the logic well. He’d told her something similar before about avoiding confrontation wherever possible, and trying to maintain a friendly smile to go along with the friendly advice since he really didn’t want an argument to follow this little lesson or sorts he unfortunately watches as eyes narrowed and eyebrows lowered.

  “Go fuck yourself.” She said simply, bringing her hand up by her jaw, finger pointed faintly forwards, she jutted it forward towards his face as he was informed of more-or-less what she thought of his little lecture. He sighed and lowered his head as she turned and started walking, slinging her rifle as she went. Heading towards the east to continue along the Trans-Canada Highway, Tiff and Richard looked towards each other for a brief moment before she jogged ahead to catch up, intent on talking to the younger female both in regards to what had happened and to remind her not to out-pace the men. Johnathan looked to the south for a moment.

  “Come on, man… we’re better off sticking together.” The fellow said gently. It was clear he still wanted to head back down to the States, and with a look of pained acceptance the older man nodded as his head lowered.

  “Let’s go, then… you make Newfoundland sound pretty goo-”

  “HAAAWNG-!” Richard yelped, though tried to shut his own mouth and cut it off. He had gone to pat the Newfie on the back of his shoulder where the exit-wound was and the tall fellow shuddered in agony. Up ahead the women turned, Tiffany taking a few steps closer but stopping as he shook his head. Johnathan would have leapt away from him had it not been for the fact that he was helping the fellow stand. Shaking his head further as apologies were quickly given, they soon continued their trek away from the lowering Sun; evening likely wasn’t much further off. It hadn’t even been a particularly strong pat, almost more of gesture, merely bringing his hand supportively up towards his shoulder, but the simple weight of his hand sent massive pain to the afflicted area. Clearly there was still much healing to be done yet.

  The fire crackled merrily as the band of survivors sat around it, night moving in as they rested by the road on a section of grass, surrounded by forest. Everyone was hungry but nobody could eat; it would be saved for breakfast tomorrow. Still no water source however both of the men assured Tiffany that it won’t be much longer. What remained of their bottled water would wait for tomorrow as well, and they’ll cover a lot of ground in the day’s march.

  Veronica, quite warm in the big coat that her nearby friend had given her which was once owned by the older man’s mother, sat with her back against the tree, watching the fire from a fair few meters off. Said friend was smiling down at Richard as he rest his head on her lap, lying on his back. The other male had his bottle of rum sitting next to him, still a fair bit left; he hadn’t had enough to get drunk and since water was in short supply he wasn’t too eager to dehydrate himself with alcohol. It would make for a miserable hangover in the morning.

  That bastard, ‘Mr.Survivalist’ she thought mockingly. It’s like he always had an answer, or at least an opinion, for everything. Every-damn-thing. He can take out walkers with readily apparent skill, or at least he could before she shot him. He’s a good shot, he can reload his ammunition, he taught her about her own rifle when Johnathan gave her the SKS he had been carrying around, told her that not all walkers need to be taken out even though they were the reason why the world was fucked up, just yap yap yap yap yap. On and on and on and on.

  He lay with his right leg stretched out, left one with its foot brought up so his bent knee stuck up, illuminated by the fire. It was just off to his right a bit, and behind him was the formerly bright-redheaded woman whom he’d formed a sexual relationship with, and a fair off to the side from her was the on-looker who’s right rest across her lap. Johnathan simply stared at the fire, thinking of his family home being nothing but a pit of ashes embers now, perhaps with some still glowing. He was the one she would be most in view of but even so she was directly off to his left so he’d have to use his peripherals or actually turn his head to try and see her in the darkness.

  No Moon, it was pitch black, she could see her breath before her but beyond what the light of the fire could see there was absolutely nothing. Right hand resting on the cool steel buttplate of the rifle, her finger prodded that circle where the cleaning kit’s trapdoor was, pressing at it. It hinged inwards at an angle, like door, but she didn’t push it all the ways in which would cause the steel cleaning kit capsule to protrude. No, she was just fiddling with it, poking at it absentmindedly as she stated at the man, who gave a laugh. It sounded quite distant due to the lacking proximity.

  She stopped fingering the hole in the buttstock, lifting the wooden-stocked rifle with the characters from some sort of Chinese language on the side. Mandarin, Cantonese, she didn’t know nor care, and that buttstock came to her shoulder. The sights were in the darkness, invisible, until their outline was picked up on the lit view of the man she’s already shot once with a .308. Front sight post was protected by a perfectly round hood, the top of the post was leveled with the top of the rear sight’s notch, the post itself kept in the middle of said notch.

  Sitting Indian-style, she adjusted her posture so her left leg came up, her left arm rested on it to steady her aim, and post was kept incredibly still on the white boy’s head. Her black finger stroked up and down the curve of the metal trigger, feeling its coolness in the night, and eventually gliding up to the flat bit of metal that served at its incredibly simple safety. It was engaged, and all it did was stop the trigger from coming rearwards. Slowly, she brought it down with pointer finger and thumb, not wanting it to click, and so it inaudibly came to rest at the back of the trigger guard. Her finger stroked the trigger some more, softly, gently, until it stopped and began to pull. Just a little. Juuuuuust a little, and it moved easily until it came to a stop. There, there it is. The man gave another laugh which she heard a bit distantly however it jostled his body, causing him to groan for a moment in pain, but he shook his head and smiled up at the woman who looked at him with worry. An offer to check it but he said it could wait until morning.

  This is it, you fucker. Just one… little… millimeter of trigger pull, and you’re gone. Dead, never to speak again, never to condescend, never to turn to a walker to attack them… dead. Her heart was racing, a smile on her lip, she licked them, and with a toothy grin flicked the safety back on. It gave a light click, the people at the fire either didn’t notice it or it got lost in the crackle of the wood they were burnin
g. A light chuckle was given as her finger began to come away from the trigger, rifle still shouldered and aiming however.

  Crack.

  “Hnn?” Darting her eyes to the left into the nothingness that was fully visible, she heard a click and realized her finger had dropped to the trigger harshly causing the metal of it to click against that plate that served as a safety. Her heart plummeted to the depths of the Earth from that one little movement, knowing that if that sound had come just seconds earlier, the small fright would have caused her to fire the rifle, but when her eyes came to the irons again she could feel the blood rushing from her face. They were on Tiffany now, right on her torso, from when she had looked left so suddenly; she may very well have shot her, her best friend for the last few years whom until just a few days ago she thought were dead. The rifle was quickly taken from her shoulder, the others were looking in her direction and she was pumping herself up to her feet; with their eyes adjusted to the light of the fire she didn’t see her aiming the rifle at them even though she had been doing just that when their gaze went her way.

  Rich’s left hand went to his waist where his red carabiner light and watch hung, a very convenient combination. It was easily unclipped even though he was more used to using it with his right hand instead of left, and pointing it in her direction the red light lightly glowed on the general area where the sound had been heard. Nick was already looking in that direction, and she seen the streak of fur shoot up the rough bark of a nearby pine tree. A squirrel, and once up among the branches she seen one shake lightly, and a couple tiny twigs fell down to the base of the trunk with a soft thud. Heart still racing, she gave a sigh as her shoulders drooped, leaning over with hands on her knees as short black hair hung down on either side of her face slightly. The light went off and things resumed.

  She would have shot Tiff…

  CHAPTER 2

  The breath hitched in Richard’s lungs as he felt movement. Surrounded by the fresh scent of pine, he lay on a mattress of sorts of broken-off pine boughs, on his back naturally considering it provided him the most stability for his arm. Tiffany nuzzled into him after giving a small yawn, her leg resting on his thighs, and to his right slept Johnathan, then yet one more spot over was Veronica. Some branches were rested over top of them to help cut the wind, possibly help keep in a little extra warmth in their clothing, but mostly to help with concealment and protection. Should a walker stumble across them, it would be nice to have something to help separate their bodies from its teeth and nails.

  “I’ve never slept outside before…” she gave with another yawn as they sat around the newly-stoked fire that morning, everyone up. The rest of the food was opened, with all stomachs feeling entirely void of sustenance, and everyone looked forward to changing that.

  “It’s not that bad, hmm?” Leaning over, he nudged her shoulder with his, which brought a sleepy smile to her face. He couldn’t count how many dozens of times he’d slept in such a manner, but with one person on either side of him, he had to admit that he slept well and toasty warm. His woman agreed with his sentiment that it wasn’t overly bad at all. Would take some getting used to, but all-in-all it was alright. It was fairly soft, far better than the ground, and also there was the added bonus that in being off the ground it helped conserve heat.

  The idle chitchat continued as the small group ate though mostly kept up by the couple. The air felt chilly from the autumn night, dew developing on the blades of grass. Nick sat mostly brooding, stewing over how things could have gone last night, how badly things could have turned out.

  Taking the hefty pack and letting Tiff help Rich out, though he was able to handle more of his own weight this morning than he could the day before, Johnathan continued with the others while as usual Nick was mostly up ahead on her own. After about half an hour, they came across a van parked on the side of the road. The woman who basically took it upon herself to scout ahead of the others was already checking the windows, seeing no dead inside. The other three took their time catching up.

  The driver and passenger doors were both unlocked, keys in the ignition, however turning said key only caused the vehicle to whine in its attempts to start. Useless, pretty much as expected. Glove compartment only had various papers along with the thick manual that typically came with vehicles. She took it, less for reading material and more for kindling to start fires. Easier and more efficient source than what nature provides.

  Muttering that they should have kept walking for a while last night, she was already moving ahead when the three were passing by the vehicle. None of them even bothered to look, and Richard told the woman helping him along that it’s probably been checked by several survivors by now if it’s been there for a few months. As for Nick’s mutterings, even though the pine bough idea wasn’t too bad and she had indeed slept alright, it would have been nicer to take one of those seats in the back. Two wide seats for two or three people in the back, and then two other survivors could probably recline the front seats back as far as they could go so as to sleep there, the four of them locked nice and securely inside the vehicle throughout the night.

  As was promised, a small body of water soon revealed itself not far from the road just past some overgrowth. It was anticipated that it would be boggy and wet so the ill-prepared white woman in her slip-on shoes waited at the road with Nick and Richard while Johnathan went to fill up the water bottle. The girls worked on building a fire, which didn’t take long, especially thanks to the vehicle manual. Untying a fire-blackened metal pot from the back of that hefty pack which the older man had been so kind as to carry for quite some time now, the water that was retrieved was soon poured in, and so they waited for it to boil over the fire to be sure it was disinfected of any potential germs or diseases.

  The seemingly ever-proactive feminist stood watch as the other three awaited the water to boil. It would have been useful if there were snow around; it could be used to cool down the water so as to drink, and so there was yet more waiting as the pot sat on the cold asphalt so as to reach a drinkable temperature. It was almost a shame that there was still rum left in the bottle of Kraken, and neither man was willing to spill it just for the sake of filling it with life-sustaining hydration. Though it was still morning, both men took swigs of it, and once more in spite of Richard’s heftier mass he got buzzed quicker in his injured state. It helped him cope with the pain as he was also regularly given extra strength Aspirin as well as antibiotics that Veronica had gotten a few years back. Teeth pulled, tonsils removed, some such thing. It was certainly nice to have them now though, perhaps they were the only reason he hadn’t gotten infection and died yet, who knows.

  Most of the boiled water, once cooled, went straight into the water bottle to refill it. Another pot-full of water was boiled, let cool, and from this everyone drank mightily to fully hydrate themselves for another long trek of walking. It was a pleasant break, and no undead were spotted, though sadly nor were any huntable animals seen.

  “It’s pretty nice.” Johnathan replied to the younger man’s question as it was he who was helping him along now, though it was anticipated that in another day or two he’ll be able to walk on his own two feet again. The question was in regards to the US, and what it was like to live down there.

  “It’s not as bad as some people might think, Americans are friendlier than most give them credit for. Sure, it’s a different culture, and personally I find it a bit unsettling in not knowing who might have a gun on them and who might not, but there’s a reason I lived there for so long. It became home to me.” His deep voice, gravelly and wise, shared his viewpoint with the inquisitive fellow probably almost half his age. Mid-late 20s, roughly.

  “Huh, interesting. I guess it was just a series of bad luck that had me dealing with quite a number of Yanks online who were right full of themselves. Rather arrogant.” To this, the man chuckled, shook his head lightly before lifting the bottle of rum to his lips. It was getting pretty low now, and they were trying to make it last, even
though they were thoroughly enjoying its effects in this dark time.

  “They’re not all like that, in fact in person I’m not sure I met any who spoke negatively about where I come from.” That being Ontario; the province in which they travelled.

  “Well that’s good, ever spoke to any of ‘em about Newfoundland?”

  “Hah! You have a bit of a one-track mind sometimes, you know that? No, not really, generally if I mention Canada then the conversation doesn’t much specify on particular Provinces. I might mention that I’m from Ontario but it stops there. It’s an odd thing though; when an American talks about where they come from, they don’t usually just say ‘I’m from America’. They almost always specify which State. I don’t know why but I’ve always found that a bit odd. It’s like there’s a cultural significance in America in how their country is so widely divided by States and it is important to know which individual one everyone comes from.”

  Richard chuckled in turn, and had experienced just that. If you ask someone where they’re from, generally what you will receive in answer is their country. When an American is asked however, it seems as though more often than not they answer with a State.

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so harsh on him, Nicky. He’s a good guy, he really is.” Her hands held onto the straps over her shoulders, feeling the weight of the pack jostle on her back, clinking and clunking about behind her. The woman’s soft belly and fairly well endowed bosom had a pleasant bounce to them as she walked alongside the roughly half-a-foot or roughly 15cm taller young woman.

  “You told me he hit you, babushka.” That affectionate nickname that the somewhat motherly lady was given, she very much enjoyed it. “That he yelled at you, and I have a feeling he’s done more than just that.” Her slim face was stern as she stared ahead, rifle in hand instead of slung just because she felt like carrying it, they were well ahead of the men and out of earshot at this casual speaking volume.