“Jesus Christ!”, Danny exclaimed, scrambling backwards on all fours before throwing himself back up onto his feet, ever conscious of the encroaching mass of undead now just feet away, “Too close for comfort, too mother-fucking close for mother-fucking comfort” he yelled to nobody in particular, now in a full-blown sprint towards the wall, where a single slat had opened and a smoking barrel now protruded. “Open up! Open up open up open up!”, Danny yelled repeatedly.
With that, the central door that looked almost immovable from the numerous heavy duty materials that had gone into making it, slowly crept open, pushed from the inside by at least two sets of hands.
“C’mon c’mon c’mon”, Danny said encouragingly, himself now grabbing the door and pulling, hoping to reduce the amount of time he had to spend out in the wild by as much as possible, before the door finally opened just wide enough to create a human-sized gap, which he promptly and without hesitation, threw himself through.
Landing on the ground on the other side, and in doing so enjoying the company of the hard concrete floor for the second time in as many minutes, Danny snapped his head round to make sure the door had once again been closed, and then moved to focus on the shooter who had so recently saved his life, both him and his gun still positioned in their allocated gap on the top of the wall.
“Thanks”, Danny yelled up, “For a second I tho-“.
“OPEN FIRE!”.
Before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by what could only be described as a roar of gunfire. The shooter himself began letting off a series of semi-automatic shots, but this time he did so accompanied by a total of twelve other gunners, each armed with a similar rifle and each firing just as often, all of them now in their allocated perches atop the defensive wall in perfect formation.
The sound of gunfire was immense, and continued to rumble on for around twenty seconds until, one by one, each of the gunners had fired off their pre-instructed number of rounds. Shortly thereafter, nothing but smoke filled the air, all of it billowing from the numerous barrels that remained perched in their spots for a few seconds more.
“Cease fire” yelled a voice from the end of the line, to which each of the shooters signalled their understanding by reclining their rifles into the air, “Let’s get them all cleared out and ready for the next one!”.
Danny meanwhile could once more uncover his ears, and now looked back over to that same first shooter – who had so recently prevented him from meeting an untimely demise at the hands of a collaboration between the undead and his own shoelaces – just in time to see the man turn away from his perch, just beyond which now lay the re-exterminated bodies of around sixty or seventy members of the undead.
“You’re welcome”, replied the figure, his unmaintained and fairly long brown hair – both on his head and across the rest of his face – now falling into view as he adjusted the hood of his dirtied jacket.
“Ah”, Danny exclaimed, having now realised who had taken the shot, “I should have known it was you, John”.
Chapter 2: JP
John Parker cut a somewhat intimidating figure at the best of times. Though perfectly friendly in a former life, he’d been weathered on both a physical and personal level by the events that took place during and after the world went to hell. Now he strolled around with his trademark hooded top and his torn and scuffed cargo pants, various scratches and scars scattered around his body and face, and the dirt of war evidenced on just about every ounce of his clothing.
Complimenting his almost tramp-like aesthetics were a pair of heavy duty boots in decent condition, a gleamingly clean M16 assault rifle – which was now slung back over his left shoulder – some good quality elbow and knee pads, a small pistol tucked inside of a holster attached to his right thigh, and a large, serrated blade, the latter two items each in about as used a state as John himself appeared to be.
The forty-something man was more than a little fearsome armed as heavily as he was, especially looking the way he did, but it was the way he moved that told the biggest part of the story yet. Every foot was deliberately placed with incredible precision, every movement planned and evaluated ahead of times by a brain capable of such anxious analysis it could almost predict the future. Not once did John so much as breath without a fevered look around his immediate area, ensuring that said single breath wouldn’t cause some kind of butterfly effect consequence. His stride was strong and powerful, yet elegant and symmetric, and his arms swung evenly at his sides, hands tightly gripped and ready for action, wherever it came from. John Parker, more than anything, was very obviously a military man.
Make no mistake however, this was no military setting. Despite John’s immaculate assault rifle, his plentiful supply of ammunition and the reasonably healthy skin colour that alleviated to a nutritious and readily available source of food, the area in which the man found himself was neither run by, nor known to, any major government agency, either before or after the end of the world. That said, given how poorly the US government – and supposedly just about all other governments throughout the world – had handled the infection and its subsequently unstoppable spread, this was no bad thing.
The street in front was clean and tidy, devoid of the usual piles of burnt garbage and festering limbs, or the blood that soaked the land more readily than rain ever had. It housed none of the usual wrecked vehicles and hastily thrown up barricades, and the buildings that lined it on either side remained not only standing, but in good physical condition. This small area of downtown Chicago had managed to survive the end of the world, though it had most certainly not done it alone.
In addition to the numerous armed guards who remained on the wall from which John was headed, several more men and women were placed sporadically along the side of the street, themselves only carrying small arms such as pistols and knives. Each exchanged a happy greeting with the hooded man as he made his way past, himself returning a grimace – which was already an improvement on his past emotional unavailability – to acknowledge their greeting.
Up ahead was a crossroad, spanning six lanes in all directions, and marking a focal point of the area across which John was traversing. The section of road was once again immaculately clean, as well as well guarded from numerous positions, but was also the scene of a more civilian setting, with countless individuals conversing and moving through, none of them adorning the usual shoulder-straps that dragged heavy rifles behind, or the thigh-high bulges that might indicate a concealed pistol or blade of some kind. These people were not soldiers, nor were they guards or mercenaries like so many others now, they were, quite simply, people.
Making his way through the crossroad, and overhearing as he did two of the more elderly civilians discussing some long-forgotten television show that had become a relic long before the electrical grid had shut down, John continued to exchange half sincere greetings with the countless people who acknowledged his arrival. Each of them did so with the kind of gracious yet fear-singed bow of the head that told John two very distinct things; they respected what he did and were thankful that he did it, but nonetheless feared him for the way in which he went about doing it.
Turning his attention back ahead, John looked past the block of storefronts and apartments that lined either side of the street, to the next crossroads along, where an even bigger congregation of people were assembled. Even a man as stoic with his emotions as John was couldn’t help but smile slightly each and every time he saw this large group of residents, numbering well into their hundreds, freely talking at significant volume and seemingly undeterred by the barrage of gunfire that had filled the air just minutes earlier.
“Hey Parker”, came a somewhat high-pitched voice to John’s rear, accompanied with hurried footsteps and a slight panting of breath, “Wait up”.
John turned his head enough to note that it was Danny Almond – the young man who had earlier acted as glorified bait – before looking back ahead and continuing in his stride, “What’s up Danny?”, he ask
ed.
“Boss man’s looking for you”, Danny explained, “radio’d down right after you left”.
“Where is he?”, John asked, in parallel to looking down at the now caught-up man’s right shoe to ensure he’d properly tied his shoelaces.
“He’s in WG”, Danny replied, “Upstairs I imagine”.
“Thanks Danny”, John acknowledged, “I’ll head over now”.
WG – the initials of a formerly well-known supermarket chain that had proved too difficult to hear over the radio – had become the town hall of this well organised region of downtown Chicago. It sat on the north-eastern corner of the crossroads John was already headed, and was accordingly one of the busier buildings in the community, thus explaining the hive of activity that surrounded it.
Approaching the building and making his way through the sliding doors – which were now opened by hand rather than electronically, and were heavily barricaded whenever the slightest report of danger came in – John emerged into the bright and vibrant supermarket to the familiar old-world sound of running refrigerators, buzzing light fixtures and the general chatter of visitors, all of it combining to create a sound that at one time had been all but lost to the world.
Like all supermarkets, and indeed any other buildings of value, the WG had been raided and picked clean even before the power had run out. Shoppers had looted and rioted, vans to bring more stock had gotten stuck in endless traffic, and the original staff had bolted once it became clear that the end was coming. But despite all of this, the store in its current capacity looked almost functional, and surprisingly well stocked all things considered.
This was all the result of the present authority here in this bustling community, who had taken it upon themselves to keep the lights on and the refrigerators running, and enough food and water coming in to keep the store looking like its former self, albeit with reduced stock levels. Non-essentials – such as the various neon signs and the cash registers – did of course remain powered down, but enough had been restored to its former self to allow the store to bring an almost calming level of nostalgia to the residents.
John however was not here for the buildings best-known accolade – it’s life-essential food and water supplies – but rather its more administrative purpose. Moving alongside the right-most aisle he walked up to the stationary escalators and began climbing the metallic steps towards the top, gripping the side as if preparing for the possibility the once moving stairs might lurch back into life at any moment.
Arriving on the upper floor, John looked around to check who was in attendance in what had once been the store’s pharmacy section. Over by the counter was the usual assortment of armed men and women, either being given their marching orders to mark the start of their shift, or surmising their past few hours in a standard debrief that would end it, and off to their left were a small group of children, each set of eyes fixated nervously on the demonstration in front – the loading of bullets into empty magazines – as if they were being supervised by a school teacher known for his poor temper.
The reality however was that the pharmacy and its occupants were all perfectly upbeat. Chatter could be heard in all corners, and the children in particular seemed incredibly happy at actually having something to do. Convincing the parents – and indeed the community as a whole – that giving kids such a task was a good idea had taken some doing, but there was no doubting that them being around a small amount of ammunition was far less dangerous than leaving them to wander around outside instead, and this had been one of the more major points put across during discussions.
Finally, in the furthest corner from the top of the escalators, sat a large grouping of wooden desks, arranged and bolted together to make a table that could seat twenty or thirty people, and with enough chairs littered around it to do so. Currently though there was just one person present, who quickly got up out of his chair at the sight of the man now approaching from the other end of the table.
“John!”, exclaimed the moustached man a few years John’s junior.
“Geoff”, John replied with his trademark, half sincere smile, “You asked for me?”.
“Yeah”, Geoff confirmed, “How’d it go out there?”, he inquired.
“It went good”, John replied before pulling out the seat nearest to Geoff’s and sitting down, promptly followed by the other man. “Got a whole bunch of ‘em down, more than usual actually, I think they’re starting to filter in to the city more and more”.
“Great!”, Geoff exclaimed, “The more that come, the more we can get rid of”.
“And you still think that’s sustainable?”, John asked, clearly unconvinced of a tactic that was embroiled in the fabric of the community.
“Sustainable, I hope so”, Geoff replied, “Necessary? I know so”, he added.
John was aware through stories he’d been told of just how infected Chicago had been when the camp was first set up. Hordes of biters regularly banded together through nothing more than random wandering, and converged on the community’s only semi-defended location with ever-increasing force. The lives of numerous guards and civilians alike had been lost, and funerals were becoming an all too regular occurrence.
That’s when the idea of controlled thinning of the undead population had come about. The area had previously been littered with the weapons and ammunition of the national guard – left behind after they staged un ultimately unsuccessful final stand against the undead by the city’s waterfront – which meant that for the foreseeable future, there was no shortage of means to fight the biters. That said, nobody was stupid enough to think they could take down the entire undead army, whose numbers no doubt numbered into the billions, but they believed they could at least control how and when the camp had to deal with groupings of the surrounding biter population, and better yet reduce the number of them in the nearby areas of the city.
“Yeah, I know”, John conceded, knowing and accepting that it was a practice that had long been carried out despite numerous debates, a sense of disappointment evident in his voice.
“Hey”, Geoff said with a point of the finger as he picked up on the lowered tone, “The second you think of something better, you know I’m all ears”, he assured John, “I didn’t make you lieutenant so I could ignore your ideas”.
Although the act of giving out such titles in a very much non-military organisation seemed somewhat misguided – especially given John’s history in the military – John treated his title with a surprising level of respect. The first reason for this was that it injected an air of structure that was otherwise long gone in the present world, and helped distinguish him from his fellow guards, as well as giving the public a surprising amount of reassurance. The second reason however, was quite simply, Geoff.
Geoff was a former military man himself, albeit never anywhere near the same level as John, and had done multiple tours and undergone all the training needed to do a damn fine job of looking after both himself and others. Despite never having received any kind of leadership training or even experience in such a role, Geoff had somehow managed to create the unmistakable impressive community that now embraced John as one of their own. This small region – which was affectionately referred to simply as Chicago by its residents, despite only covering a few blocks of the massive metropolis – had developed from a few friends hell-bent on making a stand against the dead, to the well-oiled machine that now looked after hundreds of civilians in a way nobody else had yet managed to do. The people were fed, clothed, happy and safe, and the community’s regular broadcasts meant that more and more came to stay in Chicago, further advancing and diversifying the already impressive group of people calling it home.
Between the countless individuals who had been afforded sanctuary in Chicago and the incredibly effective fighting force that had been built to protect them, Geoff had proven himself to be an effective commander of the once rag-tag group of ordinary people, and that was something John had an immense amount of respect for. It was far from
his right to question whether the man should really be in charge.
“We’ll go again tomorrow”, John said, opting to steer his thoughts back to the more important present tasks.
“Good”, Geoff replied, “Just maybe tie the kid’s laces first”, he added with an Alabaman twang, smirking now.
“You heard about that?”, Geoff asked, thinking back to the moment he’d seen Danny’s laces tangle and his face go flying towards the floor.
“Oh yeah”, Geoff laughed, “News like that travels real, real quick”.
Chapter 3: The living room
Having concluded his meeting with the settlement’s commander-in-chief, John exited the supermarket and made his way out into the open air. The weather outside was a typical shade of grey, and it looked almost certain to rain before the day was over, a combination of factors that when put together, essentially described every day in the post-apocalypse world. Mankind suddenly dying off hadn’t had the sunny skies and clean-air effect so many had predicted, but had in fact achieved rather the opposite.
Without human intervention to stop them, large scale industrial complexes had leaked, exploded and collapsed up and down the country, leaving massive devastation all over and releasing millions of gallons of toxic chemicals into the atmosphere. Thankfully for what remained of the human race, the more dangerous buildings – such as the nuclear power-plants and oil refineries – had been made with much more sophisticated fail-safes in place, but enough damage had been done by their less intelligent fellow structures to wreak havoc on the world’s weather patterns for years to come.
Despite that however, the atmosphere in camp remained upbeat. Though some of the residents had been inside the walls for long periods of time, nobody had forgotten what life was like post-apocalypse on the other side of those thick, secure barricades, and those horrific memories kept each and every one of them feeling thankful every single day. Nobody there had any desire to go back to the way things were, unless of course they could go back far enough to return to more civilised times.
Road to Grissom: Part three of the Aftermath series Page 2