Living amongst the Dead

by J. Morgan

  The sound of glass clunking, his two Mason jars, one of which was still sealed and full of cubed chunks of meat he’d hunted a couple weeks ago. Moose, and oh how he had gorged on the creature for as long as he could, eating as much as he could until what was left had gone off. With some salt, and boiling the full jar for quite some time, it cooked the meat inside as well as preserved it. Kept out of the Sun, he knew it would last a good couple years at least, but of course would not last that long for hunger was never far away. Indeed even now it was gnawing at him, but it had to be ignored. Up ahead the woods were thinning further, coming to an open grassy area. It had been spotted earlier, directly to the town’s south, and he would be exposed for a time but hopefully not many of them would notice the passer by.

  In the second Mason jar, which was no longer sealed, half its contents remain. The tender, juicy, savoury meat that provided him with the needed calories, salt, and protein to keep going; to energize him. Of course two jars of meat did not sustain him for long, so it was rationed, and whenever a body of water presented itself then the survivalist would try his hand at fishing. Helped to have a rod, of course, but he made due with simply the line, a hook at the end and a red and white floater attached, plus some weights that helped in flicking it out to deeper waters. It can be adjusted with relative ease. That was in a side pocket of the pack; the line on a small reel to keep it from tangling, hook kept out of the way to save him from pricking himself when accessing the main two bodies of the backpack.

  At the base of the largest section of this pack was his Lee hand press, almost looking like a giant red nutcracker. Combined with the plastic case that held steel .303 British dies, the cylindrical plastic tube holding the reprimer, and his Lyman 500 powder scale in its cardboard box that needed to be assembled for each use but was accurate to .1 grains with no batteries required, he could make his own ammunition. Primers, casings, powder, and bullets; those were the ingredients of modern ammunition since the mid-late 19th century. He was good on primers, a sleeve of 100 that was as of yet still over half full. Bullets; a box of 50 .312 cal 174gr FMJ by Hornady, of which there were probably 40 or so left. Full metal jacket instead of soft point because when this fellow made ammunition before the infection it was to simulate Mk.VII Ball .303 British rather than making stuff for hunting or self-defence. Still, those Spitzer pointed FMJ bullets got the job done, and when aimed right, could fell a moose admirably. The beast never went far when the projectile hit where he intended.

  Powder… now that was something he was low on. Perhaps enough for 20-30 more rounds, say 900-1350gr remaining. 15.4gr per gram, 45gr per cartridge, so you do the math; there wasn’t much left. He was considering only loading his ammo with half the usual amount of powder. It might perhaps weaken the ammunition to about the strength of magnum pistols, but that was still plenty sufficient. It would allow him to get twice as many rounds, to get to use ALL the bullets he had left as well as most of the primers. After all, unlike a semi-auto firearm, a bolt action didn’t rely on how hot the ammo was to maintain reliability. It could be as weak as 7.62x25 or .30 Carbine, but would still function reliably due to being manually operated. The rifle would just suffer in accuracy. Well, it would suffer in penetration as well, but that was not a worry, not at all. No, best get the most accuracy out of each shot… perhaps he’ll stumble upon some ammo someday, wrench out the bullets, then load the powder into his .303 casings…

  Out in the open, walking along a park, some scattered trees speckled here and there, a couple benches, a paved walking path that lead to the town… one of the dead standing off to his right, to the south, near a bench he could see the back of. The front would likely have something scrolled on it on a little plaque regarding who donated it. Not far from it, a corpse lay, too decomposed to be a potential threat, perhaps one of the first to die when all this started. Even at this distance the smell was less than pleasant to say the least. The bugger looming nearby was swaying, just standing there… a hollow metallic clunk rang out. Though his footsteps were quiet on the grass, the pot strapped onto the outside of the man’s backpack had swayed too much, reaching over and clunking lightly against the wooden stock of his slung rifle.

  “Shit…” his deep voice muttered, which was answered with a gurgled moan. It was an older man, head balding, remaining hair white, mouth bloodied where it had fed at some point but black from how old said blood was. A few drops on his white button-up shirt, pale knees scratched up from wherever it may have fallen or had been kneeling on a hard surface, it did not appear as though this fellow had succumb to a bite, but also seemed too ‘fresh’ to have been one of the initial people to die half a year ago. Belly was soft and round, blue shorts with a white strip at either side, its eyes dull, ankles and hands swollen where blood had pooled, veins noticeable amongst the purple colour though the hands were mostly black from dried blood. It was a good 30m away at least, a more than easy shot, but an unnecessary one.

  Grasping his rifle in one hand, the backpack strap on the left shoulder was held in place with the other, and he jogged along, heading for the path on the other side of this small park that went back into the woods, intent on cutting north at some point to reach the highway again that lead steadily eastwards. Suddenly a scream, it echoed out from the town, high pitched, a woman. The fat, old walker was ignored by this point, which ignored the disturber in turn for the scream had caught its decaying ear, and so the armed man kept going unhindered for the time being. She was not his concern; to enter that town was to invite to himself whatever horrors plagued the living female within.

  The thought of stopping by the liquor store on the way to finding that woman had, for a brief split second, made him consider the stupidity of risking his life for whatever stranger was screaming in there. It was quickly snuffed out. He had not survived for THIS long, mostly on his own, by sticking his neck out every time someone foolishly got themselves in trouble in a place populated by the dead. The contents of his pack clunked until the jog slowed to a walk once he was within the trail, breathing heavily, the sweat more steadily coming down his face.

  Wanted to stop; wanted to get that plastic 1.14L (40oz) bottle of water that once held dark rum out of his backpack, but firstly he ought to get more distance between himself and that pudgy biter. Secondly, water had to be rationed when there wasn’t a ready supply of it nearby. He kept walking, wishing now, like the zombie from the park, he had a pair of shorts instead of those jeans. His tune would change once night came, though. When the chill of autumn set in with the dying of the Sun. Slowly, quite slowly, his breathing normalized, and it was seen ahead amidst the trees and brush that the trail swerved off to the left, towards the north, good, he should soon be on the other side of the tow- “AAAAHHHHH-NOOOOO! HEEEEEEEELP!”

  “Christ a’mighty, woman… can’t even hear meself think!” He muttered with a slight accent in this somewhat stressful situation, however noted that it was getting louder; SHE was getting louder as were other noises in the background that sounder slightly farther off. Moans, and not the happy ‘fuck me harder’ kinds… the hungry kinds… the sound of the dead. The man cursed to himself, quickening his already brisk walking pace, peering left, roughly towards the northwest as though hoping to see through the trees. An unseen little rock before him was kicked from the trail, then a shot rang out; she’s ARMED?!

  He cursed again as her screeching continued; “SOMEBODY HEEEEEEEELP!” The voice was shrill, sounded like utter panic, and WAY too close. His rifle was being held in his right hand, around the point where the barrel met the receiver, where the balance was, so that it remained parallel with the ground. Now it was brought up, left hand getting in position, right hand at its place behind the trigger guard after having brushed the safety off.

  Left hand had released the strap of the pack on his shoulder, grasped the bayonet that hung from the thick leather belt; it scraped out of its metal home, a hollow clinking sound of metal as the socket was placed over the muzzle, it clicked into place
with a twist. Finger stayed OFF the trigger, riding along the wooden stock above it. With the safety disengaged, there was nothing stopping the old rifle from going off with a pull of the trigger. All it would take is a stumble or something to frighten him and he might just accidentally fire an un-aimed shot off if he left his finger on the trigger. Muscles in his hand flexing from whatever it might be that makes him tense up, and so keeping the finger off the trigger was the smartest thing to do to prevent such an accidental discharge.

  Heart was racing, eyes wide, steadily peering left; he was jogging again now with the pack over his shoulder, still partially out of breath. The woman’s shouts were becoming more and more nonsensical, made erratic from panic, but at least it sounded like she was becoming winded. The trail must be heading straight north now, the grassy rise up to the highway in sight… but should he go there? If she’s got a bunch of the undead following her on the road, they’ll spot him! His footsteps slowed… should he stay here? Wait in hopes that they’ll pass him by? He stopped, barrel chest expanding and contracting with breath he was trying to catch. Rustling of foliage, she was bringing them south into the woods?! Granted it wasn’t a TERRIBLE idea to try and lose them in the greenery, but she could lead them right TO him!

  “God…” damn, he thought, not wanting to waste the breath it would take to say the second word of his condemnation of this situation. The Navy blue zip-up hoodie he was wearing was too warm for all this, wanted to take it off but there was no bloody time, he could feel his black t-shirt getting soaked with sweat. Up north to the road, noise was to the left in the west, back was to the trail that lead south then southwest might be safer even if it’s out of his way… INDECISION! INDECISION IS NOT GOOD! The march began to the road… it is easier to move on pavement than it was in the woods or on a dirt trail. Get to the highway and start jogging at a slow and steady pace. Just fast enough to gain distance from the dead, from that STUPID friggin’ woman, and get to safety. What was she doing in the town?! One of the few remaining scavengers who think they can survive by looting?! BLOODY FOOLISH!

  “Auooff…” he heard her grunt, and peering behind as he headed uphill towards the highway, breaking through the treeline, the man seen her sprawled on the path he’d just passed. Her hair was red, or at least mostly red, the roots showing plenty of her natural brunette hair colour. The red was likely bright once but seemed to be fading. Black thick-rimmed glasses fell off her face which she scrambled to place back on her nose. She appeared to be not all that much older than him, in her 30s, likely mid-30s, late 30s at the very most. He was still in his middle 20s however what with the scruff and the bulk of his body, could easily be mistaken for being in his 30s himself. Her features were harsh, mean in spite of her fright, and changed to anger as she opened her eyes, seeing the man. “Where are you-?... HELP ME, FUCK-FACE!”

  Hearing that childish curse come from a seemingly grown woman, one who looked at him and spoke to him with no amount of pleasantry, grace, or even compassion for a fellow survivor, he gave her a look like she had two heads and scoffed. True, this panicked situation was hardly a time for pleasantries, but USUALLY when someone is desperate for help, they would at least appear to be appreciative of being given it, but that miserable cunt only appeared to be demanding what she seemed to feel entitled to have. He turned away without a word, not wanting to waste his breath, and kept walking.

  “OH!” She cried in anger, in outrage and indignation, facial features twisting up as she still lay on the ground. Peering back he spotted she was aiming her polymer-stocked bolt action hunting rifle at him from the hip. His eyes widened as he seen her pulling the trigger but nothing happened. “FUCK!” she cried as she fumbled with the bolt, then looked towards the trees and seen something he did not, then ran with the bolt open, a brass casing left on the ground that had just been ejected. The casing of the round that she hoped would have killed him.

  “Crazy BITCH!” The man shouted at her, presenting his rifle and placing his finger on the trigger, tempted to fire. He SHOULD after all; she had tried to shoot HIM!

  “No! DON’T!” She dropped the rifle with pleads of desperation; he couldn’t see if there were any rounds left in the exposed magazine or not. The woman was holding her arms in front of her as she breathlessly ran towards him, just not wanting to be shot, nor bitten for that matter, and the undead were seen coming up the trail. One stepped on the rifle, tripping on it, a crack sounding. “RrrrrrrRAH…” a growl of frustration at his own weakness; he should put her down like she had attempted to put HIM down, but lowered the bayoneted rifle while taking his finger from the trigger as she approached. Bitch better not have a hidden side arm, he thought to himself without addressing the hypocrisy that he himself had one, and then finally looked to the right towards the town. Dozens of the pricks… shambling along… all of those pale dead eyes on the two. Many with bites, some with bullet wounds though none of which looked fresh which meant this foolish cow likely missed whoever she had shot at.

  His breathing was still heavy, a fresh bout of adrenaline at having seen a rifle aimed at him. It wasn’t the first time, but it never really became something you get used to. His body still facing south towards her, having turned since seeing her aim at him, his head then swiveled from right towards the town to left towards where the highway went east. A couple abandoned vehicles, but that’s all. A blue car and a black truck; a wall of forest not far from either side of the road. After a brief grimace at the woman who still looked scornfully at the man, he started jogging along the highway, and she followed. He kept peering behind him, anticipating a pistol to materialize in her hands from the purse she had over her left shoulder. A black skirt went down to her knees, cut at either side to help her to run, and a tattered white blouse that showed dirt from having been lived in for probably months.

  How tempting it was to give her a shot to the leg, make her a screaming, crying, crawling mass of agony, and so let the dead remain on HER so that he can more quickly lose the small horde SHE had attracted. This was insane. Passing the car, all the windows thankfully up, an old corpse inside motioned weakly to the steadily jogging male that passed by. To open a door, if any were unlocked, would welcome a wave of nausea that would threaten to knock him out, or at least make him lose what little he had left in his stomach. A similar situation had happened to him months ago, foolish enough to try opening a refrigerator. Food that had been rotting for at least weeks had unleashed its pent up fumes. Lungs were burning already though, and they were not making as much distance from the dead as they’d like.

  The truck, he recognized it, a Chevy Silverado. Four-door with a short box on the back, panels covering the top of it… yes, this should do! As much as his legs, back, and lungs protested, he ran as fast as he could, though not having it in him to give an all-out sprint. “H-hey!... HEY!” The attempted murderer called out, though it was an unfair thing to call her… there wasn’t many still alive who hadn’t had a firearm pointed at them, or pointed one at another. It was unfortunate, he HATED it, but this was how things were. Still, the rifleman refused to forgive her and just kept going.

  The truck was reached. Cab ignored, not even checking if there were dead in there or not, he got to the tail gate of this west-facing vehicle. Tugging on the latch produced little give, it was stiff, but he wasn’t sure if it felt locked or not. Trying a couple quick angles it eventually came loose. Good! There were a couple cardboard boxes but didn’t appear to be anything else. With a push they were forced to the southwest corner, sliding along, and so he pulled up on the closest of the four panels. Locked into place already, perfect! By now the woman had caught up, breathing even more heavily than he was, right leg scratched up a bit from falling on the trail earlier but it didn’t APPEAR to be a bite, at least not from the brief glance he gave it.

  “Move!...” she demanded testily, and he gave a low growl again… he was going to let her in anyways, but here she was, ass in the air as she crawled in along the driver side wall. He got up
on the tail gate after, peering once towards the distant town; at least a couple dozen were on the way. He had the ammo to take care of them, but didn’t have the lack of intelligence to do so, and went into the box of the truck feet first. Once in, he grasped the cord that attached the passenger side end of the tail gate to the top of the box and pulled. It came up slow, “Hurry-!”

  “-SHUT YOUR DAMN TRAP!” In the confines of the box, his roar seemed magnified, the last light seeping in between the panel and the tail gate showed his face as he looked back at the bitch, rage in his eyes, and with one last tug they were sealed in.

  “Don’t you talk to me like-“ she started in defense, only to be interrupted in an angry and urgent whisper.

  “-I said SHUT IT!” He grasped in the darkness to make sure his rifle was still where he left it, it was, and made a mental note to reengage the safety as soon as possible. Reaching to his belt, the carabiner watch was grasped, unhooked with ease, and a button pressed. A single LED light shone red, lightly illuminating their cramped little ‘room’. First thing he saw were legs, small and comfortable looking shoes on her feet, but they did not look like they were meant for marching long distances. His feet were hidden; next to the two boxes along the western wall of the truck’s box, up in the northern corner. His 6’ height spanned about the length of the box. She must have been over half a foot shorter, but because of the boxes at her head, was SLIGHTLY more cramped than he was. Bending her knees a bit seemed to do the trick.

  At least she seemed to listen to his second command for her to silence, but she none the less scowled at him; anger, hatred, disgust, it was all there painted on her face like the makeup she did not wear but he figured she probably used heavy amounts back when she had some. He looked up to the panel, a tab on either end, good. When it came time to get out, all he had to do was pull those tabs and they would gain freedom. Then all there was to it would be to reach around and pull the latch on the gate to lower it and they could get out, but for now, the sound of footsteps and moans started to approach outside.