by J. Morgan
Looking back down to her mean face, he mouthed ‘not… a… sound…’ the light went out for a minute, button released; it was put down next to the wooden WWII rifle. Even in pitch black darkness he quickly found the safety lever of his rifle and engaged it, leaving the bayonet attached to the barrel simply because he didn’t want to move about, expose his left side, and slip the spike into its metal scabbard. Carabiner light was picked up again in his right hand, backpack still strapped to left shoulder, he pointed the red light about. Down to his feet, along her body, ‘what are YOU looking at?!’ she hissed savagely, to which he shook his head and gave a look that told her NOT to start with him right now.
Transferring the small light source to his left hand, he reached down between them, and got a hold of her purse, intent on checking it for any weapons. He didn’t trust her in the darkness after having tried to take a shot at him. She of course kept an iron grip on it. “Don’t you dare… don’t you DARE!...” the woman whispered angrily, trying to pull it out of his grasp, but with one great tug of his right arm it was yanked free from her, though she kept hold of the long straps that she had over her shoulder earlier. He didn’t care, he’ll RIP the thing if he had to, and kept pulling, dropping the light, used his left hand to help, and now had a hold of the zipped up opening of it. It was tempting to give her a boot to the face to make her let it go, but would not resort to that. Didn’t stop HER, though.
She kicked forward, hitting his left arm, he grunted in the darkness then either a zombie bumped into the truck outside or she hit the wall behind her somehow. “I’m checking this for weapons whether you like it or NOT!” He whispered harshly as his right hand released the bag, left hand still holding on, and he sent a punch forward, HARD. It reached its target; her soft belly, and she released the purse suddenly, groaning. The light was picked up again, left hand holding the bag while left forearm was sticking up to try and protect his face from any potential kicks. Right hand pressed the button, pointed the LED at her, seeing her in pain.
“You will DIE in this God forsaken truck if you try any stupid shit like that AGAIN!” More urgent and serious whispering, then those cold brown eyes went to the driver’s side wall next to her and heard the scratching. They must have heard them. Looking at her, right thumb holding the light’s button down, his right pointer finger extended to her side of the box, and once he caught her eyes the man mouthed “That’s on YOU…” it was clear she wanted to make a rebuttal but seemed to have learned her lesson. Eyes now looking like they might tear up, she had a look that was a mixture of pained despair from her evident helplessness along with anger with the man who took her purse and hit her. It was zipped open, he aimed the light inside. Two brass rifle cartridges caught his eye, soft point, looked like perhaps .308 but he couldn’t be 100% sure without checking the base of the casings. No pistols; Richard put both hands into the bag so that the left could move items around for a more thorough search while the right kept the light going. No knives.
Withdrawing his hands, left one was opened to reveal he didn’t take anything; right one stuck out its pinky, ring, and middle fingers while the pointer finger and thumb held onto the carabiner. The leather purse was pushed towards her. She took it back eagerly, face now looking less on the verge of tears but still hurt that he’d punched her, holding her stomach, breathing clearly less easily than she had before. He himself had already caught his breath from the running outside. “We wait…” he mouthed to her, watching her with disdain, and then her rebuttal, “You stink…” she mouthed back.
He shook his head, several choice things he’d like to call her went through his mind, but knew that to start calling her names back would only result in more arguments, meaning attracting the undead further, meaning it would be longer before they could leave. Moving a bit, he brought his left arm out from the sling of his backpack, rotated as it was pushed to the northern wall, and lay on his back. The base of the box was ribbed with rough plastic, quite uncomfortable, but it was something. At least he could stretch his legs a bit.
‘The bitch isn’t COMPLETELY wrong’, he thought. The last lake or river he’d seen was a good few days ago, possibly even a week. Even when he bathed in it, he had no soap so couldn’t get TRULY clean. There was certainly a noticeable musk about him, and in this confined space the smell certainly overcame hers, but it didn’t bother him. If it bothered her, that’s too damn bad. He had been tempted to throw her out of the box when she ordered him to hurry up with closing the tail gate. How arrogant can a woman be?! How self-centered?! He just stared at the panel above him, the latches at either side with their yellowish-greenish glow-in-the-dark ends, listening to the footsteps, to the brushing of the bodies along the outside of the vehicle; sounded like one had just fallen over.
A sudden thought brought a chill of fear; if one of the dead out there had some sort of dormant memory, perhaps someone who regularly got loads of wood that he put in his truck every week or month or so, someone who regularly used the tail gate of a truck… what if such a zombie were outside now. Pull on the latch, and if they did it just right since it appeared to be rather rusty internally, then the gate would drop and it would be like they opened a bag of chips, or crisps for some people on other parts of the world. The man and the woman inside would be the snack for them to reach into and eat. Left hand felt his rifle, covered the trigger guard and bolt, feeling comfort in the familiar design. Thank God for Scotsman James Paris Lee.
Light from the carabiner watch was off, clipped back onto his belt; they were in darkness though it was in the afternoon, keeping silent now, and the pain in her stomach should be passing soon. Bloody deserved it as far as he was concerned; she was lucky to still be alive! He should have wounded her; left her crying in agony on the road, the walkers that SHE had attracted could feast on her while he would be left to continue the day’s travel. Instead, he was stuck in here with this ungrateful cow… lovely!
The sounds continued outside as they lay there, waiting, knowing that death was just beyond the confines of their little 6’x4’x2’ cell. Roughly 2m x 1.4m x 0.7m or so. “Stop touching me…” she whispered in annoyance and disgust.
“I’m not.” He replied flatly, keeping an equally quiet tone.
“Yes you are; STOP!”
Grasping at his waist line, he turned on the little light, illuminating the ‘room’ only slightly with the single LED but well enough to see that he wasn’t touching her. Her eyes went wide, looking down now, he peered at her leg, his eyes widened as well, shivering. On the thick stubble of her leg, having been unable to shave it as regularly as she used to, was a black spider crawling. Must have been as big as a quarter, at least, and that’s with the legs not stretched out completely. Mouth closed, she started making sounds of panic, body shaking, and it made him feel the first waves as well. Fuckin’ spiders… he HATES spiders! The man had arachnophobia as a child, and indeed had he been a child now would be screaming. As he grew older, killing the arachnids on sight whenever possible, the fear lowered, but it was still present. It was FAR too big for him to dare squish it with his hand.
The woman was on the verge of screeching and indeed he himself would likely have yelled out if he seen such a thing on his own bare flesh. She swung her purse at it, hitting her left leg. Pressed against the far wall from her to the north, he didn’t see where it went but knew she didn’t kill it from the lack of gore. Looking around spastically with the light, “Hoah, hoah, hoah…” he was muttering nervously like a nearly panicking Santa, trying to find where it had went. “Jaysus!” he whispered, seeing it crawling between them, towards him, now closer to him than it was to her.
The uneven ribbed floor of the box made things more difficult, however its stiff and thick legs continued to move and drag it towards the somewhat beer bellied man. Face contorted with intention and fear as though he were messing with a walker itself. Pulling his jacket up it revealed his holstered side arm, M1911A1 Mil spec with a stainless finish. Not the one he had wanted to
buy all those years ago, looking for a blued or Parkerized model, but this was all he could get. Now, safety still engaged, he pressed the side of the slide down on top of the spider, pulled the firearm up to see the result, light now in his left hand, and the critter seemed to have been between two ribs when the weapon came down. It hung onto the side arm with a line of web, legs flailing out, and a somewhat high-pitched sound of utter near-muted terror bumbled from between his lips the likes of which a walker had never managed to get from him. How he kept from yelling, he had NO idea…
The pistol was brought down onto her purse, hard. The purse itself cushioned the noise, but still made a clunk, and pulling the metal away exposed the remains of the large creature. Well, large by his standards anyways. One of the legs, straightened from the impact, must have been nearly an inch long; at least 2cm. It was fuzzy and she gave a gasp at how he had smeared the spider onto her bag, now wiping the rest of its remains onto it from his pistol. She gave a high pitched noise in complaint, almost a squeal; she clearly thought a lot of this purse thing and pulled it away from him, looking down forlornly at the hideous sight of the smooshed arachnid.
“Mmh… MMH!” he grunted at her almost like a caveman, pistol holstered again, now motioning his fingers for her to give the bag to him. Reaching into his right pocket, out came a pocket knife. She apprehensively listened to his request, sliding the soiled leather bag towards him, the logo on which he did not find familiar because he knew absolutely nothing about hand bags or purses or whatever in God’s name this thing was called. The remains were scraped off onto the smooth and wavy stainless steel blade to which she hissed in fear, afraid he would harm the leather, which he did a little bit by accident; causing scratches where the soft but rugged material had its finish nicked.
The remains, a leg or two still twitching disgustingly, was wiped off the blade into the niche between the base of the tail gate and the floor of the truck’s box. PLEASE let there be no more Goddamn spiders in here, and understandably, he was now FAR less comfortable than he were before. Wiping the relatively clean blade off on the denim of his right hip, the fellow folded the blade up one-handed and stuffed it into his right pocket where once was held his wallet. That was kept in the backpack which was sandwiched between himself and the passenger’s side wall of the box. A sigh, the ordeal being over, and before the light was allowed to go off he looked at her; she was clearly quite unsettled, likely wanted to get out, but now the fiends were bumping against the truck more than ever. A bump sounding from underneath as one of them was obviously crawling about beneath them, looking for the source of the noise that came from within.
A breathed sigh of frustration… what a waste of the day… and his stomach grumbled to remind him of his hunger. Damn… damn… damn. The presence of the red-dyed brunette next to him made him unwilling to open his backpack and divulge the modest amount of food he had within. The 1.5 Mason jars worth of moose meat, and three cans that he had since all this began; one beans, one corn, and one tuna, which he was doing everything he could to make last as long as possible in case he ever found himself in an emergency. The corn especially, figuring if ever he felt scurvy coming on, it would provide him with the Vitamin C he would so need to prevent that old pirate’s and Navy disease.
Her stomach grumbled next, and she groaned in complaint. “We have to keep quiet…” he whispered lowly and softly to her, to which she snapped back in a louder whisper, “Yes, I KNOW!”
“Shhh…” he shushed, willing her to remain silent. “If we want to get out of this today…” the man continued in his low, soft whisper, “… we need to be quiet so they’ll lose interest.”
“I want to get out of here NOW…” was the female’s reply, thankfully being as quiet as her present companion.
“I know, but out there is death.”
“Just shoot them!” Hah… made it sound so easy.
“I’m not going to waste my ammo when we can just wait this out.” He retorted impatiently that she’d even SUGGEST he use his rounds in this situation. It was very tempting to bring up the fact that she nearly used up a round on him if not for the fact that she forgot to rack the bolt after firing a shot on the road. This woman was unbearable; there was so damn much he wanted to yell at her, to understand WHY she tried to shoot him!
“Looks like you’ve got enough to take them out, what, are you a bad shot or somethi-?…” She cut herself off, the light came on, and he was looking at her with such ferocity in that mild red illumination that it reminded her that he was in NO mood to hear her bullshit, ESPECIALLY if that bullshit is going to question his capabilities with his own rifle. Hanging over his left shoulder, going down to his right hip, was a bandolier of green cloth which is what suggested to the woman that he had enough ammo. Well, it USUALLY hung on his shoulder, but now it was basically draped down from his hip to the floor due to having moved about while lying down; currently on his left side. The light went off without dignifying her insolence with a response.
It had 5 pockets, this bandolier, and on the back side of it against his chest were some 7-pointed stars, stars of Australia, and it was dated in the 1960s. The material was quite thin, definitely meant to be disposable, he figured, though since it likely hadn’t been produced in 50 years then it wasn’t as ‘disposable’ as it once was. The flaps that kept the pockets secure had small holes in them, and on the body of each pocket was a piece of bent metal meant to hook inside these small holes. It wasn’t exactly meant for swift reloads. One of these pockets was empty, three were full with 2 5-rnd clips a piece; the fourth had a clip and 2 loose cartridges. Counting the 10 rounds in his rifle, that gave him 47 simulated Mk.VII Ball .303 British. 174gr bullets that, through the 25” barrel, SHOULD be propelled at around 2440 ft/s at the muzzle. Essentially ballistically identical ammo to what the British, Australians, Indians, and Canadians used in WWI and WWII. Korea as well, for that matter.
This uppity cunt, he thought, was more likely to end up shot by his rifle than bit by those that still prodded about outside. His side arm, which was used recently to dispatch an unsightly arachnid, didn’t have quite as many rounds as his No.4 Lee Enfield but it had plenty to eat all the same compared to what MOST people had these days, which was little to nothing. In the tight pockets on the arse of his jeans were two magazines each, and the tightness kept them on top of one another with the bullets of the .45 ACP cartridges within them pointing downwards towards his legs. The two in his left pocket were fully loaded with 7 rounds each; the top magazine in his right pocket holding 7 as well, and the bottom one holding just 3. That’s 32 rounds of 230gr Ball FMJ .45 ACP including what was in his stainless steel side arm which held another 7+1.
It may have been mil spec, this pistol, but it was made commercially less than a decade ago. Most of the magazines however, those likely came from China he figured, along with some Norinco M1911 clones. Cheap, but from what he’d heard, not bad. Sure there were lemons, after all you were paying less than $400 for a design that generally cost something like $800 or more probably, but for something to plink with, you could do A LOT worse considering the price tag. This one however, though it would have been cheaper in the US, cost him a grand. It was a no-frills M1911A1 Mil Spec; the only noteworthy thing about it was how it was stainless steel, and though he had been disappointed that it’s all they had, he’d come to like it, even if he considered it a bit too flashy for his simple tastes.
The time went by slowly… he remained on his back for the most part, left hand on his rifle, right hand on his stomach, keenly aware of anything he felt or THOUGHT he felt, paranoia strong in him after the ordeal with his greatest phobia. If not for her, he’d be on the road traveling right now instead of being stuck in this box. He knew it. WHY did she end up swerving right, into the trees towards him? There’s no way she could have seen the traveler through all that shrubbery and what not, and in spite of trying to avoid her she ended up within, what was it, 10m away perhaps? Less than 20m at any rate, and instead of going
into the woods to try and lose them, she had attempted to shoot the man and then followed him expecting the fellow to take care of her!
Her stomach rumbled; his replied in turn, and he knew she was going to ask him for some food eventually. His backpack was quite clearly full and had there been light, figured she’d have been looking at it hungrily where it sat next to him to his right against the passenger side wall of the box. She wasn’t going to get a damn thing after what she pulled; which specifically was the trigger of the rifle she had before abandoning it. The tension in this confined space was palpable. The hours were ticking by PAINFULLY slow, and there was obviously much that they wanted to say to one another, or at least much that he wanted to say to HER. Then in that pitch black darkness, his prominent dark brown eyebrows ruffled; could she have been in that town and seen him when he was passing by the park? She had a scope on that rifle; could have seen him quite clearly from a distance he imagined. It would explain why she turned southwards into the trees where he was trying to get to the road, and there didn’t seem to be any surprise on her face when she spotted him…
This bitch, he thought… this Goddamn bitch, she might not have INTENDED to lead all those undead towards him, but she came after him! That shot she gave out in panic on the road, it might very well have been meant for HIM! It made him want to turn, bring his right boot back, and kick her as hard as he possible could, no matter where it landed, then just keep kicking until the screams, cries, and pleads of mercy died out. He didn’t have proof, but it was a DEFINITE possibility.