by J. Morgan
“Hello!” Richard called, holding his right hand up in greeting, leaving his rifle slung as a show of good faith that he meant no harm but keeping keenly aware that his side arm was at his hip should he need a firearm quickly. Tiffany didn’t say anything, too hungry for pleasantries, but not hungry enough to be rude and just ask a perfect stranger for their valuable supplies.
“Hello.” An old, weak voice greeted them. A faint smile and a nod, it appeared as though the fellow was barely managing to stand. If he wasn’t 80 yet, Rich would be surprised.
“You’re not looking the best, buddy. You alright?...” The brief smile that the white-haired man had went as soon as it came, before the statement and question were even entirely posed. Face was peppered with stubbly white hairs, while that which was on his head was still relatively full, though cut short. Not much of any balding on this one. With the signs of a receding hairline already being evident on the mid-20s man, he didn’t have high hopes for having as much hair as him if he were to live another 50 years or so.
“I… CAH… Deni… Denise… I…” A more feeble voice, the young man’s ears had never known. Giving a ragged cough, he gave little more than a name, eyes welling up.
“Here, come on, man.” Speaking softly, he stepped forward onto the porch; his right arm went around the fellow’s upper back, left hand encouraging his left arm to hold onto the much taller man’s shoulders for support. This new survivor must have been about 5’7 perhaps, only a bit taller than his female ‘companion’. Richard looked to Tiff and then nodded towards the door. Why hadn’t he gone in?
“N… no… don’t…” She stopped at his command, and suddenly aware at who, or at least WHERE, this ‘Denise’ might be.
“Sir, is she… in there?” A weak nod from the frail, stiff, shivering geriatric.
“She’s not… well… is she…” The head shook, and he frailly muttered the name again, voice thick with grief and despair. This must have been his home, and when his wife had died somehow, changed, without the guts and/or the physical ability to deal with her, he elected to leave the house. With nowhere to go however, and no vehicle in sight, he must have just… stayed here. It’s a miracle he didn’t die in the cold overnight. Must have lost someone he, by the look of the ring on the left hand that was on his left shoulder, loved for many, many decades. He was a strong old timer, to be sure.
Tiff moved away from the door as she looked through the curtained window that was in it, and inside the small house, a plump old woman in a white night gown was swaying where she stood. No signs of blood; it must have been a death by natural causes, or otherwise a death caused by non-external complications.
“If you want to go inside, then I’ll need to take care of her, sir…”
The man shuddered. Before the power went, the retired husband and wife watched the News, seeing what was unfolding, learning that people who died were coming back. While the two sat on the couch in the living room; a couch they had since the 80s or so, he joked that it must have been some April Fool’s prank, even though it wasn’t April. The kind natured and jolly great grandmother gave a chuckle, which died away quickly as horrific scenes were shown after a brief warning that the following would be quite graphic.
Seeing on the News all these terrible things, obviously no joke or prank, the two looked at each other once more in worry before looking back at the screen. That was months ago, however. The man, now haggard, hungry, and terribly thirsty, feared what had to come if he wanted to be back in his home again. Still, his head shook, not wanting anything to befall his wife. The look in his eyes, however, showed he didn’t truly know WHAT he wanted… he wanted his wife back… he needed his wife back… and the two younger survivors watched a grown man cry.
“Come on, buddy. Here, down here… what do I call you, old timer? The name’s Richard.” Very soft and gentle his voice was now, calling him ‘old timer’ merely said in jest. Trying to keep up a cheerful, or at least a friendly and warm tone, he gave his name and hoped to get one in turn.
“I’m Tiffany.” The woman gave in an equally soft tone as well, not really knowing what to say, and suddenly forgetting her gnawing hunger at the sight of this recent widower.
“Char… Charlie…” Having been sat down, the young man before him took off his backpack, brought it before him, unzipped it, and pulled out his bottle of water. Unscrewing it, he took a good swig of it himself, and then handed it to the cold retiree.
“Here Charles, have some o-…” He cut himself off, a fresh bout of tears, the bottle was dropped, some of its clean contents falling down to the dirt. Damn, the rifleman reasoned that that must have been what Denise called Charlie. “I’m sorry… I…” Words failed him. Propping the bottle up next to the sitting fellow, Richard stood up straight, scratching the back of his head; backpack left on the ground still open. For comfort, his rifle was unslung, brass buttplate reaching the gravel that made a path from the porch to a spot where he can only assume a vehicle was once parked, or at least where vehicles would park when they got visitors.
Bayonet scraped from its scabbard, and it clicked about hollowly as the socket was affixed to the end of the free-floating barrel which protruded only an inch or two from within the stock. A thin, weak hand came out and grasped a strong left wrist, and so the manipulation of the firearm stopped; the old man’s tough and wrinkly flesh felt decidedly chilly.
“Nooo… no.” That weak voice came. “Not the… pig sticker…” Eyebrows rose at the nickname; he had heard that such a thing was what this very bayonet was called back in the day, could this fellow be Ex-Military? Trained on the Lee Enfield decades and decades ago when he was a young man?
“D-…” He was about to ask and specify if he wanted her shot instead, just to audibly get permission to do what had to be done to his wife, but quickly decided against it. With his left hand holding the rifle by the place where the bayonet was fixed to the barrel, his right hand came to rest on the wrinkly one on that wrist. A nod was given, and then Charlie’s head lowered, not wishing to say or do anything further. The hand came out from under that of the man with the long-arm, and came down to rest weakly ofn the overall-clad lap.
With a brief glance to the fake redhead, a gesture of his head was given towards the widower who was busy looking down at the gravel, seemingly lost in less-than-happy thoughts, and she nodded in understanding. Going down to the step, her undersized light blue jacket now in hand, she sat next to him; an arm was draped over his back after the warm piece of clothing was, with her left hand coming up to rest on his far shoulder. Richard, not heading for the front door, was going around to the back with rifle in hand, keeping the bayonet on since it was already attached. Good, a back door was found, and anticipating that these kind folks lived in such seclusion and safety out here that they didn’t bother locking their doors, he gave the back entrance a try. Richie was correct.
There was no smell to assault him; she must have died very recently, and indeed save for the deathly white paleness of her face, arms, and legs, she looked very normal. Very sweet… she reminded him of one of his grandmothers, and it pained him that it was so. The nearby sound and movement alerted her; discrete hearing aids just barely visible that normally helped the poor woman in conversation, however they were turned off not long before her end came so almost served more as ear plugs. She turned to him, and began walking forward. Faintly in the silence from the other side of the front door, he could hear Tiff’s soft womanly tone muttering in quiet conversation with the man next to her. Pulling a tab at the base of the screen door where that auto-closing device was attached, he kept it locked open, backing up, intent on taking this woman outside.
She stumbled and fell, right ankle twisting harshly and giving a wet CRACK on the wooden step before the doorway, crashing to the ground, another crack sounding from somewhere in her frail body. It did not complain, but instead looked up at the fellow, reaching out, two of its fingers now bent unnaturally from being broken on impact with the grassy
surface of the backyard. In his left jacket pocket, trying to act fast for the sound of the fall caused another audible bout of weeping from the man on the other side of the house, a small plastic sachet was pulled out. Earplugs coloured fluorescent yellow and purple were pinched between fingers, rolled to further thin them out, and stuffed in his ears. Should have done this beforehand…
Once they were in, the rifle’s safety was switched off, firearm shouldered, front post between its vertical protective ears centered within the rear aperture sight which was simply a circle. The post was steadied over the forehead of the old woman with the soft looking silvery hair. Trigger was pulled; sear dropped from in front of the base of the cocking piece, cocking piece with attached firing pin inside the bolt launched forward, primer was struck, it sent sparks and/or flame onto the powder within the brass, recoil forced the brass buttplate into his shoulder, and the .312 cal 174gr (roughly 11.5g heavy) bullet had screamed out of its casing.
Ridges cut into the bullet by the rifling caused small trenches in the full metal jacket that, if the width of the bullet was measure from between these tiny trenches, would come out to be roughly .303 calibre even though the protruding ridges on either side of the trenches were wider. The bullet crashed through flesh, bone, brain matter, more bone out the base of the skull, into her lower back, and likely continued on and imbedded itself in the dirt beneath her. A loud cry came from Charlie out front, it was utter heartbreak, and then Tiffany screamed as well.
“R-Richard! RICHARD!” Ear plugs still in, he had heard, albeit a bit dully, the sound of the widower’s pain, but the sound of the woman’s panic got through the soft material in his ears more easily. Instead of carefully pulling the spent casing out to pocket it, he started jogging back around the way he came along the west side of the house, working the bolt as he went, letting the hot casing fall to the grass and leaving the woman at peace behind him.
He arrived to see the old man writhing on the ground while grasping his chest, having difficulty breathing. “Shit shit shit…” The feeling of regret from having cursed in front of an elder, whom he must show respect to, was not felt. More pressing issues were at hand, and not knowing what else to do, pulled the frail fellow onto his back. He had to have weighed less than 140lb; probably less than 120! Push on his chest? What did that First Aid course he had all those years ago tell him to do in this situation?! No, maybe he had to… maybe he had to lie him back down on his side? Now he regretted having put him on his back to begin with, WHAT SHOULD HE DO?! Tiffany was fairing no better, eyes darting from the man to Richard, wondering why he’d been brought the pained great grandfather onto his back. Wasn’t it better to keep him on his side?!
“DO SOMETHING!” she finally screeched!
“Do WHAT?! I don’t… it’s gonna be alright Charlie, come on, you’re gonna be ok!” Kneeling down, he tried to lift the man’s shoulders, to try and lean him up a bit against the younger fellow’s body, but the head hung limply as he was lifted, eyes dull, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish out of water. The young man put him back down, head rolling weakly to look over to his left towards the main road, down the valley, however the eyes did not see. He was gone…
Falling back from where he knelt, next to where the rifle was laid down, a denim-clad ass met the cold Earth. His breathing had become heavier from all that was going on, Tiff’s was as well; both their pairs of eyes were wide, looking down at the man who had died before them, practically in his hands.
“He’s gone…” It was said incredulously. For people who had been around the dead quite a lot, it was something else to just watch someone… die. Not from infection, or from being shot, or from bleeding out or anything like that, but to just… give out. On her knees, she nodded, not knowing what to say in response. After a moment’s silence, Richard shuffled, getting to his feet, causing green eyes to snap to him; watching him rise. The rifle was brought to hand, aimed down.
“WAIT! What?... What are you doing?!” Her left hand was held out to him, right hand on the gravel in front of the steps, shaking her head from where she knelt.
“He’ll come back unless his brain is destroyed… and since he wished for his wife to be laid to rest in this manner, I figure he would want the same…” Finger had come off the trigger, resting on the wooden stock, pointing where the barrel as well pointed; at the old man’s head. The feminist shook her head, though not in disbelief, but as though she was struggling with something, and so stood up, walking away, hands on her ears.
Another gunshot later, this time the bullet going through a temple, through the left side of the back of his skull, and down into the ground, it was known that he will not rise now. Ear plugs were removed, put back into the little plastic bag that was maybe big enough to hold an ounce or two worth of water, not that it COULD hold water. Back into the left pocket of his jacket they went, ears saved from any harsh ringing from having shot his rifle. Still facing away from him, she did not watch as ankles were grabbed, the body dragged away in its overalls and red plaid button-up shirt. A trail of blood and flattened grass followed them.
Still holding the ankles, stepping over the great grandmother, this great grandfather was laid down next to his wife who was turned around to her back, ankle still at an awkward and unnatural angle but not having the guts to straighten it; they lay side by side… and he wondered if there was a shovel. For now, he had to rest. Unslinging the rifle, the bolt was carefully worked, spent casing coming into his hand warmly, slipped into his left pocket, next round chambered leaving 7+1 in the firearm, safety engaged, and it was slung once more. The other casing outside near the bodies can be grabbed sometime later.
No smell was in the kitchen as it was walked through, screen door and back door closed on the deceased, and walking through the front door, found her still standing there, hands on her ears, eyes clamped shut. It would have been a comical sight if not for what had just happened… “Tiffany…” No answer. “TIFFANY!” Her eyes came open, looking side-long to him, evidently scared to turn around or turn her head. A brief moment later the hands came from her ears. “He’s in the back… with his wife… you can turn around now. Come inside…”
She stared at the splatter of blood and grey matter for a short moment, and gagged. Had her belly not been utterly empty, he knew she would have vomited, and he didn’t blame her. She came inside, closing the door behind her. It was chilly but next to the back door was a fire stove, some wood packed up behind it, and he recalled the nicely packed junks of wood outside on the west side of the house which he’d passed thrice. People must have come here regularly to give these folks what they needed, including the wood. No vents or external heaters could be seen, not down here at least on the ground floor. Perhaps upstairs there will be some, but this seemed like a very old house, one that had been warmed by solely wood for an awful long time, possibly even now.
He gestured through a wide doorless doorway, to the east at the southern side of the house where the stove and back door was, towards the living room. “Go sit down… I’ll get a fire going… warm this place up.” She didn’t say anything or nod, but just looked blankly at him, emotionless, before walking to where the man had gestured. Sitting on the couch, she faced the TV that will likely never play anything ever again. It was an old box-shaped TV, probably purchased in the mid-late 90s at the most recent; a relic of the 20th century in the world of 21st century flat-screens. She sat there hollowly; eyes open but not really looking at anything.
It didn’t take long with some paper in a nearby ripped up out-of-date phone book, along with some thinly cut ‘splits’ of wood as he called them to get a small fire started, on which a few larger cuts of wood were placed. Soon, he knew, the home will be filled with welcoming, comforting heat; much more comfortable coming from a fire rather than from electricity. Richard knew this from experience, sure he was born in the early 90s, but grew up poor, and his childhood home was heated by burning wood, not by electric power. Closing the small door to the woods
tove, he stood next to it, trying to figure out the things he had to do… he already knew they couldn’t stay here, or at least shouldn’t. It had nothing to do with the bodies outside; rather, he wanted to get more traveling done. It probably wasn’t even noon yet.
Rifle was unslung, bayonet removed; wiped on his pants. Gunpowder residue left some subtle black streaks, and then it scraped back into his scabbard. He doubted anyone lived here with Charlie and Denise; if there was another threat in here he thought, or at least hoped, he would have been warned of it. Some sounds of movement or moans riled up by the gunshots. He realized the backpack and bottle were left outside; they were seized, a swig taken from the bottle, though it was not sealed with his stopper as he walked back inside. Closing the door behind him, locking it as well, he went to the living room where she sat like a zombie herself. She gently took the offered bottle of water; not looking at him, nodding, or saying anything. He left it with her. The fire was heard crackling nearby in the wood stove between the back door and the access between kitchen and living room.
Various pictures showing many different decades were passed as he went to the north side of the living room where stairs headed steeply up to the second floor. Backpack was on his left shoulder as usual; not trusting to leave it alone around the woman. A small hallway dimly lit by the lacking amount of sunlight reaching through the windows at either end; one at the top of the stairs, another opposing it. Four doors; first on the right was a washroom, but with no running water and no electricity it served very little purpose. Still, perhaps there was some medication in there that could come in handy, some aspirin to take for later if one of them should find themselves in pain.