Living amongst the Dead

by J. Morgan

  It slipped, went down, and there was blood. Along the base of her left thumb, along the meat of it, it sliced down. Anger disappeared from her; her dark and angled eyebrows reflecting her hatred and frustration turned to surprise and fear. Her body shuddered, blade tumbling to the floor, shock setting in instantly while she grasped her left hand with her right, tightly. She was shaking, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, pain, there was a sharp, yet somehow dull pain. Adrenaline kicked in, the shock itself had dulled it, she stepped back from the counter in silence. When her right hand came away there was a line of blood on her right palm from where she grasped the bottom right side of her left hand.

  There was an opening, a clear slice, and blood was seeping out of it quickly. It had cut to the bone. Paper towel, regular towel, SOMETHING, she needed to stop it, it was warm as it ran down, dripping on the floor, she was turning pale quickly. Tried to make another step backwards, tripped, fell, and lay still, passed out, the bleeding kept going, and something moaned not far in the distance.

  “Augh… huh… hoo… shit…” He was getting winded, no, he WAS winded. Sweat dripping down, breathing heavily; his hand kept firm on the stiff, furry, boney ankle that he held onto. At least the wet grass, he reasoned, perhaps made it a bit easier to drag, and so he kept on the side of the road, pushing himself further. The house was just coming into sight and he gave a brief grin, ignoring the salty taste as a bead of sweat dripped down onto his lower lip, then back, onto his bottom teeth and thus against his tongue.

  He wasn’t about to butcher this bugger with his pocket knife, nuh uh, he needed some proper tools for this. In the past when good items weren’t available, and they often weren’t, it was a laborious process to expose the joints of its legs, and then with successive bashes with the brass butt of his rifle, break them free. With a nice, big, sharp knife however, it should be made into a considerably easier going task. There was even a hatchet in the storage room he recalled, likely just used for making splits out of junks of wood when whoever delivered it brought it to them. Probably one of their grown up kids making regular trips to their elderly parent’s home, bringing them their necessities since they didn’t drive anymore, however also didn’t want to leave this old house.

  The front door was unlocked, fair enough, he thought nothing of it. Thin curtains were draped over the door’s window, thin enough to easily look through, but he could see no reason to look through it so passed it by. Heading around the back, leaving the carcass on the grass just beyond the porch not far from where Charlie had what they assumed was a heart attack, the back door was found slightly ajar. Well that’s not good, he thought, standing there at the foot of said Military Veteran’s grave. What his rank was was worth wondering about, but it did not enter his mind at this present moment.

  Side arm was unholstered, wanting a compact firearm in the confined space of this modest home, but after charging through the door he didn’t have to go very far. “TIFFANY! Jesus Christ, TIFF! TIFF! WAKE UP! Oh Jesus…” her right hand was quite coated in blood, a small puddle forming around it as she lay on her right side, facing away from the back door. “What happened, for God’s sake, what happened?! Uh… fuck!...” he was looking around for something to use to bind her hand in, but shouldn’t it be disinfected first? Disinfected… you bitch, you’re gonna cost him some of the rum he’s been saving aren’t you?! God damn it… with the shotgun left outside on the ground by the grave, he unslung the rifle and lay it on the kitchen floor just to get it off him and out of the way. Backpack slid down from his broad left shoulder and came down onto the floor with less grace than he usually took with the precious contents within.

  Sweater pushed out of the way from where it was tied to said pack, zipper zipped open, half a plastic 750ml (26oz) bottle of dark rum was pulled out, twisted open, and a bit was poured on her hand. It cleaned away some of the blood, exposed the deep cut on her flesh, and she screamed, grasping the wound, looking up at him with fear. He yelled as well, though admittedly in fright at her sudden reaction.

  “JESUS CHRIST! WHAT HAPPENED?!” The man asked demandingly once their brief panic subsided, though not in anger but in worry. There was a fair bit of blood…

  “Richard? Richard… you came back… mmm…” an almost seductive moan as she looked up to him, he had begun cradling her head. She lifted her hand up to meet his face, it was her left hand, and she seen the cut and the blood. “Ohhhh…” Air escaped her lungs as she went limp again, passed out, though at least her flesh had coloured more after her fright. It was a good bit of blood but not a LETHAL amount he figured. Considering the butchered can on the counter, he hoped this was an accident, and not… he’d rather not think of what this sort of looked like. His stomach gave a rumble, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning and it was probably into evening by now, but that would have to wait. With boots still on, sorry Charlie and Denise, he ran upstairs, got a towel from the washroom, and plodded quickly back downstairs. The booze, the bottle open and not far from her head, should have disinfected it… hopefully.

  It would have been better to cut the towel into strips, but he wasn’t going to lie, in spite of all the blood and decay and horror he had seen over the months, it still made him queasy to see such an amount of blood coming from a knife wound. A minor state of shock, adrenaline pulsing into his blood stream from his kidneys, he wasn’t thinking as straight as normal, so just started wrapping her whole left hand up. There was some clear Scotch tape on top of the fridge which he grabbed, and used that to keep the towel securely to the hand. Stopper was put back on the rum, it was set aside as was the Lee Enfield, and he began dragging her away from the blood she had left on the tiled floor.

  It was rather chilly in here, he suspected she hadn’t put any wood in the fireplace today, so it hadn’t been fed since he left, but he’ll have to deal with that later. It would seem that, though the ends of her sleeves were bloody, along with the right sleeve up to its shoulder, her clothes were otherwise just fine. At least she won’t stain the carpet, he thought oddly, and went upstairs to get another towel, laying it on the couch, and so dragged her over by her upper torso to said couch. It was entirely accidental, but in the process of dragging her, his right hand got a handful of left breast, but no enjoyment was had from it for he knew he had much to do. Accidents happen.

  Stitches, she will probably need stitches at some point… but wouldn’t using normal thread be bad for her? What about fishing line, he had plenty of that on a spool… dip some in rum to sterilize it, sew the wound shut, and then… what about when it heals? Cut the line then pull each individual bit out one at a time? Wouldn’t it hurt? Would it just open the wound? Would it cause pain or discomfort in her hand if it was simply left in, and even if it didn’t, would the foreign material cause an infection? He didn’t KNOW! Deal with it later, for now just hoped that the cut will seal itself up… he remembered a time when he accidentally stabbed himself with the very knife he used to gut that deer. It didn’t go in THAT far, perhaps a centimeter or two, but left a good 1.5cm or so slice on the surface of the flesh. Left thumb was out of service for a good couple weeks, but he did make a full recover he figured, even though he didn’t go to a hospital or clinic.

  Looking down at where she lay so peacefully, his mind was racing, but in the end could not thing of anything more than he had already done. It was disinfected, it was bandaged… the loose little stands that covered the towel might stick to the wound though, making peeling it off potentially painful. Upstairs, toilet paper, he grabbed about half a dozen squares worth then once back down where he grabbed the roll of tape. That which was on the bandages of her hand was ripped off, and then off came the towel; it was still bleeding rather badly. The toilet paper was folded so that all the squares were on top of one another, then it was bent in half to make a thick rectangular… ‘poor man’s gauze’ he figured it could be called. This was taped to the wound but of course without the tape coming into contact with flesh TOO close to said wound. T
he tape was wrapped around the hand a couple times to be sure it was kept in place, and then… that seemed to be ok for now.

  Putting the tape on the coffee table, along with getting a full roll of TP from upstairs in case he had to redress the wound a few times, the next thing he did was tend to his things quickly. Rifle upstairs, double-checking that the casing of the round he used on the deer wasn’t still in the rifle. No, it had a life round in it; good. The casing was found in his pocket and tossed in the backpack. Rifle, his new shotgun, the backpack, bandolier, and two loaded 7-rnd mags were left in the room which he locked. Back downstairs… the deer… what the HELL should he do with the deer, and that puddle of blood? Ugh… what a day.

  The towel he used as his panicked ‘bandage’ was put to a better use, laid down on the blood puddle to soak it up. It was getting dark. The deer would have to wait until tomorrow. Towels, four of them were taken from the washroom, leaving just two to remain in the cabinet while two others were dirty in the corner that they had used, though he planned to use his again. Towels were good for use at least twice, he figured. The four towels were spread out on the floor, not far from the front door, but not so close that the animal that was to be laid down there would get in the way of access.

  Grunting, groaning, it was dragged up the steps, across the porch, over the threshold, and then into the neatly laid out towels which were already spread about. Green stains from chlorophyll in all the grass it had skidded along as well as red stains from… kool aid; what do you THINK the red is from?... were left on the floor as the carcass was brought in. The towels were laid out around the animal so that if it bled in the night, at least it would contain the mess, hopefully. Forearms washed in the stream not far from the house, getting the remnants of the deer’s blood off, as well as possibly some of Tiffany’s. God damn it Tiff, what happened?

  The can she was butchering was opened first; it was difficult due to how much she had already damaged it. The other, since he had no energy to fish or to cook some of the meat off this deer, was opened next in practiced hands, safely and sensibly. He ate from the butchered one, finding that it had a somewhat metallic taste from all the metal-on-metal scraping. Really, he should have left THIS one to the crazy woman on the couch, but damn his bleeding heart… ugh… best not talk about bleeding for a while, eh?

  The can he opened was brought to the coffee table, expecting to have to feed it to her once she awakens from her nap, which was fine. As for the bottle of rum, after the crazy past few days, he expected he deserved a night of relaxation. A little less than half the bottle remained… not much, at least not by his standards. He’ll probably have to down it relatively quickly to get drunk. So it began, getting a glass, he propped Tiff’s feet up on his lap so he could sit on the couch as well, then began pouring himself large shots. It wasn’t long until he was feeling the buzz, and loving it. Worries of life, of this apocalypse, of the undead, of just about everything was leaving him.

  A smile was on his face, earnest and dumb, breath strong from strong drink, and in spite of the burn of straight liquor he was in fact used to it, enjoyed it even, and wouldn’t mix it with water even though he had plenty of it, rarely even using water for chase since this stuff was only 40%. He’d had stronger, remembering London Dock which was about 57.1%, Sailor Jerry’s which was, what, 46%? Then there’s Bacardi 151 which was 75.5%, Green Tree absinthe from the Czech Republic that was 70% if memory serves, which it typically did, even when drunk. What was Absinte Absinthe? That French stuff? GOD that was good! Well, he wasn’t exactly widely experienced with absinthe, there was probably better stuff, but it’s the best HE ever had. 55%? Something like that…

  He checked Tiff’s hand, “Oh! Well… dat won’ do, nahw, willit?” His accent was coming on strong at his point, mumbling to the unconscious woman next to him. Her ‘poor man’s gauze’ was rather soaked with blood, so preparing the next one ahead of time, he then took the other off, quickly put on the new one, and taped THAT on. Feeling the soft skin of her hand was nice, feeling the warmth, then putting the hand down found himself with his own left hand rubbing her right lap. Well, more like her thigh. “Mmm… bloody noice…” the hand went up her thigh until the side of his pinky finger tapped against where the thighs turned to crotch. Such warmth there, and then the hand came back down, stroking above her right knee, and the hand went round to the outside of her right lap, near her hip, and his hand coasted on that.

  Thirst brought his wandering hand away, another drink poured, and then drank. Getting dark, how was he to inspect her wound if this keeps up? Getting up slowly, carefully putting her feet and calves back down on the couch, he stumbled a little before going to the kitchen. Where had he seen them?... no wait, they weren’t HERE, were they?... the fireplace was crackling away, keeping the house warm in the night, and he went upstairs, needing to use the carabiner light to guide him safely. Storage room, up on a shelf, towards the end of this windowless room in a shadow, a row of cheap red candles. “Ah-HA! Bloody hoidin’ from meh, is ye?” He reproved them, grabbing four of them in a hand and heading down.

  Tiffany was awake, listened as he went to the kitchen, kept her eyes closed as he stumbled upstairs, and then opened her eyes. “Tsss… ah…” the cut hurt, and it was hard to keep a straight face as he dressed it earlier, hiding the pain. His voice was heard muttering to something upstairs, loud footsteps going along the hallway towards the stairs, and she feigned sleep once more, not knowing what to think… his hand going so high on her thigh just now. Had it even pressed against her womanhood? It was hard to tell, but it stirred her up inside at being touched while he thought she was asleep. Had he done it three nights ago when they slept for the first time in this house? The thought aroused her more than it should have… she couldn’t hide the feeling in herself; she was ecstatic that he was back, but what would she tell him? She cut herself while trying to murder a can of beans? Pfuh, unlikely…

  A couple thin bodied but thick-glassed mugs later and he had what will serve as candle-holders. Two in each? Yeah, sure, more flame then, more light… but… then he’ll burn through the candles twice as quickly. Not all THAT important to have the place well illuminated anyways… then the thought of using flame to burn her cut shut, but that’d likely have her wake up screaming, and he didn’t want to bother with that. Two mugs, a candle in each, a spare by each mug, were brought to the coffee table. Her feet were lifted, put down on his lap, and another drink poured. Still a good four ounces or so left, he figured. Over 100ml at any rate. He’ll be drunk tonight, though not tanked which he typically enjoyed being.

  Now he tended to her feet, the small shoes of which he had taken off already before getting comfortable. They had ankle socks on them, and he rubbed them, one at a time, just for something to keep his hands busy. “What’m oi gonna do witchoo, Tiffy… bloody hoi maint-nints, you is…” Though she could roughly understand what he was saying, and knew he was calling her a high maintenance woman, she struggled to keep her smile off her face, but luckily was so far succeeding. His accent, thick from drink, she found rather cute and endearing. He was back! She won’t have to face possible starvation! Well, it was still possible, but not immediately so, and to think she still didn’t know about his deer.

  She could feel a soft lump beneath her right ankle, and guestimating the position her feet were on his lap, figured it must have been his flaccid package. The left foot felt fantastic, being rubbed by him. She wanted to reciprocate, but how? How to do it without informing him that she was in fact awake? “Mmm…” A weak moan, his rubbing stopped, he watched her, she shifted, and right ankle made a point to rotate where it lay on his lap, rubbing against his manhood. Before she was more or less facing upwards, but now off to the left, her right hand coming onto her stomach, left arm hanging down over the edge of the couch, breathing stayed steady, she appeared to still be asleep. Had her left foot not been in his hand, she’d have moved it so that it fell down to hang from the couch as well, leaving her legs open.<
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  “Oh? Tiff…” He whispered, but she did not stir again after having settled herself. The rubbing of her foot continued, though soon those large, strong, calloused hands transitioned to her right foot. That little subconscious movement in her sleep had felt kinda good. Not extraordinary, but nice, and now as he rubbed the right foot, he made it move around a bit; she could feel the soft lump below her ankle being rubbed by said ankle, though it was not her doing, it was his. Was he rubbing his package with her foot? A half smile came to her face, the left half, the half he couldn’t see.

  Movement began to be felt beneath the foot, and knowing what he was doing, he wanted to continue, but couldn’t. He should try to keep from having an erection, he should be watching out for her, not being a pervert. Giving an audible sigh, he pushed the feet a little so they were farther down his lap, away from his crotch which was becoming excited, and her hidden smile disappeared. Where’s the fun in that? He poured himself another drink, leaning forward, and she took the opportunity, letting her left foot fall to the floor with a thunk.

  “Bloody Hell… Jaysis,” he exclaimed in a whispered voice, looking to Tiff who still didn’t rouse. She isn’t… dead… right? Won’t awaken and try to bite him?... No, the wound isn’t lethal, no way. He was no doctor, but knew that much. The sight of those opened legs though… so damn inviting, and the rising and lowering chest. He licked his lips, found himself feeling thirsty, though not for booze right now, and so chugged down a few glugs of water. “Ahhh, fuck… mmm-mmm, woman. You knows how to tease a man…” The hidden smirk returned; a bit too quickly, and hoped it didn’t affect the right side of her mouth. ‘Touch me…’, she thought. ‘Go ahead… do it… I want to feel it…’