Living Amongst The Dead (Book 2): Dark Days

by J. N. Morgan

  Living amongst the Dead:

  Dark Days

  J. N. Morgan

  Copyright © 2017 J N Morgan

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 154496188X

  ISBN-13: 978-1544961880

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks, Jim Dakin. This book had been collecting virtual dust for about five and a half months; you inspired me to break it out and finally start working on this sequel again. I hope you enjoy this one as much as you did the last!

  You can check out his survivalism and firearm-focused blog at bisonprepper.blogspot.ca. I occasionally write guest articles for him there and I can be spotted in the comment section from time to time.

  CHAPTER 1

  She couldn’t quite stomach the process of him skinning the gutted deer, but was more than favourable of the outcome. For days they gorged themselves on it, eating to the point of being full, and like that old commercial used to falsely claim at the time, it was something noteworthy to be full. The fur, not knowing how to prepare it, even though he was alright at sewing and would love some kickass fur clothing for when Autumn really starts to shit on them with the cold, had to be gotten rid of. In short, he dragged it a long ways to the south and left it there on the grass. On the way back to the house he thought on perhaps leaving it near the woods to the west across the stream; maybe it’d attract a bear which he could then shoot and they’d be able to feast on it for even longer, but he heard bears don’t go down as easily as deer. Probably best not to muck with them when he only had non-expanding FMJ.

  “Ahh… yup… that’s the ticket…” they sat back on the couch in the living room, a greasy plate in front of the two, and Richard pulled Tiffany over with his left arm into a hug. Her hand came down to his lap, a show of affection for all he’s been giving her. The left hand on her own lap had several squares of folded up toilet paper taped to the meat of her thumb where she’d injured herself a few days ago. She’s been getting more active, though. The first few days this brunette, who’s red dyed hair had long since been exposing her natural colour at the roots, had done very little to help out. The 6’, broad shouldered, barrel chested, beer bellied, ex-construction worker bear of a man had handled the majority of the work. Buried the previous occupants who had died very recently in the backyard; a lovely elderly couple, Charlie and Denise Winters, Charlie being an old veteran of, he assumed, the Canadian Armed Forces. On top of that had been doing the fishing, cooking, fighting of any threats though so far it had been surprisingly peaceful, keeping the wood stove burning for warmth, preparing the tub with water from the river for when they bathe, and so on.

  Now though, she’s been regularly doing the laundry, having found it impossible to get the blood stains out of the towels. Those which have been used to wash blood from the floor, both the deer’s and her’s. She’s also been dressing her own wound lately, though the sight of the open flesh showing muscle sickened her. Her man had proven himself quite capable in his ability to open cans with his pocket knife, and in a fit of depression and rage when she thought he had abandoned her she tried to, essentially, stab her way into a can of beans that she had gotten from upstairs. Ultimately the blade slipped, and slid deeply through the meat of her thumb which she hasn’t been able to use for the past 3 days. The meat’s smell was beginning to become a little worrisome what with the lack of refrigeration of any kind. Not really knowing how to make it keep in such conditions, the man basically lathered it in iodized salt, which is table salt.

  Already his empty Mason jar, previously containing moose, has been cleaned then filled with cubes of deer meat; a teaspoon of salt, given purified water until it was nearly to the top of the bottle, the lid was put on loosely, and so it sat in a pot of water. The water was set to boil, he left it there in the boiling water for quite some time until the meat seemed to be all cooked inside, the pot was taken off the stove, the hot bottle carefully taken out of the hot water, the lid screwed shut, and so it was left to cool. Sometime later the lid popped and thus sealed the cooked, preserved meat. Kept out of the Sun, it’ll last for 2-3 years he figured.

  It was evening, they had gone about their little chores of the day, him keeping the fireplace stocked, making sure they had some water from the nearby river purified via boiling, however since they had just bathed yesterday he decided to wait until tomorrow to set the bath. After being filled so far up with cold water, he then boiled a huge pot of water on the stove which took quite a long time. It was something that he figured was typically used for boiling lobsters or deep frying turkeys whole. Once the water was sufficiently hot, he’d carry it upstairs by the handles while using rags to shield himself from the heat, and then carefully dump the scalding hot water into the tub. Cold mixed with hot, and the end result was a tub of nicely warm water. A luxury that most people these days rarely if ever got, but for now since he’d had a bath yesterday, he left it alone. Tiffany, adamant about bathing every day when conditions allowed for it, even if the water is cold and murky, still used it and was happy to be able to shave herself as often as she used to even if every other wash was in cool water.

  36 years old, yet she had not lost her virginity until recently, with the man she now survived with whom she considered her man. With the world having ended, and seemingly no people left alive in their town besides herself and Veronica, serious consideration went to starting a relationship together. This ex-feminist would have preferred a man but beggars can’t be choosers, and so they very nearly had sex, but it never came to be. Instead, having managed to get away from the horde with her new Newfie companion, they hid in the box of a Chevy Avalanche truck which had panels sealing the top of said box. In there, it could be argued that he had forced himself on her. Considering she had tried to murder him; pulling the trigger while pointing her rifle at him, he had taken his vengeance by pleasing himself with her body while she had her wrists tied behind her back and her ankles tied.

  It had been difficult to admit to, though she had admitted it, but she liked it. There had been roughness, of course, but there had also been a sense of softness. Not only that, but he had pleasured her before actually fucking her, and it had been amazing for the inexperienced female; far greater than any sensations she had ever given herself. He’d even used a condom, but they had none of those left. In him, and in this world, she had found that society before the infection had not been so bad as her fellow third-wave feminists believed. They had it down right good, however now she lived in a lawless land where Richard could literally do whatever he wanted to her, because he had the firearms which meant that his word was law, but even if he didn’t have any firearms, he was most certainly stronger than her and so she was helpless. He could beat her and rape her. Abuse her physically, mentally and sexually. He could murder her, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. No cops, no court hearings, no lawyers or judges, no prison sentences… and yet… he had been good to her for the most part.

  There had been strikes though; she was quite mouthy, quite uppity, difficult to deal with, and it tried his patience on more than one occasion. It was cliché for women of violent relationships to think they had deserved whatever happened to them, a way of coping with things, but she truly believed that if she had not been such a… well… a bitch to him, then he would have been good to her. Now that she was behaving rationally, without an irrational hatred against men, giving him a fair chance, he had indeed been everything she wanted him to be. They’d even experimented with this bondage fetish she turned out to have, and well… it’s been good… very good… and she’d been adamant about him cumming inside her whenever they fucked. It took her all these years just to find a man, or rather
, end up ‘forced’ with this man, to lose her virginity, and she thought she had lost him a few days ago.

  She felt lost without him; he knew how to survive in this world, how to live off the land, but she had lived by scavenging all this time! She feared she would never find a man, or considering how ruthless the world is now without law, expected that if she ever did find another man to bed, that he would beat her, have his way with her, then either abandon her shortly after or kill her first and then abandon her. Another possibility is cannibalization… she’d heard stories from Richard on his travels, and it was horrible…

  “Alrighty then, you got the dishes?” His deep voice asked cheerfully, taking the two plates up to bring them to the living room.

  “Sure.” It was said almost wistfully, feeling so good to have a full stomach, to feel safe, without the stench of heavily decayed rotting bodies to attack their senses. The plates were left on the kitchen counter as he faced west, and to his left through the window on the back door he could see the gravestone, or rather, the ‘grave plate’ of the elderly couple he buried. It had been hard work, grim work, and in spite of having never spoken to Denise nor having exchanged many words with her husband Charlie, he felt that since they would be staying in their home and eating the food they had left behind the least he could do is bury them as best he could. Only about 3’ deep unfortunately, after all he was only one man and the wife had been dead for at least half a day longer than her husband if not more, but he’d done it, and used a stainless steel tray from inside as the headstone.

  With the use of his cruciform spike bayonet, he punched holes one at a time to make the inscription:

  t

  R.I.P

  Charlie

  and

  Denise

  Winters

  Aug or Sept

  2017

  The cross had been added recently, two-holes wide for the vertical line and two-holes tall for the horizontal one. Memories of a strange looking cross had come to mind with a circle in the upper half of the cross but he didn’t know if perhaps that was the one for Catholics, which the Winters seemed to be, and so if what he used was possibly the Anglican cross, which was his own religion, he hoped they wouldn’t have minded too much. After all, the vast majority of people these days were not buried and so even with this modest gesture he had given them, it was more than even he himself expected to get in the end.

  To his right, towards the front door to the north, was the deer carcass on the tiled floor. Much bone was showing, they’d get perhaps one more day out of it and then it would be pretty much picked clean with any scraps left probably being too far gone to eat safely. Tiff avoided looking at it whenever possible, but was all too happy when it came time to eat it, yet would also be happy when it was out of the house. They’d been here for… how many days? In a notebook in his backpack, which he used to try and keep track of the days, it was September 8th, 2017, give or take a week. So anywhere between September 1st to September 15th. Wasn’t particularly accurate, but it was better than nothing, so he just went with the 8th. They had spent their first night there on the 2nd, and so, tonight would be their 7th night there. It had been good, he must say.

  Thank you, Charlie and Denise… she had died not long before their arrival, and when he shot her behind their house, the Veteran suffered what they assumed was a fatal heart attack, so he was shot as well. Normally Richard was adamant about using bayonets whenever possible, and could easily have dealt with both in that manner, saving his ammo, but Charlie, or Charles as he believed his wife called him, asked for him not to use the ‘pig sticker’ of his No.4 Lee Enfield. That was a nickname that his rifle’s bayonet used to have back when it was used in WWII and Korea. The request was accepted, and so they were put down using live ammunition loaded himself, made to simulate Mk.VII Ball which was the standard cartridge that Britain, Canada, Australia, and India used in WWI, WWII, and Korea.

  The rifle was up in their bedroom, along with his backpack of supplies and his 5-pocket 1960s Australian bandolier which had 9 loaded clips of his simulated Mk.VII Ball as well as 4 loose rounds of .303 British but with roughly half a charge of powder in each of those loose ones. In the backpack was another two stripper/charger clips of handloaded Mk.VII .303 and three remaining clips which he no longer had the ammo for. Whether it were in grass, in mud, in puddles, or what have you, casings did go missing in time. 42 primers, 20 bullets, but sadly no powder left so those two casings may never end up being loaded into cartridges again. Perhaps some day he’ll find more powder, or cartridges from which he can pull the bullets from using the pair of pliers he’d taken from the house and put into his pack and then use the powder from those to make more .303, but it was unlikely. Ammo was getting more scarce by the day, so his 69 rifle rounds might be all he’ll have for the rest of his life in terms of smokeless ammo.

  There was also a Remington 870 which had a faintly unpleasant smell to it. It was loaded with 4+1 shells of buckshot, which was figured out when one was pried open from the front. Pressing the hull shut once more, it was chambered, fearing that a loosened shell might disrupt reliability when it came time to be brought from the tube magazine. Use it for hunting? Perhaps. Dealing with walkers? Maybe, but to use all those balls on just one at a time, and the idea of killing two with one shell was decidedly unlikely. Almost made him wish he had a cap-and-ball revolver in which to use those lead balls instead of firing so many at once for one target at a time. Hunting would probably be the most efficient use of it. On the dresser were two 7-rnd M1911 mags, loaded with 230gr Ball .45 ACP, the other two mags in his butt pockets. Loaded one in left pocket, one with 3 rounds in his right, and on his hip was the stainless steel M1911A1 Mil Spec bought new less than a decade ago.

  It was more than most had; conservation was key in having kept this much ammo. Using his bayonet whenever possible was paramount instead of just shooting any problems he might meet, however most survivors probably used ammo whenever and wherever possible. Why wouldn’t they? It was quick, it was relatively easy if you had the stomach and accuracy for it, and the biggest downside was the noise which could act like a magnet in attracting any dead that might be nearby. In a place like they were right now though, so far away from any nearby towns or cities, he was fairly safe in terms of using ammo, however all the same avoided the use of his valuable cartridges whenever possible.

  Tiffany came into the kitchen as well, not looking at the hunter for he was near the carcass, her nose wrinkled from the scent of blood in the air. She grabbed the dishes in her good right hand and headed out the back door, intent on going to the river to wash them off. “RichAAAARD! RICHARD!” Her tone was at first normal, but then loudened and she was soon coming back in from where she had left. He had already drawn his sidearm, though left the safety engaged. It was being pointed down to the floor, the safest direction. “What is it?” His tone was clear, direct, deep, and crisp. In short, calm down and tell him what it was.

  “Two of them, they already crossed the river!”

  “Dead?”

  “DUH!”

  “Attitude…” It was said in warning as he jogged past her to the living room while holstering his sidearm, bringing the keys from his left pocket and picking out the one for the Master bedroom as he went upstairs. She followed, but stopped between the coffee table in front of the couch, and the TV which possibly won’t be used ever again in spite of still being intact and in working order. Locking the door behind him because he still didn’t quite trust her with a firearm, he was heading down with wooden stocked rifle in hand, bayonet scraping from the scabbard, finally clunked onto the end of the barrel and a click was produced as it was locked into place with a twist.

  “Pardon…” he politely muttered, passing her by, and she obliged by turning sideways to give him more space. His face was neutral, giving it a natural intimidating quality, which was a strange contrast for when he smiled and she did see him smiling from time to time; that intimidation disappeared entirely t
hen. Downright friendly, welcoming, kind-natured, and cheerful. It was as though he were Dr. Jekyll and Mr.Hyde, but thankfully without the bipolar-like difference in personality. Out the door he went, and up the stairs she went to the washroom, to look out the window that faced west which was the direction she’d seen them.

  The low evening Sun was bright in his eyes, but he seen the two figures hobbling forward, moaning at him less than 10m now from the house. She watched as he wheeled around them; why did he do that? To have a look to see if they had valuables on them or something? Facing east now, the Sun to his back instead of blurring his vision, the pale eyes of the dead were somewhat squinting, dealing with the difficulty themselves instead of him. He seen her up in the window, he was backpedaling to give himself a moment as they approached.

  “Looking for a show, or what?” He called up.

  “Do you blame me for being worried?...” It wasn’t an insult to his capabilities, but what he was doing was still dangerous. He nodded, knowing he had to get to the matter at hand. Feet planted themselves in the grass, left toes facing them, right foot a few feet back with toes facing to his right, to the south. Rifle, with its safety still engaged, came up to be level with his head, bolt down towards the ground, irons towards him, mag looking off to the right and the bayonet pointed straight ahead. They continued to advance one step at a time.

  The one on the left, a woman, black hair past her shoulders looking quite disheveled as you might imagine an old corpse to be. Her t-shirt was ripped exposing a light beige coloured bra. Skin-tight pants, stained from decayed matter and… possibly other bodily fluids… was also stained dark with blood. Bite marks were on her stomach where a portion of her shirt was ripped away on the bottom. She was the closest, but the second was only perhaps 1m off to her left, and less than that distance behind. They’d both be on him soon, one after another, the rifle flew forward.