by J. N. Morgan
They must have come from Strathcom, he thought, and thankfully the cruciform spike made its mark, just a little to the left on her forehead from his perspective. The sharp point pierced flesh, and with his body going from leaning a bit back on his right foot then pushing forward onto his left, putting his weight behind the loaded 9.5lb or so rifle which was probably made about 10lb or close to it with the addition of the bayonet and sling, it cracked through skull, piercing brain matter, and it was all the while being rotating. Ribs on the plus or X-shaped cruciform spike scraping against the hard material while also breaking the suction made upon penetrating flesh.
She was already falling, he pulled, which brought momentum of her fall from straight down to forwards towards him, he leapt back, one of her hands landed on his boot, he kicked it off him with a simple gesture and the second one made a leap of its own unexpectedly. A lunge, and it grasped the right sleeve of his Navy blue sweater. He leapt back again, tugging to the left to try and rip its grip off him but it held strong, as strong as the foul stench that attacked his nostrils. Bayonet was pointed northwest, which had the brass butt plate pointing southeast towards the assaulter, and it was rammed forward.
Tiffany had cried out in panic at seeing the being grasp onto him, a high pitched “RICHARD!” escaping her, then a disgusting wet cracking sound as he bashed it in the face with said brass butt. She gagged, seeing it wheel back away from him, decayed black blood oozing from its face. The nose was bent, an eye disgustingly had popped from its left eye socket, and seeing this so close up, it was his turn to gag, and he quickly walked away, left sleeve to his face, shoulders hunched, rifle in his right hand.
“Ooah… ooooah…” heaving, his stomach wanted to empty itself; he couldn’t stand stuff that had to do with the eyes… just shoot it, he should just shoot it, but God damn was it disgusting and he should not use up ammo! Save it! It won’t last forever! How many dozens of rounds had been used in the roughly 6 months that the infection has gone on? Or had it been over 100 shots fired by now? If he kept up at that rate then at about the 1 year mark he won’t have a cartridge to his name, and then how will he hunt? How will he handle desperate situations, situations far worse than this?
“RICHARD! IT-IT’S COMING!” He jogged forward to the northwest a bit, still reeling from the sight, not wanting to turn but turn he did, and it had very nearly reached his back when she called to him. The stance was taken again, legs apart, left toes forward with right toes to his right, rifle sideways next to his head, leaning back. It approached, he was shaky from disgust… AND LUNGE! The rifle went forward, pierced its left eye, white jelly-like goo dripped down onto the spite. The bayonet jarred as it bust through the eye socket, through brain, and ‘tunked’ against the back of its skull. The 8” of spike almost completely imbedded.
“OOOAH-CAH!” A violent shudder of a gag followed by a cough, it took everything not to lose his lunch of deer meat. A tug, the tip of the bayonet scraped on the back of the skull, more goo from the eye, the head twitched as the body fell but he hadn’t twisted the cruciform spike to help it come free and he found himself unable to do so. The rifle was dropped, falling with the creature. He wheeled back, turned, and made a couple steps to the northwest again, left sleeve to his face once more then quickly coming away as he wretched towards the ground, doubled over. Nothing came out, luckily.
Standing up, shaking his head, right hand gone out towards the window where he knew Tiff was, he gestured that he was ok, and also that this was too disgusting to deal with right now as he headed north a ways farther. A few meters before he kneeled down in hopes that his stomach will calm down. Looking up to the window, he smiled at her, though looking pale all the same, at least where his dark brown facial hair didn’t partially hide his flesh. She wasn’t looking at him, but up at the woods. Three had come out shambling towards him, not yet at the river. Two more appeared behind them and in the shadows of the forest was another four off to the right, then between the five and the four was another three. A dozen of them with a few on the left-hand side from his perspective bunched up more, and as they got closer, slowly, another dozen appeared, and they could all see him. “You have to be fucking kidding me…” he muttered to himself, unheard by the woman inside, but she had muttered something along the same lines to herself though with a bit more vulgarity.
He looked up at the window, a look of shock on his face, and she returned the look, appearing even paler than when he was about to vomit. “GET IN!” She squealed, but he stayed there on one knee on the ground… what to do… what to do… his mind reeled. There were low windows on the house, a window in each door, they had not been barricaded. If he went inside, then they would follow and they will get in; they will get upstairs, and he doubted those flimsy doors would hold for long with them steadily bashing at it. The doorknobs had to be over 30 years old, if not 40, and obviously heavily used over the years since this place had been steadily occupied by the couple buried in the backyard.
Where were they coming from? Well, obviously the town to the west, but what was bringing them here? Had they all just up and decided to leave, swarming out in every direction? He pulled the tiny plastic bag from his left jacket pocket, about the size of a dime bag, and a bright yellow and purple piece of plastic was held in each hand from it, the bag returned to his pocket. They were rolled between fingers, and fed into his ears, where he heard light popping-like sounds as the plastic buds expanded. What if they made a run for it? He didn’t trust her to be able to run long enough to lose them however, nor himself with all his gear plus two long-arms; he was about to call up for her to get the shotgun but realized that the door was locked and he had the keys. “Fucking HELL…” he muttered, his voice sounding muffled yet also somehow louder with his ear plugs in.
A deep breath in, and then out; steel yourself, pussy! MAN UP! “RAAAAAHhhhhh!” With a battle cry that sounded like something out of an ancient battlefield, deep and fierce, barbaric even, he ran back the way he came; to the corpses. Grabbing up his rifle, he gave a sickening twist which moved the head disgustingly and with a vicious pull it came loose. His bandolier was upstairs too! He looked down in horror at his chest where the green cloth was not hung. Another count, 15 now… no… he couldn’t handle this with just 10 rounds and a bayonet, at least not safely with them so bunched up. He was already breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, his mouth felt dry, stomach felt like it could empty itself at any moment. He had his sidearm still! 7+1 with a 7-round mag in his left pocket and a 3-round mag in his right! How was he forgetting all this, and at this moment?!
Right hand rotated over to the left side of the Lee Enfield’s receiver, thumb brought the safety switch forward, disengaging it without a sound and the brass buttplate was pushed into his shoulder, right eye looking down the battle-sight, the flip-up ladder sight for 200-800yd (180-730m roughly) shooting still down. 100m, or rather, 100yd since England, where the rifle was made decades ago, hadn’t switched to Metric yet. That’s about 90m. It made little difference, however. They were spreading out as they approached, some slower or faster than others, none yet at the river which was perhaps around 40-50m from the house.
Crouching, left elbow rested on left knee assisting in keeping the rifle stable, and a couple seconds later the first shot was fired. Tiff’s hands shot to her ears just as the closest corpse fell, dark mist where its head had been before it fell with the body. The boltwork was like lightning. She had some ringing in her ears though not overly bad, while his ears were fine with those ear plugs. It sounded like a straight-pull; the 60 degree turn coupled by the lack of resistance as the cock-on-close bolt opened, and popping the brass casing weakly about a foot to his right the bolt closed before it hit the ground. Closing it with authority the resistance of the cocking piece being held back by the sear was ignored. A muffled cla-clack was faintly heard which took him less than half a second, and he was aiming maybe a tad over half a second after the first shot.
Wanting as little chance as possibl
e to miss, he deliberately took time in aiming, two seconds passed before the second shot went and the bolt was racked swiftly once more, aiming perhaps half a second later. The irons seemed to guide themselves to the next target so in spite of the over 100m distance if he had to guess it, the next bullet screamed out a half second after being chambered. Shouldn’t have shot so quickly, it blasted a slot into the side of the target’s skull but dark goop was oozing through it; he was already aiming at another walker’s head however and two seconds later two walkers dropped at the same time; the one with the wounded head, and the one who just had a bullet through the forehead.
Bolt was racked again as soon as the recoil was felt, and by the time the recoil was managed the casing was falling towards the grass with the next round chambered before it landed. 4 shots and seemingly 4 kills though when it came time to inspect the damage he knew he should bayonet the one he’d skimmed the head of. ‘5’ he counted in his mind as the next shot was fired, again, a bit more quickly than he should have. Tiff thought he had a semi-auto instead of a bolt action, but her eyes widened as she seen him manipulating the manually operated rifle. This 5th bullet went low, but was accurate enough. It tore through an open mouth, only going through perhaps 4” of matter or so, but much of that matter was its spinal cord causing it to fall where it stood. Pale eyes looked around as it lay paralyzed, unable to even move its jaw.
How many seconds had passed? Less than 10 at any rate, perhaps 8 or so, and the 6th bullet was already being chambered. Taking a deep breath, this next shot was fired as the breath left him. Another straight one in the forehead after about 2 seconds of aiming, which for him was plenty of time to get affairs in order. Cla-clack; it looked, sounded like, and to him felt, like he was firing a K31 or though he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of handling one, a Ross. Those firearms were straight-pulls and instead of pushing the bolt up or down to lock or unlock it, it just had to be pulled straight back, and straight forward. That’s what it looked like. Unlike those rifles however, this one could be fired without letting go of the bolt which aided in more quickly getting sights on target, in preparing a follow-up shot or getting irons on a fresh target.
The bayonet was getting a slight layer of gunpowder residue on it as he fired the 7th shot, and though of course too busy to feel it, it was warming up from each report. Already in the past 12 seconds or so he’d fired more ammo than he typically would in half a month, and it raked at him. Still worse, two more had come from the woods nearly 200m away making 17 in total, though now that 7 had gone down that made 10 still standing. “Fuck this…” It killed him to be using this much ammo, but they couldn’t run away; the bolt was worked, he flipped the safety on, slung the rifle, and ran inside, fishing in his pocket all the while. The bayonet tapped the lintel of the back door as he barreled through, he ignored it, and turned right, past the stove, running through the living room.
Keys in left hand, he shrugged the rifle off his right shoulder, catching it nimbly knowing that with the bayonet on there’s no way he could maneuver the narrow staircase with it sticking up over his head. “JAY-sus!... God, MOVE! OUT THE WAY!” Tiff was at the top of the stairs, having run there when she seen him coming inside.
“What th-, what are we going to do?!” She was backing away, he picked the proper key from the keyring, got to the Master bedroom and opened it up. He went in without answering her; she watched from the hallway as he pocketed the keys and grabbed his bandolier which he hastily put on as a large, roughly 5lb necklace for the time being. Next he grabbed the shotgun in his left hand, rifle still in his right.
“Go count!” He went back to the door, wide eyes shifting from her to the doorknob, he fumbled with it as he tried to lock it with hands full.
“What?!”
“COUNT THE BASTARDS!” She looked at him in shock as he roared at her then realized what he meant, and went through the doorway opposite the one he was at, closing the Master bedroom that he’d just locked, forgetting the two 7-rnd pistol mags on the dresser. He stopped for a moment between the closed bedroom door and the open bathroom door, breathing hard.
“Um… eleve-… twelve!”
“WHAAAAT?!” His head turned, pointing his left ear at her, she seen the bright plastic within it.
“TWEEELVE!” He nodded and left, having heard the still faintly muffled number. By the time he was outside the closest one was passing the calm little river. It tumbled in, arose soaking wet, and continued at a slower pace. The next was wading through now and Richard jogged ahead to meet them, slinging the rifle, adjusting the bandolier so he wore it properly; one side on his left shoulder and the other end on his right side below his arm. The five pockets were in front of him.
Best to use this 12 Gauge, he figured. Use up the ammo and then he won’t have to carry it whenever it came time to leave. Yeah, 12 Gauge shells were VERY common, or at least they were, and if he ever lucked out and found ammo out there, it’s a decent chance that it’d be stuff this firearm can use. It had a short barrel and a polymer stock, but it was still quite hefty, and the thought of carrying these extra pounds, plus his rifle, plus his ammo, plus his bayonet, plus his hefty backpack along with the loaded M1911A1 which must have been close to 3lb loaded, and the pound and a half or two pounds that made up his 4 spare magazines… it was good to shed weight where he could. Ah, Tiff can carry it! She doesn’t have much and it’s best she not be given a loaded firearm anyways, so it’s perfect!
By the time he’d closed the distance to perhaps 20m or so, the one who entered the creek had gotten its way to the other side while the one who fell was still wading through. “COME ON! COME OOOOON, YOU UGLY BUGGERS! COME ON COME ON COME ON!” He was shouting, encouraging them to approach; he didn’t want to soil the river too much, even if the blood and brains would be washed downstream, it was just best to contaminate as little as possible. Breathing heavily, he was backpeddling slowly. She was a teenager he figured, bright blonde hair, left cheek ripped away, and she didn’t have a stitch of clothes on her. A small red slice was in her stomach, it looked like it came from a knife, a stabwound, and above her right nipple on her perhaps A or at most B sized breast was a bullet hole.
Had she been raped and murdered? Must have been 5’ tall, perhaps 5’2, definitely shorter than Tiff, and thin. Would have been cute, he figured, if she was alive. All the corpses looked like they’d been dead for some time however, none looked particularly fresh. What had brought them out of the woods, though? He glanced north, past the nearby bridge, there were none out in the distance nor in turning his gaze south along the river which ran in that direction were they any; it’s as though they were coming straight towards the house!
Three were across the river now, and he was still backpedaling. Tiff was getting nervous as they slowly got closer. Shouldering the shotgun, lowering himself due to his target’s height, he aimed on the side of her skull, centering the bead so that the next closest walker that was behind her was also behind that front sight. BOOM! Clack… clack… the shotgun felt foreign in his hands, had he ever even held a pump action before? One that wasn’t a BB gun? He couldn’t remember. To his and Tiff’s amazement though both of the corpses fell.
“EEEEE-LEEEEEE-VEEEEEN!” She cried out, and it sounded only faint. He looked back at her, she pointed, and following where she was gesturing to see another of the bastards come out of the woods. Right hand came up, a brief wave then a thumbs up and it was back to business. If he could get another 8 down with these 4 shells, it would be amazing! They were approaching slowly though, and to wait for all of them to get past the river would take forever. A brief, quiet chuckle came as he seen a fishing rod stuck to the pant leg of the large black zombie he’d killed with the girl. He didn’t have it before, was there a rod in the river? He had no idea, but the onlooker blushed as she seen it, remembering how, when she thought he had left her, she tried to fish. Not knowing to bait the hook she ended up catching nothing after something like a half hour of trying, so screamed in anger like
a banshee as it was thrown into the water.
He jogged to the north along the river, reached the nearby bridge, ran over it, and like a herd they all turned towards him. Those new or in the river were now moving away from it. There was a large smile on his face as he caught his breath. He’d never done this much shooting since… well… since he’d been at a shooting range. This 12 Gauge didn’t matter to him, the shells within neither, it was just a hindrance. 12 Gauge shells weigh about twice as much as rifle ammo, or close to it. The 4 shells remaining in this shotgun weighed about as much as 7 or 8 of his handloaded Mk.VII Ball .303. That reminded him, those four loose rounds in his bandolier that were only half loaded; may as well use those. These were easy shots after all. Oh wait… yes… yeeeees, that’s brilliant!
“WOO! Ha-HA! COME OOOOWN!” To his amazement, this was working out great! Backing up, he moved to the nearest side of the bridge. Bunch them together; bottle neck them! It’ll be easier to get multiple heads at the same time! They were still over 10m from him, why he was getting this sudden rush wasn’t known, it was like he was letting himself let loose for the first time in months and it didn’t take a bottle of booze to do it! Letting the shotgun down on the ground, having engaged the rifle’s safety just to keep it relatively safe, he moonwalked a couple steps back clumsily not wanting to go too far from the police firearm. Gave a 360 degree spin, kicked his leg up at nothing, stuck his left arm straight out to the side while his right hand grasped his crotch. “HEEE-HEEE! CHA-MOWN!”
Tiffany was looking at him as though he’d just stripped down, started clucking like a chicken, and was trying to lay an egg. What the fuck was he doing?! Was that supposed to be a Micheal Jackson impression? He had the voice down alright, but his actions were sloppy at best, barely recognizable. “What are you?...” she muttered slowly, eyes squinting in disbelief, head shaking lightly even though she could see him quite clearly. Less than 100m away, he was. Thank God, they were getting pretty close, but he picked up his shotgun and continued to walk backwards this time, not moonwalk.