by J. N. Morgan
Two were turning the corner of the bridge, getting on in single file, he was aiming, but it was one head in front of the other… could this buckshot penetrate a skull? Probably, but he wasn’t sure. He side-stepped a bit on this 2-lane structure, got both heads partially overlapping on another, only partially, set the bead where they met, and pulled the trigger. The left side of the front one and the right side of the second one just disintegrated, but the cone of spread wasn’t wide enough to annihilate the ENTIRETY of both heads. Shotguns weren’t as inaccurate as people think; you still have to aim. Clack… clack. It still felt clunky and awkward, but knew it was entirely his fault. Some people could work pump actions like this as quickly as he could work his Lee Enfield. Who knows, maybe even more quickly!
So, 2+1 now, yeah? The hulls will be left behind; if he ever finds powder, it will be used for his rifle, not for a bloody shotgun. They were very versatile machines, but at heart, he was a rifleman. “Come on, line up handsomely for your ol’ pal Richie, now…” he muttered, face serious now with focus, head craning this way and that as he walked closer to the encroaching group. It was as though he were looking for a shot around a pool table. Nine, so no more had come from the forest, hopefully this will be it… two were getting close to each other as they approached, he aimed, cycling to the right to get a better angle. Some were off to the west, others down towards the south who were closer to the river when he’d taken this new position at the bridge.
Two of the craniums were very near each other, slightly overlapping, one walker in front of the other, one either a rather short man or the other a tall woman. Both brunettes, and both with various bite marks around their bodies. BOOM! The man behind the woman had stumbled, the woman fell, and when the male stood up Richard could see a slice of scalp shaved off where a single ball of buckshot cut away a trench in its dead flesh. “Damn… think you’re special, huh? Just have to have a shell to yourself?” The head craned, looking behind the fellow, the nearest three were all fairly close to each other and a good 5m away at least. “Alright… I’ll do you one better…”
Shotgun’s cross-bolt safety was engaged, it was laid down on the end of the bridge, no sling attached to it, and he unslung his rifle. Position taken, lean back on right leg, let it approach, aim, THRUST! Weight went forward on left leg, bayonet slipped in along a tear duct, on the left side of its right eye, went in nearly the full ways, he was twisting the rifle, body was twisting his stomach at the sight, pull hard, and it slipped free. Rifle laid down, shotgun picked up, target presented itself, aim, trigger did nothing, “Fuck!” Cla-clack, much faster this time but still not as fast as he was with his rifle. Trigger did nothing, “FUUUUCK!” Click, the cross-bolt safety was disengaged, he was so not used to this firearm and had to scoop up his rifle and retreat because they were getting damn close!
Other side of the bridge, rifle laid down, two more were getting on the other side, three was in the middle, shotgun aimed, BOOM! Cla-clack! He was getting faster at least; two more dropped. Last shell, five walkers left, the one left standing in the group of three fell over as the bodies tripped it. Shotgun down, rifle up, jog forward a couple steps, circle round to the right a bit, thrust! Its bald head was looking to its left at him, the point of the spike pierced the cartilage at the top of its ear, the bayonet continued on with so much of his weight behind it, and the very end of the ear went into the skull with the metal. Boot down on its head, a grinding twist of the rifle, pull, and both bayonet and ear came out of its head. Disgustingly, a ring of flesh was still on the bayonet from the ear. Cartilage perhaps? He didn’t want to think on it, whatever it was, it was wiped off on the creature’s jean jacket which had its sleeves ripped off, likely for the sake of style before the infection rather than an accident.
Two more coming, two were quite a ways off to the west, and one straggler which was still a safe distance. “Come ooooon, come ooon…” he whispered to himself, aiming the shotgun now, trying to take out another two with it which he had previously thought he wouldn’t manage. BOOM! Whatever the result, it was being tossed down in favour of his rifle, and with its wooden stock in hand, looked up, and his keen brown eyes were glad to see they had indeed fallen. 9 with 5 shells… fuck yeah! He still preferred his rifle, but shotguns can be pretty damn kickass! Alright, reassess the situation… two were close together, perhaps 30-40m off, and the final one about 100m or so. A small breather… good…
“A clothes-pin would be… fuckin’ great…” He walked ahead, passing the dead that lay before him, leaving the shotgun behind. Rifle in hand he disengaged the safety. Leaning against the wall of the bridge at the end, the bolt was opened carefully, not letting the chambered cartridge eject, it was pushed back into the magazine which had significant give; only 3 rounds in it so the mag spring wasn’t very compressed. 5th pocket, the one highest on his chest, was fingered open. A small copper-looking hook bent open, the tight flap pushed up exposing the back of a black clip which he knew was full with 5 rounds of his handloaded Mk.VII Ball, and then several loose rounds.
He looked up… kill them all with the half-loaded ammo… or… nah. Don’t take the lazy way out; save ammo whenever possible. The clip was pulled out, put onto the clip feed guide above the magazine, pointer finger on the left side of the rounds, middle finger on the right, and then his thumb pressed down. It was an awkward looking motion, but he had learned it from a British fellow online and found it to work fantastically. A series of clicks, muffled from the ear protection, sent all 5 rounds in and though he had planned to grab the clip and put it in his pocket his hand had accidentally knocked it loose after the last round went into the magazine. He’ll get it later; a loose cartridge was grabbed; one of the half-loaded ones, which had on the side of it in thick black marker:
1/2 LOAD
It was pushed onto the 8 rounds in the magazine making 9 in total, then the bolt was closed, chambering it. He thought for a moment, then opened the bolt, pushing that previously chambered round back into the mag, grabbed another loose one, and pushed it in. JUST in case things went wrong and he had to fire two shots. They were maybe 10m away, he aimed, and with ease sent the bullet with half a load of powder into the tall zombie’s forehead. The recoil was incredibly light compared to the full powered .303 he had been shooting before and the 12 Gauge buckshot.
Bolt was racked, position taken, finger off the trigger, and he let the one nearby the now neutralized male walker advance towards him. A boy, perhaps 13, 14 at the oldest, having never had need to shave in his life, perhaps even a virgin the poor lad, approached. Scruffy brown hair, a chunk taken out of his right forearm, sharp features, thin, he wore a pair of black shorts and dark blue t-shirt with a Nike logo on it. Dried blood stained his chin; this fellow had fed on someone at some point, and somehow the rain had not completely cleaned the outcome off its face.
A couple powerful steps forward, body rotated, right leg came up, BAM! His boot bashed into the unfortunate shambling kid’s chest, he could have sworn he heard a crack or two, and it flew back, scrambling on the pavement. Richard briskly walked to it. After skidding, it ended up on its belly, and was now pushing itself up. Left boot came down on its back, pinning it. He brought the point of his bayonet to the base of the lad’s neck, at its spine, and thrust. The legs had been moving about weakly, arms reaching about, but now it lay still though with its head looking left, towards the house, its jaw was still going up and down however no noises were coming from it. Only one left… thank Christ.
Walking back casually, engaging the safety on his rifle, he picked up the clip he had used and pocketed it. The brass 1/2 LOAD casing stood out more on the pavement so he’ll grab that after all this was done. The shotgun hulls were ignored. What the Hell was he going to do with all these bodies?! It was almost nighttime, too! A miracle it hadn’t influenced his aim; a calm mind and practiced hands can be a great addition to a… well… could this be considered a battlefield? No, it didn’t feel right, though he had fought. Continuing on, l
ost in thought, rifle slung, he bent down to pick up the empty shotgun.
“FREEZE, asshole!” He froze, eyes wide, hand reaching for the shotgun, had he heard it to his left? It was hard to tell with these earplugs muffling everything. “DON’T MOVE!”
“Yes ma’am… just so you know, I’m wearing earplugs… it’s a little hard to he-“
“SHUT UP! Now STAND up! Slowly!” She wheeled round from the north side of the bridge, having been there the whole time, bolt action shouldered and pointing right at him. He obeyed her command, standing up straight, hands coming up as well. “Now slowly grab the sling of your gun with your left hand, and put it on the ground…” He did so. “Kick it to me.”
“Pardon?”
“KICK IT TO ME, PIG!” She was slim, black, wearing black jeans that weren’t tight fitting but not loose either, and a black ‘wife-beater’ as he called it though others probably called it a muscle shirt. She must be chilly, he thought, with night coming the temperature was dipping.
“Ma’am, the rifle is 75 years old, the stock is in quite good conditi-”
“JUST KICK IT, ASSHOLE!” She jabbed the rifle towards him, he took a few calm steps backwards.
“I’m not kicking my rifle, ma’am…”
“You son of a-“ She brought her head down along the top of the barrel on which there were neither irons or a scope, he noted how her finger came down from the side of the stock to the trigger; this woman knew how to handle a firearm properly. Her finger was kept off the trigger until now. Not a pleasant situation, but it gave him a very small measure of comfort to know that she had some degree of practice or training.
“No-no! NO! YOU DON’T HAVE T-“ Richard brought his hands, palm forward, in front of him. Showing he meant no harm, keeping keenly aware of the pistol still holstered on his hip which she wouldn’t have seen. It was in a black leather IWB (Inside the WaistBand) holster.
“VERONICA!” Tiffany cried from the house, recognizing her friend. “VERONICA DON’T SH-!”
The stranger’s eyes widened at the sound, head turning left towards the house, rifle slightly turning as well, and her finger already on the trigger was pulled due to the motion of her body. The sound temporarily deafened her; she hadn’t expected it to go off. She was going to shoot this man, but having been taken off-guard, found the sound to make her jump, almost made the ringing worse, and Tiffany screamed incoherently.
His eyes closed, turning his head to look away, feeling the shockwave of the rifle going off while perhaps 4m or so from him. Felt something… he staggered, eyes opened up, inside the house the woman he had been surviving with was already running downstairs, crying, and this ‘Veronica’ woman just stared at him as he fell. His left arm was still up in defence, but right arm was down and he seen his right sleeve becoming dark as it became soaked with his blood. Suddenly the stranger with short-cut black hair was running past him, past the bridge, working the bolt of her sightless rifle.
“Ah… nnh… fuck… what the… what the fuck? What the fuck?! Wuh… why?...” His heels were digging at the pavement as his legs writhed about, right arm laying still, left hand over the hole in his shirt. He was crying, mind was blank, becoming blanker, vision dulling, redness was pooling beneath him slowly. Tiffany? Her green eyes watched as his brown ones stared up at her in fear, not really in pain for shock was largely dealing with that for him, but there were tears there with both of them. She kneeled over him, looking up at the woman who had fired, then down at him. The quiet, muffled sound of a shot going off; the black woman killed the last walker. He barely heard it. He could see soft looking lips mouthing something, anger and terror in her features, he lifted the right side of his jacket and his shirt with his good left arm. Next to his hairy beer belly she could see his pistol. It was taken but it was not aimed, nor did she try to shoot, but slipped into the back of her grey pants while pulling the back of her red shirt out to hide it, the white jacket not quite long enough to do so.
The 27 year old man though looking to be in his 30s or so due to the scruff and bulk of his body, the man who had taken his 36 year old woman’s virginity recently, lay still and quiet. His dark-brown haired head hit the asphalt as his eyes closed, turning weakly to the side.
CHAPTER 2
“What the FUCK, Veronica?!” She was approaching Tiffany now, a smile on her face, jogging, left hand holding her rifle while her right hand was stretched open for a hug. Said smile went away, the jogging slowed to a walk as she got close, right arm dropped. “What the FUCK?!”
“Geez, good to see you too, bitch…” The insult was ignored by Tiff, they were old friends, saying such things to one another was fairly commonplace. Her white jacket was pulled off uncomfortably due to her wounded left hand and then stuffed it beneath his bleeding right shoulder since the round obviously would have penetrated, even she knew that! If not for the need to hide the pistol, she’d have pulled her red shirt off to pin the top of the shoulder to try to stop the bleeding, she was crying terribly, pulling the right flap of his sweater up and pressing it down on the wound. She could feel wetness already from his blood. He was looking pale…
“You SHOT him! You shot RICHARD!”
“Richard? What, were you fuckin’ him or something? He was just a guy!”
“He is a guy, not was, and he’s a GOOD man!” She was looking around wildly for something to use; she couldn’t get his sweater off with any sort of particular ease… she grasped the neck of his shirt, and pulled, pulled hard, his body flopped, head clunking on the pavement. “Oh God NO! RICHARD!” Pushing on his upper chest with her left forearm, pulled at the ragged old shirt at the same time, and finally it ripped.
“Did you get a knock on the head or something? What happened to that awesome feminist ball-buster that I’ve been living with for the past 2 or 3 years?” The woman of African descent was showing remarkable calmness while the chubbier girl before her was clearly panicking, trying to save the man’s life that she’d put into danger.
“Would you SHUT UP and HELP me?! For God’s sake I can’t lose him again!” She’d taken the blood-smeared sleeves out from under his shoulder after bunching up the ripped black cloth and putting it on the top side of the wound, wrapped them a few times around the limb and front dressing, now tied it tight. Her ‘friend’ scoffed and took one of his legs with the larger female taking the other; they dragged him towards the house, the red-dyed brunette repeatedly looking back at him worriedly while the black haired shooter just went about the work.
“Should I start digging a hole while I’m-AH!” They had let go at the foot of the front porch. Tiff was out of breath having just ran from the house over to him, losing control over herself from all the blood and everything including the confusion that her friend had seemingly come back to life, and had to drag him along. At hearing the joke regarding him dying, she stood up and slapped Veronica viciously.
“FUCK YOU! YOU MISERABLE FUCKING CUNT!”
“Fuck YOU! Weren’t you the one who said you wanted to KILL all these rapist pigs like a month ago?”
“He’s NOT a rapist, and where have you BEEN, bitch?! I thought you were dead!”
“Dead? Not on your life… found this hot little number down at Basil Street, red head, Goooood I love me some burning bush…” The elongated almighty had been stressed while she leaned back and looked up to the sky, arms bend at the elbows, knees bent, legs apart, every fiber of her showing her adoration for a fiery red snatch.
“FUCK YOUR RUG MUNCHING YOU HORNY DYKE!”
“Hey…” A word spoken in warning. Even for friends, the homophobia was getting tiresome.
“Help me get him IN, Nick!” The nickname she used to use for Veronica. The source of it is kind of obvious when you think about it.
“Why do you care about him? Seriously, look at him; he’s a fat, ugly slob.” She peered down at his unshaven face, the exposed hairy chest and upper belly from the ripped shirt, the way his head was angled in his unconscious state produced a bit o
f a double chin, there were still some tears on his face and while his clothes were relatively clean save for the blood they were clearly lived-in. Very worn, in need of replacement. “He’s probably going to turn in another few minutes or at best hours, he’s got ammo for his rifle, we can use tha-”
“AAARRRRRRRGH!” It was a high-pitched roar, a sound that’d even unsettle Richard and he himself was one to give shouts of anger from time to time. The chunky ex-feminist was up on her feet, charging at the skinny bitch before her, pushing her with forearms against the potential murderer’s chest, the rifle that is the potential murder weapon left behind near the victim’s Lee Enfield, and the two fell onto the grass. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU BITCH!” Suddenly the wounded hand didn’t hurt as much in this moment.
“Mother FUCKER! AGH! Let GO of me you insane CUNT!” Pulling at the hair that didn’t even make it down to her shoulders, she was struggling not to scream in pain, but winning the struggle none the less. Tiff was in a frenzy, but Nick was trying to keep sensible. Shifting balance, they tumbled towards the south, got the enraged one on her back, and threw a punch with her neck craned uncomfortably due to the hair pulling. The hair was let go, the older woman flailed to avoid the strike, somehow deflected it. “What now, huh? WHAT NOW?! You ready to let go?! HUH?! Or are you ready to munch my FUCKIN’ rug?!” Clearly she hadn’t taken kindly to the term.
“Ok-ok-ok! Please!... just…” she was weeping, hiding her face, that tense body ready for battle had gone limp, audible sobbing. “Can we just… I don’t want to… I don’t want to lose him, Nicky…”
The thin, toned, mid-20s woman softened at the sight. She had a thing for crying chicks… something about it, it just… made her want to comfort them… among other things. It had been her who convinced Tiff to dye her hair red. Specifically wanted a more natural looking red but she had gone for a bright red, however at least it was still red. Suggestions to dye her bush had not gone very far… she got up and helped her ex-roommate to her feet.