by J. N. Morgan
Finally they had got him inside, past what was left of the deer carcass which ‘Nicky’ was quite impressed at, and looked at the man with new light once hearing that he’d been the one who hunted it and then dragged it here from down the road. The idea to get him on the couch was abandoned quickly, so they took the cushions off the two lounge chairs, then one off the couch, and used them as a makeshift mattress on the floor in the southeast corner of the living room. Getting a sheet from the guest room to drape over it, then some clean towels though stained with deer blood for his wounded shoulder to lay on to try and keep his redness from getting on the cushions, the two were sweating by the end of it.
“You really are fucking this guy, aren’t yo-“
“YES! For FUCK’S sake… where’s this fire-crotch you were ranting about anyways, since you’re so obsessed with who’s fucking who?”
“Ehhh… things didn’t go so well… why do so many of you hot bitches have to be straight?” They were walking down from the porch, Veronica gave a suggestive nudge with her elbow, and now the two were heading to where he had been shot to get the rifles.
“So much blood… why did you shoot hi-?“
“I TOOOOOOLD you! It was an ACCIDENT! I was surprised to hear your voice!”
“That’s no fucking excuse!” Tiffany exclaimed incredulously.
“Well I was going to shoot him anyways so it doesn’t exactly matter now, does i-?”
“Don’t you fucking dare…” It was said deeply, with utter disdain and disgust, dripping with warning, a grimace on her face and staring daggers at the dark haired girl who was reaching down for the wooden stocked rifle.
“What? HE won’t be needing i-“
“You don’t touch ANY of his things unless HE gives you permission AND I FUCKING DOUBT YOU’LL BE GETTING THAT ANYTIME SOON!” By the end of the sentence she was screaming at the top of her lungs. It was almost like a mother punishing a daughter even though they were only about 12 years apart. The previous owner of the home she had rented a room in stood up, hands up, face showing surprise at the tone, walking back and away from the rifle to turn and get her own. Green eyes buried into her the entire time.
“Isn’t that the rifle that you gave to m-?”
“That you stole?... Yeah.” Nicky said it harshly, giving her the final word in a brief and somewhat sarcastic way. It had been her legally owned rifle, and when she found it in the trail, inspecting the place where she had heard a gunshot after the undead had dispersed, she found it with two shots left in the magazine… none now. The scope had been busted, so she removed it, leaving it sightless. “Where’s the last two rounds? They weren’t in the safe.”
“I brought them with me, don’t know where they are now…” the lie didn’t sound convincing, even though it was technically true. She gave them to Richard and didn’t know what he did with them, but it was best not to tell her that. He had wrenched the bullets off the casings and the powder from those two .308 gave him enough to make four lightly charged .303. Those 1/2 LOAD rounds. He had left the primed casings in his backpack which was locked in the Master bedroom. Even if she did have them though, she wasn’t too eager about giving them to the person who shot the one she considered her man, even if said person is an old friend.
“Uh huh… you know I’m not gonna shoot him again, right? As long as he doesn’t try to shoot m-”
“I don’t want to hear you talking about anyone shooting anybody right now, got it?! For FUCK’S sake, we had everything going GREAT unti-… did you?... did those rotters out there follow YOU here?”
They had stopped on the front porch, on which the man’s blood was still smeared. “Uhhhh…”
“Nicky are you serious right now?... and instead of helping him you just?...”
“Hey, I didn’t know him, alright? For all knew, that fat whitey-”
“Richard…” the name was growled, rage in her eyes as she stared at the considerably tall though slim 5’10 woman.
“Whatever, look, for all I knew, this Richard guy was just gonna shoot me, or fucking rape me!” The stare continued, silence between them, Nick buckled, taking a step back, head lowering, right hand coming to the back of her head. “I… look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mea-“
“I don’t want you coming in here tonight.”
“What?!” Suddenly her apologetic look of regret changed to surprise and outrage. “It’s almost NIGHT! It’s a long way back to town from here and there might be MORE of those things out there! You can’t be serious, I mean come on…” the stare was unwavering, her right hand was white-knuckled on the Lee Enfield, its bayonet still smeared with dead blood, bone fragments, brain matter, and gunpowder residue.
“… follow me, do what I say, when I say it, and I don’t want to hear any backtalk for the rest of the night.” The pinky, ring, and middle fingers of her left hand opened the front door with a twitch of pain going through her face.
“Yes Massa Tiffan- AH!” This time it was a backhand, pain suddenly ignored from the wounded hand she just used as a weapon, and the bayoneted rifle was being held threateningly at her side. Though one-handed, all it would take is a scratch, let alone a stab, to infect someone, and once infected then death would come in days, at most perhaps a couple weeks, but far less than a month. Anger came over the black woman’s face, the ‘massa’ thing, meaning ‘master’ in a stereotypical ‘black slave accent’ if such a thing exists, was an inside joke between the two, but it was clear that she had seriously pissed off her previous roommate. While it was Veronica who had owned the home last time, this time it would seem Tiff was the woman of the house, and she was not in the mood to put up with anything.
“I’m sorry…” it was said begrudgingly, like a child whose parent had told her to apologize to another kid she had pushed in the playground. She was lead past the kitchen, eyeing the deer carcass hungrily, but they went left to the living room, left again past the unconscious man she had carelessly shot, up the stairs that went left again, left at the top of it to go down the hall, and at the end which was close to above the back door reached the guest room on the right.
“Let me see the gun.”
“I’m kee-…” Seeing the anger, reminding herself of the thin ice she was on already, it was handed over. Tiff couldn’t do anything with a bolt action with one hand injured and the other still holding the 9lb Lee Enfield which was another roughly .5lb heavier with the ammo, and combination sling and bayonet probably added another .5lb making it around 10lb in its present state. That’s approximately 4.5kg. Thereabouts.
“Not one word… don’t leave this room until I come up and see you in the morning… got it?” Nicky held her hands up to her white friend, walking back until she sat on the bed, but it was in submission rather than the fact that her present ‘landlady’ held a rifle at present. The woman of the house closed the door that wasn’t capable of being locked, turned, and hurriedly went downstairs. She had an idea…
It had been a long night… where he lay on his back, to the right of his head was one of the bookshelves which was on either side of the TV. To his left was the lounge chair on the south end of the living room which made up half the main floor. There was another lounge chair in the north end of the room, and the other half of the bottom floor was taken up by the kitchen. Beside him was his nurse curled up, wishing to keep him warm in spite of the clear risk that he might die in the night, turn, and attack her. He lay without his bloody sweater which she had taken off and tossed back into the kitchen, and the t-shirt was cut along his right side with a knife so that the only sleeve he had on was the left one. Using toilet paper directly on the wound like he had with her, she also cut various clean parts of some of the blood stained towels to make proper bandaging, and used those strips of fabric over and over to wrap around the wound.
That was after, though… the spatula that he had used to flip the pancakes he had been making most mornings before hunting the deer was up on the book shelf. It was quite dirty. She used it to cau
terize his wounds; stuck it in the fire until it was practically glowing, wiped the soot off from the direct contact with flames, then seared the flesh shut. It amazed her that he hadn’t awoken from it, amazed and worried her, and it sickened her that the smell that resulted from this burning reminded her of bacon. He looked so pale in the flickering candlelight, and knew that if he had died, if he turned, she could not use the rifle nearby to kill him, nor the pistol she had lain down next to his couch cushion mattress. As she slept, that pistol was tucked underneath the mattress beneath his waist.
In spite of her cut bleeding anew from all the activity she had done with it last evening and overnight, she did nothing about the soaked toilet paper that was her ‘poor man’s gauze’ as he had jokingly called it. The candles in the thin-shaped but thick-walled glass mugs had burnt out, sunlight coming in through the windows, she had gotten up several times in the night to stoke the fire back into life, feeding it with wood. Her exhausted head rested on the couch cushion under his upper body, head tucked into the nook under his left arm. He stirred, she did not.
“Mmmh… ugh… ahh-AHHH-!”
“WHAT?! OH! RICHARD!” She’d awoken with a start as he dazily tried to move, thinking that what had happened yesterday with the walkers and the whole ‘getting shot by some random black woman’ had been a dream, but the stabbing, searing pain in his right shoulder informed him quickly of otherwise. She hugged him, wrapping her left arm around his soft stomach, head coming to his chest.
“God, it hurts… RRRGH, it HURTS!” Gritting his teeth, he was writhing, head going back into the cushion in agony. She got up on her hands and knees.
“I looked for painkillers, couldn’t find any-“
“BOOZE THEN!” She shook her head, but his eyes were closed as he tried to deal with the agony.
“I’m sorry…”
“What’s going on?!” Came a voice upstairs, and Richard’s eyes, bloodshot, suddenly opened and looked to her.
“She’s here?!” Tiff lowered her head, knowing that he was right to be outraged, that he needed an explanation.
“STAY UP THERE, NICK! I TOLD YOU!” The dyed brunette barked first.
“I need to piss, though!”
“STAY UP THERE!” It was a shrill shriek, the sound of a door closing followed, and then silence for a time. “She’s the woman I used to live with… in Strathcom…”
“I don’t give a SHIT! She SHOT me! GOD!” He was steady writhing, still looking pale, and felt he could barely bring his left hand over to check the wound under the towels.
“She’ll be out today.”
“This fuckin’ morning…” he groaned. “Thirsty…”
“The room is locked…”
“Left pocket, bring my bag… -and lock the door again after!” He called quickly though hoarsely as she went to the stairs, not trusting the stranger alone up there with his stuff, even if all that will remain is the two M1911 magazines on the dresser. The rest was down here. Both the shotgun and rifle were brought inside, leaned up against a corner between the closest book shelf and the west wall. The bandolier was laying on the nearby lounge chair, and though he couldn’t see it, his ear plugs were in their little plastic bag on top of the book shelf with the medical spatula nearby. He groaned; he felt bloody miserable…
She came down, struggling somewhat with the bag and then setting it down against the front of the book shelf, he gave her permission to open it and to get the water bottle. Informing him that it was on the night stand, he realized that he had not put the plastic 1.14L (40oz) liquor bottle which served as his water bottle, in his backpack for something like 4 or 5 days perhaps. He gave a look of incredulity, apologized, and she went back up. This time getting both the water bottle and the blanket. Leaving again, having locked the door before closing it, Veronica was sticking her head out of the door.
“Tiff!” She whispered, and was met with a vicious wave of her injured hand to get back in the room. The angry face did not appear to be one that was interested in dealing with her at the moment. She was fit to bust! She needed to piss, and hunger? God… so hungry… the way her friend was acting though, doting over this man… apologizing to him… just sitting there as he yells at her. This was the woman who had taught her to hold feminist beliefs, to stand up when a man raises his voice, that no man had the right to talk down to a woman, or to abuse her, whether it be physically, emotionally, or verbally!
This was ridiculous! The woman walked back and forth in the room, hiking boots still on, having put them on as soon as she woke up. What had happened to this strong and independent female. Often showing no attention to men unless she seen some slim, muscled hunk on the TV or something, making some comment on how she’d just like to jump on him. Though if such a man were on one of her crime shows where they were tracking down someone who murdered, assaulted, or raped a woman, then such a big and strong man would quickly be assumed to be the murderer, no matter how handsome.
The pacing continued. Downstairs, she helped him drink water after draping the thick blanket on top of him, tipping the bottle to his mouth, going terribly slowly, and amazingly managed to give him a few mouthfuls without spilling down his face. She quickly drank a good bit in turn. Only a quarter of the bottle left, she would have to boil more, just as he had done daily. Next he needed food but she told him that she had to deal with Nicky first, won’t take long. Up she went, opened the door, and the younger woman quickly walked to her in the doorway wishing to go outside to take a leak. After a short exchange the two headed downstairs. Richard was watching… and watched keenly as his shooter appeared.
If felt as though his heart should be racing, that he should be ready to get up, to stand up to her, to give her a piece of his mind, possibly even take his Lee Enfield and show her what it feels like! His heart didn’t race, though. The man believed that an attempt to get up would only cause further dizziness and pain than he already felt, no doubt resulting in falling down, further harming his shoulder. He did all he could to try and ignore the incredible pain, and then all wishes to get up and face her disappeared. She still had her rifle, and he recognized it now, it looked just like the rifle that Tiffany had tried to shoot him with about a week ago when they first met! Only, it had a scope.
His body trembled, eyes wide, trying not to show the fear but no doubt some of it got through, however hoped that it was mostly anger that was being shown. Instructed not to look at him, the instructions weren’t followed, and feeling eyes on her the woman who stood tall looked to where the eyes came from. That bulky man was giving such an off-putting glare, looking sickly pale, trembling, and she assumed from enragement. “Whatchoo lookin’ at, white boy?” It was said with utter disgust at the one she injured.
“VERONICA!” his woman screeched, turning immediately, outraged that she not only looked at him but also spoke to the one she almost killed! “GET OUT! YOU NEARLY KILLED HIM!”
He wanted to mutter ‘not much’ back to her, and so angry was he that, though he did not consider himself a racist, the thought had crossed his mind to spit that oh-so-terrible N-word at her, but even in this situation that thought was quickly crushed. The man said nothing, too dizzy, too weakened, and though he didn’t want to admit it, also too fearful. She would easily end him with another shot, Hell, he was so pitiful that she could just stand on his chest and stomach until he passed out from Oxygen deprivation then simply plugging his nose and keeping his mouth shut until he stopped struggling to breath would finish him off. He was, in a word, helpless, and it was not something he was used to feeling.
The fellow just kept staring at her, doing his best not to look scared, and eventually she was shooed out. Knowing that there was no way she could get some food from them after that, she started heading back west towards Strathcom, not knowing what other option she had.
“TSS!” Tiff subtly called to her after some internal debate, Nick turned around, back stiff, face hard, not knowing what she was to face. She was gestured over. It was obvious
she didn’t really want to do it, but may as well. The meat of the deer wasn’t smelling too good now, wasn’t even sure if it was truly safe to eat but the young woman had clearly shown interest in it earlier, so offered her to cut some off for herself since there was clearly quite a bit that wouldn’t be eaten. It was accepted, and pulling out a hunting knife that was in a leather sheath on her left hip via a cross-draw method she sliced a chunk off. Nodded her thanks, she left, not wanting to alert the one she shot that she was still around. First though, Veronica had to answer the call of nature on the side of the bridge where she’d hid from him as he fought. It was like a small battlefield, perhaps after a bout between skirmishers; so many corpses littered about.
He visibly relaxed after she left his sight… the writhing he had done, the yelling, the effort to hide his fear from his vulnerable position on the floor, it felt as though he ran a marathon. The ‘bandages’ on his shoulder were faintly getting some fresh redness but it couldn’t be helped, there’s no way he could face more cauterization, not that he had been conscious before when it was done.
Tiff returned to him once the front door was locked, double checked that the back door was too, and then had a look in the fireplace; still good, but tossed in another junk. The pile outside was slowly, but steadily, diminishing… under normal circumstances they would probably ration the wood and just deal with the coolness somehow, but her man was still shivering, this time from cold, even though she found it to be a pleasant temperature.
“What do you want to eat?... think the meat is still good?” She asked meekly, though trying to sound cheerful.