Living Amongst The Dead (Book 2): Dark Days

by J. N. Morgan

  “September 10th, huh?” Tiff crossed out ‘10/08’ from a page in his notebook that had dozens and dozens and dozens of such three and four-number combinations ranging from back when the first number was a 2. ‘10/09’ hadn’t been filled because he didn’t write it down yesterday morning, what with the whole ‘being shot’ thing. In the notebook were various scribbles of firearms, some of them showing the sides, just doodles, but most of them showed the insides of the designs. A few of them being real designs, from memory, but he informed her of a good few that were his own. Aspirations to be an arms developer, with a dream to make a design so cost effective yet also reliable, accurate, and ambidextrous, that the Canadian Armed Forces couldn’t help but to adopt it. Who knows, maybe other nations as well.

  Anyways, ‘10/10’ was written down. It wasn’t long after having clunked open the bottle of preserved deer meat which had to have woken up Nick, what with bashing it against the top of the book shelf. Of course more water as well, he had hoped that this time his urine will be more clear rather than a bright yellow. Staying hydrated was always important to him but now that he was in this state, he figured it was more important than ever. Ultimately the doodles and drawings didn’t interest the woman much, but still asked about the ones that weren’t showing internals.

  M1 Rifle aka the M1 Garand. SVT-40. SKS-45. AKM, which was a more modern, more common, and lighter AK-47 variant that fired the same cartridge. He was a wealth of knowledge on the firearms, giving names of designers, dates when they were worked on, sometimes names of prototypes, little tidbits of information like the SKS-45, though it didn’t start mass production until the late 1940s or so, had prototypes tested during the capture of Berlin in WWII. Then the STV-40 which he said was better and worse than the M1 Rifle in a variety of ways. He found it more complex to disassemble but it also had a fixed compensator to reduce recoil as well as a gas adjustment that came standard so it could use a variety of different rounds while the M1 Rifle was typically restricted to just M2 Ball .30-06. A good round, but still restricting none the less since it wouldn’t function well with hotter or weaker ammunition.

  Then the SVT was lighter but the M1 Rifle had arguably better sights, and the SVT had difficulty with vertical shot dispersion at longer distances which he figured was due to either the short-stroke gas system or the fact that the barrel seemed to be sort of separated into two parts, but admitted that he could be mistaken in that. Either way, the M1 Rifle had a better track record for precision to his knowledge. Not quite to the point of a bolt action but the long radius aperture sights with the full length gas piston which prevented any parts from moving until the bullet left the bore, seemed to lend itself to better precision than the SVT was capable of. Still, humbly, he admitted that he had only gone to 300m at the farthest at the shooting range, though was confident that he could manage 400m but only on a big man-sized target.

  500m?... he’d have to judge the range just right, have no wind whatsoever, they’d have to be completely exposed and completely still, while standing up, and maybe, just maybe, he might hit the target somewhere. Maybe on the foot, or maybe in the forehead, there was no way he could put the bullet exactly where he wanted it from that distance with his skill level but it was maybe possible for him to reach half a kilometer, which was 550yd. He was self-taught; nobody taught him how to shoot, only how to handle a firearm safely when he got his license. She listened patiently and though it wasn’t her favourite subject; the majority of what he was saying going in one ear and out the other, she sat with a smile on her face while nodding her head at points.

  Eventually she mentioned that she wanted to get her breakfast, she was hungry, and Richard apologized for having talked to her for so long when he had already eaten yet she had not. Veronica listened to almost everything. She had indeed awoken when the Mason jar was being opened, crept out towards the top of the stairs in her underwear, feeling it plenty warm enough to do so inside without feeling cold, and listened. Heard her friend make a quiet remark that she hoped wouldn’t wake her up upstairs. The man had just scoffed, commented that he didn’t trust her, which Tiff understood but reinforced that she knew Nicky, knew her to be a good person deep down even though she did what she did. He conceded, begrudgingly, and said that he’ll give her a chance but only because she had taken care of the lovely woman before him. There were no utterances of racial comments, not even a mention that she was black let alone dropping the N-bomb.

  Kneeling there above the stairs, out of sight, changing to sitting, the dark woman wearing only red silk panties listened as they had their quiet conversation, listened to the slow, struggling way that he spoke, yet also heard the modesty, honesty, and respect he showed her. Also not lost on this young woman was the way she spoke with respect to him, with longing, and even gagged at sexual comment that each other exchanged. Thankfully the gag was muffled enough for them not to have even noticed. The African-Canadian was slim, yes, but there was tone all over her body, and if she flexed there would undoubtedly be abs at her core. Thin body, yet she was neither lacking nor excessive on her rump, very nice, and though her chest were about A sized, likely not B though it was perhaps a possibility, they were shapely in spite of their modesty.

  Perhaps slightly oversized areolas in comparison to the breasts on which they were, but had the man downstairs seen them he’d have nothing but compliments to offer for either breast, areolas, or nipples which were presently erect. It was indeed fairly warm but they tended to harden whenever not covered by clothing or blankets. She found it somewhat exciting; in a strange house, with a woman she knew along with a man she didn’t. A fantasy came to her, Tiff showing up at the base of the stairs before the young woman could move away. The pale female looked to her man, and then up to the woman, blushing red, and went up to her. They embraced, they kissed, the older one’s hand going down to red silk and rubbing tight femininity. The hand was pulled away, her injured one gently going up where the other would be pinned on the wall, the black woman taking control as white lips were taken, kissed, their bodies coming together, slim hardness with slightly chubby softness, a smooth black thigh coming up to her crotch.

  Veronica’s head was shaken, getting the fantasy out of her mind and trying to ignore the heat building up between her legs as she listened as the two downstairs talked about firearms now. Well mostly the man talking about it and her roommate listening, occasionally asking a simple question to carry it on. A lot of the particularly detailed things went over her head but a lot of the simpler aspects of firearms were understood. Terms went by like ‘barrel’, ‘action’, ‘gas piston’, ‘aperture sights’, and also recognized a few names of the firearms though not all of them. It was getting to the point that she was tempted to go down and try to join in the conversation but obviously that was not in the cards… she had nearly killed him… patience would have to be taken but already it was decided to do what she could to help.

  He clearly knew firearms, and since all this has happened she dearly wished to know how to reload ammunition. Slinking back to the bedroom, hearing things moving about in the kitchen below the room she stayed in, she got back in bed and rested though unable to get back to sleep.

  Once breakfast was finished, she found him to be fast asleep once more, belly full again, and hating the need to do so Tiff knelt down beside him with a plate of pancakes and put the back of her hand to his face. Warm breath on the backs of her fingers, good, though his breathing was still so shallow… from the kitchen, he looked completely still, worryingly still, and felt no comfort from the fact she had the pistol down the back of her pants. If he turned she wouldn’t be able to shoot him; she knew it. Disgusted at the thought, she knew Nick could, and knew both that Richard would despise the thought of her shooting him again as well as the fact that if she did, which of course she would have to, it would none the less tarnish their already struggling friendship. If he died, let alone turned, it would be Veronica’s fault, and combined with her killing him again when he turn
ed, it would be hard to look her in the eye.

  Getting the unpleasant thoughts out of her head, she passed by the coffee table on which her pancakes sat for the time being to bring her friend up another, smaller plate. All the time they spent together in that town to the west she always had larger meals, so the trend carried on. The elbow to which her injured hand connected knocked on her door gently, she answered, topless. “Oooo, pancakes? Mmmm…”

  “Niiiiick… you couldn’t put on your bra first?”

  “Whaaaat? You know I don’t like sleeping in those.” The plate of food was graciously accepted, licking her lips, having not had them in probably over a year. The lack of syrup was unfortunate but fully understandable.

  “While I’ve got a man in the house, I’d appreciate you staying covered…”

  “What, will ‘the man’ be lost to his baser urges to dominate women and be unable to resist taking me like some slave from Afric-”

  “Veronicaaaaa…” The elder of the house said reprovingly, “you know he’s not really all that into skinny chicks; he might not even want anything to do with you sexually… besides… I keep him plenty satisfied. Or at least I would if he wasn’t…” She seen the pained expression in the woman’s face, a ‘slice’ of pancake having been cut off with the fork and presently being chewed in her mouth and the tears began to develop, though not yet fall. Slender though firm arms left the plate of breakfast on the bed to wrap themselves around the hurting friend.

  “You know, I… I have to…” she was sobbing, but whispering so he wouldn’t hear her downstairs if he’d have gotten up. “… I have to put my hand… in front of his mouth and nose sometimes… just to check if he’s still breathing… it’s so weak that I can’t even tell if his chest is still rising and falling from the kitchen, I… God damn it, Nick, why?... why…” It was all kept to a whisper, but a weak fist came to the dark one’s chest in frustration.

  “I’m sorry, Babushka… really, I am… you know I hate to see you hurt like this…” She sobbed in silence in friendly embrace, though a little comforted at the old inside joke that was one of the nicknames she’s been given by her roommate. Nicky hugged her tight, her heart was racing, mind going hazy as she felt the tears on her flesh from this woman, felt the shuddering of her soft body against her, seen the red dyed hair before her, heard the silent weeps, and it was driving her mad. The hands on her back rubbed, rubbed needingly, the tall body moving against the larger woman’s body as though to get closer but also was developing a suggestive motion.

  “Tiff… Tiff please… you know… you know how I get… when…” In sudden realization she stepped away from her quickly, wiping her face, eyes wide, trying to get the mistiness of tears out of her vision. “I’m sorry…” She was breathing heavily, arms somewhat outstretching from when they’d been embracing and wishing to be embraced again. “God you’re so fuckin’-” the words were cut off as lips were taken, the dyed brunette pushed against the wall next to the closed door of the storage room, her fantasy was coming to fruition. A smooth, black leg came up between pudgy pale ones that were sheathed in grey material, rubbing up against womanhood that ached for the wounded man downstairs.

  “MMM!” She tried to speak in protest, eyes wide, right hand struggling against a hand that was now at her much larger breast, about D sized, and though the left was a tad bigger than the right it was such a faint difference that the man who had been laying with her for these days hadn’t even noticed, or if he did then he didn’t say anything about it. It made her feel good since she thought that anyone would notice the second they looked. Even Nick, who seen her chest, didn’t catch on until the half a dozenth or so time. Left arm, hand wounded, tapped against the thin though strong right arm that was connected to her left breast.

  POW, having been on tiptoes trying to get that knee out of her crotch her own right one came up, right between Nick’s open legs. She gave a surprisingly low grunt at the sudden strike, heels bouncing off the ground until all that connected her to the carpet was tippy toes, and then the heels swiftly came right back down as the leg dropped. She staggered back, mouth gaping, eyes wide though focused at nothing, hands shooting down to cup her silk panties and then she was given a push. Falling back, her hands came away from her groin to brace herself for impact. She was breathing hard, both from arousal as well as from shock at what just happened.

  “Don’t you ever try that again! EVER!” It was almost shrieked, finger pointing down to the pushy female. Head lowering, she nodded meekly, hands going to her groin again as she curled up somewhat there on the floor. The door was slammed and she went to go downstairs, but slowed to a stop just beyond the door to the Master bedroom, leaning against the wall, praying that Richard didn’t hear that but surely he had… and sure enough there came his pitiful cries. “Tiffany… Tiffany!... TIFF!…” Just the effort of yelling was winding him, hardly getting a hoarse outdoor-voiced call to her. She tried to compose herself and went downstairs.

  “What hap-?... are you?...” the eyes were dulled from weakness but there was obvious concern, his left hand had gotten its way out from under the blanket and was reaching past himself to his right, towards her, right arm staying still.

  “Oh baby, no, it’s nothing… it’s nothing…” she rushed over to him, easily pushing his arm down to his side to rest it then laying her right hand on the blanket over his chest, stoking the hand side to side though of course keeping well away from his shoulder.

  “It didn’t… sound… like nothing… did she… hurt-”

  “No! No-no, swee-… honey…” she nearly used that nickname he didn’t like. “Just girl things, I promise… everything is fine… and hey, I always have thiiiiis...” She pulled the sidearm from behind her in her right hand, pointing the muzzle off to the right so he can see the left side of it and she was able to flick the safety down with a click, then back up with another, though it took her a bit of strain. His thumb could manage it easily when he had been well, but it was a bit stiff for those not used to it. He smiled, glad that she kept it in mind, though hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “Finger…” she brought it away from the trigger. “You might… have shot… the wall…”

  “I’m sorry, I’m still learning…”

  “You’re doing… good, but… if she’s… starting figh-”

  “Nooo, nothing like that, relax baby, just relax, everything is fine… you look tired.” The M1911A1, safety reengaged, was slipped back into the back of her pants but outside her panties; the metal felt cold.

  “You should… holster…” he said, weakly pointing to where she had discarded it beside him when his pants were removed. She accepted, taking the flat tube of black leather, wider at the top than the bottom, and with the flat black metal clip on the side it latched onto the slim belt on her pants. The clip had an angle at the end of it to latch onto the bottom of a belt, but the metal after that was angled away so fingers can easily scoop in under the clip to lift it off the belt. It was on her hip quite sturdily now. The leather didn’t feel bad on her skin at all, and slipping the pistol in, barely any metal touched it, which was pleasant. A strip of leather at the top, connected to the half touching her hip right now, was sticking up and had a snap button on it. On a stiffer bit of leather that was sticking up on the OTHER half of the holster, facing her, was the female half of the snap button ready to accept the male half on the more limp strip.

  She put it in, and tucking the limp strip of leather between the side of the pistol and the female snap, she squeezed and the strip of leather secured the sidearm in his holster. Tugging on the frame/grip, it wouldn’t budge from her hip. Pushing the thick and stiff bit of leather on which the female snap sat, it undid the snap and allowed her to pull the pistol out. It was only pulled out partially just to test it, and her face was pleased at the effect of this holster. Letting the firearm back down to secure it in place once more, testing the stiff leather again and hearing the snap become undone, she then squeezed it to snap it
back in place. Very nice.

  Looking back at the one who owned both the pistol and the holster it was in, he was asleep again. Features soft, facing towards his right towards the stairs, eyes closed, mouth hanging open slightly, and she could just barely see his torso expanding and contracting with light breaths. She ate her breakfast, marveling at the comfort that the holster gave her in spite of the hefty weight of the pistol within, and the secure way it held it in the process, then went upstairs.

  “Come on.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Just come…” her aim was just to get the woman out of the house for now. She respected her sexuality, the fact that she was only interested in women. It was fine by her, but the experimenting they had done with each other showed that Tiff just wasn’t into females and Nick knew this, but lost herself. Now dressed, plate left on the bed, she followed the woman of the house downstairs, catching only a brief glance at the sleeping man who practically already looked dead before they went out the door that was held open for her. She wanted to go back inside and slam the door on her but hated the thought of losing her friend as well, so the door was closed briskly as they both stood outside in the cool morning air.

  “I don’t want you to ever try that agai-”

  “I said I’m SORRY! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’M SORRY!”

  “Keep your VOICE down! He’s SLEEPING in there!” She whispered, taking the younger woman by the sleeve of her new coat and guiding her away from the house, heading to where she had her fire last night.