by J. N. Morgan
“Yeah, that, where’s the press?” His eyes narrowed at her, not fully trusting her, suddenly afraid that she would reach around the book shelf to where his Lee Enfield stood bayoneted.
“Wh-… why?...” it was clearly suspicious, obviously afraid she’ll just take it or something even though she’s not stolen anything yet, except for the temporary use of his arm… and well… whole body until he can get back into shape, really.
Ignoring the implication that she intended theft, she elaborated. “Doesn’t it have to be, like, attached to a bench or something?”
“Usual-… lee… yes.” He was nervous, uncomfortable, feeling anxious, breathing heavily, it was harder to get out longer words; even ‘usually’ which merely had 4 syllables. “But mine… is… a hand… press…”
“Oh?” With a spoonful of beans halfway up from the can to her mouth, she stopped it, looking at him curiously and with intrigue, but also a bit skeptical. “Where is-… can I see it?” Changing tactics, instead of just asking where it is, she conceded to instead get permission to see it.
“Tiff…” she approached.
“Yes, Richard?” Figured it’d be good to use his name a bit more often around Nick so she can stop calling him the wrong name. It’s happened a few times now, though of course mostly outside of earshot of him because they typically didn’t talk around the injured man.
“Backpack… it’s red… looks like… nutcracker… big… nutcracker…” he said it a bit jokily, intentionally. Tiffany laughed at it, Veronica gave a smirk and a breath of air quickly from her nose, an inaudible chuckle, but still looking a bit skeptical however still interested. She leaned back as her friend struggled with the awkwardness of reaching over at arm’s length for the pack, figuring it best not to touch it. She sat down near the foot of his ‘mattress’ and began rooting around. Two empty Mason jars were produced, the box for the Lyman 500 powder measure, the little box of 20 bullets, the blue thin-cardboard sleeve which he knew had 42 CCI Large Rifle primers, and the plastic case with a red bottom and clear top with the four dies as well as the seat for the .303 rims on the press along with a little yellow plastic powder scoop that had greyed from so much use in scooping the cylindrical granules of smokeless powder.
Then out came the ‘nutcracker’; she had it by one end, it was open, and turning it to get a better look it closed with a clack. He seen the motion in his peripherals and had anticipated it, but the sudden noise made Tiff jump with a squeak. Nick gave the hint of a jump at the sound of it, almost anticipating a small bang from maybe a hidden primer going off or something, she had no idea what to expect; just seen a few pictures of presses online and they were always attached to benches. It was passed to Veronica, and under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be worried but seeing the somewhat heavy metal device in her hand, imagery came to his mind of her beating him in the face with it over and over until he lay dead. Such thoughts couldn’t help but enter him… he had very nearly died from this woman’s influence and his feeling of unease, though lessening as he seen her acting casually rather than yelling at him and pointing her rifle, would not leave him.
The tall woman, still sitting, the half can of beans she had left on the carpet at her side with the spoon resting in it, handled the ‘hand press’; opening and closing it. Opening it brought a guided piston down, which was clearly oiled, and closing it brought it up. The only thing above this piston was a cylindrical hole attached to one of the ‘nutcracker’ arms and it was threaded inside. “I don’t get it…” she admitted, and there was some mild frustration heard as she did so.
“Tiff…” both women looked down to him, he continued looking at the ceiling. “Dies… they are… in a plastic… box.” she held one up high above where she sat, hoping he could see it. He could, and nodded, wishing he could sit up. There was some struggling from the man, some moving, but careful movement; there was tension on his face as he focused, trying to keep from moving his right shoulder. The left hand managed to move the blanket away from itself, then his woman leaned over to him, grasping the blanket he was trying to get out of the way and pulled. A bit too hard, it exposed his upper left torso, from his beer belly to his barrel chest, and Nick looked away; a look of distaste on her.
“Tiff!”
“Sorry!” She got up, crawling over him, moving the blanket so it went back to covering his stomach and chest but tucking it in under his left arm pit. “Sorry, baby… didn’t mean to.”
“It’s not… a free show!” She giggled, and though disliking what she had seen, still looking to her right towards the couch and the things on the coffee table, his shooter smirked. “Could at… least buy me… Dinn-… oh…” About to say that she could at least buy him Dinner, he was looking awkwardly down at the coffee table himself, realizing she had indeed brought food and Tiffany outright laughed as he finished slowly. “She already-… already has…” Smiling as well, Nick was however getting tired of this jokey, almost flirty bullshit. With a stuck-on smile, she looked down to him.
“So you mentioned ‘dies’? I assume you don’t mean to, like, recolour something here.” Her head shook as her hands came to either side of her, gesturing to the various things that came out of the bag as well as things around him, then catching her eye on the rifle and leaning forward towards him, looking around the corner of the book shelf at it.
“Ahem…” he managed not to hurt himself this time, but tried to get her attention back at him, a pointed look being jabbed up to her from where he lay, eyes quite open and intense, obviously showing he disliked her eyeing his rifle.
“Lee Enfield, right? I found some of your .303 casings outside, I knew it looked familiar!” A real attempt at sounding cheerful and friendly, though it was more or less just to try and get him to loosen up and tell her what she wanted to know. He didn’t smile back at her now welcoming and agreeable features.
“My nineteen… forty two… Number Four… Mark One slash… Two… Lee Enfield… refurbished… in nineteen fif-… fifty one… I suspe-… pect… for the Korean… War.” Her eyebrows raised, jaw dropping in her mouth though her mouth staying shut, bobbing her head up and down, showing… perhaps exaggerated… but still a quite real display of being impressed at the information.
“Do you mind if I-?”
“NO!-GGH- AHHHHHH! JAYSUS… FUCKIN’… CHRIIIIST!” His right arm had bobbed within the blanket, going up, his face showing shock as her arm came only a little bit forward, though clearly intent on reaching around to his rifle. It panicked him, that little motion, and sent pain into his shoulder like never before. His voice roared in agony, tears springing to his eyes, and the sudden volume of it all shot Veronica quickly to her feet in alarm, grabbing her can of beans as she got up, and not quite so nimbly, Tiff arose as well, though if anything with more alarm.
“RICHARD WHAT IS IT?!” He wouldn’t stop yelling, left arm weakly reaching up to the wound.
“SHOULDER… GOOOOOOOD… SHOULDER! Ahuh… ahuh… ahuh… NNNNNNN-FUCK! Aha-haw-haw-haw-hawwww… CHRIST…” he was sobbing, eyes firmly shut, teeth clenched as tight as can be, spittle spraying out as he frustratedly muffled out Jesus’ last name. Something must be broken in his arm for it to be this bad, but she had no idea how to check… how to know… or how to help with anything. She looked back at Nicky who was looking on with utter shock and horror. ‘You should go...’ his amateur nurse mouthed to her, then not wanting her to get the wrong impression, looked back to her again and specified ‘Outside!’ Then immediately brought her attention back to him.
The nimble black woman easily evaded around the two, boots on, and struggled with the back door as she unlocked it and went outside… then came right back in again. Tiff looked at her exasperatedly as his moans and cries began to die down; Nicky was looking around desperately for a weapon, she knew what the problem was, and then looked upwards, wishing for a break, wondering how this morning could start so fucking good and now go so fucking bad?! The shovel in the southwest corner of the kitchen, the o
ne used to bury the folks out back, she grabbed it and headed out. ‘Tunks’ were heard as she tried her best to comfort him, “shh-shh-shh-shh-shhhhh, it’s ok, Richard, it’s ok baby, please…” his forehead was kissed, her bandaged left hand carefully stroking his hair while her right hand cupped his left cheek.
Out he went, and there was fresh blood on his bandaging just when she thought the bleeding might have stopped. The tears she was holding back came out, leaning forward, head resting on the center of his torso, left arm resting down on her lap, right arm laying on him as well, elbow bent to let her forearm rest above her head, hand on his left chest. She was sick of all this hardship, but tried to remind herself that it wasn’t her pain, that she wasn’t the one who could die here, but it didn’t seem to comfort her at all.
Outside, the bloodied spade was tossed to the grass, two walkers with good distance between each other were down, heads a gory mess, some blood splatter on the woman’s black clothing and a little bit on her forearms and hands. There were goosebumps from the cold morning, she rubbed her triceps, the outside of her upper arms, hoping that he will calm down soon. Soon she could not hear any more screams or cries… the sight of such a large man crying… somehow it had shaken her. She adored the thought of men in pain, of weeping, but normally she pictured them as, at most, her height, and just as skinny as her and without any body hair. They were rather small men, almost feminine looking, but he was an image of masculinity. She couldn’t get the picture out of her mind and it bothered her, walking back and forth briskly to try and warm herself up as well as to take her mind off what she had witnessed, and it was her fault.
It hit her hard; knowing that what she just seen was her fault, somehow even more than the fact she had shot him. Knowing that his sudden motion caused by her harmless gesture to the rifle had been her fault, it horrified her, and she remembered and reminded herself that the bullet wound itself was her fault… what was happening?! She shook, not from the cold but from oncoming emotions, extreme emotions, utter regret, tears were welling up and she fell to her knees, hands coming to her face as she gave some weeps she could not control.
She had shot people before, mostly men, and she never regretted it. Especially the one who had tried to rape her, but this?... to see this suffering, this torture, this unknowing if he was going to live or die, knowing that it would crush Tiff if he went, knowing that his knowledge might be lost without him, possibly not getting to find out where his faint but still weird accent came from; who was he? Was there more to him that met the eye? Why was her friend so enamored with him? Is it just because she wanted a baby from him, or was it more? If he lived, would he try to shoot her to get revenge? If the three of them made this a long term thing and he survived, would he ever trust her? Could they ever trust each other?
The tears and the sobbing kept on, wishing so much that she could go back and change the day she had arrived. He had joked… HE HAD JOKED! Right in front of her, he was joking, and Tiffany was laughing with him! What would it have been like if she didn’t shoot him? Would he have joked about not knowing she was so close to him by the bridge? Would Tiff have joked that he has some competition now because she was, by the sounds of it, possibly the only person she’s ever intimately kissed other than him? Would they have laughed, had a few drinks, shared stories, and would they have welcomed her to take the guest room? She honestly thought so… and it killed her, the thought of being greeted in the home, seeing them as a happy couple in these horrible times even if she did want Tiffy for herself. Her right fist hammered on the dew-moistened lawn, then again and again and again and again. He really did seem like a decent guy… maybe it was because he was hurt and vulnerable, or maybe it was because he really is just a dude who wishes the best for her friend… and maybe in being his woman’s friend, he would wish the best for her as well?
The fist in the grass opened, then closed, taking a handful of the greenness. “Nicky?...” bloodshot teary eyes shot up to where she stood in front of the back door, looking at the roommate in obvious turmoil, worry on her face where tears of her own were falling, and the soft woman began running to her younger friend who in turn got up and ran. They embraced, hugging, a fistful of grass still in her right hand as they wept together. That arousal normally achieved so easily with tears did not come, not in this state, this state of grief for what she had done.
“Is he alright?...” it was not his woman asking this, surprisingly enough. The question even surprised the amateur nurse herself.
“Y-yeah… well… no… I don’t know… he passed out again…” the weeping came on again, first from one then onto the other into another bout of tears. Richard lay quietly on his couch-cushion mattress, breathing shallowly.
With the door open, listening for if he woke up, they sat on the bed of the guest room discussing the issue; the desperate situation caused by the lack of proper pain relievers, lack of XRay technology that could show them the state of his bones; if they’re shattered, if there’s bone fragments, if they’re out of alignment… there was just no way to know. His amateur nurse recalled when she bandaged him up, didn’t see anything looking out of the ordinary other than the wound itself with its seared flesh she cauterized. Talked about how, when the bullet went in, it probably brought in gunpowder residue, possibly pieces of his clothing and what not, which could become infectious. It did smell funny, but not like… foul or anything like that, Tiff told her. That might simply be wishful thinking, however. They drank some water and she had a can of beans for herself as well for breakfast. Once he gets up she’ll give him such, or the beef stew if he preferred.
With another bout of fought back sobs, she reflected on how it was starting to feel like saving all this good food for him, it was like serving him his last meals, trying to make him as content and comfortable as possible given the circumstances. They held onto each other and though Veronica had some impure thoughts, as she reflected that she often did, they were shoved to the back of her mind. Apologies came, for gesturing to the rifle, for yelling at him, and of course, for shooting him. Without mentioning them of course, she reflected on others she had killed, before the scope broke on her rifle when Tiff and Richard first met around a week and a half ago (Around 10 days); she’d never seen too much suffering in them. One shot, they’d go down, and if they still moved then another shot was fired, then all their stuff was hers. She’d even mock their corpse after it was done sometimes. Now she could see what a soft point rifle round does to a man, see it in all its pain and misery, and possibly worst of all, how it affects those that care about them.
After some talk they sat quietly, just thinking to themselves on what to do, and in the darker recesses of their minds how to deal with the situation if he doesn’t make it. Tiffany would be destroyed, even more so if her period arrived in the coming couple weeks. There was that underlying sense of betrayal at her friend, perhaps her only friend left in the world; doing what she did to the only man she’s ever really had in her life. If possible, it was made worse by the fact that if he didn’t make it, she would almost assuredly continue to try and make a relationship with her in spite of her unwillingness to do so with a fellow female. For something to do, to try and keep their minds off things, they went out to drag away those corpses that Nicky took down with the shovel.
Another casing was found in the grass on the way back, and bringing it to the grave, that made 8, one of which was marked for a 1/2 LOAD. In his rifle, though neither of them knew it, he had 8+1 rounds with the chambered round being another half load, the other 8 being full power handloaded Mk.VII Ball. All FMJ. “Think that’s all of em?... I can’t remember how many shots he fired…”
“Me neither, he even took a few down with the pointy thing on his rifle.” Tiff was starting to catch on that it’s not proper to call a firearm a ‘gun’. From her friend’s coat pocket, having forgot them, the five shotgun hulls were exhumed and put down on the exposed mound of dirt as well.
“Can’t be right… there was li
ke 20 of those things at least, if not more… I only killed the one. If this is all of them then that makes… 13 shots fired. You think he bayoneted over half a dozen of them?”
“I don’t know, maybe? I… wait, no, he took down a couple at a time with the shotgun.” Nick’s eyebrows raised, looking at the red hulls.
“He never missed?” The brunette with fading red-dyed hair shook her head in response.
“I watched it all from the window in the washroom, and I’m pretty sure that every time he shot, at least one of those things went down… do those bolt rifles usually shoot that fast-?”
“No-ho!” Veronica laughed, shaking her head, “Sounded like a fuckin’ semi-auto to me, or at most some kind of super-fast straight-pull action, but… I mean damn… sure some of those bodies didn’t end up with the round going into the brain, but it looked like each shot neutralized them. He’s a Hell of a shot, gotta give him that… based on where those .303 casings were, he was around 100m or more away from them for the most part. I prefer using optics when going beyond that. Not really needed but… I just find I shoot better with them, but he just used irons.”
Much of what she said went over Tiff’s head, but she nodded, understanding that she was impressed by it, so figured he really must have… fuck… he must be… good. His right shoulder, God damn it, would he still be able to shoulder-fire a rifle when he heals? Will his right arm work as it used to? Will he be able to work the bolt action as fast as before? The arm did move earlier when she reached for the rifle, so like, maybe it wasn’t… well… could an arm be paralyzed from being shot in the shoulder? So many ‘ifs’, so many unknowns, if only they had a doctor present with or without advanced medical equipment; they could at least be sat down and told the various things that might happen as he heals… if he heals… ‘if’… it was rapidly becoming her least favourite two-letter word.