Living Amongst The Dead (Book 2): Dark Days

by J. N. Morgan

  The Sun was on its dip to the west as the day wore on. Johnathan Winters came in after an hour or so. The meat was cold, but he accepted the meager meal. The impromptu nurse sat on the floor next to her patient to allow the man to sit down on one of the two cushions of the couch. It was silent when he took his seat, and they watched him. His composure had improved much, looked calm, but very straight-forward. Posture was confident, knowing, almost commanding. He may have been smaller in height compared to the black woman sitting on the northern side of the couch to his left while he in the south, but every inch of him took control of the room quite quickly.

  “This is my house… my home…” his naturally rough voice said, as though they already knew it and he were reminding them. “I will allow you to stay as long as necessary. I think until uh… Morgan?...”

  “Richard…” Tiff meekly corrected him before the fellow himself could give his own name.

  “Richard… I think once Richard is fit enough to travel, that will be a good time to press on. This is the house I was born in… the house I was raised in… the house where my parents lived until their end… and the house that I wish to stay in until my end. This is home, and as such I will not allow strangers to be permanent residents. Only family.” It went unnoticed by the injured one as well as the newly established owner of the house, but it was not beyond Tiffany’s recognition that her friend was quickly reaching her limit; hearing a man they didn’t know simply waltz into the house in which they had arrived beforehand and claiming it for his own in an utterly blatant manner. It was clear why he felt that ownership should automatically go to him, but as far as she was concerned it was just another man trying to be a bigshot. Tiff knew, because it’s how she would have seen it had this happened 2 weeks ago, and it’s how she would have taught the woman early on when they lived together. Infesting her mind with these thoughts of male oppression in a sexist and male-dominated society where woman are kept down by any means necessary. There was no small amount of encouragement necessary either in pushing her to think it was a society and culture of racism too… they had started living together when she was about 21-22, and now 24 years old, there had been plenty of time for those ideals to take root, and they were still there.

  “Thank you…” the wounded fellow managed to get out genuinely, and soon was Tiff’s similar show of appreciation, adding on ‘sir’ to the end of it. Veronica sat quietly on her cushion, the SKS between her thighs as she sat back, giving a slow, cold stare at the salt-and-pepper haired man to her right which went unnoticed by the men, and the glance then slowly returned to straight ahead, looking roughly west-sou-west through the living room window. He nodded, glad that it had gone so smoothly, having established his dominance in spite of his unarmed nature. Tiffany coughed loudly and as brown eyes went to her from the couch it was seen that green eyes were looking intensely right back. A brief scowl before painting a smile on her face, looking at the old white man who she noticed looking at her.

  “Thank you for the rifle…” it was said with a slow nod.

  “Keep it… I hate guns… it was more something to keep people from bothering me than it was to actually use.”

  “You’re a pacifist?” The woman asked pointedly, keeping the false smile that was meant to show a casual air.

  “I don’t believe in violence, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Hahah, interesting time to have such a belief. How many of those things did you kill out there, Nathan?”

  “Nicky…” she said it reprovingly, seeing that she was getting in one of her moods, “and it’s Richard…” the plump woman corrected his name once again.

  “Collectively we must have taken down two dozen out there at least-”

  “Put a… lid on it… Vera-”

  “It’s Veronica or Nicky, you racist fuck, though for you ‘sir Richard’, it’s Miss Veronica-” she was standing now, her voice loudening, “-and you!” Suddenly, quite quickly, before Tiff could try to cut in on her tirade, she looked to the man probably not far from twice her own age who was looking at her indignantly with outrage. “What makes you think you can just barge in here, eat our food, and then start barking orders at us, huh?!” Holding the new rifle by the wooden stock in her left hand, her right arm was gesturing as she spoke down from where she stood. “We got here before you, and this isn’t the world as we knew it you cranky old bastard. The fact you grew up here doesn’t mean shit! We got the guns, and you’ve got nothing, so why should we listen to you, huh?!”

  Her friend was speechless now, just looking up from where she sat, open-mouthed at how all control was lost from the situation so quickly. Similarly, the one who lay next to her was also rendered quite speechless. Johnathan arose slowly, calmly, and faced her, only about a foot between them if that. “This is the house that I was born and raised in, young woman, and you will respect that, or you will kill me where I stand…” she was already taking a step back, anger on her face, shouldering the rifle, finger on the safety, and it clicked as the metal was flicked down and slapped against the back of the trigger guard.

  “VERONICA, NO!” She screamed, hands coming to her mouth in fists, wishing to close her eyes but finding them glued open, and her ‘boyfriend’ was suddenly finding breathing rather difficult, looking up with wide and terror-struck eyes, breathing becoming heavier and heavier, head becoming fuzzy with it.

  “I have lost contact with my sisters and brothers…” he began, staring past the muzzle of the rifle at the woman who was about to kill him without care. “If they still lived, they’d have gotten here well before me. My children were ripped from me, my wife and I have divorced years ago. My flock has scattered, my church burned. The group I was surviving with, all of whom had lost their belief with no intention of finding it once more, whittled down as we travelled north. I was the only one of my brothers and sisters to leave Canada and live in another nation; America. As I said; my siblings would have gotten here by now if they still lived; they all knew that this-” he stamped his foot suddenly, anger showing on his face as he never broke eye contact with ‘Veronica’, who was waiting for this old white fucker to finish his last words. “-was the place we would go if hard times struck, and they have stuck. They were all closer to here than I was.

  “Now, my parents are gone too. All I have left in this world is this house, so if you’re going to take it from me, then you’ll have to shoot me, and you’ll have to do it right here… and right now.” He stepped forward, arms out at either side of him just like the man on the wall above both beds in the home. Like Jesus on his crucifix. The .30 cal muzzle pressed against his chest, between the lapel of his pea coat, against his baby blue dress shirt. The other two in the room watched on in horror.

  “You from the US?” She asked, though it sounded like more of a command than a question.

  “Lived there since the mid-90s… Dearborn, Michigan.” The name of the place twitched an ear; the Newfie knew about it, a fellow by the name of Ash. It would have brought a smile if not for the fact he might be seeing a 123gr bullet going around 2400 ft/s through a man’s ribcage and internal organs soon. .312 cal along the outer portion and within the ridges that the rifling would cut into it, likely around .303 caliber. Of course none of that information would come in handy at this moment. The muzzle was right against the man’s chest, so through him would be shot the bullet and all that controlled explosion along with all the gunpowder residue that went with it. The temporary cavity would be massive from the muzzle pumping everything into him, and would undoubtedly kill him instantly. If by some God-like miracle it didn’t, then infection was guaranteed to do so.

  “Mom came from Detroit. That close?” She stayed firm, looking uncaring, but found herself looking for reasons not to shoot him. He had told her as well as the others some of his history. Even if he hadn’t, she knew that things would be made even worse with the trigger was pulled right now. Externally she wanted to remain hard, tough, and ready to do whatever the Hell she had to. This w
as a threat in her mind, but now it was a threat who had history, and worst of all he was a priest. She was not religious. Not an outright atheist, perhaps an agnostic, but not religious, even though her mom brought her to church there in Strathcom many times in childhood. It was an interesting experience, but the closest she ever came to a ‘religious’ experience was when she discovered why she never did like boys, even into her early teens when puberty set in… when she found out she was a lesbian. It was times when she could let that out, those times when she thought she had ‘religious experiences’, so the female body became her temple, and it was in femininity and womanhood that she prayed even if she didn’t consider herself to be overly feminine.

  “Are we going to have a conversation, or are you going to pull that trigger?” He had no interest in conversing with someone who had a rifle’s muzzle pressed against his body. The firearm was held there for a time as though she were considering it, but in truth it was just to make the others know that she was serious. In short time the firearm lowered, and she sat herself down, flicking the safety back on and let it rest against her left thigh once more, gesturing to the cushion that he had sat on. The other two in the room visibly sighed in relief, though Father Johnathan merely sat down, no evidence that he was any happier or less so than he had been when death was poking its finger against his ribs.

  Sobbing, Tiffany got up, waving her hands in apology as she went up the stairs, and that calm, ruthless coolness in Veronica faltered as she heard it, then fell as her friend rose. Without looking to the others, she followed the faintly jiggling ass up the steps, feeling genuinely ashamed then at what she did, causing such stress and drama that it cracked the woman she so desired. A door was heard slamming upstairs, it was above them; the Master bedroom, and that same door then was heard opening as the two men watched the ceiling, heard a muffled noise that was a female’s voice, then a louder and thoroughly upset one and the following sounds were even more muffled as that door closed softly. Those mild noises in the silence of the living room was reminiscent of a disappointed mother spewing it on her daughter, who sounded somewhat apologetic but more so defensive, as though she felt her actions were at least a little justified.

  The priest, or pastor, or Father, or whatever his title was, or is if he still preached though it didn’t appear as though he did, appeared unphased and unhumoured by the goings on upstairs. It was not the same for Richard, who listened to the nattering, his heartrate calming, breathing slowing down, and no longer fearing if consciousness would get up and go take a walk. Though a smile didn’t come, had the mood been less intense, he likely would have.

  “Women…” was his weak summation of all that just went on, and it was met with a very odd look from the older man, almost as though the fellow wasn’t right in the head.

  “You consider that a usual manner of interaction for women?”

  “For that one? Kinda… except that… you’re still standing. Who do you suppose did this?” His head with short dark-brown hair and equally dark scruff gestured to his right, to his shoulder. That brought wide blue eyes, with more surprise than had been present when the firearm was at his torso.

  “SHE did that?!” The question was met with a nod, it was now that the smile came, and the older fellow looked to the ceiling, not believing that the person who had injured him so badly was here in the very house, having nearly just killed him as well.

  “I don’t think… she particularly… cares for men…” the pale and ever-winded fellow explained.

  “Uh huh… and she called you a racist?” On the man’s torso, his weak left arm rose and fell, almost like a shrug but without the use of shoulders.

  “I’ve never… said anything racist… to my… knowledge…” it was feeling as though he were getting to speak a little more quickly. More words between breaths, his shoulder was beginning to grow more pained however, probably would be good to have some more painkillers soon and so looked forward to his girl’s return. Well… ‘girl’… strange thing for a man to call a woman nearly a decade his senior, but looked forward to her coming back all the same.

  “Hmm…” a pretty basic reply, he didn’t really know what to say to that. “What’s all this mess, anyways? Looks more like an impromptu garage rather than an impromptu hospital.” Johnathan gestured to the hand press, various dies, the sleeve of primers that was open, and so on. It all looked unfamiliar to him. “Looks like they’re going to turn you into Inspector Gadget or something.” The old reference brought a brief smile to his face, but it immediately turned a 180 and a look of sadness came over him. Perhaps one of his kids were a fan.

  “Hah, yeah… go-go gadget… 10 inch hogey…” a brief and mild chuckle came from the religious or previously religious man, but it seemed to be only done out of pity, to not let the bad joke be left in embarrassing silence. “It’s for… reloading; making ammo. We’re out of… powder, though.” It was met with a mild and disapproving ‘oh’, it would seem the concept of making ammunition under his roof was a less than pleasant one to grasp. “So you were… a priest? Or are a priest?”

  “Were. First Anglican, then converted to Catholicism, but like everyone else it’s hard not to question things in a time like this.”

  “Bloody turncoat…” the greying fellow’s bright blue eyes turned to the one on the floor and seen the grin. It was meant in jest, clearly. “Anglican me-… meself. Never was… much of a churchgoer. Still, He’s in… the back of me mind… every now and… then.”

  “Newfie?”

  “Eh, b’y.” A smile that stuck came to the older fellow now, though slim as it was. What had just been said was a bit of slang from the island. It essentially meant ‘yeah, buddy’, and the ex-priest knew it.

  “One of my sisters married a Newfoundlander, he loved his drink and always had stories to tell. As crazy as some of them were, he didn’t seem like the type that would lie.” He was sitting back on the couch now, finally looking somewhat relaxed, looking out the window to the east.

  “Well take it… from a Newf… every word the man said… was an honest to goodness… lie.” A chuckle then, and the teller of the joke shared in one as well, glad to be chipping away at the man’s walls a little. “Thanks again… for letting us stay.”

  “Just until you’re back on your feet.” He was rigid about it, but that was fine. There was no intention to stay permanently, however it did bring up some issues.

  “So you don’t like… to use firearms?”

  “No… they’re too violent for my tastes. I recall once back when I was a kid that I had gone to a camp. Can’t remember the name of it now, but one of the things we tried was archery. That… now that I had enjoyed. I doubt I could use it against those unfortunate people who have ‘changed’, but it was something I had always wanted to get back into as a hobby.” This was more information than he had really wanted, and the fact he just called walkers ‘people’ was very disconcerting. It was a wonder that he had survived this long, but he mentioned having been with a group so it must have been with their help that he managed to continue living without using any ‘violence’, or at least while using as little as possible.

  “You won’t survive… for very long without… a means of… defending yourself.” It was said as a good-natured warning.

  “I’ve got my house now. I’m safe in here.”

  “Just a few days… ago, over twenty… of those buggers… came out of the woods… from Strathcom.” The warning was becoming more direct and serious. Less gentle. Looking up to the window over the TV, “They could have… gotten through that… or… with enough… could break through… the front or back… door. Maybe both if… there’s enough.” In truth he wasn’t entirely certain that one or both of the doors could be broken down with enough walkers pushing on it, but they could definitely break through the windows. The back door had two slim windows side by side which was far too small, but the front door’s window was big enough for a slim figure to slip through, for sure. The point is, you sho
uld prepare for the worst possibilities, the worst case scenario. As the good old saying goes; ‘hope for the best, prepare for the worst’.

  “Well if I’m to be taken, then let them take me… you truly murdered over 20 of them?” The first bit was said defiantly, however then the question came which was spoken in a manner both in disbelief as well as in worry for his mental wellbeing.

  “You cannot murder… what is already dead.”

  “They’re still people, though!” The reply was incredulous.

  “They’re corpses… stiff… they’re bloody rotters. What they want… is to kill; to take life, to feast on flesh… that won’t serve… to keep them going. THAT… is murder.” The older man merely shook his head, a frustrated sigh coming from him. Richard had the feeling that it wasn’t the first time that the fellow had been told something like this, that it was a conversation he had on other occasions in the past, and it wasn’t something he was ready to believe in spite of things that he had seen. “If I… were to ever turn, then I would want… someone to shoot me… in the head… and THAT… is God’s honest truth.”

  “The shoulder isn’t enough for you?” This sarcastic comment was met with a face of exasperation followed by the shake of his head. The injured fellow merely looked at the ceiling, feeling as though there was no point in carrying on with the conversation, or at least not on this topic.

  “You ought to… get a staff… or something.”

  “What, like Moses?”

  “No, like a… Buddhist Monk.” Johnathan’s head went sideways at this comment, not understanding, but liking the intonation of it. “They train with their… staffs. Know how to… use them… for self-defence. I would… suggest sharpening a spear, but I think you would… prefer blunt weapons… rather than stabbing ones.” A slow nod after giving it some thought. Whether a long stick could offer enough impact to break through skull or at least cause some serious damage to a brain, he didn’t know. “At least, if you… get in a bad situ-… situation… then you can go down… fighting. Don’t give up.” It was merely met with a shrug, but it seemed like the fellow would give consideration to it at least.