by J. N. Morgan
“You… you monster! I went to school with h-”
“With her?! Is that what you were going to say? With her?!” He was marching towards her now, and with her gore-slickened bayonet, she marched even more quickly towards him. “You don’t fucking get it, do you?! She’s nothing, she’s dead, she’d gut you and eat you if it had half a fucking chance!” She pushed him then, and he stumbled backwards towards the pizza-shaped circle of vomit he’d left on the pavement.
“She’s still a human being-!”
“No she isn’t.” She’d been looking pissed off at him until then, but now the features lost some of their harness. Releasing the buttstock of the rifle, holding it now only in her left hand, her right came up and gestured to him. “She’s nothing. ‘She’ is gone. Whoever ‘she’ was, whoever this ‘Stacy’ was that you knew, is no more.” It was said completely emotionlessly, utterly matter-of-factly. No grey areas; it was all black and white, and she turned to gesture to the corpse that lay on its stomach then. “I don’t care if that was once the mother of your God damn children; she’s eat kids for breakfast if ‘she’ got the chance.”
With all the arguing, a couple more began to approach, coming out of the metaphorical woodwork. She looked to him with anger. He looked back at disgust that she would do and say the things she had. They went off at a slow jog, Johnathan having caught his breath somewhat, to try and lose them in their search for tools to chop down wood with. It felt useless to her. This guy wasn’t going to last long. Hoping to keep him warm in the coming Canadian Winter, it was like being on the sinking Titanic and they were searching for teaspoons to help scoop water out.
His grunts were muffled as he slowly rose to his feet with the aid of Tiffany under his left arm. The last while was spent with her setting him up with a sling going over his left shoulder down across his torso to support his right arm. Bending the elbow at a 90-degree angle was agony simply due to how it influenced his shoulder. Saliva dripped down the corner of his mouth as he bit down on his folded belt, slowly getting up for the first time in a fair while. Now that they were finally alone again, he wanted to try and get back on his feet as it were, but he barely made it to the couch a mere few feet away before he had to rest.
Sweat dripped down his brow, chest heaved for breath as he sat there nude on one of the two cushions, and his amateur nurse quickly went about getting his jeans so as to cover him up. The other two weren’t expected back anytime soon, but still, best to try and keep him covered. The belt fell to his lap as he spat it out of his mouth, gaping for breath as just those few steps seemed to have taken a lot of out him. His woman was nervously nattering this and that as they went, giving encouragement but also skepticism as to whether this was really a good idea or not. Clenching his teeth, he just focused on trying to ignore the searing pain on his shoulder and catch his breath, eye bulging, face red.
“Nnngh… hnnn… hrrrr…” groaning through clenched teeth his left arm gestured past him to the cushioned he’d been on for the past few days. “Nineteen… eleven…” it was forced from his lips, teeth still clenched, more grunting the words than anything. The woman looked strangely from him towards the ‘bed’ under which his pistol was. “PLEASE!” He grunted further, which he twitched at. Movement in his torso sent a fresh bout of pain through him. She fetched the stainless steel side-arm and held it near his left hand.
Grasping it tightly, keeping his finger off the trigger, he let it fall to his lap as he looked down at the right side of it. Turning it over, he seen the safety was still rightly engaged. Yet another grunt and he lifted it, the roughly 3lb or so loaded firearm. It came away from his legs, up, up, and he pointed it towards the TV trying to keep it centered in the middle. It was waving about terribly, sometimes even skimming along the outer corners of the set. He let it fall to his lap once more with a strained curse. Tiffany reached for the firearm to relieve him of it.
“No! No…” Pulling it towards his left, away from her where she knelt just before him to his right not far from the coffee table, he just wanted to hold it for a while… to feel not so fucking helpless. Letting it down on his lap again, turning it to its side once more, his pointer finger went to the safety. He’d handled the firearm left-handed before, just for kicks, and was able to swipe the stiff manual safety off without much difficulty. Now though, he needed to bring his middle finger up to help, and finally it clicked off. Bringing the web of his hand up above the rear sight, his left pointer finger curled down around the safety and was able to at least re-engage it without too much difficulty, but the importance was in being able to take the safety OFF quickly, not turn it ON quickly. Still heaving breath, he leaned back and rested his head against the back of the sofa behind him, teeth still bared and clenched tight.
“Come on, let’s get your pants on, ok?” She said softly up to him, and his response simply came by moving the cold steel of the pistol over to his left rather than having it on his lap. She obediently went about feeding his feet into the pant legs. Thankfully, she noted, in spite of all the strain, the bandaging on his shoulder hadn’t reddened like it did during previous times when he had strained himself. Having to help him to his feet again in order to pull the jeans up along his waist, he refused to let go of the pistol as she pushed him up from under his left arm, and once the pants were done she slipped his black t-shirt over his torso, left arm going through one of the short sleeves while the other was left empty. Obviously he wasn’t going to go through the bother of moving his terribly wounded shoulder just to wear a shirt properly.
By the end of it she was sweating as well, but she grinned broadly at him as he thanked her, looking quite exhausted merely from having moved to the nearby couch and having gotten dressed.
Putting down the glass of watered down vodka that she’d been sneakily enjoying, Tiff sprung to her feet as she went through the access-way to the kitchen. The front door had been opened abruptly and shut quite loudly and unceremoniously, and just when she caught sight of him he was putting two axes down, head-down, leaning their handles against the wall. One was red with a large spike on the back; a typical fire axe, while the other was a more traditional-looking wooden-handled wood axe.
Breathing heavily, sweating equally badly, Johnathan gave only the briefest look at the plump woman before passing her by to head for the living room, sitting down on the lounge chair in the southeast corner near where Richard had been since he arrived. The fact he was now sitting wearily on the couch was not even remarked upon as he caught his breath, and outside the sound of a couple shots being fired rung out. Even though the younger man had done very little that day, only recently being given a wipe-down to clean him after having been bed-ridden for so long, he looked almost as tired as the holy man, save for being far less sweaty.
The former feminist went out the front door at the sound of the distant shots and seen three more walkers being dealt with on the road at the lip of the valley they were in. Thrust! The spike entered the nearest one’s face, and giving a sharp tug produced no give as the weight of the corpse dragged the bayonet down to the ground with it. Tug, tug, the second nearest one was almost with arm’s reach. Without letting go of the old rifle, she flung out a foot, kicking it away. It fell back, bounced against the body behind it, which then fell onto its back however leaving the nearest zombie still standing. Putting a booted foot on the nearest downed walker’s face, another ferocious pull brought the melee weapon out of its head, and quickly thrust it at the only foe that still stood.
Lowering the rifle, she brought it up, almost bouncing the enemy off its feet as the spike bayonet, very similar in shape to the one on Rich’s Lee Enfield, slid up through the base of its jaw, its tongue, the roof of its mouth, and up into its brain. With all her might she yanked the vertical rifle over to the side making it dive sideways to the pavement, and once down, a boot came to its throat as one vicious yank pulled the Chinese rifle’s spike out of its head. Back on its feet the final threat began shambling closer. She kicked at t
he side of one of its legs, it buckled to the ground, and then kicking a food down on its chest to keep it pinned she sent the spike down once more. Picking up the red plastic Jerry can she’d carried all this way, she quickly started making her way to the house again after wiping the gore off the bayonet on one of the dead one’s shirts and picking up one of the casings that had been fired; the only one that was still on the road. That Simonov design really knew how to fling those brass casings, or in the case of those Military Surplus rounds, steel casings.
Tiff smiled at the woman as she approached, but there wasn’t one to be reciprocated. Leaving the Jerry can on the porch, she marched into the house with her rifle held in her left hand.
“You’re fucking delusional!” She shouted, barely appearing out of breath in spite of the fighting and the walk with the heavy can full of fuel. “You’ll fucking die when we leave!” Richard looked over to her, lip curled in a disapproving sneer. Why? Why is it always drama with this bitch?
“Is that a threat, girl-?”
“GIRL?! No, it’s a fucking PROMISE you fuckin’ cracker!” To this he just shook his head, a show of disappointment on his face. “This fuck-stick tried to stop me from killing those fuckers out there! Even made me fucking MISS!” Fishing the one casing she’d managed to find out from one of her coat pockets, she threw it at him, and he didn’t so much as flinch as it struck him weakly in the stomach before rolling softly to the floor. The still-recovering fellow on the couch watched her back as all this went on.
“I think you should give me back that gun-”
“I THINK YOU SHOULD GET FUCKED!” Thrusting a middle finger at him, Nick turned 90-degrees to the right and marched out of the house, Tiff having showed up in the kitchen watching her from a distance and then watched as the front door was slammed behind her. Any harder and it sounded like the door would have come off its hinges. She sighed in frustration, fingers coming to the bridge of her nose between her eyes as she craned her neck down, walking to the room with the men with eyes still closed.
“I’m sorry, Johnathan…” she said quietly, gently, and honestly even though it was no doubt the last thing that Nick would want to hear her say on her behalf. He just shook his head, bringing it down to rest in his hands. Similarly the tallest of the bunch craned his still somewhat pale head back to rest on the back of the couch now that silence had once more been attained.
Sitting on the front steps, fuming, the youngest was now working the bolt trying to get it lock back, but it wouldn’t until the last two rounds were fully ejected and the partial mag was empty. An angry hand smacked the side of its receiver due to not knowing how to lock the bolt open with rounds still in it, then pulled that half-loaded clip out of a pocket and loaded it in, hands moving as swiftly as they could with the unfamiliar firearm, and she racked the bolt as loud as she possibly could to chamber a round now holding 4+1. The two ejected rounds were pocketed, as was the now empty clip. Ramming the butt down on the ground in frustration, hands went to the slightly warm barrel, head leaned forward, and rested against the vertical firearm with its bayonet now folded back and out of the way. She was quickly getting tired of this bullshit; it was better when that old fuck wasn’t around, and images flashed through her head of killing him like she’d killed a few other men. The steel-plated butt of the rifle was tamped down against the ground again in frustration as the image of the writhing Richard clinging onto life flashed in her mind, conflicting her, which only served to further sour her mood. Why did things have to go and get so fucking complicated?!
It was extremely easy to get a fire going with the help of the Jerry can of gasoline. Gas that she had dragged all this damn way for that ungrateful prick inside whom they’d be leaving behind once Richard was able to hit the road. A generous amount was splashed on her burnt circle where wood had been gathered and mashing the lid back on on the way the plastic container of fuel was clunked down annoyedly by the door once more. She went back to sitting at her usual spot, refusing to enter that damn house all day, her fire burning huge and more wood was gathered to feed it. Tiff brought her out a plate of food for Dinner, and then later Supper. Supper had been fish, and she stared hard at the man as he dipped the line down from the bridge. He neither said anything to her nor looked at her all the while he was there, catching them their last meal of the day. The woman had fried it up nicely over the stove with salt.
Said woman, for all Nick knew she could have been the only other living woman left on Earth, came out a couple times to sit with her old roommate in hopes to regain peace. If nothing else, she could be an ear to listen as she vents, and that took up most of the time of their conversing. Harsh venting, spouting hatred for the naïve man, saying she wanted to get out of there as soon as fucking possible. The ex-feminist nodded as she went on, thinking that ultimately, in spite of that house having been something of a Godsend, they would indeed have to leave. At this rate, Veronica might just end up shooting him with his own rifle, and unlike Richard she probably would use more than just one round, likely making sure he was dead for good. No more violence. Please, no more.
In time, the formerly devout man retired for the night, taking the key to the Master bedroom from those who formerly stayed in there. With all the cushions returned to their respective places, the sofa was now available to be used as a proper place to sleep instead of just staying on the floor, but there was only room enough for one. Rich made a half-hearted attempt at telling Tiff that she can stay on it while he took the cushions of the lounge chairs to return to the floor; he was used to sleeping like that. In fact, he was used to sleeping under trees, so really almost anywhere in the house would be luxury compared to how he had usually slept. She’d hear none of it, insisting that he take the couch until he was healthy.
Thanking her, she went out into the night to see how her Nicky was doing. Head drooping, she was clearly getting tired but quickly perked up at the sight of the friend she’d had for years. Not much exchange was made between the two as the shorter of the two told her that the coast was clear to head back to the guest room. It was pointless to request that the bed be kept for the couple while she take the sofa; he probably couldn’t make it up the stairs anyways, much less down the stairs. So she retreated to the guest room, Tiffany returned to Richard in the living room, and after providing some medication everyone spent yet another night under a roof, Johnathan’s roof.
A sound at the door had awoken her, Tiffany got up from her two lounge chair cushions on the floor, wrapping the blanket around her in the cool morning air that filled the house since the fire had extinguished. Out the west-facing kitchen window over the sink she seen Johnathan illuminated by the early Sun, an axe in hand, heading towards the bridge. Undoubtedly he’s heading for the treeline to get an early start to gathering firewood; quite a motivated fellow to be seeking physical exertion this early in the morning.
Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap, tum, tum, tum, tum, she held up her hands as Veronica approached the doorway with rifle in hand, stiff nipples bleeding through her black sleeveless t-shirt, and the woman whispered that it was only the priest. Dawning only panties on her lower half, heart still racing, determination on her face due to quickly psyching herself up to deal with potential undead, or worse, she nodded and let her shoulders droop. Turning about to return the way she came, she was clearly still tired and intent on going back to sleep. Passing through the living room, Richard had been stirred awake by the quick footsteps that had passed him by, and his eyes widened upon seeing the scarcely-clad young black woman before him. He couldn’t keep the dopey, tired grin from his face. She scoffed at him as she headed upstairs, a disgusted sneer on her lips.
Still grinning, he looked down in the direction of his feet as his woman went back to what would now serve as their bedroom. “You’re friend is pretty hot.” He complimented… sort of… and she gave him a hard look.
“No. You’re mine; I’m not sharing. Besides, something tells me she’s noooooooot really interested.” Taking a slow
, careful seat by him on the couch, not wishing to jostle his body too much, her had came to rest on his chest once again. It seemed to be a motion she reverted to quite readily when she felt like providing a show of affection.
“We’ll see if I can’t turn her straight.” Clicking his tongue and giving a wink, Tiff only laughed. The chances of that happening was about as likely as amassing an undead Army that single-handedly tended on their every beck and call. Walking corpses, once Hell-bent on feasting on the living, resorting to growing crops, hunting, fishing, cleaning, cooking, giving foot rubs, back rubs, and so on and so forth. Yeah, not gonna happen, so she felt quite confident that unless some sort of romance happened between the two males, she wouldn’t have to worry about him cheating on her.
“Well you keep up the optimism, but don’t hold your breath.” Patting him there on the chest, she leaned down and gave him a peck on the lips. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Rich’s mild grin didn’t waver. “Well, still shot. Not going to risk trying to move it, but I feel better than yesterday. Could use some more of those painkillers though.” The sound of wood chopping from across the small river was heard as she went about collecting his medication. It truly was amazing for Nick to have gotten this, it had been a step in the right direction if she was going to join these two once it came time to leave. The young man thought to himself that at the rate he was healing, he might even be able to go in a week. Obviously his shoulder would still be in pretty poor shape, which thus far thankfully didn’t seem to be infected, but he really had no idea when it would be that he’d be able to fire his beloved Lee Enfield again, or even be able to use it as a spear with that trusty steel bayonet.