Cautiously he reached for his Ruger, gripping it tightly but praying he wouldn’t need to use it. The huge Cadillac had plenty of seats, and whilst there’d so far only been three distinguishable voices, there could easily be more inside, making for a battle that nobody in the Ford wanted to have.
“Always leavin’ me to do this crap by myself…”, came the first man’s voice as he approached the Ford, his baggy jeans and unbuttoned checked top revealing the presence of what appeared to be a huge Desert Eagle .50cal, tucked into the front of his pants. As the man got closer, he firmly gripped the pistol – but thankfully kept it where it was – causing John’s heart to beat so hard and fast he was sure it must almost be audible even as far away as where the man was now stood.
“Shit, these people look good, they must have died before they turned or somethin’”, the man yelled back to his friends. “And god DAMN this white boy’s got a nice rifle!”.
John’s eyes widened. He’d remembered seeing the M24 lying next to Harvey, but he’d hoped he would of thought to move it before the approaching car arrived.
“Well make sure they dead then man, don’t go snooping round in there before you put a bullet in ‘em, we gonna need all three of us to get to Chicago”, came the second voice, who John had now ascertained was driving.
John watched through his obstructed view as the nearby man began looking over the two seated figures in front. Now was the decisive moment, the instant where the lives of everyone involved could be changed dramatically, a power this man held in the palm of his hand despite not even knowing it. Slowly he pulled the pistol out from his pants, and raised it in the direction of Harvey’s head from just metres away. Immediately, John knew this wasn’t a situation he could just sit by and watch.
With incredible speed and spectacular composure, John sat bolt upright – throwing the relatively large weight of luggage off of his body as he did – and took his much smaller .22 calibre pistol in both hands, pointing it at the man who was now stood finger on the trigger, ready to carry out his own kill.
“Oh shit!”, came the driver’s voice from a short distance away, close enough for all to hear but far enough for them to not be a threat of their own, just as John’s eyes narrowed and his finger pulled back.
His action triggered a small but powerful explosion that saw a tiny piece of lead go plummeting towards its intended target, the shooter’s temple no match for a high-speed bullet which quickly embedded itself into the side of his head, ripping skin, brain and tissue with every millimetre it travelled. The man stood there for a moment, gun still gripped, eyes wide and seemingly awake, until suddenly, like a balloon that had become abruptly devoid of the air needed to keep it inflated, the figure simply dropped, a bag or organs and bones collapsing into a pile on the floor, completely useless from this point forwards, dead.
“GO!”, yelled the other passenger of the Cadillac, a word that was followed by the sound of screeching tires and a revving engine, as the huge hunk of metal made as speedy a getaway as it could manage.
John’s pistol had now moved to target the fleeing vehicle, and his gaze remained trained on its black outline as it faded off into the distance, until he was absolutely certain it no longer posed a threat. Truth be told he knew he had no chance of hitting them at that distance with such a small pistol, but it still worked well as an intimidation tactic.
“They’re gone”, John said after spending a few more seconds watching the outline of the vehicle grow smaller.
Both Sonja and Harvey’s heads sprang immediately up, each of them looking around so as to figure out just exactly what had happened. It wasn’t until they both looked behind however, to the figure sitting there holding a smoking gun, that they realised exactly what John had done.
“My God”, Sonja said, her voice laden with the thick smog of regret and sadness.
“I had to”, John said, knowing that he’d done the only thing he could do, yet also knowing it was far from a positive outcome. “They had three people, and one of theirs had two of ours in his sights, we wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t”, John reasoned.
Sonja opened her door, stepping over the deceased body below as she vacated the vehicle and then turned to inspect the victim.
The man below was young, no older than early twenties, and by the looks of his tattoos had been involved with whatever gang had just left the scene long before the apocalypse had hit. John took solace in knowing he had killed what was probably nothing more than a street thug, but still found it impossible to mentally justify the murder of another human being when so few remained. That was at least, until Harvey spoke.
“Had to be done, John’s right”, he announced as he rounded the truck, before turning to John and saying something even more unexpected. “Thanks”, he said, his own voice seeming to crack slightly under the pressure of the situation.
“Yeah”, John said, “No problem”.
Suddenly up ahead, a large crashing noise sounded out into the otherwise empty air, prompting all three members of the group to jump and snap their heads in the source’s direction. Quickly John grabbed the binoculars from the bed of the truck and placed them back into place, as Harvey instead picked up his sniper rifle and began looking down the scope.
Just a little ways down the road, an Escalade – with its hood now completely crumpled up beyond all recognition – lay smoking and embedded into the shell of a bus, itself also the subject of a crash some time beforehand. Both John and Harvey watched as one of the two occupants began to slowly crawl out of the wreckage, in a location almost completely surrounded by various vehicles on each side of the highway.
“What’s happening”, Sonja asked.
“Something John needs to see”, Harvey said, much to everyone else’s confusion.
Before long though, John knew exactly what he meant, as he watched a swarm of the undead suddenly appear out of nowhere, at least five or six of them at first, and then twenty or thirty, and then so many John found himself unable to count. They’d come from nearby cars, from further along the interstate, and some John was convinced had even climbed up from the roads below. It was nothing like he’d ever seen before, and was just the wakeup call everybody had said he needed.
Chicago was well and truly unapproachable by land.
Chapter 8: Blue, white and yellow
“You sure you wanna be raiding this close to… well… whatever that was?”, John asked Sonja as they exited the interstate just a few hundred metres back from where events had so recently unfolded.
“If anybody thinks for a second that a horde like that could be around, speak up and we’ll get out of here”, Sonja said, “We’re not going anywhere without the truck, and we’re not taking any chances, but this is too good to miss”, she replied.
A couple blocks further up the relatively empty road, a gas station stood on a corner plot, no smoke plumes or burning fires to suggest it had been torn apart, and only one notable neighbouring property; another gas station right across the street. It was rarely worth checking such places anymore, as they were one of the first types of building to be looted back at the start, but if there was ever a time to risk trying one again, there were few better opportunities than when two could be found right next to each other.
Much like those that had come before them, both properties had some sort of convenience store on site, and thankfully, neither had any kind of barricades set up. From seeing how quickly the biters on the interstate had swarmed the Escalade, John knew that being able to get away quickly was a top priority, so having the truck within a few metres reach at all times was going to be essential.
Slowly the F150 crept onto the first forecourt, and made its way over to the nearest pumps. As they moved, both John and Harvey looked around in search of movement. Gas stations had one major benefit in terms of escape plans; they were open and easily exited. But that still relied on them spotting danger early enough to get out before it arrived, and so the burden of safety remained at least pa
rtly on those not driving.
Just as the truck ground slowly to a halt, John hopped out of the rear seat and onto the concrete floor beside them. Sonja watched in the various mirrors as the man walked quickly to the nearest pump, unsheathed his knife, and lacerated the rubber tubing, only to find nothing but air housed inside its cylindrical grasp. Much to everyone’s disappointment, John shook his head in the direction of the truck, and then turned to face his next objective.
The store on-site was small, perhaps small enough to have put people off going to it for supplies, but still big enough to make it worth the effort of raiding now. Hoping such predictions were right, John began making his way over to the front door, stepping over numerous pieces of litter he knew would rattle loud enough to attract unwanted attention if knocked. Eventually arriving at the grubby and dirtied front window of the store, he peered hopefully inside.
Straight away, John could see that like so many other places, the small building had suffered some kind of panic-stricken ending, with numerous items laying strewn out across the floor. Even now with this single piece of information to hand, it was almost guaranteed that little of interest would have been left behind, but John knew it would be wasteful not to check it out properly, if only briefly.
Taking a step back from the entrance, John tensed up his right leg, and moved forwards, raising his foot and kicking out as he did, in a move that saw the door fly open violently, before banging on the wall behind. Not wanting to waste time, John moved in immediately, drawing his Ruger as he entered and quickly inspecting the various corners of the small shop.
From first impressions, it appeared to be empty, an observation that quickly lifted a big weight from his shoulders. What was even better however was a series of canned items left at the rear of the odd shelf, combined with a few other non-standard products John thought might also serve a purpose. John glanced outside to check on the truck, taking note that it was in the process of turning and reversing towards the entrance, just as slowly and quietly as possible. This manoeuvre was two pronged; on the one hand enabling a quicker getaway if it became necessary, and on the other, making the loading of any items found much easier.
John grabbed the first batch of cans from the various nearby shelves – throwing some tinned fruit back when he realised it was probably best avoided after so long – and made his way back to the open entranceway, where the rear of the truck promptly arrived. John could see the eyes of his companions nosily trying to inspect the haul, but he had no time for demonstrations. Quickly he made his way back inside and grabbed some bottles of screen wash, as well as some anti-freeze and ice-scrapers, and headed out once more.
“You think maybe it’s time we stopped looking for fuel like this and just started siphoning? There’s cars everywhere”, Sonja pondered out loud back inside the truck, knowing she was unlikely to get a response from Harvey.
“It gets us out, and when we’re out, we find other things”, Harvey replied.
Sonja stared back at the man, shocked at yet another response. “You felling okay?”, she asked, to which Harvey just barely mustered a smirk.
“Good to go”, John said as he climbed back into the truck.
“What you get?”, Sonja asked.
“Few cans, nothing major”, John explained, “Got some stuff for winter too though, figure we might as well start stocking up now”, he said.
“You’re staying with us till Winter?”, Harvey asked sarcastically.
“Now you’re making jokes?”, Sonja replied, “What in the hell has happened to you…”, she said, chuckling nervously as she revved the engine and began moving towards the edge of the forecourt.
The next gas station – located just a across the street – had the benefit of being slightly larger, with considerably more pumps, however it also bore one major downside; its store. Like many such stations across the USA, rather than have any kind of groceries or items of convenience, it housed a doughnut outlet, meaning it was absolutely chocked full of food that was completely useless after a few days left out, never mind a few months. With that in mind, Sonja made a beeline for the nearest pump, and not a single one of the passengers glanced over at the once-useful building in the corner of the premises, its contents no doubt rotting away.
In much the same fashion as before, John hopped out of the truck alone, and proceeded to slice open the rubber tubing of the nearest pump with little optimism. Much to his surprise however, he was greeted by the sight of invaluable gasoline, the small amount left in the pipe spewing out over the floor in front. Near giddy with excitement, John immediately spun round to locate the pump used to fuel the entire gas station – the only one he knew they could pump from without electricity – and pointed it out to Sonja.
Equally pleased with the sight of some precious gas, Sonja began happily reversing the truck towards the pump and arrived just after John, who had sprinted over and now stood waiting for them to arrive. As soon as the truck had stopped, John sprang into action, grabbing the crowbar from the rear-bed and making his way over to the input pump marked “regular”. From what John could tell it was the only fuel this gas station had ever sold, though he imagined a near-city stop like this would perhaps have preferred quantity over quality, which might have explained the decision.
In any case, John jammed the crowbar hard under the locked flap, and began pressing down with all of his weight, his efforts eventually rewarded with the sudden snapping noise of the lock sheering off, followed by a strong smell of the liquid-gold-like substance that gasoline had become.
“Jackpot”, John found himself saying, before turning once more to the rear of the truck and grabbing the tubing, as well as the first of the series of fuel tanks that had been stored there once more.
Before they’d left camp that day, John had made sure to fill up every vehicle on site with the fuel found the day before, and had emptied what remained into the larger containers that were held on the upper floors. These containers were too big to transport but perfect for longer term storage, and allowed the camp to make sure they kept the more portable canisters empty, and thus able to fill up at times like these.
“Might need a hand here”, John called to the truck’s cabin, having realised the task at hand might be better served by two people, before turning back to the pump and dropping the long siphoning tube down the hole into the dark abyss below.
“Coming”, came Harvey’s voice as he too disembarked from the Ford, with from the sounds of things some encouragement from an irate sounding Sonja.
Having done it enough times to know the process with his eyes closed, John began placing a rag into place around the open input, and proceeded to suck hard, until the fuel came rushing up in a glorious but disgusting stream.
“You know you can do that without your mouth right?”, Harvey asked as he watched John wince from the taste of what small amounts of fuel had made it into his mouth, prior to him moving the tube into the first canister.
“I’m more interested in getting out of here quickly than keeping my mouth clean”, John replied, to which Harvey nodded slightly in agreement.
Before long, they were functioning like a well-oiled – and soon to be well fuelled – machine. John was directing the flow into each tank until it was full, at which point Harvey jumped in and switched it for an empty one, before packing the full ones back into the Ford’s rear bed. Within a matter of minutes they’d managed to fill up all of the jerry-cans, at which point John killed the siphon. It almost seemed wasteful to actually leave some behind, but John knew it may one day serve others in a similar situation, or maybe even themselves further down the line.
Having bundled the siphoning gear back into the truck, John wandered back over towards the rear door and flung it open, feeling a sense of pride at the smoothness of the operation. Not long ago such a task would have been mishandled wastefully until there was fuel all over the floor and a great number of angry words spoken, but now the group seemed almost professional, incredibly ref
ined after doing such things so many times before.
Prior to getting in, John stood atop the step on the side of the Ford to see what else of interest might be left nearby. To the left were a series of smaller stores, barber shops, tattoo parlours, and some more risqué establishments, none of which were of much use. To the right it was much the same story; offices, housing and then the very freeway they’d come from, all of it just as useless. Finally to the front lay a stationary supply store, just as unlikely to benefit them as all the other buildings but with one minor difference, sitting right there in plain sight.
“Boat”, John said abruptly in complete shock.
“What?”, Harvey asked from the other side of the F150, himself just about to climb in.
“My God”, Sonja said having just spotted it, on top of a trailer sitting in the stationary store’s car park, almost like it had been left there for them to find.
“You call that a boat?”, Harvey asked, now seeing what the others saw. “The last one we sent was five times the size of that”.
“All I need is a boat, I don’t give a damn what size”, John insisted as he climbed into the truck, “Let’s go”.
“Hold up”, Harvey said, himself climbing in and holding up a hand to stop Sonja from driving forwards.
“Are you kidding me?”, John asked irately, “We finally found one, let’s go get it, now!”.
“There’s something else over there, little further down the street, edge of the alley”, Harvey said, pointing to a darkened gap between the next two buildings along from the boat.
“Sonja, go!”, John insisted.
After a moment of hesitation, Sonja moved off, dismissing Harvey’s claims, but moving cautiously all the same.
“I’m telling you”, Harvey said again, there’s something-“.
It came fast, with nobody in the truck having seen, heard or smelt a single thing. Out of nowhere, a rabid biter had quite simply appeared, emerging from behind a nearby trash can and hurtling itself towards the truck, slamming its head against the hood to mark its arrival, before immediately dropping to the ground. Everybody knew full well that such a minor impact wouldn’t be enough to take it down for long, but it did at least give them all a few seconds to compose themselves after the shocking arrival.
Aftermath (Book 2): Chicago Calling Page 7