Aftermath (Book 2): Chicago Calling

by Duncan McArdle

  “I’ll take care of it”, John declared, a mix of adrenaline and excitement pumping through his system as he clambered back out of the Ford.

  “John!”, Harvey shouted after him, “I’m telling you there’s more, get back in here!”.

  But John continued forwards in defiance, grabbing his knife in one hand and his pistol in the other.

  “Be careful”, Sonja said, watching him move towards the front of the vehicle.

  John didn’t hear the words, he was far too busy. In fact neither the sound of crunching skull nor splattering of blood made its way to his ears as he took down the beast, itself only midway through standing back up again when John went back down to the ground with it, stabbing violently as he did. He was hell bent on one thing, and as he’d never been this close to it before, not a single other thing was even remotely on his mind.

  John made it almost three quarters of the way back upright before the shot was fired. By Sonja’s recollection, the bullet was barely a few millimetres away from the top of his skull when it sailed past, narrowly missing him along its journey of what would have been certain death. Nonetheless, John fell to the ground once more, partly in a defensive move to reduce the risk of being hit by a following shot, and partly because of the deafening effect of a gunshot going off so close to his ears, this noise too much for him to block out.

  Laying there on the ground for a moment, John’s head rolled to one side, as he attempted to regain focus on his initial target to confirm it remained dead. But he found his view obstructed, due to the body of another deceased creature laying down in his line of sight, a prominent bullet hole evident on its forehead. Looking up for an explanation, it became apparent that the shot had come from Harvey – who now sat on the empty window sill of the truck’s passenger side, pistol in hand – and had probably been fired to save John from an approaching enemy he hadn’t even known about. This however, was no time for thanks, and so he instead stood himself back up, and tried once more to lock eyes with the treasure up ahead.

  Instead however, he saw a mass of movement, and his heart sank. Hundreds of the undead had appeared in a matter of seconds, and were now converging in a large group beyond the stationary store and were heading in the direction of the Ford.

  “Quickly!”, John span round and yelled back to the truck, before turning back to face the horde – and the slightly closer boat – and moving towards it.

  “Don’t be stupid John”, Harvey shouted.

  “John c’mon, there’ll be another one”, Sonja concurred.

  John’s eyes swapped frantically between the horde ahead and the boat. The gap would be close, he’d barely arrive there before the undead, and even then he had to worry about figuring out how to latch it to the truck, but he couldn’t possibly comprehend leaving behind the best chance he’d had so far.

  “They’re coming from behind!”, yelled Sonja’s voice to the rear, panic and fear growing in her voice with every word.

  Hearing this, John could ignore the advice of his co-scavengers no longer, and so forced himself to stop. Almost not wanting to know what was there, he slowly turned around to see, and sure enough spotted just as many rotting figures heading their way from the opposite end of the street.

  Suddenly his mind flashed back to the sight of the Escalade, overrun from every direction in seconds, a situation even the world’s most elite firing squad would have struggled in, thanks to sheer numbers alone. John found himself wondering why he thought he was any different, and failed to come up with an answer.

  “C’mon John”, Sonja said, less desperately now as she saw the familiar signs of a man about to admit defeat, “We have to go”.

  John quivered with an odd mix of rage, fear and anxiety, before he finally gave in and moved quickly back to the truck.

  “There’ll be another one”, Sonja said for the second time, herself only hoping there would be.

  John climbed back into the rear of the F150, and watched as the tiny little vessel marked “SPEEDER” – and with it his best chance of making it to Chicago – disappeared out of view.

  “God damn it…”, he said quietly to himself.

  Chapter 9: Answers

  Plains of overgrown grass and unmaintained shrubbery were an almost constant sight along certain patches of the I94, all of it now unimpeded by mankind, allowed instead to grow freely over the land. There were few benefits to most of the population disappearing in the space of a few days, but if one thing in the world had come out well from the situation, it was nature. Trees were coated in beautiful autumn colours, and the sides of highways were littered with bright flowers and little else. It made for an incredible sight in an otherwise dreary world.

  Despite all of this though, John stared out at the world an incredibly unhappy man. In a matter of moments he’d gone from sheer excitement and joy, to utter sadness and disappointment. The one thing he needed more than anything else had been mere metres away, but was now in a location so overrun it was unlikely he’d ever be able to return. Convincing the others to go back towards Chicago would now be even more of a struggle in itself, and even John had to admit that going alone would be suicidal.

  “You alright back there?”, Sonja asked from the driver’s seat.

  John remained silent, staring longingly out into the distance.

  “C’mon John, if you go like that too who the hell am I gonna’ talk to?”, Sonja pointed out, in an obvious criticism of the front passenger.

  “I take offense to that”, Harvey said sarcastically, smirking slightly.

  “What in the hell?”, Sonja asked, “Seriously, one minute you’re silent, next you’re like this, what is it with you?”.

  “Is that any way to talk to someone?”, Harvey asked, his voice once again laden with sarcasm.

  “Harvey”, Sonja started, turning to look at him, “I swear… I will put my foot so far up your a-“

  “Why doesn’t anyone ever come back from Chicago?”, John interrupted, still staring out the window.

  The interior of the Ford went immediately silent. Sonja looked forwards to the road, tightening her grip as if trying to make it seem like she was just focused on driving, too busy to respond to the question. Harvey meanwhile bowed his head slightly, taking a deep breath as he did. For a moment John felt like perhaps this was a question they’d had to answer too many times before, or maybe it was just one they knew they’d have to answer soon, but were planning on putting off a little longer. Whatever the reason, it was a few seconds before anybody spoke again.

  “I don’t want to lie to you John”, Harvey said eventually.

  “So don’t”, John replied, his face now turning to look forwards at the two figures in front.

  “Well”, Harvey started off slowly, as if measuring his words, “The truth is, we don’t really know”, he said, at which point John noticed the slight tensing of Sonja’s various neck muscles.

  “You… don’t know?”, John asked.

  “We’ve sent two boats since I’ve been here, each time to get the sick, the young and the old to Chicago”, Harvey explained. “Both those times I watched them myself for as long as I could, so I know they got there”.

  “And they just, never made contact, never sent the boats back, never mentioned it on the radio broadcast, nothing?”, John asked.

  “Well they definitely didn’t send anything back”, Harvey began, “And I’m not sure they’d risk telling the world of new arrivals over the broadcast, the place is probably just as much a target for bandits as anywhere, they only give out the details they have to”, he theorised.

  John continued to stare at the back of Harvey’s head, waiting in silence for him to add some new information. Eventually, Harvey turned to face him, eye to eye.

  John was immediately reminded of just how smooth the man in front was. Harvey was incredibly handsome – his only imperfection a well-rounded dark mole above his left eyebrow – and seemed to have an air of sophistication about him that John was sure must have m
ade him a hit in the legal profession. If push came to shove, he was pretty sure Harvey could win just about any argument, but at this particular moment, it seemed as if he was exerting a rare moment of blunt honesty.

  “The way I see it, they’ve probably got a good reason for not sending the boats back”, Harvey began, “Now I don’t pretend to know what that is, but I don’t see why they’d bother wasting the energy and the power to broadcast that message if they didn’t really want to help”, he explained.

  “Could be a trap?”, John cut in.

  “Maybe, but the only people who are headed there are the ones who can’t make it on the outside, the old, the young, the ill-equipped… why would they want an influx of people like that?”, Harvey pointed out.

  “I guess”, John conceded.

  “And all they’re really doing is opening themselves up to getting raided. If they really had a good setup, they could have just put up some signs drawing people in, along the highways or the train tracks, and not bother with all the effort keeping that broadcast up takes”, Harvey continued.

  “Speaking of which”, Sonja interrupted, before flicking on the radio.

  The usual pre-recorded message played away like white noise in the background, as the two men continued to discuss Chicago.

  “Listen, I wouldn’t have sent your kid, or any of those kids there, if I didn’t think there was something good waiting for them”, Harvey reassured John. “Each time we sent people out, we did it because we had to. The first time we got hit by a horde, and we-”.

  “In that place?”, John interrupted to ask.

  “Yeah”, Harvey began, an air of sadness evident in his voice. “Things were worse then. We were less organised, less prepared. They just came wandering in one day and we lost a couple good fighters. Truth be told we were worried it was gonna’ keep happening, so we lightened the load and shipped off the first group, the old and injured mostly”, Harvey explained.

  “And the second time? When you sent Hayley?”, John asked of his daughter’s departure.

  “We were getting low on food, and we had a boat we’d found out on a run”, Harvey said, “Before you and Andrew came along, getting out for supplies was hard. Every time we left the base it was vulnerable”, he continued. “Honestly, we thought we were giving them a better chance at survival by sending them”.

  “Yeah, I get that”, john said, before slipping calmly back into his seat, feeling as though his thirst for information had finally been quenched.

  Over the course of the conversation John had felt a steady wave of relief come over him. Although he’d learnt little of the likely fate the boats had met at Chicago, he had at least discovered more about why they’d been sent, and in turn found out a lot more about Harvey himself. Suddenly the hard faced, stoic character whose first encounter with John had been with a gun pointing his way, had become reasonable, understandable, and even relatable.

  “Thank you”, John said, as the storyteller turned back into his seat.

  “No problem”, Harvey replied.

  “…Friday the seventeenth of October, twenty fourteen.”, continued the radio in the background.

  * * *

  After another half hour of driving, during which time they passed back into their safe haven of the state of Wisconsin, familiar sights began to pass by through the thick windows that separated the group and the deadly world outside. Small lakes that had been spotted on the way out, the odd river – along which John hopelessly and unsuccessfully scanned for any kind of floating vessel – popping into view, and even a local golf course. John doubted he would have been allowed membership to such a prestigious looking course just a few months prior, but now, looking at its overgrown greens and rotting wooden bridges, he wasn’t sure he’d want it anyway.

  Eventually the most iconic sight came into view, the General Mitchell Insertional Airport, barely visible off to the right of the interstate and way out into the distance. At a time, the airport had serviced as many as ten million people a year, and been relied on as a third departure point for many of those who lived in Chicago. Now though, it was more than likely just as overrun and ruined as everything else.

  “Kind of sad isn’t it”, Sonja said, interrupting the silence of the truck. “Place was worth serious money, took people all over the world every day, now it’s just sitting there, dying”.

  “Yeah, just like everything else”, John replied from the rear of the cabin.

  “They did cargo flights too, might be some decent loot there if we ever had the manpower to take a place like that”, Sonja suggested.

  “We’d need an army”, John replied, “The place is huge, probably infested with the dead, and if they ever had any rations there, they’re long gone by now”.

  “I guess”, Sonja said, “If we did find a stocked up jet though, a good one, we could all be set…”, she pointed out, audibly drifting off as she visualised a mountain of military rations, sitting in a 747 ripe for the taking.

  “Well somehow I doubt we’ll find a boat there anyway”, John said, bringing Sonja out of her daydream.

  “Yeah, and last I checked nobody back at base knows how to fly”, Sonja declared jokingly.

  “No, probably not”, John agreed, before noticing something that sent a shiver down his spine. “But it looks like somebody does”, he said, “Stop the car!”.

  The Ford ground to a quick halt, as all three members headed straight for the windows, leaning out to get the best view possible. Narrowly in view, a small Cessna-type aircraft was rolling along the runway way off in the distance, its movement only visible due to the reflection of light on its bright white wings. The plane was inching slowly forwards, which up close meant it was probably moving at some speed, and this of course begged one simple question.

  “Is it landing, or taking off?”, Sonja asked.

  * * *

  “Pat, pat, pat”, came the sound of an open palm slapping against concrete a few stories above.

  Cautiously Lester leant out into the sunlight, looking round briefly before gazing up to the corner of the uppermost floor. There stood Andrew, looking nervous even from this distance, and gazing out towards the south, in the direction that the group had left earlier. For a moment Lester simply stood there, waiting for the signaller to notice he’d forgotten the most important part. Eventually though, Andrew realised, and proceeded to outstretch his hand off of the building.

  “Shit”, Lester said, as he saw a thumb descend and point downwards, indicating a threat.

  Up above, Andrew had begun to shake slightly. He kept telling himself it was the cold – despite the relatively mild mid-October day they were having – but deep down he knew the real cause. Around a hundred metres to the south, a small gathering of six or so biters were wandering along, occasionally falling down and often knocking into a variety of inanimate objects. Andrew was positive they were simply passing through, but this did little to calm his anxiety on the subject.

  Below, Lester was now squinting to try and spot the danger, eventually noticing the small group emerging from behind a batch of parked cars. By now he’d become an expert in threat analysis, and as far as he could tell, there was no issue at hand. But there was never a good time to take chances, so he skulked back into the confines of the car-park entranceway, and stood in the shadows, peering out through one of the many viewing holes in wait.

  There was little that felt as useless as being in that position. Lester, a man no doubt capable of taking out a group that small with his bare hands alone, was simply standing there, allowing the enemy to approach the very base that he was in charge of protecting, the same base that housed numerous innocent survivors that knew little of the acts needed to subdue such a foe. But it was protocol, and up till now, it had worked well.

  While he waited, Lester’s mind cast back to the last time the camp had suffered a breach. He remembered being just a few metres from his position now, talking away loudly to fellow survivors, when he suddenly saw an undead bea
st rear its ugly head from round the corner, and take a huge chunk out of the nearest shoulder to it. They’d been loud and careless, and had made little to no plans on how to deal with such a situation. But now, some months on from the incident that eventually saw them lose two of the group’s strongest members, Lester was content, knowing that for this situation – as well as many others – there was now a plan to follow.

  Soon after this point, the first of the group came into earshot. The familiar sound of groaning came first, then the scuffing of feet, and finally the sound of what could only now be described as claws, scratching passively at the concrete mass separating the survivors and the undead. Lester calmly grabbed an axe – which was always left sitting in the corner for just such a situation – and braced himself, waiting for the threat to pass by.

  Unfortunately for Lester however, the claws of that first biter eventually hit air, as the wall to its left fell away, and it realised it had found a gap. Almost immediately the beast caught its potential meal’s eye, spotting Lester in the darkness, a minor distance separating the two of them. Instinctively it began to walk towards the shadow coated man, as its jaw separated and drool and blood immediately dripped from its grasp, readying it for food.

  But food did not come, substituted instead with the thick, shimmering blade of an axe. The weapon came crashing forwards with such force that it refused to lose its momentum until it had not only made its way through the entire height of the skull, but also embedded itself well into the torso. The creature’s head had been completely split in two, and with its entire body not far off separating also, it gave one final fit of life before collapsing to the ground, and spewing out a puddle of foul liquids and gases.