Aftermath (Book 2): Chicago Calling

by Duncan McArdle

  “Fine”, he said eventually, before approaching the house once more, this time aiming for the nearest window, which he promptly began staring through.

  Inside the building was a mess. Tablecloths and chairs had been thrown about, glass was smashed on the floor and not cleared up, and a pile of empty photo frames sat in the corner of the room, hastily thrown there in a mad panic. It was the very definition of a quick escape, done by a person or people who wanted only to keep their photos, and to leave everything else. More importantly, it meant they had taken everything of value, which of course meant food and water too.

  “Empty”, John said, just as Andrew – who was looking in through another window into the same room – began to come to the same conclusion.

  “Alright”, Andrew agreed, happy they had at least checked to make sure, “Let’s do the next one”.

  The next building along the street was a little bigger – a positive factor in itself – and more importantly, had an attached double garage, the perfect size for storage of a boat, supplies, well maintained vehicles or just about anything else of potential value. Spotting the garage before anything else, John excitedly made his way over, withdrawing as he did the crowbar he had stashed into his backpack before leaving. As quickly as he could manage, John jammed the crowbar under the door and began prising up, until he both heard and felt the lock crack under the pressure.

  Despite his enthusiasm, such doors were John’s idea of hell. They presented no way of seeing what was inside, and required whoever was opening them to expose their feet to whatever deadly disease riddled being might be hiding on the other side. For the few seconds it took John to secure the door in an open position, he was vulnerable, and his immense dislike for such a situation was almost enough to stop him from ever checking in the first place.

  In fact, John soon wished he hadn’t done, not due to the presence of any biters, but due to the lack of anything at all. The garage was empty, on both sides, save for a few tools that the camp already had more than enough of, and some oil marks on the concrete floor that suggested the building had been used to store unreliable cars rather than ready to use boats. The place was a bust, and so John made his way back outside, where Andrew was stood watch.

  “Nothing”, John said, no surprise evident in his tone as he then moved over towards the front of the house.

  The property in front was bigger than the last, standing at three storeys and even including balconies around some of the upper floors. Looking in through the nearest window however, it was much the same story. Objects were smashed around the rooms, and it appeared that nothing of much interest had been left inside. John’s expectations of this trip were already starting to dwindle, as it seemed that for whatever reason, the more inland they got, the less there was to find.

  “Do you think maybe these are where people actually lived?”, Andrew asked, having noted the growing look of disappointment on John’s face.

  John stared back at Andrew, now looking more confused than anything.

  “What I mean is”, he started again, “The nicer looking ones by the water, they were probably summer homes, their owners might be on the other side of the country”.

  “Sure…”, John replied, still not quite grasping the concept.

  “Which I guess means…”, Andrew began, “We’re not as likely to find stuff down here, because these people were here when everything went wrong, they got out with all their things”, he continued, “Food, water, clothes, pictures-“.

  “Boats”, John interrupted, realising now what Andrew was getting at.

  “Yeah”, Andrew confirmed.

  John turned away, looking instead to the next house along the block. Whether Andrew was right or wrong would soon become apparent, but he wasn’t about to head back empty handed until he knew for sure.

  Chapter 36: Fishing for something

  Over the course of the next ninety minutes the duo covered a number of properties on both sides of the street, though they found nothing to warrant them actually entering any of the buildings. It soon became apparent that Andrew had most likely been right, and that such a location simply wasn’t a good place to find anywhere that hadn’t already been emptied. But John was determined, and continued to be right up until the last looting spot, just before a series of retail stores further along the road that would mark a good point to stop for the day.

  “Last one”, John said, making his way onto the right-hand side of the road.

  The house in front was a two-storey, all bricks and mortar affair that looked to be much more expensive than its neighbours. In fact, John imagined it would have been much better suited to the earlier section of the street, a fact that gave him some hope they might actually find something. The building was almost exactly square in proportion, and had a garage located towards the rear-right of the property, connected by one wall that John imagined allowed the past residents to enter without going outside.

  Slowly John made his way up the driveway, with Andrew to his rear and a pistol held loosely in one hand. Throughout the day so far, John had yet to see a single biter, and so had grown somewhat complacent. Perhaps they’d seen just about all the bad luck they could over the last few weeks, or maybe it was just building up and waiting around the next corner, ready to burst out at any moment. Whatever the case, John might have been holding the pistol loosely, but he wasn’t holstering it altogether.

  The garage in front was of much more solid construction than the ones he had opened so far today. The door itself was made of what seemed like steel, and was electronically operated, meaning it was no doubt secured in its closed position. Upon arriving, John toyed with the idea of attempting to prise it open using the crowbar just as he had before, but soon realised that such a primitive method simply wouldn’t cut it. Instead, he made his way over to the nearest window on the wall of the house that connected with the garage, and peered inside.

  Just like most of the properties, it seemed the place had been left in a hurry. Items were knocked over and smashed, personal effects were gone, and the fridge – narrowly visible through an open door to the right of the room – had been left completely ajar, suggesting nothing of value had been left inside. What John initially found interesting however, was that a backpack remained propped up against a wall inside, and that blood was visible in numerous places. Whatever had happened at the end had not gone down well, and John suspected whoever had been there to see it might still be there now.

  What struck John the most though, was that a trophy cabinet on the far side of what he imagined was a dining room, was not only barely left standing, but emptied of its contents. John looked between the shards of glass and torn strands of ribbon, to the empty frames and broken stands, and finally to the wall behind them all, still adorned with some of the few plaques the occupant had once won, and perhaps most importantly, a series of fishing rods.

  Suddenly something clicked in John’s head, and before he even knew what he was doing, his body lunged away from the window and over towards the garage door once more, crowbar in hand and ready to defy the odds.

  “John?”, Andrew asked, bemused at the sudden surge of enthusiasm from his companion, “What is it?”.

  “They… he, she… whoever it was, they were fishermen”, John tried to explain as he jammed the crowbar in and began pulling as hard as he could manage.

  “The people who lived here?”, Andrew asked, his own excitement now beginning to grow.

  John didn’t reply, but Andrew knew all he needed, and so he too ran over to the garage and began helping to pull. But the door didn’t budge even an inch, and soon Andrew was forced to give up on his own efforts, joined not long afterwards by John. Even if there was a boat inside, the chance of them being able to get it out of a garage they couldn’t even get in to in the first place, was slim to none.

  John however was not to be deterred, and instead rushed back over to that same window he had been peering into so recently, crowbar still gripped tight.

/>   “John? What are you-“, Andrew started to ask.

  But it was too late, before Andrew could finish his sentence he saw the crowbar smash through the window, sending glass flying into the house and bringing a colossal amount of noise with it.

  “Jesus John, even if it’s in there, how do we get it out?”, Andrew demanded.

  But John was already in the process of clambering in through the window, and not long after Andrew had finished speaking, he watched as the last glimpse of his friend disappeared into the house.

  “Good answer”, Andrew said.

  Inside, John dropped down into the dining room and quickly surveyed the area, making sure he was alone. Once satisfied, he made his way over to the backpack still propped up against the nearby wall, and briefly inspected its contents, smiling as he went through the various items that had been left behind. It wasn’t going to do much good, but it would at least give Andrew the sense that this trip hadn’t all been for nothing.

  Next John moved to his right, heading into the kitchen in search of whatever method there was to enter the garage. Inside, he found yet more blood stains littering the floors and cabinets, and even inside the opened fridge, along with a series of foul smelling, rotten items, partly picked clean by what John imagined had probably been rodents. Finally he turned to find a door, no obvious sign as to where it led present upon it, but its location in the building enough to tell him that it was probably what he was looking for.

  John approached, fruitlessly trying the handle before instead resorting to the crowbar tactic, a method that within a few seconds resulted in the door flying open with a loud crack and a series of splinters sailing across the room. Without hesitation he advanced towards the darkened garage, now partially illuminated by the light coming in from the kitchen, certain shapes becoming visible as his eyes adjusted to the blackness.

  Moving into the surprisingly roomy area, John knew full well that it was potentially dangerous, but having noted a lack of smell, sight or sound, he’d surmised that it was probably empty. Quickly he navigated around a series of objects, including an unidentified motorcycle and a series of boxes, each of them seemingly empty judging by how easily John was able to sweep them aside with the toe of his boot.

  Finally he approached a large mass in the corner of the room, too small to be a boat of any decent size, but just big enough to be a dinghy or jet-ski of some kind. It wouldn’t be ideal, but at this point he’d take just about anything. Without hesitation, John reached forwards and tore back the sheet, exposing its contents into the dim glow from the inside of the house, most of which reflected in from the various metallic surfaces in the kitchen.

  “God damn it”, John said aloud, as he realised what he’d found.

  In front was a large rectangular area of flooring, on top of which sat an electric guitar, microphone stand, drum kit, keyboard and a series of speakers and amps, all of them connected together through an intricate system of cabling. John hadn’t found the elusive boat he’d sought, he hadn’t even come close, all he’d found was the leftover remnants of a band that never made the big time, and now never would.

  “FUCK!”, John yelled in frustration, kicking out at the nearest item – a base drum that his foot sailed through with ease – and causing a considerable amount of noise.

  Outside, Andrew stirred uncomfortably, now making his way over to the other side of the garage door.

  “FUCK!”, John yelled again, as once more he kicked another item, “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!”, he continued to scream, punching, kicking and swinging with his crowbar, tearing apart every darkened mass that lay within reach until eventually, he had nothing left to attack.

  In the seconds that followed, John panted loudly, staring down at the floor with his hands raised up behind his head, the sight of a desperate and defeated man one that thankfully for him nobody else could see.

  “John!”, whispered a voice from outside, “You alright?”.

  He continued to pant and catch his breath, unable to speak.

  “John!?”, whispered the voice again, this time growing louder.

  “Yeah”, John said lowly in response between large breaths, “I’m coming out”.

  With that, he took a further few moments to compose himself and then turned on the spot, now slowly walking towards the open doorway. Shoving his crowbar into the side of his belt as he moved, he grabbed a hammer that sat on the side of a workbench.

  Arriving in the better lit kitchen, the agitated man surveyed it one last time. Yet more plaques littered the yellowed walls, each of them detailing whatever incredible feat the occupier had achieved while out on the water. Alongside them, a series of photos of someone holding up numerous large sea-creatures showed that as John had expected, the owner had indeed been a fisherman, once upon a time.

  Upon laying eyes on one particular photograph though, right at the far side of the kitchen, on top of a counter that was particularly blood-soaked, John’s temper rose up to an unmanageable level. In a small silver frame, with a spattering of red covering one corner, was a picture of the same man John was seeing on every wall, only this time standing in front of a fishing boat too large to have ever fitted in the garage, and a name on the side in plain view; “MILWAUKEE RUNNER”. The owner of the property John stood inside of did indeed have a boat as expected, but it had never been kept here.

  Suddenly John found his rage boiling over, and in an uncontrollable move, the grip on the hammer in his right hand tensed and his arm recoiled back as if about pitch. In an instant, the small metal object was sent hurtling forwards with incredible speed and power, spinning around and around, losing accuracy with every rotation, until it eventually clipped the edge of the picture. The glass shattered and the frame around it became instantly mangled, and the projectile soon embedded itself into the wall behind with a loud bang and a heavy thud. Eventually, the ruined picture frame teetered over the edge of the counter, and clattered down onto the floor below.

  Now feeling as if he’d relieved a little stress, John once again awaited the return of some form of composure, and then turned to his left, before beginning the walk back into the dining area. But just as soon as he arrived in the room, he found himself standing across from a figure he far from recognised. Just a few paces away was a six foot tall, well-built man with blood stained clothes and a tell-tale moan, suddenly advancing towards John at a pace he was only used to seeing from the very freshest and fittest of biters. He didn’t have time to raise and aim his pistol, nor did he have time to grab his knife. In fact, the only means of defence he might have been able to display were those he could have done with the hammer, itself now sticking out from the wall in the previous room.

  But as the being performed its impressive sprint forwards, three gunshots sounded out from the left, as a barrage of flashes erupted into the room accompanied by a deafening series of bangs, all of them emerging from the barrel of an M1911 held currently by none other than Andrew Phillips. The first of the shots nicked the back of the biter’s head, doing little to no damage and serving only really to add another coat of red to the nearest wall, and the second missed altogether, sailing clean past and gouging a large chunk out of the paintwork behind. But the third round finally found its target, landing just above the right cheek and immediately twisting its way through the biter’s skull, emerging out the other side in a disgusting display soon afterwards.

  Both men lived out the second that followed as if it was a lifetime, waiting with baited breath to see if the shots had done enough. Andrew remained in place, finger on the trigger but knowing that a fourth would be too risky due to its proximity to John. With so many experiences of the undead surviving fatal injuries in the last few weeks alone, it was anybody’s guess as to what was about to happen. John had neither the time to fight nor react, and so instead waited for the beast to collide with him, spilling blood and gore in every direction upon impact, and sending them both flying down to the ground.

  John hit the floor hard, knocking
the air out of his lungs and delaying any fight back he had left. But thankfully for him, it didn’t seem to be needed. The figure on top lay completely still, bleeding profusely and getting a good deal of it on John, but completely still all the same. Whatever had happened in the moments prior – the events all blending into one blur for John – it seemed that enough had been done to save his life.

  “Are you okay!?”, Andrew yelled in from outside, his friend and the attacker now out of view, having both fallen back into the kitchen.

  “I’m… I’m good”, John croaked, barely able to speak, “You got him”.

  Andrew un-tensed slightly, lowering his weapon and breathing properly for what felt like the first time in hours, despite it having only been a few seconds.

  Back in the kitchen, John waited until he could muster up a decent amount of energy, and then shoved the body off of his chest. Dropping it down to his left hand side, he then slowly stood himself back up, coming once more into Andrew’s line of sight.

  “Thank god”, said an incredibly relieved Andrew.

  “Thank you”, John said instead, to which Andrew smiled proudly.

  Cautiously, John surveyed the room for a second time, making sure nothing else stirred in the dark. He did so with the aid of his Ruger – which was now better gripped and raised up in case anything else emerged – and before long was happy that he seemed to be alone. Andrew meanwhile watched from outside as John completed his analysis and then made his way over to the nearby backpack, picked it up off of the ground, and brought it over to the smashed window behind which Andrew stood.

  “What’s this?”, Andrew asked of John as he set it down on the ledge between them.

  “Some food and water by the looks of it”, John explained, “So you don’t feel like this trip was a waste”.

  Andrew nodded and took the backpack, lowering it down against the wall outside.

  “Let’s go home”, John then added, three words that were music to Andrew’s ears.