This is a work of fiction, any character or event portrayed is created solely from the imagination of the author, and is not based on any individual or incident past, present or future. Any resemblance to any real-life entity is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Duncan McArdle 2014. All rights reserved.
Unauthorised copying of this work via any medium is strictly prohibited.
Contents
Chapter 1: From the Land of the Living
Chapter 2: Into the Land of the Dead
Chapter 3: Meet the Dead
Chapter 4: Sharing the Wealth
Chapter 5: Taking your pick
Chapter 6: The Road to Apple River
Chapter 7: See through the trees
Chapter 8: Where are we?
Chapter 9: Crossing Paths
Chapter 10: Gun It
Chapter 11: Telling Tales around the Campfire
Chapter 12: Playing Nice
Chapter 13: Parting Company
Chapter 14: Revisiting Old Friends
Chapter 15: Gearing Up
Chapter 16: Putting it into High Gear
Chapter 17: “Here is Clear Water”
Chapter 18: Open Fire
Chapter 19: Run
Chapter 20: Diversion Ahead
Chapter 21: The I94
Chapter 22: Tomah
Chapter 23: Cleaning House
Chapter 24: Home Comforts
Chapter 25: Madison
Chapter 26: No Vacancies
Chapter 27: Bird’s Eye View
Chapter 28: Run for Cover
Chapter 29: Old Friends
Chapter 30: Lost and Found
Chapter 31: Drained
Chapter 32: The I94 II
Chapter 33: Blocked In
Chapter 34: Milwaukee
Chapter 35: Creating a Following
Chapter 36: Contact
Chapter 37: Open Fire II
Chapter 38: 7-10
Dear Reader
Chapter 1: From the Land of the Living
Over the past 3 months it has been referred to by many names, the “Rising of the Dead”, “The Zombie Apocalypse”, or quite simply, “The End”. Rare is it that two groups or individuals might meet and have the same name for the events that took place, or even the same recollection of the events leading up to the blackout – where the final drips of electricity ran dry and the world was plunged into the cold, unforgiving, communication-lacking darkness. But one thing had become common knowledge, a phrase adopted by any street-wise survivor, and the first thing that those in the know pass on to those that were not. “Only the head will take them down”, words to live by, and words to survive by.
* * *
“I woke up this morning in a cold sweat. At first I couldn’t remember why, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I was dreaming of them again. I can’t help but wonder what might have happened to them by now, whether or not they’re still out there, and if they are, whether or not they’re still alive.
Anyway, it’s looking like I’ll need to go on another run. The tinned food is drying up and I’ve got almost nothing left to trade with the other survivors. I’ll see if I can round up a couple of others for the trip, hopefully some with a bigger gun than my weedy little peashooter, or at least with more than the 6 bullets I’ve got left. Had hoped I’d get a good night’s sleep ahead of the run, but at this point, the hunger kind of outranks the weariness hanging over my head.
Anyway, time to head out, I’ll write again tomorrow. Though this old diary is running short of pages, and I’m not sure I see the point in starting another, not after three months of no contact.
Till tomorrow,
John.”
* * *
John’s pen clanged down onto the wooden desk, his entire body relaxing as he slumped backwards into his chair, enjoying the last moment of peace before an almost certainly difficult trip out of the camp. His eyes gazed up from his tired and worn diary with but a few empty pages remaining, to the photo of his wife and daughter. Fond memories of backyard BBQ’s gone by, shopping trips, fishing weekends, all rushed past in the briefest of moments, till his eyes eventually moved away from the photo and on to the mirror, to the sorry sight that stared back at him.
A battered, broken, forty-something-year-old man stared back, long since dirtied by the muddy, polluted world that had been without the power or resources needed to shower for a long while. A chiselled jawline and reasonable build lay hints to decent strength, but such things were hidden away beneath layers of stained clothing, a green sweatshirt taking prime place with its hood draped loosely over his head. Once well maintained, John’s dark-brown hair now dangled limply downwards, no more than ruffled, clumping streaks across his forehead. The lower half of his face – previously devoid of even the slightest hint of facial hair – had become covered in the makings of a greying, bushy beard. Through it all though his blue eyes shone on, the one part of him that this new world was yet to take away, and the final thing that even suggested that the handsome man he had once been might still be in there somewhere.
Slowly John stood, grabbing his “weedy” Ruger SR22 pistol from the desk as he did. It was a small weapon, so small you could confuse it for the sort of ankle adorned hidden-pistol you’d see on a bad spy film of times gone by. Holding the weapon towards what little light the desks candle gave off, the lettering became more noticeable, “RUGER – PRESCOTT AZ USA SR22P 22LR”. A smile crept across John’s lips as he read the final letters, “LR”. There’s little long range about something barely big enough to hold in one hand, but it’s better than nothing, significantly so. Sliding the magazine out and popping out 6 rounds, he reloaded the weapon and placed it into a holster twice its size, loosely fastened to his right thigh, securing it in as he did.
Grabbing his hunting knife from the desk, a second smile appeared. The sheer size of the blade dwarfed that of the Ruger, in fact between the eight-inch blade and its chunky handle, it makes for a weapon well over twice the size of the tiny pistol. Placing the knife into the other side of his improvised weapon belt, John blew out the lit candle, and in doing so plunged his tiny room into complete darkness. At this point, only the sound of his chunky rubber soled footsteps on the wooden floor below could be heard, as he walked towards the door, and exited.
* * *
The dark and dreary hallway outside of John’s quarters housed many unknown rooms, and as his tall, six-foot-six mass emerged, gently closing and locking the door behind him, his eyes began the daily sweep of the hallway. Mentally he noted every slight change, from the dirtier still windows to the newly cracked floorboard just a few paces away. Most of the doors lining the hallway led to the rooms of other survivors, some of whom had chosen to adorn their entrances with various traps, ranging from simple barbed wire intimidation tactics, to more worrying assortments of battery powered electronics and cables. John knew there was every chance some of them were a part of sophisticated explosives, and likewise every chance they did little more than give the impression of such defences, but in any case, it was clear that none of these people wished to be disturbed. Accordingly, John’s presence was felt by each of them as nothing more than an echo of footsteps, as he rounded the corner at the end of the hallway – stepping over the newly cracked floorboard as he did – and headed towards the stairwell.
Having descended the empty, barely lit steps to the ground floor, John walked into the main reception area of the building, long since converted into an improvised cafeteria-come-lounge. The area housed the majority of fellow survivors in the daytime, each of them keen to e
scape the claustrophobic clutch of their bedrooms, but few brave enough to venture out of the building completely. Upon arriving, the eyes of every person in the room could be felt, as each and every one of them inspected the new arrival for the tell-tale signs of infection, before returning to whatever they were doing, happy in the knowledge that it was just another normal survivor.
“John” exclaimed a voice to the right, a thick Irish accent breaking through the collectively plain mumblings of the others stood around, “Will you be wanting anything to drink? Slashed my prices you know, less bullets, more liquor, today only!”, he announced.
As John fought back an urge that had dogged him for many years, an urge that drove his career off a steep cliff and took most of his past relationships with it, he gave but a shake of the head to dismiss the Irishman’s offer, and took a moment of quiet contemplation to mentally congratulate himself for doing so.
“I’m after something else O’Leary, a couple guys for a run, weapons are a plus, know of any?” John asked as he turned to face the bartender.
O’Leary was a short man, and played into just about every stereotype someone might have about the Irish. His curly ginger hair dropped back behind each ear, and a relatively thick and similarly coloured beard covered the bottom half of his face.
“Hmm…”, he responded, apparently in quiet contemplation over whether or not it was worth his time to help out someone unwilling to purchase from him. “Well, the brothers over there in the corner were here begging for some freebies this mornin’, so I’d put good money on them wanting to head out”, he said eventually, gesturing towards the two large men sat on the floor in the far corner of the room, “And that fella in the middle with his wife, he’s definitely got a weapon, could be a good bet”, he added.
This time he had nodded over to a much more averagely built looking individual, his similarly standard height providing little to distinguish him by, save for the small, librarian-esque spectacles that he adorned. Aging around forty, or so John guessed, he appeared to have taken his appearance in this new world much more seriously than John, having kept his hair cut and groomed, and his face free from even a hint of stubble. Perhaps though this was all in aid of his companion, a pretty brunette that sat with him at the table, their hands entwined as they engaged in quiet conversation.
“Thanks”, John replied.
“No problem, now are you sure on the liquor, I’ve got some homebrew stuff tha…”, O’Leary’s voice faded away as John walked towards the man in the centre of the room, mentally noting even the slightest details he was able to ascertain, attempting to build a profile of his target prior to making a first impression. Some aspects were easy, the man’s obvious love for his wife providing the first point of call, and his clean appearance highlighting an interest in self-preservation. The most important element however came as John spotted what appeared to be a doll, protruding from his left pocket, and wearing the kind of ridiculously miss-placed bright red cowboy hat that made it certain to be a child’s toy. From this item alone, John knew he’d found the key ingredient to winning him over.
“Name’s John”, he began as he arrived at the table, “Looking for a couple good men to go out on a supply run, get to keep what you can carry, interested?”, John asked, now also noting the M1911 pistol the man had holstered to his leg.
“Not interested… sorry. Got too much to lose and not enough reason to risk doing so”, the man replied feverishly, his head not even turning to face the abrupt newcomer.
Disappointed at the response, John began to walk away, before turning on the spot and dropping to one knee, now head height with the sitting stranger.
“Now I understand your reasoning, I do, but if I was sat here with at least one kid to feed and a wife to keep going then I reckon a supply run’d be about the first thing I’d wanna do”, John said in a calm, collected and confident tone of voice he knew would sink in deep.
Hesitating for a moment, before eventually realising his mistake, and subsequently covering up the toy which had given so much about him away, the man looked deep into his wife’s eyes, before turning back to John, and dismissing the offer once again.
“I’m sorry, not this time, we’ve got enough to get by for now, maybe when we’re closer to running out, if you’re still around. Name’s Andrew by th…”, John again walked away before the end of the sentence, keen to shrug off the sense of rejection as quickly as possible.
As he approached the brothers, a lesson learnt long ago resurfaced on the forefront of his mind, a lesson that says you should never bring family members into a fold, because they’ll always try to save each other before anyone else in the group. It was something John had both discovered first hand and heard about from numerous others, and something he couldn’t help but admit was something he himself would most likely fall victim to as well. Even if the odds are stacked heavily against doing so, family always try to save family before anybody else, simple human nature. As the thought passed over, John slowed his pace, and just prior to arriving at their corner of the room, turned to the right, and began walking to the thick, bar and chain sealed doors, alone.
“Gonna’ head out, should be back in no more than a few hours or so, supply run”, John said to one of the guards stood by the door. Who then began to examine John, his eyes moving up and down along John’s tall body, almost analysing him for the likelihood of him actually returning.
“Be back before dark, doors don’t open after dark, understood?”, instructed one of the guards.
Nodding as he heard the words for what felt like the thousandth time, John began buttoning his jacket, as the sound of the guards unsealing the door rang out in front of him.
“You make it back, quarter of what you find come to us, you don’t make it back, everything in your room does”, stated the other guard, as the final defence came off of the door.
“I know the drill”, John replied begrudgingly, unwilling to dignify the words with eye contact.
As the doors opened, every head in the room snapped to the sight of the outside world, quickly checking for any sign of change, before quickly getting back to their own business. That was, all but Andrew, who – still holding his wife’s hands in his own – couldn’t help but stare at John as he crossed from the land of the living, into the land of the dead.
Chapter 2: Into the Land of the Dead
Upon stepping outside, you would have been forgiven for thinking that daytime was just another one of the many things lost when the infection hit. Even on a reasonably bright, sunny day, the sky appeared somehow dark, grim almost. Plumes of smoke whirled through the air, usually originating from one of the countless unhandled fires that burnt relentlessly across the region. The ground below was muddied and littered with everything from the occasional corpse – both of the living and dead – to a vehicle, albeit rarely a working one. Even the trees that surrounded John, most of which had been untouched for many years, seemed somehow darker, more depraved, as if starved for too long of the sunlight that struggled to break through the greying layer of smoke and clouds above.
John’s feet slowly rustled through the many piles of fallen leaves, his eyes quickly scanning the area for threats, or better yet, food sources. Rare was it that a survivor might find anything of any real value this close to a camp, but John was keen to at least try. Way back at the start of the infection, the threat had often been so woefully underestimated that even children were heading out on supply runs to this sort of distance, a sorry sight that was thankfully no longer commonplace, but one that still served as a lasting reminder of just how poorly the severity of the situation had been understood.
As John looked back to inspect the motel-turned-survivor camp that was once known as ‘The Good-Night Inn’, he couldn’t help but notice its continuously diminishing state. More letters had fallen from the main sign, more windows appeared either cracked or smashed completely, more barricades had been put up to replace those that had fallen. More importantly though, was tha
t more guards patrolled the rooftop, their weapons drawn, and their eyes seeking out any and all potential threats. From the inside, the knowledge that such guards existed on the rooftops above filled you with a sense of security, but from outside, where at any moment as many as five or six guns may be drawn on you, it felt more like you were in front of a firing squad.
It had long since become apparent to John that although this place had become his current housing, it was most certainly not his home. He had little power there, and couldn’t bring anything back from a run without giving up some of his haul to the security as rent. This was an unfortunate process, but John saw its merit, knowing that the guards either needed supplies brought to them, or they would have to go and find some, leaving the camp defenceless during their absence. Besides that, it was only because of their presence that this camp had lasted as long as it had, and had so few breaches.
In fact, the only real incident John could recall was of one of those ‘things’ trying to wander in one day when the door was briefly opened. It had somehow snuck past the rooftop-guards and positioned itself by the door, lunging through the gap the second it opened, the smell of the living having evidently reached its nostrils. The situation was quickly contained though, and now known to most as little more than a memory, as well as justification for the guards that had since been stationed on the door.
Putting his back to the building, John began to walk along the road connecting the Motel to the nearby highway, joining up with the so far still standing forest as he moved. It was important to keep to the treeline when trying to be discreet, a trick John had known for many years, but found much more useful the way the world was now. The trees would mask the sight, sound and smell of almost anybody from a distance, which kept those ‘things’ from finding you too easily. Better yet, the bandits – survivors who chose a more violent approach to survival, and tended to seek out, steal from and often murder anybody they found – would be less likely to spot you, which was potentially the biggest benefit. That close to camp though, John knew he was relatively safe, aside of course from the guns that were no doubt still pointed at his back.
Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down Page 1