Horrified, John pushed away, grabbing for his daughter as he did, intent on getting her away from whatever this thing was that his wife had become. Grabbing his daughters arm though, he heard that same, low groan, coming this time from the once composed and beautiful face of his daughter, her own bright blonde hair now greyer than the darkest of clouds. Suddenly she began snapping and gnawing at the air around John’s hand, having herself also apparently blinked, initiating the change that had taken over both of John’s favourite girls, much to his confusion and horror.
John felt little choice, his eyelids now the weight of a car, he had to close them, if only for a moment. As he re-opened them though, he was taken aback by the change. No light filled the room, save for the smallest sliver of moonlight making its way through a crack in the wooden planks that boarded up the previously unobscured windows. No wife lay with him and no child was happily playing at the foot of the bed, nobody was there to provide any kind of warm, familiar embrace. John was alone, now staring up at that same ceiling, spotting the same cracks and spots of over or under-done paintwork, but in a much greyer and more disgusting colour than the bright, vibrant white of his dream. He closed his eyes once more, hoping that the remainder of the night might be a little calmer, and drifted back off to sleep.
* * *
As the smog-obscured and seemingly deadened sun rose once again over the motel – that same little sliver of light cracking through the boarded up window – John arose from his bed, briefly and very frantically checking for the presence of any dream rendered family members as he did. Quickly he ascertained that there were none, and so much more calmly set about getting dressed, as well as mentally preparing himself for the day ahead.
Ready to leave the room, John threw his hooded sweater over his shoulders, only to hear the faintest of metal clangs as he did. Straight away he recognised the noise as the sort of noise that an old tin pencil case might give off, or perhaps a metal ammo box, such as the one he had obtained from yesterday’s run. A menacing smile spread over his still sleep laden face, as the realisation that he had successfully snuck the box back into the camp without handing it over to the guards surfaced on his mind. Quickly he swung the sweater back over his shoulder, removing the box excitedly and retreating to the edge of his king-sized bed.
Sitting there, box in hand, John braced himself for the very genuine possibility of opening it to find little more than piles of dust and disappointment. But as the cracking sound of opening a metallic box pinged around the room, and the dust coating the container filled the air, sheer joy filled his eyes at the sight of bullets, at least thirty or so of them, many of which appeared to be the very same .22 calibre rounds his Ruger required. There was even some .45 calibre ACP rounds for Andrew’s M1911, provided he didn’t manage to jam it again first. It was like winning the jackpot in this day and age, and the bonus prize was still to come. Underneath the many casings, John pulled out what appeared to be a map of the local area, including visuals stretching to at least two or three hours’ drive in every direction, all on one folded back page of a book, exactly what John had needed.
Happy he had gotten far more than he’d ever expected, John stood up from the bed, stuffed the map into his sweater pocket, and left the room, locking it tight behind him. He headed briskly downstairs to the main lobby, spotting Andrew and his wife in that same spot at the centre of the room. Walking over – the bullets for Andrew’s M1911 held firmly in his right hand – John couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride over what he was about to do, the wealth he was about to share, and hopefully, the seemingly reliable alliance he was about to cement.
Arriving at the table, he held out his clenched fist, and dropped the seven ACP rounds onto the table in front of Andrew.
“On the house”, he said, to the clearly confused recipient.
“What?”, Andrew asked, stunned, but still managing to grab the bullets up almost as quickly as they landed on the table. “You’re just…giving me these?”, he asked, unconvinced.
“Consider it payment for the next run I need you for”, John replied.
Andrew could only nod, clearly both elated and shocked by the incredibly valuable gift, but also concerned over just what exactly ‘the next run’ might be.
“Andrew”, John continued, ignoring the puzzled expression on his face, “Why don’t you ever bring your kids down here?”, he asked.
It was a question that had puzzled John ever since he had first seen Andrew and his wife, sat there at that central table, alone. And it was one that only then did he feel he had any kind of right to ask.
“I don’t want her to see what the world is like now”, Andrew replied, unintentionally divulging the fact that he had just one child, a daughter, “Would you?”, he asked
John thought for a moment, before restraining the overwhelming urge to point out just exactly what he would do if only he knew where his own family was, instead opting for a different approach.
“Your kid is gonna’ need to pick up the work at some point, the sooner you get her adjusted to what the world is like now, the better. Don’t expect some knight in shining armour to come ridin’ through and turn the world back into the ‘civilised’ one it used to be. This is it now, this is what we’ve got, get her used to it”, John said as he began to walk away, still mumbling as he did, “Or they’ll be screwed the day you two aren’t around anymore”, he added.
Heading over to the main doors, John examined the guards stood on either side. Both were of large build, the one on the left armed with some form of full stock shotgun, and an M1911 similar to Andrew’s, the other holding an M16 assault rifle – seemingly military grade – and a Glock 17 pistol to boot.
“Is my bag ready”, John asked the right hand man.
“Yeah, it’s behind the bar with the leprechaun”, he replied, pointing at O’Leary and smirking.
“Great, thanks”, John turned and began to walk away, before stopping and turning again to face the man. “While we were out yesterday”, he started, “We saw a pickup, three guys in it, heading round the outskirts of Ashton on the 494, any idea where they were headed?”, John asked.
The guard hesitated for a moment, deciding most likely whether or not it was in his interest to help, the same selfish thought that went through most people’s heads now.
“Can’t say for definite”, he eventually replied, “But we’ve heard of a settlement over at the Apple River campground, ‘bout a 40 minute drive from here”, he said.
“Yeah, I know it”, John said, thinking back to the camping trips he had taken his wife and daughter on to the once family orientated campground. “Thanks”, he added, holding yet another clenched fist out, underneath which the guard propped out his own hand. “Should fit that G17 of yours”, John said, dropping four 9mm rounds into the man’s palm as he did.
The guard appeared utterly confused at first, but quickly realised that his own generosity had bought him generosity in kind. Rather than acknowledge that however, he simply stared back at John, unable to break the hard-man, stoic character that he had been instructed to give off. Eventually, he managed at least to exert a simple nod, a nod of gratitude and respect, but only a nod nonetheless.
John walked back over to the bar, placing the now empty ammo box onto the counter as he arrived, and gesturing for his bag from the Irishman. O’leary had most likely been working on his next attempt to convince John to buy liquor, but instead decided simply to fetch the bag, and handed it over the counter, unable to think of a spiel in time. Nodding at the small man, John took the bag, swung it over his shoulder, and headed back up to his room.
* * *
John had been amassing supplies for some time, but no tin of beans or chocolate bar could replace the usefulness of a map, a book of nothing more than coloured paper sheets, once rendered near-redundant so many times over by various technological advances. When the power dropped, plunging the world into darkness, it immediately separated the smart and the dumb. The dumb clawed
away at the screens of their smartphones, waiting for the battery to run dry and effectively strand them in a world of uncertainly. The smart got their maps out, turned off their phones and computers, and stuck to what they knew would keep going.
Finally John had joined the camp of the smart, and now began to reap the benefits, pouring over every tiny detail of the local area page, correlating the routes it showed with what he himself had seen on the roads. Quickly he began marking roadblocks and broken bridges he’d previously discovered, as well as anything else that might cause him issues or delays on the journey he was now planning, the journey to the other campsite.
Unfortunately, even with a memory as good as John’s, it was impossible to note down every tiny issue that might be found along the way. With how the world was now, a ‘40 minute drive’ had become at least twice the journey, and that was if the route had only a few, passable blockages. The real delays and issues came when a road was completely blocked by a mass of wrecked vehicles, a horde of the dead barrelling through and stranding anybody in its path, or, god forbid, when the car died.
Therein of course, lay another issue, the car. That oh so common form of transport that now lay discarded across the landscape en masse. Unfortunately, for the most part, they had by now usually been ran dry of power and even dryer of decent working mechanics, weathered by the disuse they had so abruptly experienced, as well as the sheer chaos that had unfolded out on the roads. As such, in a worst case scenario, John could be looking at a twelve hour hike, and even that was provided he wasn’t disturbed by one of the undead.
He was no fool, he knew to plan for the worst, and he knew that even if he left at first light, he’d struggle to make it back before the gates closed, whether a working vehicle was found or not. He certainly didn’t see the merit in planning for a warm, welcome arrival and a bed for the night at Apple River, a camp he’d never been near since the infection had hit, and so instead John began analysing the landscape. He was looking for the best places to camp, the hills with the best cover and most comprehensive views, the towns that might have secure, vacant houses, even the rivers that might have eroded away small caves and crevices perfect for temporary shelter, anything that might have provided a safe stopping point for at least one night. Everything was still a guess though, and so despite spending the entire day planning, John only had a series of potential paths, no definitive route, and no time prediction worth relying on.
* * *
“Tomorrow I’m setting out for another campsite, place called Apple River, hoping I might just find someone, anyone, with some idea of where you are. I’m not holding out much hope, I know chances are slim, but I’ve got even less chance if I sit here any longer. Hell if nothing else, maybe I’ll manage to find some supplies along the way.
Anyway, somehow I need to convince Andrew it’s worth tagging along, could do with the extra set of eyes, another gun too if he figures out how to fire the damn thing. Here goes nothing.
John.”
Chapter 5: Taking your pick
As the first sign of the morning sun rose over the motel’s surrounding treeline, the great doors of the Good Night Inn swung slowly open, followed almost immediately afterwards by John Parker’s commanding figure. The nearest guard was deep in speech, reminding John of the harsh conditions that were tied to his temporary release, “Back before dark”, “Quarter of your stuff”, all the usual hits. Nodding at his eventual completion – and pretending he had listened intently to the entire thing – John made his way out of the doorway and onto the road outside. Right there and then, he started upon the long path to Apple River, a route that he had informed the guards should take no more than one or two days.
Behind him walked Andrew, paying significantly more attention to the guard’s instructions, and nodding feverishly at every word spoken, like a schoolboy being told what he could and couldn’t do on today’s field trip. Much to John’s surprise, Andrew had taken little convincing for this latest journey, perhaps because of the last run having gone relatively well, in terms of the supplies brought back at least. He could only hope however, that this had not turned Andrew into someone who came along expecting an easy run, as this journey would no doubt be significantly longer than the ‘quick wander’ into town they had last embarked on.
The plan consisted of finding a vehicle and completing the journey same-day, preferably with as many supplies as possible. John had relayed the intended schedule to Andrew in front of his wife, deeming it only fair to have full disclosure with the woman whose husband he was temporarily taking away. He had however also discussed the alternative plans, so as not to worry Andrew’s wife should he not return by the evening, but had gone into little detail on the worst case scenarios that now lingered at the forefront of his mind. Even if they were to come to fruition, Andrew’s wife sitting back at camp worrying both herself and her daughter to the brink of insanity would help nobody.
The slow, quiet rustling of leaves sounded out under the pair’s footsteps, each of them walking in silence for some time, until eventually Andrew forced out his first – and no doubt far from last – question of the journey .
“John”, he started, “I have to ask, why Apple River, why not Ashton again?”, he said.
“Better chance of getting decent supplies from somewhere a bit further away”, John lied.
“So, this is just about the supplies, there’s no reason we have to go to this specific campsite?”, Andrew quizzed.
John hesitated, a feeling that Andrew might know the real reason slowly creeping in.
“Just about the supplies, Andrew”, he eventually responded.
“It’s just, I know of a few campsites near here, seems a little odd to head all the way to Apple River”, Andrew continued.
“That’s exactly why we’re heading to Apple River”, John replied, “Because everyone round here knows about all the local places”, he lied again.
“Ahah! Now I see. So it’s less likely other people will beat us to the good stuff, less likely we’ll come back empty handed?”, Andrew asked.
John nodded.
“Less likely we’ll run into a truck like that one we saw last time?”, Andrew asked again.
At this point, John felt relieved they were walking single file – John taking lead out front – so that Andrew couldn’t see the shade of red spreading over his face. He was beginning to feel more and more nervous that Andrew was getting closer to asking about where that truck might have come from, that being of course, their current destination.
John simply nodded again.
“Fair enough. Here’s hoping we find a vehicle soon, my feet are already a little sore”, Andrew said timidly.
“Yeah, here’s hoping”.
* * *
Having walked for well over an hour, the pair eventually emerged at a clearing. It was that very same clearing they had reached just a couple of days before hand, right on the outskirts of Ashton. But this time, they had no intention of entering the small town, choosing instead to travel around its outskirts. Up ahead, the unmistakable sight of a highway could be seen, the numbers 494 emblazoned on a road sign, reassuring John that they were on the right track. Checking quickly on his compass – another essential navigation tool he’d been smart enough to get hold of before the world went to hell – John continued towards the North-Eastern facing side of the highway, the direction of which was almost a straight line to their destination. Sadly the 494 didn’t keep to this track for long, but it would at least act as a good starting point, and hopefully, at some point, provide them with a vehicle.
Upon arriving at the edge of the 494, the pair clambered over the crash barriers separating the docile grassy verge and the once busy 60mph interstate usually packed with rushing commuters and holiday-bound families. They were greeted with exactly what John had hoped for, a sea of abandoned and discarded hunks of metal, hundreds of now ownerless vehicles ripe for the taking. The wrecks stretched for miles in both directions, gridlocked by panicked
traffic, each of them worn by the weather and lack of use they’d received in the recent months, and showing evidence of the numerous bumps and crashes they’d each been a part of during the panic. John was no fool, he knew these vehicles would be a bad pick, but just seeing them meant he knew there would be more, and as he looked along the route, he saw exactly what the map had told him would be there, an overpass just up ahead. Happily, he began walking along the highway, his plan slowly coming together.
“Hey wait, what’s wrong with these ones?”, Andrew asked, as he continued to blindly follow John.
“These have been here for months sat here in the sun, look at ‘em, they’re damn near rusty, derelict. They’re prolly’ all jammed up with shit that’s been building up for who knows how long”, John explained. “What we want are the ones under that overpass up there”, he said, gesturing to the tunnel-like mass of concrete about a mile ahead, “Under there the cars’ been shielded from the weather, should find a couple in way better shape than these”.
“You think there’ll be any biters up there too?”, Andrew asked, clearly a little worried by the idea.
“Maybe, but if there are, they won’t have eaten for a long time, they’ll be slow, easy to take down”, John responded, detecting the fear in Andrew’s voice. “Don’t worry, we stick close together, we take ‘em out one by one, we’ll be fine”, he said. “Probably nothing up there anyway”.
“Alright, if you say so”, Andrew replied, gripping the butt of his pistol slightly as he nervously looked around the nearby area.
Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down Page 4