Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down

by Duncan McArdle

  Before he could though, a streak of disturbed air became clearly visible from behind the shop wall, right across to the truck, as a single bullet fired quickly across the gap, obliterating the rear window of the truck, and penetrating with immense speed into the rear of the man’s skull, just as he sat back up into the chair. Within milliseconds the noise followed, an immense cracking sound serenaded by echoes on buildings seemingly miles away, the unmistakable sound of an M14 reverberating around every part of the local area.

  Next to the far side of the building from Donald, John knelt on one knee, his scope near filled with the outline of the man’s bald head, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to fire again should he see the slightest form of movement, but quickly noting that all seemed quiet. That was, except for the sudden revving of an engine from further along the road, as a sedan that had appeared to be parked just like all the other vehicles, suddenly burst into life and sped off away from the gas station, towards the outskirts of the city. John’s position remained unchanged, only his eyes had moved to locate the source of the noise, occasionally looking back down the scope to check once again that his target was indeed down, before looking back to the sedan, ensuring that it was in fact heading away from them, and not turning round.

  “What the hell was all that!?”, Donald’s voice rang out as he came sprinting around the corner, his gun still raised and pointing at the now motionless truck.

  “No idea”, replied John. “Guy came out of nowhere, figure he must have been with whoever was in the sedan”, he said, nodding to the trail of dust clearly visible some distance down the road they had travelled in on.

  “Jesus Christ. Here I was thinking we might just be the only living folk left in this city”, Donald said, clearly frustrated. “Good shooting anyway, let’s go see what you bagged”, he said hurriedly, aware that the gunshot had no doubt attracted some unwanted attention.

  John stood up but did not immediately advance to the truck as Donald did. He took no pleasure in ending the life of another person, whether they were acting against him or not, but in this instance it had to be done, and after he finished reminding himself of that fact, he eventually began walking over to the truck.

  “Looks like you got yourself some white trash”, Donald said as John arrived to the sight of a body being pulled out of the truck and onto the floor, his yellowed teeth and bad tattoos sprawled across his arms and body, clearly visible now as he lay lifeless on the ground.

  John stared at the man, giving him a few moments of respect, just as Donald instead chose to rummage through his pockets, looking for anything that might make the experience work in his favour, before eventually coming up empty.

  “Nothing on him, waste of a god damn bullet if you ask me”, Donald said, standing up from the body. “Great shot though”, he added.

  The shot had been perfectly placed, and the bullet had become lodged in the head somewhere early enough to slow it down, meaning that other than a single smash to the rear window of the truck, there was no damage, and only a small volume of blood to clean up.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got this”, Donald said as he began wiping the seats of the truck with some tissue paper he’d pulled from the glove compartment. “Wonder what he thought he was doing? His friends didn’t seem to care much”, he remarked.

  “Probably testing him, maybe a gang initiation or something”, John said, as he gave one last look to the body of the man, before walking round to the passenger side of the truck and climbing in. Now he simply watched Donald, as he gave the seat a last few scrubs and stuffed the exposed wires used to hijack the truck back into the space under the steering wheel.

  From the outside looking in, both men’s acceptance of death and murder must have seemed barbaric, but each had experienced it too much to give each instance the sort of attention your average person would. Instead, Donald too climbed back into the truck, started the engine, and then moved off, just in time to see the nearest alerted biter make its way past the gas station borders.

  “Get anything in there?”, John asked as they drove away.

  “Not much, couple Twinkies and some smokes”, Donald replied, “Hoping we find better at the hospital”.

  “You sure it’s a good idea to go there after that?”, John asked, surprised that Donald still wished to go further into the city.

  “Course!”, he replied without hesitation, “This place could be a gold mine, I aint’ letting a couple hicks and a beat up old sedan scare me away”.

  “And what if the whole city’s like this?”, John asked, “Overrun with bandits, ransacked clean of anything useful, but full of people willing to kill us for checking anyway?”.

  “Then that aim of yours is gonna’ be a freaking god-send”, Donald said chuckling, as he drove towards the city centre.

  * * *

  Eventually, the city hospital came into view, a dirtied multi-storey building that looked like it had been overrun at the height of the infection, so many thousands of local residents no doubt having made it their first stop after contracting the disease. This theory was confirmed by the sight of bodies, hundreds of bodies, each wrapped in body bags – some no more than trash-bags taped around the head and legs – and laid out in lines, most likely done back when it was thought that the infection was only a temporary problem. As the truck drew closer though, the alternative measures came into view. Even more bodies were piled high on both sides of the hospital, mountains of kindling ash representing so many lives that had been lost, now no more than two mounds of burnt death, at various stages of decomposition.

  It was a view that brought even Donald close to gagging, a sight reminiscent of the many mass graves of the past, the perpetrators of which long since convicted of severe war crimes. Here though, it was a desperate last act to eradicate a deadly infection, an act encouraged by just about every law enforcement agency in the country, and probably the world. Nobody would face action for what had happened here, because it had happened everywhere, and it might just have stopped a few thousand more biters from emerging out of this very hospital.

  “Looks like the main entrance is blocked”, John said, as his focus shifted from the black mountains of death to the numerous biters wandering around in front of the hospital, their bodies so deprived of energy that they barely managed to look over at the truck slowly creeping past nearby.

  “Good eye”, Donald said, “We’ll try the side”.

  “Got it”, John responded, concerned somewhat that the biters at the front might also indicate a likely presence of them at the side, as well as inside the hospital itself.

  Rounding the corner however, John was happy to see that the side entrance to the hospital appeared much clearer – other than the bodies of a few people who appeared to have long since passed on – and that the entrance itself was neither barred nor chained shut.

  “Looks good”, Donald announced as he looked towards the double doors on the side of the Hospital, “Good as we’re gonna’ get anyway!”, he added.

  As the truck pulled up outside, the pair jumped out, and Donald quickly swung his M4 upwards, focusing on the rooftops around them. John meanwhile opted for his Remington, grabbing it from the rear of the truck before doing a quick sweep of the bodies nearby, ensuring each was well and truly dead. The pair made every attempt to be as quiet as possible, extremely conscious of the low noises of lifeless movement that could be heard from over the nearby wall, coming from the small but nevertheless deadly presence of biters in front of the Hospital. The two spent several minutes checking every inch of the area they could, and eventually, with John certain there was no threat on the ground, and Donald sure that nobody was on the nearby rooftops, John crudely slotted the M14 between the straps of his backpack, and joined Donald to take position on the door, Remington in hand.

  “On three”, John said, Donald happy to follow the man he felt had probably done this plenty of times before. “One”, John began, flicking on the torch of his shotgun, “Two”, he conti
nued, placing his hand onto the door on his side, as Donald did the same on his, “Three!”.

  The pair each pushed their respective sides of the old and crooked double doors open, each of them swinging back on their hinges as the pair stormed through the doorway, guns drawn, pointing down each end of the hallway they had barged into. John’s torch illuminated the dark and dust filled air to the left, while Donald attempted to see into the darkness on the right, using what little light came in through the boarded up windows as his only guide.

  “Clear”, John whispered to Donald, content that his side of the hallway posed no threat.

  “Here too”, Donald replied, his eyes now adjusting to the blackened hallway, a wall clearly visible past a series of benches and a set of fire doors, “Dead end this way”, he added, noting the ironic presence of chains around the fire escape.

  “Then let’s go this way”, John instructed, leading the way along the dimly lit hallway, as his military grade flashlight pierced the darkness in front of them, assisted by whatever dwindling light the setting sun outside still provided.

  * * *

  “Daddy!”, came the high pitched voice of a young girl as the sound of boots pounding along the wooden floorboards rounded the corner.

  “There she is!”, replied the wearer of the boots, who quickly reacted to his daughter jumping by catching her into his arms and holding her in the tightest of embraces, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you”, he said.

  “Andrew!”, came the voice of Andrew’s wife as she too came running over.

  “Thank God”, said Andrew, clearly relieved that his family had survived without him, and that he could finally stop worrying about what may or may not be happening to them.

  “We’ve been worried sick”, said Andrew’s wife, as she tried to assert some firmness to her voice, a task she found difficult thanks to the overpowering sense of relief she felt at seeing her husband alive.

  “I’m sorry Sarah I really am, it took longer than I expected but I’m back now, and I’m staying”, he said, hugging his wife close.

  Eventually releasing himself from the family embrace, Andrew dropped his bag onto the bed, taking out of it the few tins of food and bottles of various drinks he’d managed to scavenge from the fuel stop on the way to Apple river, minus the share he’d given to the guards upon re-entering the motel. Andrew stood there, looking down at his pathetic haul, a sense of shame creeping over him that he’d managed little more than a couple of days’ worth of supplies, despite being out for just as long himself. That said, at least it was better than nothing.

  “Andrew”, interrupted Sarah from behind, “Did John make it back okay too?”, she asked.

  “John’s still out there”, he replied, “We parted ways this morning, he wanted to keep going, but…I wanted to come back”.

  “You…you left him out there alone?”, Sarah asked.

  “No!”, Andrew responded, almost offended at the judgemental look his wife was giving him. But he wasn’t rushing to divulge the full details of what had happened the very first second he got back, or at all in front of his daughter for that matter, and so he shortened the story, “He’s with someone else, another guy we met along the way, he’s fine”, he said.

  “Well, okay then”, Sarah said, seemingly satisfied, “It’s just, they’ve had to shoot a few of those things outside, I think we need all the people we can get, they’ve been getting closer”, Sarah explained.

  “Closer to the Motel?”, Andrew asked, looking over to the boarded up window of their first floor room.

  “Yeah, it was just one at first, but the gunshot made more come, today they’ve shot at least five or six”, Sarah continued.

  “Don’t you worry”, Andrew said, lighting a candle before once again pulling the whole family in for another warm embrace, “Nothing’s getting anywhere near any of you”, he said.

  From inside that room it was a perfect sight, a modern American family enjoying nothing more than each other’s company, no care in the world beyond the room they stood in. From outside the window though, as the sun finally set over the trees that surrounded the Motel, gradually coating the building in a thick layer of darkness, the family embrace was of little interest. That was of course, save for the thin sliver of candle-light that broke free of the boarded up windows, and shone out into the dark woodland, across the path of the horrifying horde of biters that had gathered nearby. Until now they had simply been wandering aimlessly through the midst of the trees, aiming for but never finding the source of gunshots they had all heard. Now though, as a small beacon of brightness suddenly attracted their attention, they set their eyes at its source, the motel’s first floor.

  Chapter 18: Open Fire

  “I can’t see shit!”, rang Donald’s voice from John’s rear.

  “Quiet!”, John whispered sharply, as he paused to make sure nothing stirred in the darkness, perhaps having heard Donald’s low but still very much audible voice.

  The pair had managed to navigate most of the Hospital’s bottom floor very quickly, assisted greatly by the common occurrence of doors that were boarded, barred or chained shut, no doubt in an effort to keep people out, or worse, to keep something in. Whatever the reason though, it helped to guide the pair through the building, in most cases only giving them a single path to follow, which eventually led them – along numerous empty hallways and echoing corridors – to the stairwell.

  The stairwell allowed in no natural light whatsoever. All they could see was what the torch on John’s shotgun showed them, as well as the odd few centimetres of floor or wall where glimmers of light reflected in from the various adjoining hallways, though even this dwindled and all but disappeared once the sun finally set. Going in at night was stupid, and both men knew this, but to John, waiting till morning meant just another obstacle in the way of finding his family, and to Donald, it gave the friends of the man John had shot earlier longer to plot their revenge, should they choose to exact it.

  As they arrived at the base of the stairs, John looked upwards slowly, his Remington raised so as to illuminate the floors above them one by one. Soon his eyes noted the presence of a large mass after the fourth floor door, most likely yet another barricade setup to block off a portion of the Hospital. John clicked his fingers, attracting Donald’s attention, which was then diverted with a point of John’s hand towards the barricade.

  “Can only get up four floors, you still wanna’ go?”, John asked.

  Donald nodded, this time keen to keep as silent as possible, feeling much more uncomfortable being able to see so little of his surroundings.

  As the two began to slowly ascend the stairs, each being careful to step as softly and quietly as possible, the size of the building they were attempting to ransack dawned on them. It was at least nine stories, which at this rate could be anywhere between twenty or so minutes – if the path to the upper floors was completely blocked – or several hours. Donald was certain though that they would find something of use, and so step by step, they made their way up to the first floor door, its small square window the only way of seeing what lay behind it, and a smoky layer of dust obscuring even that already limited view.

  John tried desperately to see what might lay on the other side of the door, but there was no use, he had to enter, and so he placed his hand on the door handle, and gently pushed it downwards. Following the unmistakable click of the lever rolling back into its housing, he began pulling the door towards him, so slowly that a gust of wind would have done the job quicker, but in turn slow enough to make for an absolutely silent manoeuvre.

  The growing darkness had meant that their tactics had to change. Donald’s lack of a flashlight meant that having him follow close behind was simply too dangerous, and so it became up to John to move first, checking to ensure that everything was clear before allowing his companion to follow. John had assumed that Donald would take issue with this, and that he would demand to switch so that he could lead instead, but he had remained sur
prisingly silent, perhaps happy to avoid the many risks that he could now throw John to the wolves for instead. Keen to avoid said risks, John moved slowly forwards through the doorway, peaking to his left and right as he did, trying not to move more than an inch without looking both ways, like a child crossing a road for the first time.

  To John’s relief, the hallway was clear, and was in fact partially illuminated by the green of several emergency exit signs – perhaps running from long-life batteries, or illuminated by some kind of chemical reaction – which meant they could resume their two-pronged formation. Realising this at the same time, Donald quickly caught up, moving into position behind John and covering them from the rear, as they slowly crept around the second floor hallway.

  * * *

  The pair continued like this for some time, occasionally dropping into whatever rooms remained accessible and un-barricaded, each time finding themselves more and more disappointed at the sight of empty room after empty room. Every room’s contents appeared to have been either removed long before the infection had fully hit, or ransacked time and time again ever since. Undeterred though, they continued on, and slowly but surely made their way through the first four floors, eventually arriving once more at the stairwell, this time stopped by the makeshift barricade they had seen earlier. In reality, it was nothing more than a crude combination of chairs, tables, and what appeared to be rubble, all thrown in to cut off access to the upper floors. Sadly for both men however, it was a mass that was essentially immovable, should they wish to continue keeping noise to a minimum.