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

by Duncan McArdle

  “Already checked, it’s a petrol generator, no use for the Hilux”, John said, patting the hood of the Diesel powered Toyota. “Now I’m gonna call the couch over there”, John said, nodding towards a couch in the corridor that lined the building, “I’ll see you in a little while”.

  Donald nodded back as if to acknowledge John’s request for rest, knowing that he needed the only able bodied member of the party to be as energised as possible, especially as Donald wanted him out scavenging before they left Tomah.

  Chapter 22: Tomah

  John awoke in almost complete darkness, the small amount of moonlight making it through the windows the only source of light attempting to fill the large building. Donald had seemingly turned off the electricity, in what was probably a smart move now that it was dark out. The alternative of course was to turn the otherwise well-disguised truck wash into some huge, illuminated ‘Come on in’ sign, inviting everyone and everything they wanted to stay out, to come inside.

  John had decided that if he had to raid Tomah, he wanted to do so under the cover of darkness. On previous escapades, the light of the day had kept him safe from the undead, or at least made their presence more obvious. Now though, as the living began to turn on the pair with a frightening frequency, John felt that the darkness of night might be exactly what he needed. Of course, he’d always have his trusty Remington’s flashlight if things got too bad.

  Getting to his feet, John began preparing himself for the trip, testing the sling he had obtained from the soldier’s body to attach the M14 to his back, a move that allowed him to take both the rifle and shotgun with him much more comfortably. Checking that his pistol and knife were still attached, he began emptying his backpack onto the floor to get as much scavenging room as possible, just in time to see Donald hobble over to the other side of the viewing window.

  “Gonna’ leave this stuff here, try not to steal any of it”, John said, only half joking.

  “No problem, you’ll be getting better stuff for me in town anyway”, Donald replied with a smirk.

  “Yeah about that, where am I headed?”, John asked.

  “It’s a straight line down Route twelve for five or so minutes, it takes you right into the town centre, gun shop’s on your right next to some Amish place would you believe it, and should be a couple general stores dotted around too”, Donald explained.

  “Got it”, John replied, as he picked up his backpack.

  Walking to the truck, John could only hope that the town was quiet. A straight route to his destination looked great on paper, but meant he’d be unable to hide his movements, and that he’d be especially prone to bandits if any were to see him, as they’d know exactly where he was headed. Placing the shotgun and rifle into the passenger foot-well though, he knew he’d at least put up a damn good fight if everything went to hell.

  “You able to open up?”, John asked of Donald as he climbed into the truck.

  “Even better”, Donald replied as he limped over to the section of wall that housed the numerous switches used to control the lights, “The generator can do it for ya’”, he said, before flicking one of them.

  Instantly the exit door began to open, the loud mechanical screech of its gears – previously sat dormant for so long – sounding out into the night air. John could only shake his head in disbelief at the amount of noise, before turning on the truck, and then driving out of the building, into the night.

  Passing into the outside world, John couldn’t help but wonder what Donald would get up to in his absence, the faint outline of the strange man fading into darkness in the rear view mirror, but he figured it was best not to think about it. Instead John drove onto the road connecting back onto route twelve, the sight of the nearby hotel going off to the left.

  Nearing the turn-on he caught sight of another, previously unnoticed looting spot, a supermarket. The sort of place where a person could live for years and years, right up until the last tin of beans went out of date so long into the future that it was barely worth thinking about. The sort of place probably so full of bottled water that you’d never have to worry about running dry ever again. Sadly though, thanks to these very reasons, it was not somewhere John wanted to risk going; if it wasn’t currently occupied by the same sort of people John was trying to avoid, it had probably been completely ransacked of any useful supplies on the infections first day.

  Turning onto Route twelve, John immediately realised just how straight his path was, already able to see directly into the town he was headed for. The route ahead appeared reasonably clear, the traffic mostly confined to the other lane, no doubt caused by people attempting to flee from the more populated areas, rather than flock towards them. This worked very much in John’s favour though, as for once he was able to open the taps and speed towards the town, though he kept his window down to ensure he could hear his own engine, attempting to balance power with noise.

  Approaching the town, thoughts of ditching the truck and entering on foot entered John’s mind, but the straightness of the road meant that any bandit likely to see him would have an even easier target on foot, and so keeping the truck close – and thus allowing for a quicker getaway – was probably the best thing he could do. Nevertheless, John dimmed the lights to their lowest level, and readied himself for combat, putting the M14 over his shoulder and the Remington into his lap, as the truck crept deeper and deeper, into the confides of Tomah.

  The approaching buildings on each side of the road had an almost old-western vibe, their two storey, partially wood fronted shells stretching out deep into the town centre. Each appeared to target their own specific niche, from computer repairs to gym equipment, and various types of insurance and real-estate. Most however had absolutely no use to John, save for the odd bar that may at some point have contained liquids worth scavenging, though John doubted that there would be much, if anything, left by now. In any case, John had a specific target, and he wasn’t about to risk anything going after the odd bottle of water, when he was after something much more specific, and hopefully something much better.

  Up ahead, John eventually caught sight of a small junction, the side wall of the building on the right painted with the image of a horse towing a cart, in an unmistakably Amish manner. John couldn’t help but wonder if a group of people such as the Amish might have had the sort of supplies needed for a situation like this, the majority of them having lived in electricity-less, self-sustained environments long before the world put anybody in a situation where that became necessary. But as John got closer to the junction, slowly rolling past the shop front, the now empty interior made for a sorry sight. It was no matter though, as the next shop along was John’s first stop, and so he continued forwards, pulling up just a few feet on.

  It was a small store, no more than a few metres wide, and more worryingly, emblazoned with the words “Tomah Trophies & Gifts”. Suddenly John found himself wondering if he had gotten it wrong, or if Donald’s directions had taken him to the wrong place. John’s suspicions and worries had his eyes scanning the nearby stores desperately, before eventually looking once more upon the shop right in front of him, only to catch a glimpse of some additional wording, in small writing, right at the bottom of the window, “Firearms”. The words were written in what appeared to be the sort of white spray used to create fake snow effects, and couldn’t possibly have made it any less obvious that the shop sold weapons. That however would at least mean that the chance of it already having been looted were lessened, albeit at the cost of it probably not being a shop filled to the brim with top-spec weapons.

  John quickly but quietly exited the truck, killing the ignition and replacing its diesel hum with the dead silence of night, something that reminded him just how obvious his presence could be to those listening nearby. Looking around, John couldn’t help but notice the sheer number of rooftops, alleys and open stores that would give even the most amateur of bandits the easiest kill they’d ever get. But after a few seconds, with no movement sighted and no
sounds heard, John chalked it up as an empty space, and instead turned his attention to the store.

  The shop-front was an all window affair, the door made of sturdy double glazing, albeit held together with what thankfully appeared to be a cheap metal frame. It took just a few seconds – and one cleverly positioned hunting knife – to prise open the entrance with little to no noise, and then John was in. The first few steps John took in total darkness, keen to make it at least some of the way in before using his torch, but it was no use, and so after a few moments, he placed his hand towards the front of the Remington, and flicked the switch that had the torch burst suddenly into life.

  Instantly the room was illuminated, the presence of well over a hundred trophies reflecting the light from the shotgun and amplifying it over and over, until every inch of darkness had completely left the shop. John could only hope that nobody outside was watching, but opted to increase his pace just in case, moving quickly through the store until the rows of trophies ended, and were replaced instead by three racks, each exposing the ends of barrels that protruded over their wooden tops. John had hit the jackpot.

  Rounding the cabinet, the weapons came fully into sight, an assortment of long barrelled firearms that varied in use, from scoped hunting rifles to Russian made automatics, this was clearly the belongings of a collector, who – judging by the series of empty slots at the end of the rack – appeared to have taken only what he could carry, or perhaps, all that was worth taking. John considered the latter possibility, picking one of the hunting rifles up, checking it was clear of ammo, and then pulling the trigger, hoping and praying for the satisfying “click” that let him know the internals were in working order. But that click never came, instead filled in for by an assortment of clunks and scrapes that revealed just what a poor condition the weapon was in. John placed the rifle back onto the rack, and moved on to the next.

  Gun by gun, John singled out the few that appeared to be in working order, a grand total of just three weapons in said group by the end of his inspections. The first – an extremely dated shotgun John was certain had been a museum piece at some point – bore all the markings and appearances of a fully working weapon, though John doubted that it would be anywhere near as effective as his significantly more modern Remington. The second however was a half wood, half metal bodied AK-47, the heavy lifter of the Eastern firearms world, and a weapon he had absolutely no doubt would be in perfect order well before he’d picked it up. Placing the AK onto the table behind him, John turned back to the rack, his eyes now heading for the last weapon, an immaculate condition Remington 700 Lapuna, a glorious looking sniper rifle he had used before. Unfortunately for John though, it was a weapon that held no more than four bullets per cartridge, making it a poor choice for the sort of situations John seemed to keep finding himself in.

  Having singled out the weapons, John now turned his attention to the lower shelves, on which numerous boxes of assorted ammunition had been messily left, no doubt already picked clean of the most useful. In amongst the piles John was able to find a couple of magazines for the AK, as well as three half-filled boxes of .22 calibre rounds, which would provide him with enough Ruger ammo to last him for some time. Sadly however, he found nothing for either his own or Donald’s rifles, greeted instead by several empty boxes of STANAG magazines, taking away what was arguably the most important thing he could have found.

  Knelt down, shaking his head at the disappointing haul, John wondered what his next step should be. He wondered whether it might be worth investigating the owners quarters above, or simply moving on to the food stores that lined the street, the closest of which was just a few doors down. Before he could decide though, the sound of shattering glass all but made the decision for him.

  John froze on the spot, his body invisible to anybody at the front of the shop where the sound had come from, courtesy of the gun racks that covered him from any wandering eyes. He grabbed his Remington shotgun, quickly flicking off the torch, and placed it into a firing position, his cheek lent on the stock and the barrel protruding out in front, as he braced himself to rise up and confront whoever else felt they could try to enter this now occupied store. John’s muscles surged with adrenaline, his clenched legs ready to burst as he rose up from behind the racks. His large mass suddenly emerged from the darkness, given away only by the glimmer of the shotgun’s metal barrel, and the small volumes of moonlight that reflected in from outside, bouncing along the trophies separating John from the intruder.

  First inspections however gave away nothing, the store still seemingly empty, no figures moving from within John’s limited view, and no sound stirring in the darkness in front. John flicked on the Remington’s torch, bracing himself once more for the potential bandit, or bandits, that may be just waiting for him to give away his position. Out in front of him though, he saw no evil men, no living thing at all in fact. But what he did see worried him just as much, as the silhouette of numerous bodies ambled aimlessly around the shop front, attempting in what looked like slow motion, to gain entry. Taking in the sight in front of him, John couldn’t help but stutter for a moment, before reaching and turning off his torch once again.

  Unfortunately for John however, it was too late, the bodies closest to the store had seen his torch, and thanks to the almost complete darkness of the cold night outside, were now utterly compelled to investigate the sudden source of brightness that had grazed over them for all but a second. In the doorway, John could see a small break, the shoulder of one biter lodged through it, no doubt rammed into the glass so many times by its comrades that the double glazing had eventually given way. Worse still though, was that as more of the creatures now realised what was going on, the pushing became more vigorous, and the hole began to grow.

  Chapter 23: Cleaning House

  John ducked back into cover, flicking on his torch once more to view his potential weapons haul for a final time, the glimmer of metal bodies reflecting in front of him, as he attempted to weigh up the benefits and drawbacks of taking each weapon. It was a decision that until a moment ago, he doubted he would have had to make, knowing that the close proximity of the truck to the door meant he could have taken just about every item in that godforsaken store if he had wanted to. Now though, he was forced to make a decision quicker than ever, as the group of biters outside got closer and closer to gaining entry.

  The first choice was simple, the unknown shotgun had little going for it save for the fact that it appeared to be in working order. The ammo type was unknown, the weapon itself was not one John had seen before, and although seemingly working, John had no idea how well it would perform. Next John turned to the Remington 700. Although beautiful, its ammunition was far too uncommon, and the rifle itself only being able to take four rounds at a time was a huge drawback in a close quarters situation, and so John quickly decided to leave this too behind, rather begrudgingly. Last but not least John looked to the AK, and made the quickest and easiest decision of them all. John knew only too well that it would fire as well as the day it was made, and that its ammunition was at least reasonably common, and so he placed one magazine into his bag – loading the second into the weapon itself – and slotted the AK through the straps of his backpack. Finally, he picked up his own shotgun, and readied himself to leave.

  Looking around his immediate vicinity, John quickly ascertained that a secondary exit at the rear of the store – which was partially obstructed by a filing cabinet – would probably be exactly the sort of route that he so desperately needed. Even better, it could potentially lead straight into the rear alley, so that he could circle back around the Amish store and emerge back in front of the shop. Moving quickly to the door, John weighed up the potential impact of removing the huge metal cabinet, from the time it would take – making a perfect window of opportunity for the biters, who were already using every second to break further through the shop front’s glass – to the noise, which John was certain would arouse any other creatures waiting at the rear of the s
tore.

  John’s decision was quickly made for him, as the first of the flailing creatures came crashing through the store’s front door, carving a path for those that pushed from behind it, and taking away what was essentially the only other exit. John turned back to the cabinet, placed his dirtied and blistered hands on its left hand side, and pulled with all his might. What he found however, was that the huge metal container moved not an inch, and simply stared back at him, almost spelling out the impending death sentence he might face if he failed to find a way to budge it.

  Immediately John’s brain clicked into life, telling him to abandon his efforts to move it as a whole, and to instead lighten the load by removing its contents. Quickly he obliged, pulling out each drawer from top to bottom, all of them so full with odd scraps of metal and engraving tools he could barely lift a single drawer as it was. Eventually he reached for the bottom entry, pulling out the final box of entangled junk, and twisting his body round to throw it clear of the area, just in time to see the first biter enclose on John’s position.

  It was one of the quicker attackers, most likely a recent turn, still able to manage a jog, albeit clumsily. As it lunged forwards, a quick sidestep saw it flail aimlessly at the space John had just been, colliding instead into the cabinet head first, promptly followed by it collapsing to a heap on the floor. John responded hurriedly, taking out his knife and stabbing down on it, only narrowly catching the side of its head, in a move that did little more than simply anger it. As it grabbed out in John’s direction, only narrowly missing the laces of his left boot, John struck again, this time with more success, the sharpened blade plummeted through the skull of the now fully deceased creature.

  Back at the front of the store, more of the undead were beginning to slowly amble through the growing hole in the glass, and so John turned his attention once more to escaping. Throwing his hands back around the cabinet, he gave another pull, this time exerting more than enough force to bring the hunk of metal tumbling away from the wall, falling onto its front on top of the downed biter, the corpse’s bones cracking and squelching under its still reasonably heavy weight. John looked on though, unaffected by its landing, his attention now drawn to the door, which unfortunately for him, refused to open with a simple twist of its handle. It was locked.