Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down (2 page)

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 that 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.

*
      
*
      
*

Having put a decent distance between himself and the Motel, and finally losing line of sight to the guards, John descended into the trees bordering the road. Lowering his back into an almost crouching manner, he began the long, quiet walk to the nearest place of interest, a town just a few miles out, known as Ashton. He’d been there before, and had found a haul of food tucked away in some pre-apocalypse survivalist type’s house, a man who was no doubt laughed at for his ‘end-of-the-world’ preparations, until it actually happened of course. It seemed however that although well prepared for the impending chaos, the man himself had yet to return for his supplies, perhaps because he was far enough away to make getting back difficult, or perhaps because he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, John wasn’t sure.

Hauls like this didn’t come around often, so he was keen to pick it clean while he could. But the position of the house in the centre of town made for a difficult place to get to undetected, and John hadn’t been there in almost two weeks. As such, he wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t already have been ransacked, though he still thought it best to at least afford it a quick check. Quick however was far from the operative word, as John’s own desire to investigate every unusual occurrence – from the rustling of leaves caught in the breeze, to the scampering of small feet in the undergrowth – often turned the smallest trips into the longest journeys. Thankfully however, such caution often rewarded John, sometimes eluding him to the presence of an animal suitable to eat, and other times, to the presence of something that had its eyes set on eating him instead.

The first few noises that morning however were nothing more than wind, save for one occurrence of a rabbit scurrying across John’s path. The little thing had been too fast for him to lunge out and grab, and too small for him to waste a bullet on, but he was disappointed to watch it run away nonetheless. The fact was, bullets had become worth their weight in much more than just gold – due in no small part to them being able to take down one of those
‘things’
in a single shot – and so he knew better than to waste one on a small meal. Unfortunately though, the little metal rounds did have their downsides, carrying enough noise with them to alert anything for miles around, and as such had to be used sparingly, not least because of how rare they’d become. John prayed for the day he’d find a silenced weapon, some means of dispatching the enemy with minimal noise and maximum efficiency, but for the time being, he made do with his knife where possible.

Despite the many false alarms, as John traipsed on further, he gradually became more and more aware of a presence to the rear. With only the occasional sound of crunching leaves or snapping twigs to base it on, he figured it for no more than just another of those ‘
things’
, though he couldn’t help but wonder if it might in fact be another survivor, or worse, a bandit. Regardless, he had neither the desire nor the time to double back and identify the stalker, and so continued on, listening on the wind for any sign that his new friend might be getting closer, and picking up his own pace in an attempt to make sure that it couldn’t.

*
      
*
      
*

Eventually John arrived at a clearing, right on the outskirts of Ashton, and was presented with a clear view over the town. It was here he had stopped in the past, and utilised the vantage point to assess whether or not the town was worth raiding for supplies. As he gazed out, his eyes darting from derelict buildings to ransacked gas stations, he quickly picked out the survivalist’s house, and began plotting a route to its front door, a route he had travelled along before. “Down the main road, right onto Currell Boulevard, second left, first right, fourth house on the left”, the words rang out in his head over and over, as John stood still, quietly repeating them until they were burnt into his memory. “Down the main road, right onto Currell Boulevard, second left, first right, fourth house on the left”, he said again.

Confident that he knew the way, he began the descent into the town, quickly dashing through a thin line of trees adjacent to the first of the Ashton streets. Hugging close to every trunk, he knew he had to keep a decent pace, but was at the same adamant that he would not put himself in a position that risked being spotted. That said, other than the occasional sound of a rodent scurrying away from his slow footsteps, John heard little else coming from his surroundings to indicate another person’s presence. In a way, it was almost refreshing, no whirring of police sirens, no honking of horns by irate drivers, nothing. Had the world not been predominantly inhabited by the living dead, he might even have considered it peaceful.

Eventually reaching the end of the treeline, and instead switching his path for the main road, John became worried by just how little he could see. Out in the wild the sight of anything moving would be a worrisome thought, but in a town such as this one, small amounts of movement were inevitable, unless of course it had already been picked clean by someone, or something. The absence of wildlife alone pointed to a presence, a human camped out in a house, a group completing a raid on the town, or perhaps a horde of the undead patrolling the street looking to feed. Whatever had caused it, John took no chances, sticking close to every wall he could, darting behind fences and bushes when he couldn’t, finding anything he could to conceal his mass from the preying eyes of any living or dead creature that remained. Eventually however, he reached the turn off for the final road of his journey, and knew he would have to cross the open road in front of him.

Looking in both directions, like a school boy learning to safely cross the road, he positioned himself in an almost athletic pose, one foot behind the other, hands on the ground, ready to sprint across the large deserted street. On small roads, a stealthy approach made more sense, but here, where anything but sprinting would make him a sitting duck and an easy target to any nearby bandits, he had to employ speed, and so he did. John erupted from the standstill in an explosion of raw energy, his legs propelling his large, six-foot-six body across the road as fast as they would allow, skidding across the floor on the other side into the warm embrace of yet another wall, after several terrifying seconds came to a close. John heaved a sigh of relief at a successful crossing, pausing briefly to look around for signs of anybody having seen, before eventually continuing around the corner, confident he remained undetected.

Soon enough he was forced to cross his second road, this time with a more stealthy and tactful approach due to its much smaller width, and before long he began to feel a sense of excitement at nearing his destination. Feelings of being watched lingered on though, the thought of what might be following forever at the forefront of his mind, despite desperate attempts to push such things out. Before long however, a smile crept slowly across his face, as the sight of the target house came suddenly into view, just a few hundred yards along the very street he now walked along.

*
      
*
      
*

The door softly closed behind him, John began to feel more comfortable with the familiar sights. The cooker that by the looks of it had actually appeared post-apocalyptic long before the world went to hell, the books stacked in the corner that might have provided the previous occupant of this place with years of reading, everything helped give a brief and much-misses sense of normality. What John saw finally and most importantly though, was the pantry, still sealed up just as John had left it the last time, ready and waiting to be picked clean.

Sliding off his heavy duty rucksack – a British Assault Pack he had actually found when last here – John began to carefully and quietly load various tinned foods into the bag, as well as numerous bottles of water, some books that took his fancy, and a few comics to give to the children back at camp. With his bag sealed up and ready to leave, he turned and began to head for the door, but before he could reach it, something caught his eye for all but a second, a silver glimmer over in the darkened corner of the room.