Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down (28 page)

Behind the truck, John opened his diary, and turned to the final page of the book. Since day one he had hoped and prayed he’d never reach that end page, knowing of course that should he ever do so, a long period of time would have passed and yet still he wouldn’t have been reunited with his family. But there was nothing else for it, and so as visions of his wife and daughter danced across the forefront of his mind, John scribbled down one final message.

“I tried sweetheart, I’m so sorry.

All my love,
John.”

John dropped the book to the floor, hoping that somehow, some day, it might be found by the very people he himself had spent so long, and lost so much, searching for. But in the end, it didn’t matter, because right here, right now, things ended.

The sound of encroaching footsteps from behind the truck grew louder, alongside the distant sound of an engine revving, no doubt readying some kind of escape from what John knew would by now be nearby hordes of biters, attracted by the immense amount of noise the gunfight had generated.

Within seconds, John heard the fatal gunshot, three of them in fact, as the roar of gunpowder igniting cut through every other sound in the world, the light from the barrel almost visible against the truck, its illuminative flame reflecting from the few lobby windows that remained intact. Almost immediately the sound of blood splattering on the floor followed, and as the echo of gunshots simmered away, and the clattering of limbs on the ground replaced it, it became clear that blood had been spilled, and life had been lost.

But as John looked down, confused beyond all measure at what was happening, he realised that the shot was not aimed at him. Quickly laying down to look under the truck, he saw the now limp body of his attacker, blood pooling around his body just as it had around Donald’s, and the wheels of a vehicle now visible less than ten metres from where the man’s body lay.

John slowly and cautiously got to his feet, his legs barely able to hold him up after the series of events that had occurred, but his head demanding to know what had just happened. Sure enough, as he stood, the vehicle came into view, a huge truck with massive, chunky wheels, and a roar so loud John was sure it was a muscle car in in a 4x4’s body. But what John was amazed by most of all, was what he saw through the passenger window. The barrel of a pistol still pointed across from the driver’s seat, the shooter looking over to both John and the mess that surrounded the ill-fated Toyota, as John struggled to find something to say, eventually settling on a single word.

“…Andrew?”.

Chapter 29: Old Friends

“For the undead, the difficult and longwinded task of standing up isn’t for everyone. Some choose to spend their time crawling, grasping furiously at the faintest sign of movement, just hoping and praying it might be some succulent, delicious – and preferably living – human flesh, rather than just a leaf caught in the wind. Others though do decide to attempt the feat, starting by getting onto their front, and then using whatever remains of their legs to try and raise themselves off of the ground. In most cases, the creature will stand fine, sometimes with two or three falters, but fine nonetheless. Some however will fall flat, perhaps because they are unable to support their weight after sustaining whatever injuries led to them becoming undead, or more likely, because they are simply too uncoordinated to stay in an upright position.

Eventually however, a group of the dead numbering four or five might equate to three or four ‘walkers’, dead capable not only of standing, but also of walking, usually to follow whatever noise, sight or smell they might have latched on to. Inside of that number, comes another form of the creature, the ‘runner’. ‘Runners’ aren’t normally too common, only usually coming from the death of a human of decent physical fitness, whose death was caused by injuries not pertinent to movement, or wounds perhaps confined to a nondescript part of the torso. In these cases, a creature may be created that is capable of running – sometimes at a similar pace as before they passed away – towards or after a target, who again is identified and tracked through sound, smell or vision.”

“What on earth?”, came a voice from behind the leaflet, Hannah briefly looking upwards to inspect, before returning to reading.

“It is always ill-advised to attempt to flee from a ‘runner’. Their unfailing stamina makes it an incredibly difficult task, often more difficult than standing your ground and fighting. In most cases however, the hiding option should be used. The hiding option simply involves finding a closed or discrete location, preferably only just big enough to fit yourself and any other member of your group inside of, and then staying there until the attacker either loses interest, or is distracted. If possible, it is always good to choose a space with an exit, such as the back room of a store which also has access to a rear alley, allowing you to escape in multiple directions should the attacker find you.”

“Is that… it can’t be?”, called out a voice, again from behind the leaflet.
“What’s going on?”, said another.
“Oh my God…”, started the first voice, “Hold on everybody!”.
Within moments, a heavy thud sounded out as the truck cut immediately to the right, mounting the curb as it did, and sailing straight through the grassy verge alongside a large hotel. This time Hannah was forced to look up, checking first to see if her Mother or Father had anything to say, before realising that neither were looking to Hannah, instead both looking out towards the front of the truck.
“Andrew I’m scared”, said the second voice, spoken softly but with growing volume, by Hannah’s mother, who sat with Hannah on the rear seats of the truck.
“Cover your ears!”, yelled the first voice, who lunged towards the passenger foot-well, returning moments later with an M1911 pistol in hand.

Suddenly Hannah felt the arms of her mother thrown over her, holding tight as the truck screeched to a halt on the tarmac of a car-park, the front passenger window sliding open mere milliseconds before the first of three successive pops lit up the inside of the truck. The source of the light erupted from the end of the pistol like a train from a tunnel, the sound coming out of it just as loud.

Hannah looked through the side window of the truck, its tint enough to hide what she knew would be the sight of blood, but transparent enough to show the body drop, its limbs clattering against the floor as it did. The sight of three bullet holes – two of which were doused in blood – were clearly visible on the side of the pickup truck which the man now lay next to, the bullets evidently having carried through his body. Hannah turned her head away in horror, not fully understanding what she had just seen, but knowing full well that no six year old girl should have seen it, and immediately regretting that she had.

Suddenly both the car and the space around it became utterly silent. Nobody wanted to move or make a sound, and the pistol remained raised – albeit shakily – pointed out of the window, changing direction now to the man that could suddenly be seen rising up from behind the truck. As it turned however, the weapon lowered, and was replaced by a reluctant smile, a smile Hannah hadn’t seen in days, if not weeks, and one she wasn’t sure she’d ever see on her father ever again. But here and now, for whatever reason, he appeared to be happy once more, albeit not in the traditional sense.

“…Andrew?”, called a voice, presumably from the man Hannah’s father now stared at.
“John”, replied Andrew, the sound of shock and yet relief in his voice audible for everyone in the truck, “I don’t believe it”, he added.
“They’re coming, on the right!”, shrieked Andrew’s wife from the back of the truck before John could speak again, her finger now pointing to an area just fifty or so metres away, where a small grouping of the undead were making their way – at varying speeds – to the source of all the commotion.
Andrew looked over to John once more, scanning him up and down, his face contorted with the difficult decision of whether or not to further help the man who had lied to him so much, and in turn to allow him so close to his family.
“Just go”, said John, the sound of defeat rife in his voice, “I got nothing left now”.

Suddenly, the sight of his former companion, so broken and ruined standing there right in front of him, somehow began to humanise his past actions, and started to make Andrew understand the reason for his lies, if only a little bit. The man that stood before him was no longer the malicious, evil monster Andrew had once known, but was instead the once helpful companion who had saved Andrew’s life on more than one occasion. Almost immediately Andrew knew that, at least for the moment, he had to help him.

“Get in the truck John”, yelled Andrew, who quickly realised he’d need more than that, as John barely even looked him in the eye in response.
“We need to go!”, came a yell from the rear of the truck once again.
“John c’mon, the sooner you get in the sooner we can go!”, Andrew begged.
John looked up, his eyesight drawn suddenly to the slight outline of Andrew’s wife and child, just barely visible through the tinted rear windows, and the memories of his own flooding into his head. Suddenly he felt a renewed urge to survive, and even if it was only to last for a moment, it was at least enough to get him to start climbing into the truck.
“But this doesn’t change anything”, Andrew quickly added, his tone now much more bitter.
“Understood”, replied John, as the passenger door closed behind him, and the truck began to move off.

“Daddy who is that?”, said Hannah from over Andrew’s shoulder.
“It’s nobody sweetheart, he’ll be leaving soon, go back to your…”, Andrew stopped as he found himself unable to finish his sentence, not knowing what it was she had been doing all of this time. Quickly he looked into the rear-view mirror to see for himself. “Oh for God sake, Sarah, would you take that thing off of her? She’s got that damn government advice thing again”, he called out, before looking back in front, just as the truck’s heavy wheels found the road once more.
“Give me that!”, Andrew’s wife Sarah said as she grabbed the leaflet from her daughter, “You don’t need to know about this stuff yet, we keep you safe, remember?”, Sarah asked, to which Hannah simply nodded, knowing she’d done something wrong, but not fully understanding why.

“Those damn survival guides, they would have had an age rating back in the day, now they’re just lying around for anyone to take”, Andrew complained to nobody in particular.
“They gotta’ learn at some point”, replied John, his voice so limp he sounded almost drunk.
“I didn’t ask you”, Andrew replied sternly.
“Sorry”, John quietly replied, his head then sinking into the palms of his hands, as he leant forward against the dashboard.

In the rear of the truck, Hannah finally gave up on picking out details on their new travel companion, instead turning her attention back to the leaflet, hastily scrunched away under her Mother’s arm, the bottom section still visible.

“Typically the deceased can turn anywhere from five minutes to five hours after death, though this is very much a generalisation, and should not be used for any form of measurement. All dead should be prevented from turning by severing the brain stem, or by puncturing any major area of the brain. It is recommended that this be done by a professional, or by someone who has experience in the process. However, in the event of neither being nearby, it is always better to attempt it yourself than to allow the deceased to turn.

Remember, only you have the power to stop them from further spreading the virus, only you can help control the outbreak, and only the head will take them down.”

*
      
*
      
*

The truck drove on for a few miles, weaving in and out of the small inner city roads that made up Madison’s main area, before eventually reaching the outer highways once more, this time on the opposite side of the city. Before long though, Andrew turned off of the main road, diverting instead to a small side path that led up to a large house, the doors and windows covered with wooden planks.

“What is this place?”, John asked, the first full sentence he’d spoken since they had set off.
“No idea”, Andrew replied, “We came across it earlier, seems like as good a place as any. Figured it’s pretty safe with it being this close to a highway we can escape along, so thought we’d spend the night”, he explained as the truck ground to a halt outside the building. “We only headed into Madison for fuel, but your little firefight cut that one short now didn’t it…”, Andrew said, climbing out of the car as he did, and beginning the walk to the front door.
John remained silent, still feeling both defeated and utterly ruined.
“You going to help me check it or not?”, Andrew yelled back towards the truck where John still sat.
Reluctantly, John obliged, climbing out of the truck and following Andrew inside.

“The house is pretty simple, two large open plan areas downstairs, and three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, all stripped clean of everything but a few mattresses…and the odd pillow”, Andrew explained as John walked in. “Only access point is the front door, figure that makes it easier to defend”, he added.
“Easier to get trapped in too”, John replied.
“Yeah”, Andrew replied, ignoring once again John’s lacklustre attitude, “I suppose so”, he said, as he walked over to the door they had come in through, waving in his waiting family, before heading up the stairs, pistol drawn.

Quickly Andrew’s family filed in, each of them looking down and away from John, as if afraid of the consequences of making eye contact with the strange man.
“All good upstairs”, said Andrew as he arrived back at the foot of the staircase, “You guys can go get settled in if you want”, he said, gesturing to his wife and daughter.
Obliging, the pair made their way over to the other side of the room, their footsteps on the exposed wooden floor echoing throughout the empty downstairs, before they started the ascent to the upper rooms. Andrew’s eyes followed them every step of the way, only turning to face John when he was certain they were safely up the steps.

“That was Donald back there I take it, on the ground next to you?”, Andrew asked, unable to ignore John’s depressive state any longer.
John simply nodded.
“Good riddance I say, that guy was crazy”, Andrew said, his mind playing back his first encounter with the man, the moment he almost murdered both John and Andrew on the spot.
At this point, John looked up, his eyes staring dead into Andrew’s, a redness of the eye-sockets taking the place of what might once have been tears.
“He never told me”, John started, stopping to regroup, “He never told me where they are”, he said.
“What?”, Andrew replied.
“Where my family are! He never told me where they are! We were going there next and then he got shot”, John explained.
Andrew’s face went white, unable to think of a suitable response.
“A few hours away”, John said, his eyes once more facing down to the floor below him, “That’s how far he said we were, a few hours’ drive, and now I’ll never know”, he said.