Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down (3 page)

Drawing his weapon, John slowly crept towards it, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the growing darkness of the unlit corner, so that he might get some idea of what had shone so brightly and so briefly into his eyes. As he got closer, he saw the dirty floorboards, covered in months of dust, he saw the bin filled with mountains of old newspapers and food wrappings, and he saw a single silver bullet, resting on top of the trash. It appeared to be a .22 calibre round – the very same ammo that his Ruger pistol fired – but it was buckled and bent well out of shape, as if thrown aside when it failed to correctly fire.

Normally this would be a relatively normal sight, in this world weapons were fired a lot, with regular misfires the result of poor weapon maintenance. But this bullet had been thrown away, most likely before the apocalypse had occurred, as if the owner of the house had been loading a weapon and throwing out the old, mangled casings that would be of no use. This begged a very important question, were there more in the house, and if so, where?

Till now, John had avoided spending any time upstairs – beyond the initial scan he had conducted to ensure it was at least safe – but now he was forced to consider the possibility that it might hold the key to making this trip worth it. The idea of boxes filled with ammunition just laid out ripe for the taking made John salivate at the very thought. Bullets were essential, they were a part of life now, and he needed them desperately. He had to go up there again.

John made his way quickly to the foot of the stairs, just barely ascending the first of many steps before his attention was drawn elsewhere, to something catching his eye, this time through a front-facing window. Movement of some sort, perhaps the same movement he had heard behind him just outside of the camp, though at the same time, perhaps nothing more than a wild bird taking off from the window ledge. It was a disturbance that John knew should be investigated, but as he thought of the long walk he had back to camp, he knew he didn’t have time to look. Instead John continued upstairs, quietly but quickly darting into the nearest room to begin his search.

As he entered, he realised that he appeared to have found some sort of trophy room. Rather than your run of the mill baseball or golfing accolades however, the heads of various animals littered the walls, proudly showing off the many successful hunting trips the previous occupant had apparently conducted. John was fairly certain there was little of any use here, the shotgun affixed to the wall alongside the many heads was a relic, unlikely to fire at all and certainly not reliably, and a quick scan over the remaining sections of the room showed nothing of any real interest. So he quickly retraced his steps back to the hallway, and continued on to the next room.

This time, as he slid through the slightly ajar door – careful not to open it any further in case anything rested against it – he was greeted by a more civilised sight. A bed, a TV and various magazines and books filled the room, a perfectly normal room for a perfectly normal person, a comforting sight to say the least. Excitedly checking the cupboards though, John was disappointed to find nothing of any value, family photos and clothes for a man much smaller than himself the only things that appeared to have been left behind when the previous occupant left. It was here however, that John heard the most simple and yet worrying noise you could hear when in an empty house all by yourself, the creak of a floorboard, from somewhere else in the building.

John’s neck snapped around to the door, but he saw and heard nothing else. Blood began rushing around his body at an unbelievable pace, the thought of what might have caused such a noise causing him to both create and rehearse a variety of worst case scenarios in his head. John looked around the room, analysing every possible point of usefulness. Quickly he ascertained that the bed posed the best hiding spot, its long quilt covering the gap underneath completely, itself just wide enough for him to fit under. He crept over slowly and climbed under its warm embrace, sliding his last exposed limb under the covered shelter of the bed just as another creak sounded out, this time from much closer, from just outside of the room.

John withdrew the Ruger from its oversized holster, cocking back the cold, metallic slide of the pistol, and being careful to do so slowly, so as to reduce the noise from the clanking of the bullet sliding into the chamber. Having loaded the weapon, he quietly propped open a thin gap in the quilt with his hand – in order to see anyone or anything entering the room – just in time to see the door swing slowly open, and a shadowy figure struggle to remain upright right behind it.

Its claw-like fingers returned to its side having pushed the door completely open, just as its nose began to frantically gasp at the air in front. John could tell from the first second that this thing was not living, it hadn’t been for some time, and was now slow, almost motion-less. It was definitely dead, but it had risen.

Chapter 3: Meet the Dead

Ridiculous as it may have seemed, the smell of the dead was often what people sensed first, long before catching sight of the ragged, flesh splintered bodies that once belonged to a human. They were of course unmistakable by sight – never to be confused with those that were living – but the smell was overpoweringly strong when nearby, an attack of vile stenches on every millimetre of each nostril. The degree of this ranged from the fresh dead, with their minor but still very noticeable odour, to those that had turned long ago, on which months of stench would build up, culminating in the presence of a breathtakingly disgusting smell based warning bell, sent out to anybody within the immediate vicinity. Somewhat ironically however, the only thing more potent than the smell of the dead to the living, was the smell of the living to the dead.

As the creature stumbled across the room, it became clear that it was not guessing, it knew something was in there with it. The question however, was whether it knew that based on a sound John had made, some obscure smell he was emitting, or worst of all, a fleeting glimpse of him entering that godforsaken bedroom. John had just a few seconds, but this gave him enough time to prepare himself, grabbing his hunting knife from its improvised holster with his left hand, his Ruger still gripped tightly in his right, a drip of sweat slowly trickling along his forehead, and his eyes fluttered madly, darting from each end of the bed, eyeing up every point of potential interest.

Planning any kind of defence was a difficult task. Not knowing exactly where this thing would come from, or even whether or not it might drop to the floor or prefer to tunnel its way through the mattress above, meant that there were too many points of entry to cover, and too many possibilities to accurately prepare for. When everything did go down, a headshot would be almost impossible to guarantee, and realistically, the firing of a weapon was something best avoided, the fear of alerting any other nearby dead to the events about to take place crossing John’s mind on multiple occasions.

As the groaning figure took its final steps towards the bed, John prepared himself for what was about to happen. Gripping the small pistol and large knife tightly, his eyes flicked between the small gap in the quilt – which was now completely filled by an almost totally bare leg bone – to the foot and head of the bed, watching for any signs of attempted entry. Before he had time to see any of that though, the sound of a smashing glass drifted in from outside of the room.

A thought quickly rushed through John’s mind, was there another in the house? He was certain that the downstairs was clear, but perhaps one had somehow wandered in, or slipped past his clearly not-so-rigorous checks. In any case, the more worrying notion that it might be another person reigned supreme in the forefront of John’s mind. Regardless of its source however, the noise had thankfully caused the creature to abandon its quest for the man under the bed, and instead sent it on yet another slow waltz back over to the entryway, and out of the room. Pushing the door further ajar as it left, John couldn’t help but notice the large swinging slab of wood bounce back from an object that was not in fact the wall, a small wooden box previously hidden behind the door instead coming into view, as the bounce swung the door back over once more.

A distant, slow sequence of thuds indicated that the creature had begun making its way down the stairs, and so John quickly scurried out from under the bed, grabbing the wooden box from behind the door as he did. If he was being forced to leave earlier than expected, he would at least make sure he got everything he could. Opening the box, growing more and more worried by the various sounds coming from the staircase as the near-lifeless corpse attempted some form of structured descent, his eyes lit up at the sight of what he had found, a small metallic container, quite simply marked, ‘
Ammo’
.

Tucking it into the pocket of his hooded sweater, John headed out of the room and over to the upstairs bannister, just in time to see the fleshy, bloodied creature arrive at the foot of the stairs. This marked the first time he had seen it in any kind of light, noting instantly that it was somewhat of an ‘in-between’, having obviously turned some time ago, but not so long ago that it was unable to move at moderate speed. John stood watching, in quiet contemplation over what his next move should be – numerous potential escapes crossing his mind – when suddenly he was interrupted by an unexpected noise, again from downstairs. Instantly he was both confused and terrified beyond belief, as the unmistakable, unequivocal and oh so rarely heard sound of someone yelling “Oh Shit!”, came into earshot.

Who was this person in the house with John? Was it the previous owner, returning to gather up his supplies? Or was it a bandit, perhaps the same bandit that had been following him since he had left the camp? Beads of sweat formed on various parts of John’s face as he contemplated his next move, only to be cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a metallic clang, the same metallic clang a weapon made when it was unable to fire. John knew this noise only too well, having heard it more than once, usually after having run his weapon dry of ammo, or somehow managed to jam it completely. It was the same noise John feared hearing every time he was forced to discharge his own weapon, and it was because of that knowledge that John knew, whoever it was down there was in serious trouble, and was about to be in for a world of hurt.

As far as John was concerned, whoever it was had more than likely had a vision to rob and kill him as soon as they got the chance, something he bore in mind as he prepared to leave the house. Thanks to the commotion unfolding, he was now presented with the perfect opportunity to exit undetected – by the creature at least – as it began to feast on whatever poor bastard was down their wielding that clicking weapon, itself now reduced to little more than a paperweight. John was no saint, he owed whoever was down there nothing, and he had absolutely no illusions about helping them, preferring instead to depart the house and get back on the road as quickly and quietly as possible.

Slowly creeping down the stairs, John caught sight of the scene unfolding. He saw the creature walking over to the other side of the room, towards a green leather armchair with its back facing into a corner, creating a small gap which was now populated by a cowering figure, their face obscured in the shadows. A pistol magazine tossed aside, and arms tucked in behind the safety of the once stylish leather chair, John didn’t predict a happy ending for whoever it was, and he had no intention of sticking around to watch, instead using the noise of their cowering to mask any sounds of his feet slowly descending the stairs. Those creatures may have been slow as anything, but they were relentless, and all it took was a scratch for it to pass the infection along. In close quarters like those, even a large, well fought individual stood little chance, especially without a usable weapon.

Arriving at the foot of the steps and starting on the trip to the front door of the house, John tore his attention away from the imminent attack, instead attempting to put it out of his mind, and spend his final moments in the building surveying its contents one last time. The intruder appeared to have left it as John had, backing up the theory that they had in fact been there for John, rather than anything in the house. However, as his eyes switched from the nearly empty pantry to the floor around him, he couldn’t help but notice an unusual item on the floor, an item that was certainly not there when he had arrived. It was a miniature, bright red, cowboy hat. The sort of size that it could only belong to a toy of some sort, or most likely, a doll.

Turning again to face the mayhem about to unfold, John placed his Ruger into its holster, quickly switching his knife into his stronger right hand as he began to swiftly cross the room, blade raised and ready to strike, beads of nervous sweat dripping down from his forehead as the fear of missing filled his mind. He remained composed however, and upon getting close enough, raised his arm into the air above the creature’s head and then forced the knife downwards, plunging the weapon dead centre into the top of its head, the blade cracking through what little solid skull remained and slicing through every last bit of brain that hadn’t already rotted away. The motion continued until almost all eight inches of the blade sank deep into the fleshy, blood soaked mulch below, the few remaining signs of life quickly vanishing as it did. Suddenly its eyes slid slowly shut, as if finally signalling that it could rest, the entire body slumping hard onto the ground, a clatter of limbs and bones echoing across the house.

After a few seconds, John yanked the knife free, wiping the blood on the clothes of the corpse before placing it back into its holster. He then stood up straight once more, ready to address the person still hunched into a ball and cowering away in the corner, behind that big green leather chair.
“You can come out now Andrew, it’s over”, he said.
Silence followed, as the figure slowly began to compose itself, the shaking reducing – though not completely – and the drips of sweat produced by both parties slowly coming to a halt.
“H…how do you know my name?”, replied the cowering figure, still obscured by the chair.
“Just come out would you”, John remarked, a clear sense of authority present in his voice.
“Alright” Andrew responded, pointing his empty pistol over the top of the chair. “But if you try anything, you get a b…bullet, in the head, got it!?”, he stuttered.
“I’m thinkin’ the fact you didn’t shoot that thing yourself, and the fact that you tossed your magazine on the floor over there probably means you aint’ gonna’ shoot shit, friend. Now come on out of there”, John replied.
After a brief pause, Andrew slowly began to emerge, letting out a sigh of disappointment in acknowledgement of the fact that whoever was on the other side of the chair, now knew he was completely powerless.