Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down (13 page)

Donald walked over to his Toyota, throwing his bagged tent into the rear along with his other remaining items as he did. The truck was quite badly rusted in parts, and certainly lacked the modern technology of the Ford John had become accustomed too, but it would have to do, it was all they had. Climbing into the passenger seat, John couldn’t help but wonder if it would even make it the whole journey, but as Donald turned the ignition, and nothing but healthy engine noise responded, at least some of his concerns were put to rest. A running engine was priority number one, home comforts like air conditioning were nothing more than a rare, unnecessary luxury.

As the truck moved off and towards the camps exit, John looked to his left just in time to see David and Amy standing outside of their RV, watching as the Toyota slowly trundled out of view. John felt like they could have made friends in Apple River, but as the edges of the campsite came into view, and he realised just how vulnerable a place it really was, he knew that even if he found his family, he’d want somewhere more secure to take them. Nevertheless, his eyes took in the last few sights of what he feared could be the last ‘civilised’ life he ever saw, for now at least.

“How far away is this place?”, John asked.
“Far enough”, Donald replied.
It was an answer John fully expected. After all, the less he knew about where they were going, the more valuable Donald became. With that in mind, John simply accepted it, and looked back out of the window in time to see the truck pass slowly through the entrance of the Apple River campsite. John couldn’t help but wonder how far Andrew had made it by now, whether he was well on his way back to his family, stranded somewhere with a flat tire – which he’d be unable to replace thanks to their earlier blowout – or maybe on that god forsaken bridge, about to be shot. It wasn’t John’s problem anymore, but that didn’t mean he could stop himself from thinking about it.

Chapter 14: Revisiting Old Friends

John opened his eyes to find himself much less comfortable than the last time he had awoken in a truck. He wasn’t sure how he had fallen asleep to begin with – having slept reasonably well the night before – but perhaps the intensity of the morning just gone had gotten to him. In any case, the bright light of the sun shattered the dark, much more pleasant world he had seen in his dreams, the rough riding Toyota bouncing him up and down as it exaggerated every tiny bump and crevice its chunky tires found in the road. Frankly, with driving conditions like these, the question he found himself asking more than anything at this point was how he had stayed asleep, rather than how he’d gotten there to begin with.

As his eyes adjusted to the newfound brightness, and he became able to analyse his surroundings, John began to get his bearings. They were driving along a highway, similar to the one he and Andrew had travelled down. But this time it was much clearer on their side, little to no traffic which meant no road blocks or slowdowns. It was a comforting thought, though John couldn’t help but wonder where they were headed. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black mass up ahead on the other side of the highway, a collection of something dark strewn across the road, and after a few seconds he was able to identify exactly what it was, tire shards. Could it be the same tire he and Andrew had blown out just the day before? Or was it just one of the thousands of blow outs that used to happen every day? John couldn’t be sure, until he realised that the small metal container they had just passed – also left on the alternate side of the road – was in fact the mangled carcass of metal that once held a Ford F150’s spare wheel to its underside, the same carcass they themselves had mangled whilst forcing it off of their truck at that very same spot. This most certainly was the same highway they had travelled along to get to Apple River, and that raised the rather unfortunate question of just how far along they were following it.

“Afternoon sunshine”, interrupted Donald’s grizzly voice, clearly poking fun at John’s midday slumber.
“Sorry, being held hostage really takes it out of you”, he retorted.
“Hostage? You’re free to go any time you want!”, Donald replied, surprised.
“I meant earlier”, John explained, though Donald looked none the wiser. “The knife? You nearly cutting my throat open? Ringing any bells?”, John asked.
“Oh right, that little…
misunderstanding
. Try not to take everything so personally Parker, lot of bad stuff happens in this new world of ours, spend your time getting hung up on every little brawl and you’ll never achieve anything!”, Donald rambled.
John simply stared at him, refusing to take on board any of the advice, and instead choosing to remind himself that this unusual individual still represented John’s best chance of finding his family, and as such, probably deserved a response.
“What exactly do you intend to
achieve
in this world then?”, John asked, after a pause.
“Not sure really, get some good supplies, maybe head down to Chicago. They got these great big walls there, keeping everything out they don’t want in, safest place to be”, Donald answered.
“What makes you think they’re still there? What makes you think they’re any better off than the hundreds of other camps that all got overrun?”, John asked.
“Simple”, Donald answered, as he turned on the radio, “They told me themselves”.

“This is an emergency broadcast, the infection has spread rapidly, get what resources you can and then barricade yourself and your families in your homes. Do not under any circumstances venture outside or you WILL be bitten and you WILL turn. The infected do not sympathise, there is no reasoning with them. You will be bitten, you will turn, and you will die”. The words blurted out from the radio like a speech from a bad end-of-the-world movie. “If you are near to Chicago, if you have weapons and access to a boat, approach the Chicago harbour holding your weapons aloft and we will receive you. Please bring what you can. Do NOT try to approach via land, thousands have tried and none have made it. Only attempt to take out an infected if yo…”, the broadcast droned on, the message no longer telling John anything new.
“How do you know it’s still ther-“, John began, but was cut short by Donald raising his hand to silence him, pointing once again to the radio as he did.
“…to the head should take them down, provided it pierces brain tissue. This message will be repeated constantly. The current date is”, the pre-recorded voice broke away, and was replaced by another, “Monday the fourth of August, twenty fourteen”.

John stared at the radio in shock as he checked his watch to verify that it was in fact today that the message was last recorded.
“They’re alive?”, John asked as the message began to loop back round again.
“Sure are. Occasionally they add some new stuff to the message, tips, news and whatnot, but most of the time they just update that last bit so you know they’re still around”, Donald explained as he shut off the radio.
“Why haven’t you tried to go?”, John asked.
“You heard ‘em, need some decent guns, a boat, and means of getting there too. Not something I fancy doing till there’s nothing else out here”, Donald answered.
It was at this point that John realised Donald wasn’t looking for an exit strategy. Whether he cared to admit it or not, he was enjoying this new world, the freedom to do what he wanted, the lack of authority, the free reign to take and keep anything he found. John doubted he had even bothered to look for a boat, though he didn’t doubt he’d been looking for decent weapons.

“Nearly at the bridge now”, rasped Donald’s voice, as John sat daydreaming of the security he might find behind whatever walls had been erected in Chicago’s once bustling business district. It took him a moment to register what Donald had said, but eventually he came to the horrific realisation that it would of course be the very same bridge he had sped over just the day before, that same bridge that Andrew may even have crossed back over earlier that day, either successfully or not.
“When we get there, there’s a group of guards, they’ll point their guns and yell some stuff but don’t worry, they know me, there won’t be a problem unless you make one, got it?”, Donald asked.
John simply nodded in response, feeling more and more like the Andrew of the pair, the one with no input on what happened, and a severe lack of confidence that made him unable to put one forward. But now wasn’t the time to change that, now was the time to let Donald do his thing, and hope to God that the guards didn’t recognise John’s face.

As the road inclined to reach the bridge’s level, John saw the first guard signal to the others at the sight of a vehicle, and the group began to position themselves, just as Donald had said, guns pointed. Of course John had seen this before, but only in his rear view mirror, and on that occasion, followed quickly by numerous gunshots. He could only hope that things would go a little smoother this time, and that he wouldn’t see a Ford pickup – or the body of his former companion for that matter – floating down the river. As they reached the first guard, whose hand raised up instructing them to stop, John put such thoughts out of his mind, and prepared himself for his second go at crossing the Stillwater bridge.

“Step out of the truck”, snapped the first guard.
“It’s Donald!”, yelled John’s new companion, leaning out the window slowly to show his face.
The guard slowly lowered his weapon, waving his fellow guards off back to their original positions, and instructing Donald to pull forward.
“Don’t be too intimidated by my fame Parker, people know me, it’s a gift and a curse really”, Donald said, in the same low tone he always did, John unable to decide if he was joking, or so delusional he felt he was actually telling the truth.
“Must be your glowing personality”, John replied as the truck pulled up alongside the first guard.
“How’s it going”, Donald said to the guard, having either not heard or simply chosen to ignore John’s remark.
“Not bad, what are you doing heading back so soon?”, the guard asked.
“Going out hunting for supplies, found me a friend back at Apple River to keep the biters away”, Donald smirked, pointing to John.

John’s face sank as he looked up at the guard. He had wanted to remain undetected, but he remembered this particular guard all too well. It was the same man John had driven right at before making it off the end of the bridge, the one person who had seen John and Andrew dead on, and perhaps the only one that might recognise him. But John couldn’t sit silently any more, he risked blowing his cover far more by acting suspiciously quiet.
“Howdy”, he said smiling, with what could only be described as the worst Texan accent anybody had ever attempted, “How’s the day treating y’all?”, he asked.

The guard stared at John for a moment, before removing his sunglasses for a better look, inspecting him up and down repeatedly, like reading a page from a book over and over.
“Have we met before?”, he said to John, “You crossed here sometime or something?”, he asked.
“Not likely friend, been travelling over from New York, not had the good fortune of hitting these parts yet”, John lied. The accent was improving with every word, but still sounded noticeably put on, to Donald at least, who now also stared at John, confused beyond all measures at his sudden change of tone.
“Weird, cause you look just like someone… I’m trying to think who…”, the guard said.
“If you don’t mind”, Donald interrupted, “We’re kind of in a hurry, what’s your price?”, he asked.
“A STANAG mag or equivalent, whatever you find”, instructed the guard.
“Done, will have it when I cross back over”, Donald said.
Nodding and turning to walk away – though not before snatching one last glimpse of his new, apparently Texan, acquaintance – the guard headed back to his post, waving the Toyota through as he did.

“You mind telling me why in the hell you’re impersonating some kind of speech impediment suffering Confederate?”, Donald asked.
“Long story”, John replied, “I’ve crossed before, didn’t exactly pay the toll though”, he explained.
“Well you’re gonna’ pay it now, you can add a STANAG mag to the list of stuff we gotta’ find”, Donald instructed.
“Alright”, John agreed, looking out the front windscreen in time to see them approach the small hut-like building at the middle of the bridge. Suddenly, despite their earlier inspection, they were flagged down once more, this time in a much friendlier manner.

“Don!”, yelled one of the men in the hut as he walked out.
Donald slowed the truck and leant once more out of the window, replying with a friendly tone that itself sounded just as put on as John’s. “Well if it isn’t the bridge-master himself”, he said.
“Now that is a title I could get on board with”, replied the man, grinning, “How the hell you doing?”, he continued.
“Not bad thank you kindly, be a bit better if you stopped charging to cross, but I guess we all gotta’ play our parts huh?”, Donald said.
“Fraid so”, replied the man, “Whose your friend?”, he asked, nodding at John.
“Name’s John”, John replied, content that this man appeared to be much more friendly, and certainly hadn’t seen John’s face during the last crossing, “Nice to meet y’all”, he added, remembering suddenly about his newfound Texan accent.

“You too John, I’m Gerry, and on behalf of the people of Stillwater…”, Gerry paused to look down at the other end of the bridge, where a pile of bodies lay burning away, “I welcome you”, he said, to the laughs of the two men still sat in the hut.
“When’d that happen?”, asked Donald as he looked over to the pile.
“Last night. Some A-hole’s ragged their way across the bridge, noise brought a whole horde of them down on us, they went down easy enough though”, Gerry explained.
“That so?”, Donald asked, looking briefly to John before returning his gaze to the smouldering pile. “Well I hate to be the one to tell you, but I’m not sure you’ve seen the last of ‘em”, he said, looking into the outskirts of the town just beyond it. In almost exactly the same moment, the man nearest the pile of bodies made the same horrifying realisation, and turned to yell one simple word.
“Hooooorrrrdddeee!!!!”.

Chapter 15: Gearing Up

Before the outbreak, the slow and aimless shuffling of the average person in your local town or city, constantly knocking into others not looking where they were going, was so commonplace it was laughable. People were generally polite though, whether genuinely or not, always quick to apologise for getting in someone’s way, knocking someone’s coffee out of their hands, or perhaps stepping on the heels of the person in front. Now though things were a little different, and as one member of the horde tripped another, their head hitting the solid ground hard before being promptly stomped on by those that followed, there wasn’t the slightest hint of an apology. This was to be expected though, as the forty or fifty people in this horde were not knocking into each other on the way to work, or trying to catch a train about to leave a nearby station just a few moments from now. They were all dead, and they had somehow sensed the presence of something that was not.