Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down (9 page)

As the gaps in the treeline became wider the closer they got – the effects of deforestation becoming abruptly apparent – John signalled for Andrew to slow, so as to allow him the chance to give it a better inspection. Looking out to the bridge, John could see a clean passage on both sides, as well as on the main roads at either end. But as he prepared to give orders to continue onwards, something caught his eye. It was the glimmer of sun on a moving object on their side of the bridge, seemingly from some large, metallic object, a truck similar to theirs most likely. Slowly the glimmer approached the bridge, obviously unsure as to whether or not it was safe to cross, until it ground to a half, just shy of the first support beam.

“You see that?”, John asked.
“Sure do”, Andrew responded, “What do you think they’re waiting fo-“. Andrew was cut short by the sight of more movement, this time from on the bridge, a series of dark objects much smaller than a car ambling towards the still glimmering truck. They were human in shape, but seemingly living, and holding weapons.
“Get down”, John instructed, sinking back into his seat with just enough height to see over the dashboard. “Kill the engine” he continued, winding his window down slightly as he did.
Complying, Andrew shut off the engine and followed suit, again leaving just enough room to see over the dashboard.

Watching the people seemingly interact with the vehicle – the odd word making its way along the cool winter breeze just enough for John to at least understand the tone of the conversation – it quickly became apparent that an argument was taking place, and from where they were sitting, it appeared that the outcome would most likely be very one sided. Sure enough, after just a few moments had passed, the vehicle attempted to drive forwards, and both John and Andrew watched in horror as the men drilled a series of shots into the windscreen. The sound of weapon fire echoed out suddenly down the river, the bright flashes of gunfire visible from a great distance, a pitter-patter of assault rifle fire obliterating the flimsy glass in its path. Immediately, the car accelerated rapidly and uncontrollably into the side of the bridge – the driver most likely no longer in control – hitting the railings hard and just barely being held on by its thick, steel grasp.

As the sound of the now full throttled engine roared into the distance, one of the armed men quickly made his way over – weapon still drawn and pointing into the truck – and after a few seconds of inspection, swung open the driver side door. He was greeted almost immediately by the falling body of the previous occupant, presumably deceased, his body limply collapsing onto the cold ground below. Climbing into the truck, the man began reversing it off of the bridge, as two of his counterparts took care of the body, swinging it into the river below, and then walking back toward the centre of the bridge, as casual as if they had thrown out little more than trash.

“Wha…I don…Ho…”, Andrew tried unsuccessfully to verbalise his reaction to the disturbing scenes.
“Looks like a group have taken control of the bridge, and I reckon that fella wasn’t willing to pay whatever toll they were asking”, John explained, himself much calmer than Andrew, but still visibly disturbed.

Of the five men visible on the bridge, each appeared more than capable of using whatever assault rifle they had managed to get hold of. Perhaps they were little more than regular civilians who had come across the weapons by chance, or maybe they were seasoned veterans of some war gone by, the sort of people that were able to hit a target at serious range with an advanced enough rifle. Much to John’s surprise, this was a realisation Andrew had also come to.

“We have to go back, back to camp, go round another way or something!”, he exclaimed.
“We’re too far from camp now, we wouldn’t make it back before nightfall”, John responded, his mind also contemplating each of their available options.
“Then we camp out somewhere here and head back tomorrow?”, Andrew asked, certain John would agree.
“If we move this truck now, there’s a chance they’ll see us, they’ll be looking for that guy’s friends”, John responded, pointing to the body that was now floating down the section of river alongside them. “We have to get over, one way or another”, he insisted.
“Or we could just turn around, find somewhere to hide out for the night and go back home tomo-“.
“We have to go over!”, John repeated, his voice growing louder.
“Why!?”, Andrew demanded.
“BECAUSE I SAID WE DO!!”, John yelled, his voice now filled with anger, the stress of hiding the true purpose of the trip mixing with the fear of not making it to the other campsite, resulting in a white hot rage that filled his chest. Andrew fell silent, unsure whether to be more afraid of the armed men on the bridge, the armed man in the truck, or the unarmed biters no doubt wandering around the nearby town centre of Stillwater.

Andrew looked around, debating which option he felt gave him the best chance of survival. As much as he hated to admit it, the best chance no doubt lay with the experienced marine sat beside him. Whether irrational or not, he was trained with a weapon, could navigate the roads well, and knew every last bit there was to know about the undead monsters that plagued the streets. He was Andrew’s best chance of survival, so what he wanted, he got.
“Tell me what to do John”, he said, begrudgingly.

Chapter 9: Crossing Paths

“Anything good in there”, asked the larger man, pacing from one side to the other.
“Some bottles of water, a few cans, nothing much”, the second man replied as he walked back over to the group.
“What’d he think would happen, tryn’a force his way across like that?”, asked a third man, chuckling.
“Who knows, who cares. Wasted bullets far as I’m concerned”, the larger man responded.
“Got a point, but what else we gonna do, start letting ‘em cross?”, asked the second man.
“No chance”, replied the other two in harmony.
“Get back into your positions would you, quit standing round like that, easy target”, yelled a voice from the centre of the bridge.
“Boss is on his period again”, the larger individual said quietly.
The men each laughed in response, as they turned and began to walk back towards their positions at the centre of the bridge, the larger man staying behind. It was his job to guard the Western side, the side so recently part-crossed, by what was now little more than another truck ready to be siphoned, and a body floating further and further downriver.

The breeze had hardened slightly by this point, helping in no small part to mask the distant sound of a revving Ford pickup truck, a monstrous machine beginning a journey from just a few hundred metres away, not currently visible to the guarding men thanks to a series of small buildings.

“Guess I got, what I deserved”, the larger man began to sing quietly to himself, “Kept you waiting there too long, my love”, the sound of his voice began a duet with the clicking of a magazine, as he ejected it from his M16 assault rifle. “All that time, without a word”, he continued, fumbling in his bag for a replacement magazine, before quickly coming to the realisation that he had none left.
“Anybody got a spare STANAG mag!?”, he yelled, turning to face his companions in the middle of the bridge, all of whom had taken to their positions on the edges, and were therefore out of sight.
“Hey?”, he repeated, “Anybody?”, but there was no response, the wind deadening the sound of his voice. “God dammit, useless assholes”, he grumbled.

The man began to fiddle with the previous magazine, attempting to fit it back into the weapon, turning as he did to face out into the nearby town of Stillwater, just in time to see the huge, 3 tonne mass of a Ford F150 scream past him, its grey metal nothing but a blur to his widening eyes and deafened ear drums. Startled, he repeatedly tried in vain to fit the magazine, so shocked by the situation that he could barely remember his own name, let alone which way round the cartridge slotted back in. During the struggle however, he did manage to turn once more, this time to face into the bridges central section, the rear end all he could see of the truck now ploughing its way across the three-hundred metre bridge, with not a single obstacle in sight to slow it down.

His partners in arms were quicker to the draw, each managing to raise their weapons just in time to see the truck sail past, too late to shoot – or even see – the driver, but early enough to squeeze off a few rounds in the direction of the pickup’s rear end. The appearance of sparks indicated that at least one of them had made contact, but the vehicle simply continued on, seemingly un-phased by the shots, disappearing off towards the end of the bridge. The final guard, startled by the sound of gunfire behind him, quickly turned to inspect the situation, just in time to see the Ford heading straight for him.

This time, the driver made no attempt to avoid the figure, instead opting for an almost chicken like game, in an apparent attempt to reduce the man’s ability to aim his weapon. The plan worked perfectly, forcing the guard to dive out of the trucks way, not even managing to raise his weapon before it had sailed clean past. By the time he had gotten back to his feet and had a chance to take aim, the truck was well out of distance for an accurate shot, and now shielded from the central guards by their comrades position in the middle of the action, each of them afraid of hitting their friend before they hit the target.

“What the hell was that!?”, screamed one of the more senior men on the middle of the bridge.
“No idea boss, I know I hit it a couple times but doesn’t look like it’s stopping”, replied another.
“Holy shit!”, exclaimed the larger man, having ran to the middle of the bridge after being passed by the truck, “I didn’t even see it coming, must’ve been damn fast!”, he added, his comrades turning to look at their now breathless friend, each displaying a sense of shame that he had failed even to fire a shot.
The more senior man quickly paced over to the larger guard, unconcerned with the vast height difference, and grabbed the top of his shirt, pulling him in close for an almost military like disciplinary.
“Why in the hell weren’t you watching!?”, he barked through gritted teeth.
“B…Boss, I was asking you fellas for ammo and…and I turned back just as it just went past!”, he explained, clearly terrified by the smaller but much more authoritative man holding his shirt.
“Useless”, the man declared, releasing his grip and angrily stomping back to his post, “Fucking useless”.

“Are we going after ‘em?”, asked the Eastern guard, just arriving at the centre of the bridge having also ran from his post.
“What’s the point”, replied one of the men, “They’ll be miles away by now, you see the speed they were going at?”, he asked.
“Well sure”, the larger man cut in, keen to repent for his mistake, “But you just know they’ll head down the 64, and in that thing going that speed? It’ll be running on fumes within a few miles, they’ll have to stop somewhere!”, he insisted.
“What if they got reserves? What if they stop in some woods somewhere and we’re out chasing our tail all god damn night? That what you want?”, asked the second man, angrily now.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right”, the big man replied, dismayed, “You see much? I saw there was two of ‘em at least, couple guys, maybe more in the back I’m not sure. Would of been easy pickings if we’d got ‘em”, he added, his comments clearly angering his comrades, as he saw each of them scowl at him disapprovingly.
“Or you know, not…”, he quickly added, turning round to start the long walk back to his post.

His points weren’t wrong, the truck would quickly run low on fuel driving at such a speed, making a filling stop inevitable during the miles ahead, and even if they had reserve tanks, they would still need to refill sooner or later. That said, it was common knowledge that the 64 split off after a few miles – one end crossing the apple river and the other going to a local town and nearby campsite – something that would have made tailing the truck an admittedly difficult task, even if they were to stop. In any case, the decision had been made not to pursue them, and it was one nobody wanted to argue with, other than the larger man, who still felt a sense of shame and disappointment, as he paced back to his post.

Ejecting his STANAG cartridge, which had but a few bullets remaining after the more successful attack on the first truck, he repeatedly refitted and re-ejected the magazine, keen to master the process should another vehicle try to make its way across. After a few attempts, he reached his post once more, ready to resume duties, this time much more attentively.

Raising his head, he saw movement, a small horde of the things coming towards the bridge, no doubt attracted by the roar of the trucks engine being pushed to its limit, combined with the firing of guns that followed it.
“Zed’s!”, he yelled to his comrades, and drew his weapon, a sickening smile creeping across his face.

Chapter 10: Gun It

As the quivering but sturdy sole of John’s boot relinquished some of the immense pressure it had applied to the F150’s accelerator, the truck slowly began to quieten down, the outside world audible once more, and John’s ears now becoming more aware of his companions apparent excitement.

“WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!”, Andrew exclaimed repeatedly, clearly enjoying himself.
The sound of bullets had been almost completely muffled by the roar of the engine, their metal casings reaching the front of the cabin as little more than faint “clanks” – somewhat akin to heavy raindrops – and their once deadly force failing to find the men through the layers of reinforced metal that made up the rear of the Ford.

“That was incredible!!”, Andrew continued to exclaim.
“You alright?”, John asked much more calmly, as he began to check key areas of his own body for signs of any injuries, knowing full well that the adrenaline surge would have temporarily masked most pain.
“Never better!”, Andrew yelled in response, his mouth wide open with a huge smile.
John smirked to himself at his companion’s joy, reminiscing in his head over the first firefight he’d ever been in, and remembering that same sense of overflowing adrenaline and fear that he too had once felt. His smile grew even further though when he looked once more into the mirrors, confirming one final time that nobody appeared to be following. He wasn’t surprised, he wouldn’t have given chase if he were in their shoes, there was after all no guarantee of any decent supplies in the truck, so why waste the fuel, and why risk the lives? At least that was the theory he was sticking with, and judging by the empty highway to their rear, it appeared to be correct.