Deuce Apocalypse -Chapter 4

Survivors?

John carried a backpack along with his gear. He exited the stairs, scanning the corridor of the first floor. Grabbing the portable nail gun and the roll of steel ribbon, he started methodically and soon two crude but effective tripwire lined the corridor pathway, placed about ten feet apart.

He then stood behind the wall as he knocked the first apartment door using his crowbar.

"Hello?"

Calling and knocking a few times without any response, caused adrenaline to begin pumping in expectation. Reaching out and opening the lock with the master-key, only the chain lock now prevented the door from swinging wide. The crowbar functioned perfectly to remove this obstacle, as the door creaked wide open.

John waited outside in the dimly lit corridor, switching his hands from the crowbar to the loaded crossbow. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, the flickering light and sounds coming from the living room registered first. Then the renter shuffled into view, attracted no doubt by the tempting noise of food.

The first shot entered the chest of the middle-aged man, causing the zombie to shudder then fall. John retreated from the creature while re-arming. The corpse twitched and like old man Robb, regained its balance, thirsting for living flesh. The second shot in the eye finally killed it. Two shots to kill a zombie.

'This is going to catch lots of people unaware.'

Thinking about someone stepping past a supposedly dead creature. Only for an arm to reach out and claw their leg, caused an involuntary shiver to ripple across his body.

The first time around, a zombie died from a crushed skull. Or a bullet to the head. This return to the past, continued to reveal a different twist from the last. A zombie could now only die with both a strike to the head and heart. He glanced at his fire axe leaning nearby-- there was one other method he needed to test.

John scoured the apartment, turning on all the lights, methodically checking every corner. Leaving rooms unchecked, meant inviting future disaster. All proper preparations and planning had to be undertaken now, he thought, as he cleaned the retrieved crossbolts.

Dragging the man's body into the room he then locked the door. Using a marker, a large circled 1 remained as a testament to the number of occupants.

The next apartment had recently been vacated, apparently marked by the Super, for renovation. In a corner, stacks of containers and building supplies lined the wall. John did a cautious sweep of the rooms before locking the door. Under this careful approach, the apartments soon became cleared.

After the third apartment, where he killed a couple and their child, the procedure became apparent. Clean out the apartments, switch off the lights and unplug any alarm clocks and televisions. The bodies, he carefully dragged and placed where visible on opening the front door. Each door bore a number for future reference.

Sometimes he had to retrieve more than two crossbolts from the chest of a creature, but his aim and familiarity with the weapon slowly improved. The recalled memories, with experience from the past ensured he did not shoot like a true amateur.

The sixth and last apartment on the level, produced an unexpected result.

"Is that really you John?"

A weary voice sounded.

The door opened a crack, as the wrinkled face of old Mrs Thomas peeped out from under the door chain.

"Keep calm, Mrs Thomas? It's best if you stay inside until I return."

John talked to the gray-haired old woman before pouncing on a break in conversation to leave. He hastened and gathered his equipment, exiting the stairway door. Mrs Thomas used a walker to move around and showed a friendly disposition to everyone in the building.

Halfway up the stairs, he turned and returned with his weapons and axe to the apartment. The old woman still prattling on, unaware he recently left.

"Mrs Thomas, do you have any pets?"

"A cat..."

The fragile, old woman's eyes opened large, proving she survived at least up until two weeks during the last apocalypse. John entered the apartment, seeking out his intended prey. He soon found it lazing around on top of the empty kitchen counter, among the unused appliances.

He vaguely recalled Mrs Thomas had a daughter who came over every morning, delivering food for the old lady. No wonder her kitchen seemed so bare. John held the cat and carried it outside-- poor tabby had to pay the price for his future safety.

Wiping away the bloodstains from the blade, he resumed his trek upwards, driven by willpower and the thirst for survival.

The second floor had an open apartment door. Supplies and clothes strewn on the corridor showed the owner had made a hasty retreat towards the elevator on witnessing the signs yesterday. John repeated the procedure, installing the tripwire before making a cautious beeline towards the open door.

A search yielded nothing as he disconnected the appliances and turned off the lights. After six in the evening yesterday, the population as a whole would have begun to harbor thoughts on the soothsayers. The ones who tried to escape for a safer place, would not necessarily be only a past survivor.

For this reason he did not want to mingle with strangers on the roads or at any gathering. He cleared the other rooms out and proceeded to the next floor.

Behind most of these unanswerable doors came sounds of scraping and knocking. Since using the intercom, the tenants that transformed in the living room migrated to the source of the sound; the intercom near the door.

New Yorkers had a habit of either sleeping on a couch with the television on, or in their room under the tunes from the radio. The next apartment had two zombies standing near the door. John ignored the growls and the fingers trying to force their way through the door.

A deft move with the crowbar broke the chain lock, as the inhabitants pulled the obstacle open.

He fired into the head of one zombie, then turned and ran over the tripwire before rearming. He then shot the advancing zombie in the chest. His aim proved true as it collapsed in the hallway. By the time he dispatched it in the head, the first zombie lumbered towards him, the crossbolt bobbing on its head.

He fumbled a little in haste, missing the target. The approaching zombie tumbled to the ground, providing time to calm his mind and steady his hands. His next shot found its mark, as the creature slumped to the ground. John paused for a few minutes, berating himself for succumbing to panic.

He had distance, the tripwires and also the exit door as safeguards. Against these two slow-moving zombies, he had no reason to falter or become jittery.

Killing this pair, and satisfied at the performance of the simple tripwire, he had another test to perform. A single zombie from another apartment provided the opportunity. Using the gun, he emptied half of the magazine until gaining the desired result.

The bullets proved their effectiveness, but he wasted too many shots to kill the creature. Unlike the crossbow, he never had the opportunity to wield a gun. Strange, considering that he lived in a country which offered him the freedom to practice in a firing range. After a year, weapons of all kinds lay on the streets. Without ammunition, they were more useless than a baseball bat.

A scavenger once found a pistol loaded with a few rounds during the second year. One hour after firing that first test shot, three different teams converged on him, beating him to a pulp. He deserved it for wasting a bullet while disturbing the silence of the city.

Refilling the clip, and gathering the equipment he climbed to the next level. The choice of using the gun intermittently during this exercise might prove beneficial. Gaining some experience with a handgun while the world sorted itself at this time would be the best.

Later on, when lawless thugs and zombies roamed the streets, it would serve as a hidden ace. Flaunting such a weapon could only attract unwanted attention from the living and the dead. Strange noises tend to attract those unwelcome guests the fastest.

The third floor did not have any problems, so he cleared it away like the others. The fourth floor proved the 'butterfly theory' lived on. On knocking an apartment, the key chain rustled as the door sprang open. Giving him no time to react, a lithe figure bolted out. The force of the collision nearly bowled them over.

John reacted first as he untangled himself and jumped clear. Under a reflex born from experience, he checked himself for scratches. One hand, held the crowbar horizontal to keep the young woman at bay, while the other gripped the gun.

"Please don't hurt me. My mom she..."

"Calm down. What happened the first time."

John closed the apartment door and then grabbed a vitamin drink and two bars of chocolate. Fatigue caught up, as a glance at the watch show it neared five in the morning. His body and more importantly his mind, needed this rest. Muffled sounds of gunshots and sirens seeped through the walls.

"Last time, I remember the orange sky. The next morning, I went into my mom's room to wake her up... this time when she went to bed, I kept checking on her. It happened again... Why?"

In the dim lighting, the young woman looked familiar. John only sighed in response, some souls might find themselves fortunate like her, escaping their previous deaths. The joy of escaping did not prepare them for the future; they were naive to the horrors and dangers engulfing the world.

"Your mom is gone. Lost and replaced by a ravenous shell. Wait here and don't come in until I call you."

He entered the apartment and soon dispatched the old woman in the bedroom. Locking the room door he called the young woman inside.

"She is now dead and at peace. If you want to live follow my instructions. When I am finished clearing the apartments, you can leave as you wish."

John provided some instructions to the young woman as tears spilled from her eyes. The disheveled blond hair stuck to her wet face like glue. Looking at the all to familiar sobbing and tear-stained face, he reminded her again, on exiting. Waiting outside for the click on the lock, he proceeded towards the next apartment.

On cleaning out the level, he visited the girl. Leaving her with some extra tasks to complete, he headed upwards.

In the entire building, Paul could be considered the closest he had to a friend. Sure the guy wasted time, and his parents cash on living it up on the university life, but he never treated John as any low-class riff-raff. After meeting each other during a shared class, an amicable relation developed between them.

For instance, Paul would never pressure him for that five hundred. Knowing John's circumstances, he would consider that act as a favor rather than pressure a guy working to send himself to University. John would never have allowed Paul access to his apartment knowing the danger of the future.

Last time during the apocalypse, John encountered two zombies within the building before it burned to the ground. The first being the supervisor Mr Robb; John encountered the old man when trying to ransack Robb's apartment for supplies. The second person was Paul; when he tried to break open into his apartment for the keys to his truck.

John considered placing the guy's body out of his misery as repayment for yesterdays help. Remembering the time when he had to drink water gathered off the street, he would have preferred to pay more than five hundred dollars, rather than relive this experience.

He knocked on the door as per habit and then unlocked the lock.

The handle turned as the door suddenly open in front of him.

"F*ck John, why the hell are you banging on my door so early. Damn that infernal racket outside-- and the one pounding inside my head."

Paul rubbed his head in one hand as he then focused on the startled man holding a crowbar.

At the moment John was experiencing the greatest shock of his two lives. The hand holding the crossbow remained limp to the side.

Alive?

Then if this happened to Paul...

The picture on his bedside flashed into his mind.

The photo of him standing next to a wrinkled old lady during mother's day.