Deuce Apocalypse -Chapter 3

Cleaning House

The clock alarm sounded at twelve--midnight in the sleepless city.

John opened his eyes and promptly silenced the sound as if by reflex. Similar sounds came from beyond his boarded windows and within the apartment building. Others seemed to have thought along similar lines as him, some might have done it to sate their curiosity, after witnessing the orange sky.

Soon, the noise level dropped, since those who lived before knew the value of silence. Alarms set to wake up to the sweet sounds of radio, only picked up static. Some clocks however, could not be silenced by their resident owners...

When the tension that overcame him subsided, he sniffled as he wiped the tears streaming down his eyes. Earlier at six in the evening, the orange hue enveloped the sky. Wireless communications and technology had been rendered useless--creating chaos across the globe. Most of the masses suddenly realized the truth behind the soothsayers.

Unfortunately the time for action had passed.

His tears dropped as thanks for the chance to live, and for the loss of his only relative. From this point on, he became alone in this terrible world. Hearing the alarms still echoing with his building, he blew his nose and cleared his eyes. All weakness disappeared behind a deadpan face devoid of any emotion.

From this point on, he resolved to live a better life, so as to avoid being trampled on like before.

'Time to work.'

His basement apartment had one window opening just above road level. Crude cuts of board, that would put a carpenter to shame, barred the possible entrance. On the same floor, the building had only one more larger apartment. The rest of the rooms allocated for storage or other necessities.

Nobody would seek out a basement apartment, knowing the future consequences. A perfect place at this time to act as storage until he found something reasonable. Just one of the goals needing to be achieved during this venture. Since this same thought might have crossed the minds of countless others, speed became a necessity.

Holstering the handgun, he fumbled a little, but he would have to become used to the cumbersome feeling. A gun became a natural deterrent against people, but against creatures attracted to noise, a curse. It also added to the unpredictable nature of the city. During the early months, stray bullets reaped innumerable lives.

A gun would not make a suitable main weapon.

The first time around, he had been fortunate to purchase a crossbow, at a ridiculous price from a shop vendor. He used it during three months, until the group he hunted with for food, stole his belongings, nearly beating him to death.

He picked up this ordinary weapon, vowing to avoid those friends, merely to keep his blood pressure under control. Luckily this time around, the familiarity of wielding the weapon remained. He testing it out yesterday, and he retained his skills. He held the weapon in one hand for the time being.

Fingers wrapped around the final tool, he and countless others envied in the past. Overlooked, but then sought after by nearly every survivor, party or mob. To scavengers and raiders in a dead city, its usefulness exceeded that of a gun.

Dressing and locking his apartment, he cautiously made his way towards the neighboring apartment--home to the superintendent for the building.

The fifty year old man lived alone here, handling all the simple repair work and concerns of the tenants.

John had an average size build, with a little belly fat hiding any signs of a six-pack abdomen. His short tousled brown hair, nearly covered his equally brown eyes. Decked out in combat boots and fatigues, he looked more like a burglar than from the Military.

The kick on the man's door made him lose his balance and topple backwards. The attack did do its job as an opening crack became visible. Prising the door using the crowbar--the key to the city, the lock yielded. The only thing now blocking access to the old man's apartment--a chain lock.

John stepped away and listened. Amidst the noise from clocks and horns on the street, he picked up the sounds of faint scraping.

'Bedroom.'

He jimmied the door, freeing it open. Leaving the crowbar, he armed the crossbow and moved with it raised and ready to respond to movement. He flicked on the light in the room as he moved further in--within a week, electricity would be a luxury. Because of this, later food raids into apartment buildings without proper lighting became fraught with danger.

The scraping and knocking came from the bedroom door in front of him. Grabbing the recliner nearby, he placed it at the front of the door before opening it. From the darkness a clammy body dressed in pajamas shuffled out.

The 'zombie effect' began less than an hour ago. As such, the old man before him retained his human features. If not for the open eyes devoid of a pupil, or the gray colored skin, someone might have mistaken the old man as a sleepwalker.

As the couch blocked the uncoordinated body, John moved within a foot of the flaying arms and fired. Robb the superintendent toppled over the furniture, unmoving, a bolt sticking out of his left eye. Out of habit John reached out to recover his crossbolt but stopped.

He had to verify another important matter. He hurried back to his apartment to collect another indispensable tool.

John opened his apartment door and grabbed the large fire axe conveniently placed at the side. When he locked the door and turned, he nearly cursed out loud. Unexpectedly, Robb had exited his apartment and began to shuffle towards him. The fluorescent yellow fletching of an embedded bolt still visible on his face under the dim hallway lighting.

Even with three years of experience, John's heart skipped a beat. His fingers had already circled his gun before he calmed himself. Old man Robb had a distance of over forty feet to shuffle before reaching him. Arming his crossbow, he approached the zombie and fired.

The bolt struck and sank into the middle of the forehead, causing the creature to topple over. Half a minute later, the corpse twitched as it struggled to rise. As it regained its bearings and turned towards the sound of its first meal, another bolt pierced its body.

The zombie remained on the ground. Only after five minutes had passed did John finally relax. Re-entering Robb's apartment, he searched and found his main target--the master keys to the building. Glancing at the dead body for confirmation, he walked further down the corridor and opened the door to the sub basement.

In his last life, this entire apartment block on the street caught fire and burned to the ground. A team of foragers accidentally shot a gas line, rupturing and igniting it. As a consequence, he joined the ranks of the homeless. Since he planned on staying in the city for some time, he preferred his own home rather than a shelter.

It did not take him long to isolate the gas supply to the building. Returning to his floor, old man Robb held his last pose. John removed the bolts from the man's head and heart, wiping them of in a bleached soaked rag. Making his way up the stairs he peered through the door into the lobby area.

At twelve midnight, most of the population would turn into mindless creatures. By the end of the first month, the remaining humans would dwindle by half its size. In his three years of living, humans had turned into some of the most despicable, selfish creatures on the planets.

Now those who lived through those turbulent times had a second chance. Tyrant or Despot?

He shuddered as he imagined this new chaotic future. Scanning the silent lobby, he walked out, as his eyes darted to every corner, his ears straining for uneven footsteps. The apartment building had a sliding interlocking iron gate located inside the front doors. Using the master keys he pulled it out, securing the entrance.

The iron wrought glass front doors had been locked, presumably by the guard.

John disabled the elevator after checking it and returned the lobby chair to its original position. Satisfied with his progress, he used the master-key to enter into a glass partitioned room at the side of the lobby. Sitting on the chair he scanned the cameras from this guard-room.

Flipping through the monitor displayed the corridors and stairways of the building. Some apartment doors were actually left open from yesterday, clothes and supplies littering the floors. No doubt, these individuals lived long enough to know the fate of these apartment buildings.

One camera on the seventh floor showed a man in uniform facing the elevator, clawing it intermittently.

The apartment building had a generator and an accompanying large diesel storage tank in the basement. The building itself had a pathway around it, isolating it somewhat from the others. With one higher floor, it stood out slightly on the block.

The entire street consisted of similar apartments while less than two blocks away, lay the massive apartment buildings consisting of over thirty floors. Considering all this, most of the survivors would have sought out the previous human colonies near Hell's Kitchen and Lower Manhattan.

These places offered some semblance of security from zombies--at a price of ones morality. They also became the focal point for over three years in trying to break through the zombie population on the bridges. On the other side lay freedom and the open country.

John did not venture south because of this very reason. During the apocalypse, many individuals had perished not under the mouths of zombies, but by the bullets of fellow humans. He himself had been the subject of such a betrayal. Now that the world had reset leaving everyone with those past memories--sh*t was going to go down.

He wanted to keep a reasonable distance from such inevitable confrontations. Knowing this knowledge kept him from bolting out outside and trying to escape the city. Loners who hoarded supplies like him would become prime targets if spotted.

He scrolled around the camera screens again psyching himself up for the work to come. Grabbing the microphone, he pressed the button to relay his message to all the rooms of the building.

"Hi, my name is John, and I live at 1B. I am a survivor. I have secured the front doors to the apartment building. This morning I will be cleaning house. When I knock and call at the door, please don't shoot..."