Duncan McArdle [McArdle - Road to Grissom: Part Three of the Aftermath Series

This is a work of fiction, any character or event portrayed is created solely from the imagination of the author, and is not based on any individual or incident past, present or future. Any resemblance to any real-life entity is entirely coincidental.

Copyright Duncan McArdle 2017. All rights reserved.

Unauthorised copying of this work via any medium is strictly prohibited.

A foreword

This book is devoted to my father Stephen, for always believing in me both in and out of my writing endeavours, for being a constant, strong inspiration to me in everything I do, and for being a fantastic example to me and my siblings every single day of our lives. He was the first person to read every one of my books, the first to ask when the next one would be available, and the first to congratulate me every time I finished. If it werent for him, I doubt very much that Aftermath would be what it is today, and Im absolutely certain that it would contain many more spelling mistakes.

Contents

Chapter 1: Knotted

A single drop of blood makes its way slowly down the mountain-clad landscape of a disfigured face, ducking and weaving between the various scars, holes and scratches that typically accumulate when a being spends months out in the wild. Once past the bulk of its obstacles, that one lonely drop finds comfort in the embrace of another, and then another, until the various sources of that shiny dark red substance have merged into a larger flow of viscous liquid, which soon enough reaches the edge of the chin-line, and leaps hopefully downwards towards the ground, soon thereafter finding its final resting place, as an unnoticeable splattering on a cracked and broken sidewalk.

The bloods former owner notices none of this. Instead she continues at her pre-established, painful pace of around a single mile per hour, shuffling her two feet past one another in the closest thing to a walk she can muster. Her eyes are rolled back most of the way into her skull, giving her a limited view of whats in front, and only one of her ears remains attached to the head, reducing any chance of her hearing much of anything. Her nose however, that all important, life-sensing nose, remains alive and well, sniffing hopefully at the slightest change in airborne scent, praying for signs of an impending meal.

In a simpler time, this poor womans current location might have made for a nicer setting. Flanked on both sides by grass that hadnt seen signs of maintenance in as long as it could remember, this small open space had once been a tremendous show of wealth, placed outside of two towering luxury apartment blocks in the downtown district of Chicago. It had played the role of differentiator, something to make prospective tenants stop and think maybe this place is different to all the others, and in a strange way, continued to do so even now. Each and every inch of pavement was broken into pieces, nature having surged through in an attempt to reclaim its land, and the green of the overgrown wilderness all around contrasted starkly with the concrete metropolis found in every direction. This was no longer a vibrant, bustling garden that attracted those living in the numerous surrounding blocks, this was now just another part of an infested city that had been left to rot.

The deceased female inhabitant of this area was not however alone. Her still-slightly-functional brain was able to detect at least three other moving figures in the vicinity, though all of them bore the tell-tale signs of the dead, meaning they were of little interest. Accordingly, she continued onwards towards the main road ahead, itself once one of the main streets running through the citys entirety, ending only when it reached the water. Of course, she had little desire to visit the coast. Instead she found herself following the distant sound of a voice, an almost definitively human sign, but something so faint shed yet to become too excited by the prospect. After all, her fellow dead were still capable of making sound albeit usually a very consistent and familiar low tone of groaning so it was always possible shed simply found another wandering friend. Slowly, her painful pace brought her closer and closer to the street ahead, and the noise began to rise.

Step right up folks!, came the voice, sounding much clearer now as it too was seemingly converging on the area of street just up ahead. Best meat in town right here, you want it, weve got it, it continued, Fresh off the bone! Weve got l-l-liver weve got kidneys weve got thighs, shoulders, hearts, brains, just about anything anything you could possibly desire!, it exclaimed both excitedly and yet with a thick rim of nervousness. You there, you keep back a little more now, dont want anybody jumping to the front of the queue, all got to head on over at the same pace.

With that final word, the source of the commotion came into the dwindling vision of the unnamed, deceased female. It was a white male, looking to be of slim build with little muscle to speak of, and no older than around twenty years old, walking backwards along the street with regular swivels of the neck to check what lay behind. He seemed confident, cocky and cowardly all at once, seemingly doing something he was more than capable of doing, but still feared having to do all the same, a strange but common combination for the living of the present day.

One-hundred-seventy-five pounds of fresh meat right here!, he called out again, before looking to his right and spotting the group of slow movers in the adjacent urban area. You folks, come on and join the group, I know you like the look of what you see!, he exclaimed, pausing briefly in an attempt to better group together his following, before continuing off once more, fearing they may otherwise get too close. Plenty of room round back if youre a little slower, we dont discriminate here!.

With that, the woman and her friend had heard, smelt and seen enough. Each and every one of them quickened their pace just as much as they could manage a feat much easier for the recently deceased, and almost impossible for the long-term dead towards the main street, intent on joining in on the action. All in all, it seemed around thirty or forty were already in the queue, stumbling along reaching out for the delicious smell that guided them, listening to every word in the hope they might soon be able to chew off the very lips exerting them.

The speaker however, had no intention of allowing such a thing to happen. He was methodically checking the distance between himself and the closest biter, ensuring it fell well within the bounds of being far enough away to be out of lunging range, and yet close enough not to lose interest. Thankfully though, with a mini-herd such as this one growing as organically as it was, it would soon begin to attract more individuals irrespective of his own presence, something he was hoping would happen sooner rather than later, in order to afford him the opportunity for a head-start.

This forming of undead groups was a strange behaviour. Despite having no interest in each other either on a personal or nutritional level given the opportunity, the dead would almost always choose to follow a group of their fellow corpses once it had grown big enough to make a serious commotion. On the face of it, this made no sense; the smell of the group only worsened as more congregated, and so became even less alike the fleshy, life-indicating scent they all sought. The noise however did at least indicate that something was happening, and that something might just be better than nothing, or at least thats what those still alive theorised about the phenomenon.

One of these days Danny-boy, the living individual continued to himself, spinning full circle on the spot to make absolutely sure no surprises awaited in the coming metres of dust-covered street. One of these days theyre going to say Danny, today weve decided to give you a job that isnt glorified bait!, he exclaimed loudly, his heavy boots stepping over an earlier spotted mound of what he was fairly certain were decaying bones. One of these mother-fucking days.