Ch. 3 Migraine
There was something almost humorous about walking in a graveyard during a zombie apocalypse.
Not that anyone was laughing at the situation. Their expedition to military rescue had become dire ever since the survivors watched in horror as the fighter jets bombed sections of the city. Unable to travel via the freeway, the group continued their journey to the bridge by walking through Saint Roches Cemetery.
"Oh, man, I hope we don't see no ghosts." Said Ellis, peering curiously over the tombstones.
"Ellis, you're carrying like ten different guns," Nick said, almost exasperated.
"You can't shoot a ghost, Nick. I mean, shit, it ain't rocket science, man."
Rochelle gave a light smile, looking upon the younger man. "So, Tanks, Witches, they don't scare you, but ghosts do?"
"Well, yeah. Y'know, this one time, my buddy Keith got stabbed by a ghost once." Ellis said. He grinned widely, and opened his mouth, ready to launch into a story of his friend's adventures.
"I'm not even going to ask how that works," she said quickly, hushing the talkative male. She fired a few rounds into a small group of infected hiding behind the gravestones.
They progressed deeper into the maze of tombstones, stopping more than a few times in dead ends and retracing their steps. The infected were littered over the place, hiding behind every corner. With the massive stone tombs in the way, the survivors couldn't see the infected before they were a few feet in front of them. Coach's Combat Shotgun made quick work of them and Rochelle's Hunting Rifle made sure nothing snuck up on the group. Despite the lack of trouble, Coach seemed to get more and more frustrated with every minute they continued to remain in the graveyard.
"Man, this graveyard is some bullshit," he said, finding another dead end.
"I'm not going to disagree with you there," Nick said, swinging an axe at a lone infected. He scanned the area thoroughly. "Let's head to the monument over there. We might be able to find the way out of here." The obelisk stood tall amongst the rows of gravestones.
After a few unadventurous turns, the survivors found themselves in front of the large marble monument. There was a small pile of specific ammo and a single frying pan next to the statue. Rochelle picked up the frying pan, quizzical.
"I wonder what this is doing here? And Nick, don't you dare make a comment," she warned, as said man opened his mouth. He smirked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Well, we're making progress," Coach said, sorting through the ammo.
"Is there any for me?" Ellis asked, leaning over the pile. He grabbed onto his Sniper Rifle with anticipation.
Coach shook his head. "Naw. Can't see anything for your Sniper Rifle. Looks like you'll still have to use the baton." Hearing the unfortunate news, Ellis, hooked the rifle onto his back, annoyed, and retrieved his nightstick.
Ellis frowned at his melee weapon. The baton, in his opinion, wasn't the best close combat weapon when dealing with the infected. He found the dangerous edge of an axe or the lethal teeth of a chainsaw more appealing. As a bludgeoning tool, the baton required bashing in the head of the infected several times before it was killed. He wasn't fond of the extended amount of time it took to deal with a single, common infected. "Well, piss."
Rochelle laughed, thrusting the newly acquired frying pan towards him. "If you don't want the baton, you can always take this." She said.
Ellis backed up slightly with a chuckle. "Yeah, no. I'm good."
She twirled it with her fingers. "I don't have a melee weapon. I'll just use this for now." She said, hooking the cooking unit to her belt. Her gaze immediately landed on an amused Nick.
He held his hands out defensively, still retaining the smile. "Not saying anything."
"You better," Rochelle said, also smiling good-humouredly.
Coach straightened up and turned to the group. "Alright, ya'll let's get moving."
They quietly traversed through the cemetery, picking off wandering infected. Despite themselves, the lack of danger and noise in the area created a relaxing atmosphere which let down their guard. They were punished for it with a sudden, manic cackle. Coach ducked down, signaling the others to do the same. "One of those leapin'-on-your-back bitches is around." He whispered. He pressed his back against a line of gravestones. He raised a single finger to his lips.
The laughter drew closer, homing in on the tight assembly. They could hear a skittering of feet rapidly progressing across the grass. Crouched, and tightly pressed against the gravestones, the survivors silently hid, hoping the Jockey would pass by without incident. It leapt upon the gravestone, right above Rochelle. Its gaze thankfully never looked below. The massive clawed hands of the infected scratched the stone, impatiently. It turned away and jumped off.
Then, silence.
The cackles disappeared instantly, a bit too quickly. The survivors did not move or make a sound, uncertain if the threat was truly gone. Ellis, on the other hand, sighed in relief and lifted himself up. "Man," he laughed, "Them, humpers, are the wo- "
With a manic laugh, the 'humper' dove right onto Ellis' back, its hands clawing at his face. Bouncing its legs and hips, in a rather suggestive manner, it forced him to move backwards. "Ah! Get this thing off me!" Ellis shouted, his hands desperately trying to pry the infected's own hands off his face.
Through the gaps between the Jockey's fingers, Ellis saw Rochelle charging at the attacker, frying pan in hand. Coach held out his shotgun, ready to fire at the prime moment, without harming his friend. Nick, however, remained standing by the line of gravestones, amused by the display. He nudged Coach with his elbow lightly. "Ten bucks say he takes him to the right."
It seemed that Coach would have owed Nick money as the Jockey shifted its weight to the right, forcing the unfortunate victim to stagger that way as well. Rochelle swung several times at the infected but missed each time, her patience wearing thin.
"Ge-Get it off me!"
"I'm trying! Just stop moving!"
The Jockey miscalculated a turn, and forced Ellis against a tombstone, halting his movement. With the opportunity, Rochelle swung her frying pan into the cackling creature with a force strong enough to knock it off Ellis' back. With the Jockey off and his companions at a safe distance, Coach shot a few rounds into the infected before it could attack again. The creature slouched over, dead.
Dusting himself off, Ellis regarded the leaper disgustedly. "I hate 'em things. That's just offensive what they do," he said.
"It ain't right for a man to be ridden like that." Coach agreed.
Rochelle looked at the young man's face, noticing a few scratches on his cheeks. "Anything hurt?"
"Just my dignity."
Nick let out a short laugh. "I think you lost that a long time ago, Ellis."
"Hey!"
With good-hearted laughs, the team continued onwards traversing through the cemetery. Ellis continually rubbed the back of his neck, as though cleaning whatever the Jockey had put on him. "Y'know, I bet this apocalypse wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for them, humpers," he said.
"I think a Jockey is the least of our worries," Rochelle said. "A Tank or a Witch, now that's what the apocalypse would be better without."
"True, true. But if it weren't for that one Jockey, Nick wouldn't have alerted those Witches back at the sugar mill."
Nick groaned, rubbing his recent scars from the Witch encounters. "Don't remind me. Probably ranking number five in the worst moments in my life," he growled.
"Five?" Rochelle asked, surprised. "You were bleeding out and were unconscious for hours."
"I can think of scenarios a lot worse, Ro. Like the time a Smoker dragged me underwater for a solid five minutes or the time a Hunter pinned me in Spitter shit," Nick said.
Rochelle nodded, her face scrunched up as she recalled every painful memory. "Yeah, I see that." Her face relaxed and she pondered aloud. "What do you think is the worst Special Infected?"
"Jockey!" Ellis proclaimed instantly.
"Witches. Enough said," Nick stated.
Rochelle ran her fingers through her hair, cringing as she felt dried remains of zombie bile and blood stick to her hair. "I think Boomers are pretty bad. Their vomit attracts hordes and leaves a smell that you can't get rid of for days." She raised her shirt by the collar, sniffing it. She let go of it immediately, gagging. "The worst kind."
Ellis shook his head. "You can pop 'em Boomers or shove 'em away. You can avoid Witches. Them, Jockey's though, jumping around and laughing. You're wastin' bullets half the time shooting at them."
Coach, who was quietly listening, piped up himself. "Jockey's are pretty bad, but I think there's no competition when it comes to the Tank."
Ellis opened his mouth, ready to retort, paused, then closed his mouth again with a grim nod. Despite any reasoning he could think of, the Tank was truly the worst of the worst. Following Coach's conclusion to the debate, the group walked in silence. At last, the tombstones cleared out to reveal the large black gate wide open to a deserted street.
Coach chuckled. "And here I thought we would be trapped forever. Let's get moving, ya'll."
The chaos left behind in a mad struggle during the preliminary stages of the infection was evident. A truck had crashed into a building, its contents spilled out on the road. An abandoned car was left on the sidewalk, with streaks of dried blood following the path behind it. Bodies rotted away, piled up on the sidewalks. The buildings were boarded up, granting no visible access for the survivors. Despite the gloomy disposition of the street, a spray-painted sign of a safe house on one of the walls breathed a sigh of relief to the exhausted group. The arrow pointed down further down the street.
"At least, we made it. Let's get to the safe house before something reveals its ugly head." Nick said.
They continued down the sloped road until a stone blockade cut them off from the rest of the street. The cemetery had another gate positioned next to the blockade, closed. The building opposite the gate had its door wide open. There were no noticeable signs of any attempt of fortification. There was a bigger pile of bodies in the doorway, creating a tight squeeze if anyone wanted to pass through the entranceway. Ignoring the disturbing sight, the group saw the familiar safe house door behind the counter, inside.
"There better be some spare ammo in there," Ellis said, unhooking his Sniper Rifle from his back. "I haven't used this baby in a while."
"You know what would be real nice? A working shower. And toilet. And just in general, a working bathroom." Rochelle said, with a nostalgic daze.
"That was the one-time thing, Ro. I'd be more surprised if there's more than one room." Nick said. He glances between the doorway and Coach. "Hey, Coach. Think you'll be alright getting through that?"
Ignoring the snickers that came from Ellis and Rochelle, Coach huffed, unimpressed. He gestured to the door with his gun. "Move your ass, Nick, before I make you."
"Yeah, yeah." Nick did not bother arguing with the older man. He approached the doorway and peered inside for any immediate threat. He stepped over the pile of zombies, cringing at the disgusting squelchy sound he made with each step. As he squeezed past the doorway, he scanned the room for threats, finding a few lone, wandering infected. He picked them off quickly with his axe before calling out to his group that it was all clear.
Coach looked at the other two. "Who wants to go next?"
"You can go in next, Coach. Ellis and I can wait until you're through," Rochelle said. Despite her innocent tone and her best intention, her poor choice of words sent an unamused glare her way.
Coach approached it slowly, inhaling deeply to reduce the amount of space his body took. He made his first step in, listening to the disturbing bone-crunching sound as his foot crushed the dead beneath him. Taking another deep breath, Coach continued forward.
As Ellis watched, a low grumbling noise sent a chill up his spine. It sounded like distorted, unintelligible mumbles, almost human.
"Shit, there's a Charger around," Ellis warned Rochelle.
She turned back to Coach, still struggling with the doorway. It didn't seem that he heard the tell-tale sounds. Rochelle grabbed her M16 and attempted to locate the source of the sound. Ellis held on to his useless Sniper Rifle, his eyes darted around nervously. They stood on the road, facing the blockade and the graveyard gate. The hidden Charger mumbled loudly once more.
It seemed that Rochelle pinpointed the location of the Charger. She whipped around finding the Charger approaching from where they came from. Noticing Rochelle's sudden movement, Ellis turned around as well, his eyes widen. The Charger raised its massive arm, kicked back, and rushed towards the two survivors. Rochelle gripped on the hem of Ellis's shirt, trying to pull him out of the way of the charge, but the effort went to waste. The Charger barrelled through. Rochelle was sent flying, hitting the floor roughly, earning a sore back from the attack.
Ellis received the worst of the punishment, the massive arm ramming him forward towards the blockade. He collided against the surface, his back struck with intense pain. The arm crushed his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He shook his head dizzily, trying to regain his focus. "Charger! Charger's got me!"
The said Charger leered down at him and swiftly grabbed him, fingers tight around the torso. Ellis was well aware of what would follow. He was lifted into the air, swinging his dainty arms at the infected's own burly arm. The last-minute, weak strikes did nothing to prevent the beast as it slammed his body onto the ground below.
He heard glass breaking. He wasn't quite sure if the sound came from his own body and he was too dizzy and detached from his own body to correlate any pain that could be associated with glass breaking. However, through his blurry vision, he saw Nick crawl out of a smashed window of the building, gun in hand. The relief in watching his friends coming to save him was savagely destroyed by the pain continually coursing through his body. He was lifted once more, and Ellis tensed up ready for another painful encounter with the ground.
Except, this time, the Charger decided to switch the method of attack. With a convenient barrier in front of it, the Charger simply rammed the survivor's head against the wall. Ellis did not expect the change. He screamed at the sudden, intense, white-hot agony that flooded his head. His ears began to ring and the whole world spun around him. Before he could recover, his head received another collision with the blockade. He choked out a weak scream. Black dots began to fill his vision. There was a taste of blood in his mouth.
The tight grip around his body loosened and he was dropped to the floor. The Charger's let out a death rattle as it fell over dead, bullets decorating its back and an axe sticking out of its head. The pain in his head persisted, rippling the pain throughout his body. Through his spinning vision, he saw Rochelle's face, etched in worry and concern. She is mouthing something, but his ears still rung, agonizingly.
He was able to get a glimpse of Coach's and Nick's face before he lost consciousness.
He was bleeding profusely from the head.
Rochelle was relieved to see so many first-aid kits lined up on the shelves in the safe house. She fretfully tossed five of them to Coach. He tore the bandages out from the health packs. Ellis slouched against the wall, blood staining the wall where his head rested.
Coach wrapped the bandages around the unconscious man's head, his fingers stumbling nervously as he tied it together. "Shit, shit, shit," He cursed quietly under his breath. He looked upon his own hands, covered thoroughly in blood already.
Nick stood by the door, shooting concerned looks to Rochelle who returned them. Their gaze fell onto Coach as he laid the mechanic on to a sleeping bag. He stood up and turned to the other two, shaking his head.
"Well?" Nick pressed.
Coach sighed. "I'm not sure how severe the injury is. The Charger smashed his head in, so we can count our blessings that he isn't already dead."
"Will he?" Rochelle asked, eyes wide in distress.
"We're looking at two possibilities. Best case scenario, he got a concussion. In that instance, we can wait until he recovers. Worst case scenario, we got a brain hemorrhage on our hands."
"Shit. A brain hemorrhage." Rochelle's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes lowered to the floor. "Is there anything we can do?"
Coach shook his head. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "We'll have to wait and see."
All three turned to look at their injured teammate. The bleeding had stopped leaking through his bandages. That wasn't the end of their troubles as blood began to leak from the man's nose. Rochelle approached him and leaned down. She wiped the blood with her fingers and only succeeded in smudging the blood across his cheek.
"Nick, can you pass that water bottle?"
Nick grabbed the bottle off the table and threw it at the woman. She kneeled and poured a bit of water on her hands. She scrubbed the blood off his face. Once she was happy about Ellis' facial hygiene, she crawled to the wall and sprawled against the wall, next to the unconscious individual.
Coach, himself, sat along the opposite wall to Rochelle. His gaze was unfocused, staring blankly at the graffiti on the opposing wall. Nick remained standing, facing the blocked off safe house exit door. The silence in the safe house was not something the survivors were used to. It was usually full of life and excitement as the group celebrated their victories. The only silence that would follow would be the deep night sleep that three members of the group would earn as one remained up on watch.
Even then that silence was comfortable, almost homely.
This silence was the worst kind. Everyone had something on their minds, something to say but it didn't seem like the appropriate time to say anything at all. Instead, everyone tried to distract themselves away from reality. Away from the fact that their dearest friend laid, possibly dying on the floor. No one moved from their positions for a while.
Until Ellis stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. Everyone's heads snapped to the waking man. They approached him, crowding up around him. The atmosphere grew heavy with tension, almost suffocating the air they breathed.
Ellis's eyes opened, slightly, peering up to his concerned companions through narrow slits. His gaze was glassy, unfocused.
"Young'un? How are you feeling?" Coach asked, the first to puncture the silence.
The young man's eyes fell upon Coach's face, still retaining the unfocused look. There was another uncomfortable pause. Coach exchanged uneasy looks with Rochelle and Nick. Ellis's eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Then, the clouds faded away from his eyes. He blinks slowly, eyes opened wide. His lips part open, and a soft exhale follows.
"What happened?" He asked. The raspy and soft-spoken nature of his voice startled the group unpleasantly.
No one answered immediately. Rochelle started to speak, "Well, there was a… - "
"Charger got you. Rammed your head in the wall." Nick said, bluntly. He lightly tapped the back of his head, showing where Ellis' own injury was located.
Ellis looked confused. He squinted, with a visible effort of concentration as he tried to recall. "Charger…Big-arm, right?"
Silence.
"Y-yeah." Nick looked taken back by what Ellis said. He looked as he wanted to say more, and he probably would have said more if he wasn't getting increasingly worried about Ellis' head injury.
Ellis closed his eyes, with another small exhale. His face contorted into a painful grimace. " 'm head hurts."
Coach wiped the sweat off his face, smearing some blood on his forehead. He stands up and retrieves a new bottle of pain pills from the shelf. He spills out three pills onto his bloody hands. "Maybe this shit will help." He said. Rochelle watched Coach carefully, before she gently wrapped her fingers around Ellis' head, and gently, ever so gently, raised it to her knee so that he was in a proper position to swallow correctly.
Even the slight adjustment to his position caused him to cry out in pain. His eyes shot open and he mumbled under his breath over and over, "Head hurts. Head hurts."
"Here. Swallow these. It'll hurt less." Rochelle comforted him. Coach held out the pills towards Ellis, but he made no move to grab them. Coach, then leaned in closer and dropped the pills into Ellis' mouth. He swallowed slowly. His gaze fixated on Coach's face, clouds once more appearing in his eyes. Coach grew uncomfortable with the stare, opting to face in another direction.
A few minutes pass.
Rochelle decided to fill up the silence. "Any better?"
No immediate response. It was as though he needed time to figure out what Rochelle was saying. He concentrated on a response. "It's a bit better than before but it still hurts like a…a migraine or something. Like bells ringing constantly in my head. Just noise. Painful noise. Won't stop." He begins to ramble nonsense.
The words flowed out of his mouth disjointedly. It was spoken so monotonously. It shattered the silence and Rochelle felt it difficult to breathe, like glass shards in her chest. She looked away, unable to bring herself to look at the disintegrating state of someone she could call like a younger brother. He wouldn't stop talking. Spit bubbled at his lips.
And while, not a few hours ago, she would have gladly voiced her annoyance at his ever-going dialogue, she couldn't bring herself to do it this time. This time he wasn't rambling about his long tales of his buddy Keith, he was talking about the pain he felt. The constant pain that as he described in detail over and over. Rochelle was struck with guilt.
Had she reacted faster, pulled him out of the way, knocked the Charger away, then they all would be laughing together, recounting their perilous travels and celebrated how close they were going to make it. They would have all made it.
And Rochelle is sure that Ellis would not make it.
She sees clear liquid, dripping out of his ears. Almost unnoticeable.
Without warning, Nick rolled Ellis to his side, his head bouncing off her knee. Before she could scold Nick for his actions, she noticed the jerky, uncontrolled movements of the injured man. She crawled back, startled. Ellis was foaming at the mouth, eyes rapidly rolling all about. His hands and feet are flying, disjointedly in the air, striking at nothing. Everyone moved back, unable to do more than wait until the seizure finished.
The sight was quite sad, almost pathetic. Three bystanders watched a young Southern writhed on the floor. At last, the movements subsided, and Ellis laid still on the floor, his chest slowly going up and down. His breathing is heard as sharp, raspy, and painful.
The metal creaking of the safe house door drowned out Ellis' weak breaths. Nick, unable to handle the pressure, left the safe room. Rochelle heard Nick's frustration being taken out on the walls. She casts a look to Coach.
"I'm…I'll go talk to him." He said, remorsefully glancing at the mechanic once more before followed Nick.
Rochelle stood, her heart beating heavily and her head spinning. As she tried to recollect her thoughts, a small voice echoed within the metal walls.
"Ro... Rochelle?"
Ellis was on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. She got on her knees and crawls over to him.
"Yes?"
His eyes fell onto her face. His face relaxed into the familiar youthful smile that Rochelle recognised. It didn't ease the tension or the horrible feeling that grew in the pit of her stomach.
"Hey, Ro," His voice is less strained. It's calm. "Remember when you asked what we thought was the worst infected?"
Rochelle nodded.
"Well, I change my mind. The Jockey's not so bad."
"Why would you say that?" She asked.
His eyes clouded up again. He stared intensely at Rochelle's eyes. His breathing slowed to a point where Rochelle was certain he wasn't breathing anymore.
"Because in the end, it wasn't the Jockey that got me."
His eyes dulled, lifeless.
