Free Aftermath (Book 1): Only The Head Will Take Them Down by Duncan McArdle Page A

Ruger drawn in one hand, the other still applying pressure to his wound. Following closely behind, Andrew was armed somewhat differently, a typically green coloured first-aid bag held in one hand and a half drank bottle of supermarket-brand vodka in the other.
    Arriving at the treeline first, John cautiously descended into the embrace of its cover, stopping a few metres in to survey the area. On completion, he dropped to one knee, ready and waiting to bark instructions at his companion, who arrived seconds later.
    “I’m gonna’ lie down, I want you to pour the vodka over the w…wound, now I’m gonna’ scream like hell when you do it, but you need to keep g-going, get as much in as possible. Then let it run off, and put a couple of those big p…plasters on, rip a few up and put ‘em all around the cut so it’s covered. You follow so far?”, John paused to await a response, as well as to regain some breath.
“I guess so, I…”, Andrew hesitated, “I’m really not cut out for this sort of thing!”, he replied feverishly.
“Well right now you need to be”, John responded, dismissing his doubts. “Once the plasters are on, w…wrap those bandages over to keep everything on tight. Wrap ‘em anyway you can think of that puts pressure right on the wound, I’ll help you out with that bit but you need to take the lead on this. Now I’ma’ take the pressure off right now and if it’s stopped bleeding, we’re good to go, got it?”, John said finally.
“What if it hasn’t stopped bleeding?”, Andrew asked.
“Then I’ll have to give you a crash course in stitching a wound”, John answered sternly.
    Andrew’s face went white, the thought of having to stich a wound was almost more than he could bear, after all, he was far from comfortable in this sort of situation at the best of times. In addition, their location – something they knew little about aside from the fact it was a grouping of trees most likely not far from the undead – wasn’t making anything any easier.
    John slowly began to remove his hand from the blood drenched wound – an action that seemed to occur in slow motion to both pairs of watching eyes – Andrew letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of an admittedly still bleeding, but not gushing wound. It didn’t appear to need stiches, which meant things could quickly progress. John dropped carefully to the floor. Andrew began preparing himself for the procedure, unscrewing the Vodka cap and taking a swig himself – an action that his clenched face showed he immediately regretted – and getting the plasters and bandages out of the first aid kit. In the meantime, John removed a sock and stuffed it into his mouth with his free hand, a disgusting act that was sadly required, if the two had any hope of staying quiet. Finally, John gave Andrew a nod, and the pouring began.
    The screams were loud, even with the sock in place. Andrew had no doubt that had he been allowed to scream freely, John’s mouth alone would have brought a whole horde of those things out of every corner of that treeline. But as the vodka ran dry, and Andrew watched John go through the various stages of extreme pain, he thanked his lucky stars that none had come, as he was certain that he couldn’t have handled them too.
    Dropping the bottle to the floor, Andrew withdrew a series of large plasters, and began chopping the ends off of them using his recently acquired kitchen knife. Before long, he was able to cover every part of the facial laceration, and judging by a lack of added pain on John’s barely conscious face, he was confident that he had done so correctly. Finally, Andrew took out the bandages, and began wrapping them around John’s head, each in a variety of directions. Strip by strip, he slowly increased the pressure on the wound, keen to ensure that the end product would be effective for as long as possible, and not require Andrew to go through the experience again.
    Leaning back from John to admire his