Dead Cities: Adrian's March. Part Four (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 12)

by Chris Philbrook

  Needless to say, we’re all-hands working on taking care of everyone coming to us. Moving parts to this are substantial; all of our medically trained people are providing direct care for mostly small issues, up to Joel giving people what amounts to simple surgeries/splints/casts/stitches, etc. They are being supported by a dozen warm bodies, all busting ass.

  To protect the people rather patiently waiting in line to be seen by our limited medical staff (with our limited supplies) we have another dozen shooters who are in the street, lined up every ten feet or so to provide water, and security. At the end of the street, near the apartment building our first friends emerged from, we have four shooters, led by Hal, as our hard point. Looking over all of it are our regular elevated shooters. Pucker factor to keep these people safe is HIGH. Dog-whistle farts, if you get my drift.

  Supporting those assholes are four more men. They’re been lugging water back and forth by the case, and filled sandbags to build a defensive emplacement where Hal is, in the event someone decides to make a run at us.

  Diplomat-in-chief is Abby, who has been walking up and down the line of people waiting, introducing herself, explaining the basic situation, explaining our chain of command, our intentions of providing help and security (she skipped the Trinity talk, because that sounds crazy, and no one has said anything to us about weird dreams, or conversations with the dead yet) and how we’re looking for more vehicles to make doing all of that easier.

  That was all day yesterday, and all day today. I just ate here on the ship, and I’m writing this in the cabin Kevin and I share. I’m about to wreck the fucking head here. Something I ate earlier is churning in the basement, if you know what I mean.

  Let’s be honest: we’re all gonna get sick the next few days. New people who we’ve never met coming into close proximity always spread germs. Let’s amp up the vitamin C and Zinc I guess.

  Oh, almost forgot with the angry turd burrowing towards my anus: once people heard from Abby that we were looking for diesel trucks/lorries, etc, we got a string of tips about vehicles at businesses or in streets for us to check out. Abby had one of the civilians she’s gotten close to take notes on that, and we’re sitting down tomorrow night to look over that list.

  The other list we need to look at is the list of addresses that all our new friends told us had undead in them.

  There are… so fucking many. Abby came by after I got out of the shower earlier and showed me the filled notebook of apartments, houses and businesses people knew had undead within them, at some point in time, recently.

  I don’t know if we need to clear each and every one of those locations. I mean, we can’t. We just can’t. There aren’t enough bullets, or melee weapons, or time. That’s reality. Call it triage if you want. We came here to help, and whether or not these people know it yet, getting the Trinity assembled, and on-task is what will end this most effectively. Anything else we do is a potential delay that’ll cost more lives in the long run.

  There will be places that we MUST clear, for a variety of reasons, but those will be assessed as we go. It’s not gonna be fun to tell these people no, when they ask us to kill the undead that’s been banging on the wall of the apartment beside theirs for two years, but as long as that wall is holding up, there’s no real reason for us to do it.

  It’s all so complicated. We’re gonna let people down, and disappoint them. I hope we can explain it to them in a way that assuages their fears.

  Assuages. Where the fuck did that word come from? Awfully fancy language for a guy who can’t do long division without a fucking tutor and rubbing one out before hand to relieve some stress.

  Anyway, I’m starting to sweat, and that means my poop just entered the batter’s box and is about to swing. I’m gonna sign off, push Otis’s fat, furry ass to the side, and go wage war on the bottom of the shitter down the passageway. If you hear screaming, batten the hatches.

  May the force be with me, and if can’t be with me, let it be behind me, propelling my digestive issues downward and away.

  -Adrian

  October 3rd

  Other than my ramping sense of anxiety (I like to call it my ‘impending doom sense’) nothing has changed. Our line of people seeking medical attention has diminished only in the barest sense, and our heightened stance of security to protect those exposed people hasn’t changed either.

  There have been no sightings of undead.

  I’ll say it again for you, in case you were distracted by porn, Mr. Journal: we haven’t seen any roaming undead in days.

  It’s creepy to the EXTREME.

  When I said impending doom, I meant it, no joke, no exaggeration. Every last one of us is sitting around, utterly and completely convinced that we’re about to be overrun by thousands of rampaging, murderous undead. You know what, Mr. Journal? Our fears are not misplaced.

  Those bastards are OUT THERE. There is no fence keeping them away. Just time, and as time passes, they’re getting closer. By rook or by crook, those rotten bodies are going to wind up here, and they are going to kill a lot of these Brighton folks.

  I’ve been rotating into the street-level security teams to make a showing of myself to the people in line. Only fair I carry my load. As seems to be the case, always, my name and reputation proceed me, and I find myself ‘forced’ to live up to expectations. I blame Abby, and her constant talk of heroics and whatnot. I say this, and please remain aware of the fact that we haven’t discussed any of the metaphysical bullshit. For the locals, there is no Trinity yet, at least no mention of it from us.

  So up and down the line I go, Lancaster never far from my side as both bodyguard and social assistant, playing politician and doing a shitty job of it. Maybe that makes me good at it? I’m unvarnished? I’ve put my life on the line to save them. I continue to do so. I’m handsome.

  I know this because my mom told all us Ring boys we were good looking. She also had a bit of a drinking problem, but she wouldn’t lie about us being good looking, would she?

  People seem to like me. I’m getting a lot of thank you’s and all that, so… that’s good. They’re very appreciative, and they’re frankly… well, I guess I’d say they’re stifling jubilance. British people are understated, according to the stereotypes, right? Stiff upper lip and all that, so to see them smiling without being half-cocked in a pub makes me inclined to believe they’re real happy to be out of their apartments, condos, flats, whatever, and interacting under the sun (or in the case of rain, falling water) with other human beings that aren’t trying to kill them, and take their shit.

  Relief. They’re relieved. They think it’s over.

  I keep telling them it’s not, and that they need to be VERY cautious, because the undead will be back, and sooner rather than later. Mostly they nod in agreement, and I think they believe me, but it’s hard to say. I just keep repeating myself, and telling them to remain vigilant, and to take all precautions, and to tell us about everything and anything they can that might help us.

  We continue to make our list of places with active zombies. We’re running out of paper.

  The good news, is that we encountered a local fireman who confirmed to us that the fire station we’d planned on raiding for vehicles is still stocked with those vehicles. He said there should be a ladder truck, a pump truck, an engine of some sort, and a larger ambulance.

  I smell a new HRT, Mr. Journal. My heart soars.

  It’s a low brick affair, with four glass garage doors. Attached to that is the community area, which is a two-story multi-windowed building. People describe it like it’s typical of mid-60s design.

  If the vehicles are there, and the fireman thinks they are (he told a story about a really bad incident that happened right at the fire station, occupying the firemen and possibly blocking in the trucks too. He wasn’t sure. Heard it from a bloke who heard it from a bloke. Arr, matey, and shit.

  Wait, no. That’s a pirate, not an Englishman.

  What does that Venn diagram look like? What per
centage of pirates were English, back in ye olde pirate days? I’ll never know. Google continues to be unresponsive to my attempts to look up stuff on it.

  I’m trying to look up important stuff. Educational stuff. I swear.

  Tomorrow we’re making the mile trip out. We can’t wait any longer, and we’ll be rolling towards where the bad guys will likely be coming from; inland. If we’re going to encounter them here at the point, then we’re going to encounter them a mile inland first. If we see a wall of undead marching south towards us, we’re gonna bang the biggest U-turn (pronounced yoo-wee, up in my neckadawoodz) and get all these people to safety, and lock our port down faster than how quick a date can end when you say, “I live in my mom’s closet.”

  I was going to go with mom’s basement there, but the economy was in shambles before the zombies, and living back at home with your parents was just fiscally responsible to consolidate utility bills, and rent/mortgage. Now their bedroom closet on the other hand, that’s creepy. Making pillows out of her old nightgowns, and covering yourself with polyester slacks that she wore back in the late 70s… that’s creepy.

  Tangent aside, I and my A-Team is leaving first thing in the morning on foot, with no local escort; just a few maps, of which, I’ve memorized the way. Lancaster made a short argument to come along, but I told him I needed him to remain behind to help with the QRF, should we call for it. It’s his Rangers, and some Marines.

  I should just call it the RF, not the QRF. They’ll be on foot heading our way to help us, should we need help.

  East along the waterfront to Wish Road. North on Wish Road until it turns into Coleman Ave. East then North to connect to Bolsover Road. Road width tightens up there until we reach a dead-right turn at what is likely to be a fence, as the rail is just beyond. Cut fence or jump fence, (we’re bringing bolt cutters) cross the railroad line, then straight through a huge chunk of Hove Cemetery.

  Yeah. A fucking cemetery. In the zombie apocalypse.

  Our rationale is that the undead in the caskets below are likely not animated, nor could they claw their way out of those boxes, then the vaults, then six feet of ground. They would never start screaming for brains after that.

  Right?

  Mom said I was handsome.

  Send. More. Ammunition.

  Just north of the cemetery we cross Old Shoreham Road, and head North on what we think is a road called English Circle. Yes, English Circle. There should be visible signs of the fire station there, and if there isn’t according to our maps, the station overlooks the northeast edge of the cemetery. We can just push to that spot in the graveyard, and the place should be right in front of us.

  Case the joint, make it safe, check everything over for salvageability.

  Remember when Chief Brian shit a brick over me taking the fire trucks up to Bastion? Said that I was being selfish, and taking away resources that belonged to the town, not to me? Not that we did shit with the fire engines, in the long-term.

  I wonder if it’ll happen again?

  I wonder if I’ll make friends again.

  Gonna rest. Oh, and poop update: feeling fine. Whatever was bothering me passed like a freight train in the night. I suspect I ate too much Navy food.

  -Adrian

  The Ghost in the Boiler Room

  September 2013

  Time in Erfurt Germany passed, as it had before, and still would. Many people died. A few babies were born. Hope lingered in the Citadel, nestled in the German city of Erfurt.

  When the cold weather crawled out from the deep earth, and fell down from the skies, unseasonably early, Tommy woke up in his room. He had a simple room on a high floor, with several tall windows in the expansive building on the citadel’s ground that the American contingent of survivors called home. He shivered, and saw his breath in the light coming in.

  “What the fuck?” he growled before sitting up on the edge of his bed. He slipped his feet into his looted slippers, and looked out the windows at the growing blue light of dawn. A tiny snowflake fell just outside the window, and he watched it flicker back and forth before it disappeared below.

  “Freezing,” he muttered before getting up and walking over to the desk chair at the window where his pajama pants hung. He took his slippers off, put his pants and a t-shirt on, slung his weapon over his chest, grabbed a lighter out of a drawer, and exited, slippers freshly replaced on his feet.

  He was going to find out why the heat hadn’t kicked on.

  The old stone building had been updated many times since its construction in the early 1900s. New wiring, new heating, better windows, all that. One of the more advanced upgrades put into the building was central air conditioning, and a basement boiler that provided powerful in-floor heating to the massive structure. The prior two winters were comforting to the point of being deceptive for the Americans; they’d expected harsh European snows, and bone chilling cold that would force them to shelter inside buildings, warmed only by wood-fed fires.

  Despite looking like the baby of a warehouse and a castle, the building they called home let them live in relative opulence. In this world though, safety was an excess so few could afford. Living by itself was a luxury.

  Tommy descended down the concrete and steel stairwell several floors until he slipped beneath the windows, and into the basement level. He pulled the red fire door open and entered the long hall with walls lined with various kinds of pipes. Hot pipes, cold pipes, pipes filled with wiring. All of it was lit by sparsely hung, thick pillar candles. That they were lit meant someone had already come down to the maintenance levels to do something.

  Tommy hung a right down the passage that led to the boiler room, moving with calm caution all the way. Standing at yet another red fire door was his friend Dennis. The tall and slight German was trying to pry the door open to no avail.

  “Here for the heat?”

  Dennis froze, and turned. The German’s expression told Tommy he’d been surprised.

  “I nearly had a heart attack,” Dennis said, his hand going to his sternum to comfort his heart beneath it. “How do you walk so quietly?”

  “It’s the slippers,” Tommy said, lifting a fuzzy foot. “They’re tactical.”

  “Quite effective,” Tommy’s local friend said. “And yes, to answer your earlier question, I am here for the heat. I came down… oh I don’t know now, an hour ago maybe? I can’t get this door open, and I know it’s not locked. I think it’s blocked.”

  “How do you fare opening pickle jars?” Tommy teased.

  “Reasonably well,” Dennis said with a chuckle. “Help me?”

  “Of course,” Tommy said, and stepped up to join the fight.

  The two men worked shoulder to shoulder for several seconds, twisting the handle on the red door, then pushing it, and pulling it. Both remarked on the warmth of the metal against their bodies. The presence of the heat there told them the boiler likely still churned on the other side. After moderate force failed to achieve anything, Tommy pressed his shoulder into the door, and pushed with his powerful legs. Dennis turned to join him in the maneuver, and their faces were close.

  They grunted, pushing into the door in unison. After a few team-level shoves, the door started to slide inward, as if something heavy in the extreme were blocking it. A metal drum, or the equivalent. Tommy opened his eyes after the exertion, and Dennis was just an inch away. His eyes were open, and he met Tommy’s gaze.

  “Uh, hey,” Tommy said with a smile.

  “Hello,” Dennis said. “I’m sorry. I’m too close.” He inched away.

  “It’s okay,” Tommy reassured him. “I don’t mind. I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

  “Oh, good,” Dennis said, and once again Tommy read the man’s expression; relief.

  I think he likes me, Tommy thought. I didn’t think he was gay. Huh. Not the worst problem. “Dennis, we’re almost through. Something is definitely blocking the door. Few more shoves, and we’ll be in.”

  “I’m ready,” Dennis said, and
the two men rejoined their efforts.

  One push turned into thirty, but after several minutes of shoulder-bruising work, they got the door pushed in far enough to reveal a midnight-black space beyond, and a smooth concrete floor below marred by scratches they created pushing the door open. A pressing current of warm air came out of the room, causing their candle flames to dance.

  “Wait here,” Tommy said, and brought his rifle up and around to the opening. He turned the fore grip-mounted flashlight on, and a brilliant white beam slashed through the darkness into the boiler room. Thick stone columns that held the building upright and level were nearby, as were all manner of mechanical contraptions that served the building. He sniffed the air. Oil, dust. Hint of mold. No putrescence, no scent of death.

  “Anything?”

  “Well, it’s not zombies,” Tommy said. “Stay here, let me clear the room just in case there’s something.”

  “Be careful,” Dennis said, and Tommy slipped through the doorway. The sound of the safety on the SEAL’s rifle snapping to the dangerous setting echoed in the tunnel.

  He scanned the large room and the large machines inside it. All manner of cylinders, and switches, and pipes went in all directions, all of it flanked by tools, and work tables. He scanned over, under, and around everything, finding no one hiding, and no means of escape other than the door he entered. Tommy returned to the door he and Dennis pushed open, and saw nothing behind it on the room side.

  “What the fuck?” the SEAL whispered.

  “You say something?”

  “There’s nothing behind the door. Nothing blocking it,” Tommy said, and then grabbed the door’s edge. It swung in and out easily, without so much as the squeak from an oil-needy hinge.