Then… I put together who was in charge.
Out of the tow truck’s cab a tall man emerged. He wore the tan… what do they call it… not the uniform, but the pants and jacket of a firefighter. Tan, with horizontal luminescent stripes at the chest, waist, and bottom of the pant leg. No helmet, but he wore the gear with ease, and when he hefted a halligan over his shoulder to survey his surroundings I knew I was either dealing with a less handsome British counterpart, or my evil Ash clone. What the fuck is that jacket and pants called? I’ll think of it.
So we watched in silence.
They deferred to him, giving him space, and looking to him as he walked around, passing through the beams streaming from the headlights. I saw spatters of old blood on his clothes. Not much, but I saw it. Not that old, either.
He walked back and forth for several minutes, peering through the Plexiglas lift doors, assessing the empty space where ambulance had been just minutes prior. He didn’t look real happy about that, but he didn’t throw a tantrum. What he did do, was go back to the flatbed, fish a cigarette out a bag or something inside it, and light it up with a struck match. Started to smell the smoke right when he grabbed a small can from one of the dudes who got out of a sedan.
Halligan man handed off his tool and went to the wall of the fire station. He shook the can of spray paint, and wrote a lengthy, six foot tall message on the side of the building. He handed the can back to his friend, who tossed it. A moment later, I heard him admonish the other dude, who then went and searched for the tossed can in the dark. As he watched the guy search for the tossed trash, he finishing his cigarette, and flicked it. The butt landed near where we found all the others.
Guess he doesn’t like littering unless it’s what he wants to throw away.
As the sound of William’s bird grew closer in the dark sky, they mounted back up, and grumbled away. No violence incurred, no conflict.
I radioed out quietly for everyone to make sure they didn’t shed any people, and I asked William to give them a clear tail north to let them know that they were dealing with us.
Yes, we were the dudes with the boats, and the helicopter, and the really big fucking guns.
William reported that they traveled north for a couple miles, and then pulled in and parked at a farm near some high tension power lines. They parked in a barn he said, and shut the whole place down before dismounting inside. No clear data from the sky on that place, in that moment, but that’s cool.
After we knew they hadn’t left anyone behind, or deposited scouts to observe, and we knew they were tucked away back where they came from, I came out from my hidey hole (knees, ankles, back, and feet sore, my ass asleep as well) and I read the message he wrote using the flashlight on my M4.
The message said;
Don’t know U. You’re taking rigs that belong to my fallen bros. U must earn ‘em. Be back next time you’re here. Bring beer. Watch out, zeds North again.
-MA
We’re low on beer, but this message gives me hope that we might have some allies we hadn’t known about up until now.
So tomorrow night, we’re rolling back. The ambulance is here, and it’s already been upgraded with some armor, and weapon ports. All the maintenance is done as well, and everything is ready for it to be used for some things. We’re gonna use it to return on the 13th. By then, it’ll have even more upgrades.
These Navy boys work hard. You can’t take that away from them. I’m thankful for them.
In the meantime, it’s more of the same. Protect the perimeter, clean out areas of the city that are close that have undead contained within them, and direct all resources to the acquisition of ground transport.
I want to ask William and Kate to do a sortie out over the farm where this MA character is holding up, but I don’t want to threaten them too bad, and I certainly don’t want us to waste fuel for like, nothing. I checked with Captain Rosario, and she confirmed that the guns on both Reuben James and Crommelin have that range. Which means, if need be, we can shell that farm from here if they get feisty.
While it’s comforting to know that we have that as a feather in our cap, it’s a little devastating to think that we might need to bring that level of destruction to bear against the living. That being said, if they fuck with me, or what I came to do, or Oprah forbid, fuck with my people, I’ll see that placed razed to the ground and then piss on the ashes.
Eyes towards the north at all times. We have a warning of zombies on the prowl, and there’s an armed, mobile group that may or may not be our adversaries. Like I said, we need to tread carefully. Our big swinging American dicks might knock over the house of cards, and ruin alliances that could make or break the whole operation.
For all I know, this “MA” dude is the Soul. Or the Warden. Wouldn’t that be great?
Guess we might find out soon. I’ve asked Kevin and Abby to ask the locals tying to get medical care if they’ve heard of any firefighters in the area, or anyone with the initials “MA.”
It’s a turnout coat. The fire fighter jacket. I knew I’d figure it out.
-Adrian
October 13th
I like living in a world where my good guys are unequivocally good. That leads to wanting a world where my bad guys are unquestionably bad. When someone is good, I will be their friend. When someone is bad… I will be their end.
Simple. I like simple.
“MA” is not going to be simple, and that vexes me. Makes me ornery in ways that makes my balls itch. And Mr. Journal, there are few things in this life that are more irritating to me than itchy balls.
Lots to cover, and I’m tired. We went to the fire station again today, early, and met with “MA” and crew.
Our ambulance has been upgraded since I last wrote. Light armor has been welded to the outside, and the windows have been covered over with heavy duty Lexan that’s high-end impact resistant. Won’t stop rifle fire, but it will deflect most kinds of shotgun pellets, and it’ll slow down pistol fire enough to make it less lethal. The windshield of the van was given a mixture of it.
Wheel wells have been fitted with hinged plates that cover the top half of the tires that have had flat chunks of sharpened steel welded horizontally to be leg cutters for anyone or anything that gets too close. They’re making a smaller, lighter brush guard/ram bar for the front of it, but it wasn’t ready for the trip in time. That’s fine; we still felt like we were driving around in the wasted dead city of Brighton like we were in a fucking Bradley.
We reached the fire station, driving right past the fucking barking dogs, and all the car wrecks, and burnt-out buildings, and skeletons. Team Paranoid Forest cleared and set up two new over watch positions and once they were done, we started working on the ladder truck. Crystal in the lead, assisted by Chris Fagan, who is pretty handy with cars and trucks.
After about three hours of work on the truck, alternating who was labor, and who was pulling security, we evidently made enough noise to draw in “MA” and his crew. Sgt. Oak was in a better position during daylight to spot them rolling out, so when they left the farm, we had about two minutes advance before we had them right on top of us.
They circled around to the south, and came past the cemetery we made our way through. They only had the once choice to get close, and we knew that, so when they made that last left hand turn onto English Close, I was there, waiting for them. Right near the entrance to a parking lot on one side, and some bushes for concealment on the other. All my people had guns they could bring into the fight, including Sgt. Oak, who was on the roof of a local building with a rather large caliber rifle.
William’s chopper was spinning and low in the sky over the harbor, waiting to make the mile or so trip to us, when the flatbed truck pulled to a stop, just thirty feet from where I stood in the road. Rifle hanging in front of me, hand on the grip, I waved with my left hand. Tried to look friendly, but it’s hard to appear unthreatening when you’re wearing full military gear. Minus the helmet at that moment. Go
tta rep my Mohawk, at great risk to fucking melon. It’s all about branding.
Turret boy with that long barreled L85 drew down on me and kept his front post on my chest as they stopped. I was nervous about that, but felt he wouldn’t shoot. I had that feeling. I also knew Oak had dude’s chest in his crosshairs, and all I had to do was smile and think bad thoughts for Oak to punch a hole in this stranger with the gun.
That’s real power, and I hate sometimes that power such as that resides with me. I’m not good enough for it.
“MA” got out. Still wearing his turnout gear, he hopped down from the flatbed, fired up another cigarette with a match, and tossed his halligan over his shoulder. He approached with considerable swagger as his people hopped out of their cars to keep watch in all directions. They didn’t move like trained professionals, they moved like people who’d learned on the job, and figured out a way to get things done.
“Yank, aren’t ya?” he asked me. (Insert silly English accent in your imagination here for added authenticity.)
“What gave it away? I’m born and bred East Coast Standard Time. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my name is Adrian Ring.”
“We’re Mutual Aid,” he said, and kept right on eye-fucking me. Taking my measure. The judgment with this guy… Speaking of this guy, up close, and in daylight, I got a better look at him. He had me by about three inches, and maybe fifty pounds. Real big guy, and solidly planted. He wore the firefighting gear like he was born in it, and judging by the soot and filth giving darkness to his pale skin, he’d been dyed by the smoke of all the fires he’d put out. He tugged at the full black beard that clung to his jaw.
“Is this the royal we?”
“Sumfin like that, yeah,” he said, adding a small chuckle. It was a creepy laugh. Not sure why, but it was. “You with the boats? The helicopter that flew behind us?”
“That I am. I apologize if our loud arrival made life harder for you. We had a rather considerable welcoming party at the port when we sailed in.”
“I imagine so. Been thick here. Real thick. Lots of dead and no good way to dispose of them quickly. Not many of us left. Since you arrived though… been easier to get around.”
“Well, I’m glad. We’ve got big plans to help, and I want to make sure as best we can we’re not making it worse.”
“Hard fucking task, that. Making this worse,” he said, still staring at me. “Thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t expect a fucking Christmas card,” I said and laughed. “I’m not that kind of thoughtful.”
“Aye, I get that. My wife… she remembered all of our friend’s birthdays. All their kid’s birthdays too. Kept it in her head,” he tapped his noggin with the halligan on his shoulder. “She was special like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to him after a few seconds.
“Yeah well, that made it all worse, ya know? Wasn’t the only awful bit of this either. But I’ve got good men and women here now. And we’re trying to do good. Mutual Aid, we call ourselves. You need help, we come.”
“Not to sound desperate, but we could use some help, if you’re willing to lend some.”
“You’re in charge? Nah, can’t be you. No idiot in charge would come out here and risk their own lives.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m the guy that couldn’t get out of the way of responsibility fast enough. Got ran over by it. I am the idiot in charge.”
“Fucking right then. Happy to see you’re willing to risk asshole and elbow for your people. Don’t seem like you’re in dire straits for anything, whole enough to put boats across the ocean and helicopters into the sky. What could our tired little fellowship with our rusty little shitpieces do for you?” The shitpieces were their cars.
“We’ve sailed from the States to help here. Things are safe in North America again. We cleared the zombies out. We know how to do it here too.”
“Cleared ‘em out? All those guns, yeah? You bring enough bullets and shells for the lot of England? What about Scotland? Does Ireland get a shit given? France?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the guns certainly helped. None of that is what we need help with right now. Yes, we sailed, on boats, and managed to bring a helicopter too, but fuel for both is limited and we have insufficient ground transport. That’s why we’re here.” I pointed at the fire station over my shoulder.
“Stealing my old trucks.”
“Calling it stealing is relative. More like, recycling. It’s not like you were using them.”
“You’re defacing a holy temple, Mr. Ring,” he said, in utter, and complete sincerity. “Those vehicles were returned here, and left to be protected. I know I had friends still in there as well. Dead friends. Mostly dead. This place is a memorial, friend. And not to sound like a shit neighbor, but you walking in here, and having your way with my old home away from home… makes me quite unhappy. And that makes my people a bit skittish.”
“Had I known about Mutual Aid, and what this place meant to you, I surely would’ve done it differently.”
“You’ve… made some impressive changes to the ambo,” he said, pointing at the ambulance and all its new modifications far behind me, and parked just out of wide view at the fire station. He sauntered closer to me, to look over my shoulder at what he could see of the ambulance. I took a step back when he got too close, and he froze. His eyes went from the vehicle to the weapon still in my hand, hanging across my chest. He sighed, and let slip another little chuckle before stepping back. I had to say something, to take the tension away.
“I’m sorry. Really. Had we known, we would’ve done this differently. But we’re in this boat now, and the ambulance is fixed, and upgraded. Look, I swear to you, and I curse I fucking LOT, but I don’t swear oaths fucking ever, but I swear to you, what we do with that ambulance will honor your friends and family. We will do good with it. And if, if you can look the other way, or even help us get the other trucks up and running, we’re gonna do good with them too.”
“What the hell do you want with a ladder truck and a pumping engine? We’re overrun with fucking zombies, mate. Not house fires.”
“And that halligan on your shoulder does a good job on a skull doesn’t it? Made to pry doors open though.”
“Good tool, this,” he said, hefting it off his shoulder. I could tell he had a fancy one, with a titanium shaft. That or he was as strong as ten bears. Jury’s out.
I turned sideways, showing him the halligan I had across my back. “I’ve been carrying one of these for years. I don’t plan on ever not having one nearby. Good for doors, skulls, windows, you name it. That ladder truck and the pumping engine are halligans to me. They get me and my people into second and third floor windows, they run on diesel, they run over zombies, they can be upgraded, both have tons of storage, and crew cabs big enough to fit a small fire team each. They aren’t perfect, but based on the shape they’re in, your old rigs will do until something far better drops in our lap.”
“Or until you find something better to take from those who can’t stop you.”
“I’m not that guy, and the people with me wouldn’t either,” I said. “This has to be done the right way, if it’s going to work at all.”
He looked at me, and I could sense he was trying to pan my statement for gold, or bullshit. “Where are you headed after here?”
“Will my answer determine whether or not you help us with the trucks back there?”
“Likely will. Answer me regardless.”
No harm in being honest, I figured. “Croydon. One of my men is a Royal Marine. We’re going to try and find his family in Croydon.”
“That man is fucking LOST, yeah? He a hobbit? Here to there and back again? He doing this for beer, or a piece of trim? Ah, no matter, forget I asked. Look, that trip isn’t far, as crows fly. Quite far, as zeds walk.”
“I expect a nightmare.”
“And you think my old ladder truck will make that nightmare go away?”
“I expect to make that n
ightmare go away myself. But for that to happen, I need running vehicles, and the big fellas in that fire station are spot-on. Are you opposed to us continuing what we’re doing? Will you help us?”
“You’re doing good for the people in this city. I see the locals moving around, getting food, and supplies. We couldn’t move at all for months. Too many of the dead. Too many sick or injured. Your arrival sucked them all away, gave us space to breathe.”
“Not for long. They’ll be back.”
“Truth there. Alright, here’s my bargain: you do favors for me, and I’ll help you get my trucks running.”
“Side quests. I’m a big side quests guy. Lotta hours logged into Fallout Three.”
“Ha, good. I’ve got the injectors for these two in my home. Crucial bits of wiring as well. Easily put back in, but you’ll be hard-pressed to find replacements without me.”
“Hold up, is this extortion?”
“It’s a fucking interview, mate. Don’t read it wrong.”
“Fair enough. What do you need done?”
“You fancy a fight?”
“Depends on who I’ve got to fight,” I said.
“Come back tomorrow, and we’ll chat on that detail.”
Then he and his crew loaded up, and fucking left without another word.
So we’re going back tomorrow to see what this asshole wants of us. What he asks for, determines a lot of the future, for a lot of people. I have a good feeling about him… but at the same time, I can’t trust him. Not yet at least.
-Adrian
October 14th
He’s a bold motherfucker.
He bailed on us today. Sent two vehicles to say he couldn’t make it. A woman came and spoke for him, said she was his second in command. Called herself Mata Sene, and spoke with a French accent. The first name we’ve mined out of any of them. After some light chat, she said she was an immigrant to France from Senegal, and was caught in the UK when it all went down. Looked to be about my age, with much clearer skin than mine, and had a nearly shaved head. Fierce, fierce dark eyes. I liked her.
Dead Cities: Adrian's March. Part Four (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 12) Page 10