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

by Chris Philbrook

  What do they call it when you get sucked into a totally unrelated side story? A tangent? I think that was a tangent. Has nothing to do with ghosts, or laying siege to an army of European undead, of which, we’ve only barely gotten started destroying.

  I’ll say this: So little happens without there being some kind of relevance nowadays, especially when it relates to the undead, or bizarre bullshit going down. If we ran into a dead guy that wasn’t a zombie, then we were probably meant to all along.

  I know I said I felt the absence of the divine when we crossed into this area of the world and I meant it when I said it. I still feel it. When I take a moment, and breathe deep and center myself, there’s a weird hollowness to the world. Imagine stepping outside on a winter day, right into the rays of the bright sun, but feeling no warmth from that light. It’s like that. I can feel that there’s something wrong in the world, but I can’t quite… find out how to replace that element.

  Trying to replace God is a fucking joke statement, right? How do I do that?

  You don’t replace God. You find God.

  And, we are searching for that meaning in what we do. In every life we save, or person we help. Every smile, every hug, every meal shared, every laugh with a stranger we find a little more meaning to this life, and get a little closer to proper goodness.

  Good intentions aren’t enough. They have to be followed with diligent work, and good deeds. Mistakes are okay. They are a facet of human existence. But we will grow from our mistakes, and we will pick each other up, and we will push forward, and we will make this world better than it was before all this started.

  And we will scratch our kitty’s heads, and we will go rescue all those dogs that keep barking at us, and we will feel that sunshine on our faces.

  I have faith in that.

  I also have faith that there will be many cloudy days between now and then.

  Tomorrow we go to the fire station with the upgraded ladder truck. It’s our first real trip with the uparmored vehicle, and I’m SO EXCITED to take my Mad Max truck out into the world. We haven’t seen a ton more zombies, so that’s good, but the few we’re expecting to see don’t worry us at all.

  Soon we’ll start thinking about obtaining fuel for the long trip north, and then sorting out where the fuck we’re going to get more chopper fuel. We’ve got plenty of food and water, spare parts are accessible, but without go-juice, none of it matters.

  We’ll sort that out. That’s what we do.

  All is well, or well enough.

  -Adrian

  November 6th

  Mutual Aid meeting went well enough. Ladder truck worked perfect. So much I can talk about with just that big beautiful red rig, but there’s something else happening.

  We’re being… probed.

  It started a few days ago, according to a few of our gate and fence guardians. Well, nights ago, actually. They didn’t say anything to management because it seemed so out there, and farfetched, but as we’ve proven time and time again, this is some farfetched horseshit we’re swimming in.

  Our elevated over watch snipers separately reported that they’ve seen a few zombies here and there, peeking around corners. Peeking. Looking in the direction of our defenses, and then ducking away.

  Read that again, Mr. Journal, and really let the reality of that set in.

  After one night and five or six strange appearances of undead, the guys were on alert, but didn’t say anything. After a second night of the same, they made the call up the chain of command, resulting in the news getting to me this morning right after I woke up.

  Kevin and Hal had already been informed, and were the people who told me.

  Tap tap tap. First thought and I’m still thinking about it.

  So as of right now, we’re shut down, and turning people away for the time being. I’ve ordered that we should assembled two fire teams of four to patrol the area within a few hundred yards of the perimeter, and see if we can’t figure out what’s going on. I’m in charge of the QRF of six shooters, waiting to help if needed.

  What’s worst case scenario here? Zombies are not only faster here, but becoming more intelligent?

  Are the zombies under the control of evil?

  Are they under the control of someone else?

  Are they giant meat puppets with enormous British arms inserted in their posterior puppet holes?

  I don’t know. I am very worried. This level of fuckery never goes well, and I have the distinct impression we’re gonna lose some people soon. I know people are going to die; there are zombies out there, and we’re in the middle of a city of a quarter million people, but there’s this sense I have that death is impending.

  I’m scared that death will be someone I’m close to, but that’s selfish, isn’t it?

  Shit.

  -Adrian

  November 7th

  The sound of steady gunfire last night as I waited to respond as the QRF brought me back to a strange, dark series of memories. Old stuff from Iraq, where we’d hear gunshots through in the dark as we tried to sleep in our FOBs. Local Iraqi people sorting each other out without us patrolling. Insurgents killing locals who had tried to help us recently. Sometimes it was police officers getting killed. Sometimes it was our friends killing insurgents.

  Wasn’t good. It just wasn’t, and that memory wasn’t the only one hearing the gunshots in the dark roused. More recent, fresh memories of listening to people fighting back against the undead were dredged up, and those are bad in their own way.

  Our two patrols working in bounds and leaps, constantly giving each other cover, gave us a pretty thorough street level sweep of the area surrounding our peninsula. They didn’t clear rooms, or go deep into buildings, but theoretically, none of the undead got into those places. Took them the entire night, and they returned at dawn, with all hands, but battered and bruised.

  Kevin and Hal debriefed me, as they were each the team leaders. It sounded quiet for the most part, but as it always is, there were moments of pure terror and heart-attack inducing stress. They ran into several solitary wanderers, who always pick up speed when they see or hear the living move. Well, I say always, but… keep stay tuned. They were picked off at night with ease, but there were several encounters where the undead seemed to exhibit… for lack of a better word, tactical awareness. Almost as if they made a plan, and were it not for the amazing skill level of the people last night, we most assuredly would’ve lost lives. I need to remove the word almost from that sentence. I’ll leave it for posterity.

  The incident I am ruining my underwear most for, occurred in a space between two apartment buildings, not far from the water’s edge. One undead wandered away from them, appearing to be unaware that my guys were closing in to take it out, and when they made obviously enough noise to be heard, the zombie still didn’t turn around to attack them. Our guys sped up to give pursuit, and when they entered the alley between the two, four undead rushed out from behind dumpsters and old trash bags.

  They set an ambush. They laid in wait for their prey, and attacked when the element of surprise was theirs.

  It didn’t work out, but they fucking set an ambush.

  To say this is a game changer, would be an understatement of epic proportions. This whole realization creates a string of questions that even if answered, leaves us with our dicks in our hands. Or, in the case of Abby and Captain Rosario, their… boobs? What do women hold onto when they’re left in the lurch? Clutching a purse sounds sexist and wrong. Titty clamping ain’t right either.

  No idea. I’m rambling and trying to make myself laugh right now. It’s… crazy to even contemplate. First there’s no God, then there are jogging zombies, followed by ghosts, now the fucking zombies are hatching even more advanced Wile E. Coyote level hijinks.

  I think the response to this revelation, is to accelerate leaving. We make a plan to get fuel, and then head north to Croydon so Hal can check on his family. I know, deep down inside that just following through on doing the r
ight things will put us in the right places at hopefully the right times, but we also can’t just abandoned those who need us. We can calculate the math, but at some point, you say fuck the equation, and do what’s right.

  Gah. I hate the idea of ‘running away.’ A tactical retreat a regroup, sure, but retreating in this instance means getting back on the boats and leaving Brighton. That’s not an option. We need to… we gotta….

  Mata. Mutual Aid. I need to check in with her ASAP, and see what they’re seeing, or if they’ve got insights. It’s possible that what we’re now seeing is something they’ve known all along and just hadn’t thought to mention. It’s easy enough to skip over. They’d just assume that the undead we’re familiar with are the same kinds of undead that they’re familiar with.

  What if…

  Oh shit. What if me putting Tobias down somehow released the local undead? What if his presence was keeping them in check, and I took him out, and took off their collar? What if this, as is many other things, is my fault?

  Well, that’d figure, wouldn’t it? My conscience can’t handle much more of this shit.

  We’ll hatch a trip out to the fire station tomorrow morning and hopefully she comes quickly to meet up. If not, then we’ll keep driving out straight to their farm, and we’ll have an awkward meeting there. We can’t wait much longer to check in on this.

  -Adrian

  November 8th

  Didn’t sleep well last night. Too much on my mind, I guess. Only dreaming of the dead is unmistakable now. Breaks the fourth wall.

  Some good news first: the ladder truck is the bee’s knees. I’ll go into more detail about our modifications at a later date, but sufficed to say: it’s fantastic, and worked VERY well. It’s big, and powerful, and feels like the old HEMTT at home, but with decent seats to plant an ass in. But, this entry here isn’t about the ladder truck, or the ambulance, or the fact that we rode in our first two-vehicle convoy to the fire station.

  Our story picks up with the news that we went to the station, waited five hours, then I made the call to head further north and out of town to visit Mutual Aid on their home turf. We needed to contact their newly appointed leader, Mata Sene, and I wasn’t going to wait any longer.

  I had William and Kate on standby, chopper idling, and we pushed further north than we ever have. We encountered about ten undead, and either drove over them, or drove by them as needed. Barely paid them any heed. That felt good. Fuck your apocalypse, eat my ass and enjoy it.

  Mutual Aid has a farmhouse outside of Brighton in the hill-ish area near some large power lines. They’ve got barns, fencing, have built guard towers, all that. Quite the place. We rolled in, loud and obvious, me waving my arms from the top of the ladder truck like a fucking idiot. I had our group post up about a hundred yards from the guard tower, and we dismounted to form a perimeter in the relative countryside as we waited for Mata to come out and shoot the shit with us. It’s a pretty spot, if you don’t look at the massive power lines above a few of the pastures.

  Took her an hour, and when she did finally show, it was after a thirty minute buildup of people taking to the defenses to protect her. A few men and women with rifles or shotguns, but mostly, we saw bows and arrows, and melee weapons. Long ones. They’ve learned the benefits of maintaining distance and reach. I’m sure all those cow fences they were able to reinforce and hide behind were useful too. Hell, the fences worked to keep the few cows we saw alive.

  Mata met me at their gate, which was a... Jesus, a taped together aluminum, steel and wood swinging barrier that wouldn’t stop a car, let along more than a dozen undead. It seemed as much for show as it was for security. It probably kept the undead out long enough for them to get to the gate and poke some skulls. Same as the fence. Not impenetrable, but a significant enough deterrent that it bought them time.

  What we’re all fighting for, right? More time.

  Anyway, Mata and I talked for a solid hour at that fence. I clarified that the undead here DO NOT plan, and lay ambushes, and then I told her about the attacks we just endured. To say her world view was shifted by that story would be an understatement. I watched her as she turned her eyes to the gate, then the fence, then the open fields, and I could practically listen to her thought process as she judged all of her defenses woefully insufficient for this new threat I spoke of.

  I theorized to her that the removal of Tobias from the region might’ve eliminated some kind of barrier, letting more intelligence and cunning out, and she seemed unsure of that theory. I also posited that maybe, just fucking maybe the douche-canoe was behind all of this? What if now, he’s no longer rooted to his human qualities in life, or what was passing for life, and now he’s just an undead, intangible spirit, shit-stirrer of biblical proportions.

  She seemed to think that scenario was more likely, but had no answer. No one has an answer at all, actually, and that fucking blows, because I do love answers to questions, and I don’t get them at anywhere near the frequency I would like to get them at.

  So, I handed her a radio that connects on our standard frequency. Our encrypted radios will be untouchable for her, the throat mics, I mean, and the network that attaches to them, which can be any of the comms on Reuben James or Crommelin, are all encrypted heavily. Military grade.

  I wanted her to be able to contact us in the event of a major attack, minor attack, or strange happenings. I still don’t know exactly how many people they have at their place, but we counted fifteen ready to fight us, and there has to be an equal number of noncombatants, plus kids. Let’s call it forty residents. They could easily have that many on that piece of property, and if they were willing to get close to one another, plus grab a spot to rack out with the cows, they could easily have a hundred people there. It’s likely in the middle.

  We saw six firearms. That means there’s likely only a dozen on site, and if that’s the case, ammunition is probably in very short supply. Any substantial attack, and they could be in trouble. Any… intelligent attack, and they could be in deep trouble.

  Hence the radio.

  So yeah. Smart zombies are becoming a thing, and the locals weren’t aware of it.

  I thanked her, warned her, reassured her, and we split in our big baddie. The ride home was safe and clean, with only about four undead to deal with. Kevin drove, and he drove that fat bitch right over them. I should say this: the streets in this country are much narrower than those in America. Maneuvering the ladder truck will a task regardless, and doing so on such narrow streets, in unfamiliar territory as we drive north will be a real bitch. I expect numerous, numerous collisions, especially with parked cars and lorries, and trucks, and vans, and etc etc. We’ll need more armor for those collisions.

  But that conversation doesn’t matter right now. Right now we need to keep pressing forward, and not sit back, waiting to react to a theoretical attack. We gotta check that fuel place across the water from us for clean diesel, and we need to find a source of chopper fuel. After getting back here earlier, I briefed everyone important about the meeting, then asked William and to get with the powers that be, that aren’t me, to start making a plan to retrieve fuel for his chopper.

  William, because he’s one of those “detail oriented assholes,” has already been working with Kate on several variations of a plan. They want to hit the airports in a hundred mile radius to start, which will give us several targets to raid. They’ve done this kind of thing before, more than a few times, so it’s not a new operation or task to the fleet. What will be new, is if we join them on a fuel retrieval mission as shooters, or support. We’d be the FNGs, listening to the old guard.

  I know you’re disappointed that I likely won’t risk ass on a run to get chopper gas, but I might not go. It doesn’t make much sense for me to break up the band, as it were. If they have a system, don’t fuck with it. As the saying goes, if it ain’t broke, make like a leaf and count your chickens before they hatch.

  Or something like that. I’m not good with “sayings.�
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  Gonna try and clock some z’s. I’m fucking spent, and I have the distinct impression we’re going to experience some strange, unrestful nights for the time being. Both in terms of dreaming, and in terms of undead being a bunch of wily bitches. Season that recipe with the worry about protecting the locals, and the fear that asshole locals will get up to no good, complicating matters for everyone, living and dead.

  My team will be earning their pay. Not that we pay anyone.

  -Adrian

  November 10th

  I don’t remember its location factoring into me picking it, but Shoreham Port: Point Hope, is only a mile from the Brighton airport, as the crow flies.

  I couldn’t have chosen a much better place for us to set up shop here in southern England. Small airport, large port facility, defendable peninsula… it’s pretty good, if you overlook the undead, ghost issue, and the giant island teeming with an apocalypse still unfolding. No biggie.

  So we (and by we I mean William and his flight team) made a plan to fly to the airport to scout for fuel. Their first trip for aerial recon was today, to scout the way there and back for a QRF, or perhaps to transport in large quantities fuel they discover tomorrow.

  Their mission plan read like a power point presentation about math, and it discussed a lot of logistics that are above my pay grade. The long story short, is that on the core mission tomorrow, William will take a crew of shooters with him, they’ll fly west over the River Adur, which empties into the bay we park our ships in, then cut north as the river flows (inland) past the airport. That way they’re less likely to get shot at from below, and if they suffer a mechanical failure, it’s more likely to be over the water, where they can splash down and we can rescue them in zodiacs we’ll have waiting. Navy pilots and sailors feel safer working over or in the water. Who would’ve thought? I guess they call that playing to your strengths. Why I always say if I can’t be smart, I’ll be a smartass.