“You’ve lost hope, dear Jennie. It’s no way to exist. This isn’t blowing over. There’s no one coming to help us. The Queen is hiding in a hole, the planes aren’t flying overhead any more, the police and army are gone. No one’s heard from America in months, and I’m certain they’re just as bent as we are. It’s us, and what we can manage on our own. If we want a better tomorrow, we bloody well need to make it.”
“When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Early, so we can get a full day’s travel in. We take few risks, and move slowly,” Mara said, sensing she’d sunk the hook in Jennie’s cheek. “We are not hard to travel with, and Michael is… well, he’s a doctor.”
“Right. Rest well, Rachel. I’ve a lot to think about before morning. I’m glad you crossed our paths.”
“I’m glad as well. Hey, this talk doesn’t ever have to have happened, okay? You made this decision on your own. No need for us to… dredge up tough decisions later,” Mara said. “Benjamin might take offense to strangers coming into his castle and upsetting his peasants.”
Nothing else was said as the two women parted. One went to a lonely, elderly fire in the belly of an old metal stove, and the other went to a cool bed, in the back of a store that hadn’t had customers in a year and a half.
One cried.
The other smiled.
The morning turned cold.
“You can’t leave,” a confused Benjamin said for the fifth time as he looked at the inert woodstove he stood beside. He hadn’t been able to make eye contact with anyone in the room after Jennie told him she was leaving, and taking Hogan with her. The iron creaked as it cooled, groaning as if it were amplifying the turmoil in the nearby man’s soul.
“There is nothing here for us, and you know it. You won’t say it, but you know it. Our son is bored, and needs stimulus. He really needs a father, but you seem incapable of handling either of those tasks. I never expected our relationship to be the same after Terri died, but you can’t even heal a bit. We’re barely friendly, never mind in love.”
“I thought, maybe if you met these other two, you’d see how good we had it.”
“Fuck you, Ben,” she hissed. “I see how bad we have it. Planting arugula in buckets of old dirt and shit. Reading the same fucking magazines for the hundredth time. We’re gonna go. We’ll come back when it’s safer.”
“I’ll miss you,” Hogan said from the hall that led to the rear exit of the store. “I love you.”
”Take care of your mother.”
“You’re not gonna tell him you love him? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I love you too,” Ben said, but he still didn’t look up from the stove.
“That felt genuine. Get us out of here,” Jennie said to Michael and Rachel.
Michael turned, pulled the steel bolt out from the frame and pushed the door open an inch. He peeked, opened it further, then peeked again. He’d produced his second handgun, and as he held it, he pressed outward in a crouch, scanning for threats that might see him. He only feared being spotted by what he couldn’t see. Mike gave the all-clear, and Rachel went outside, followed by a flush-faced, and wet-eyed Hogan, and a resolute Jennie. Her hands shook from adrenaline.
Mike closed the door and trotted across the lot to the car where he stashed his rifle, and the magazines for it. With care, he retrieved all of his things, and loaded the rifle. That done, he took out a single pistol magazine and rested it on the passenger seat of the vehicle.
“Hid that, did ya?” Hogan said, fighting off tears.
“I did. Must be clever nowadays, yeah?’
“Yeah,” the kid said, and nodded. Jennie took his hand.
“Wait here,” Mike said. He ran across the parking lot, and rapped on the back door of the store. He pulled the door open, and walked inside, where Benjamin still stood at the woodstove.
“I hope you’re not here to gloat.” He didn’t even turn around to speak.
“I would never do that. You can catch up. We’re heading south to Croydon. The route outside the store here, we’re gonna shadow that until we get there. We’ll travel during the day, rest at night. I’ll leave marks on car windscreens and bonnets for you. In the car in the park out back I’ve left a single magazine for the pistol I left on the shelf. Now I hope you’ll use that weapon and ammunition to protect yourself at a minimum. You should use it to follow us. I pray you do not use it to take the easy way out before you have to. Hogan deserves your effort, Ben.”
“That’s very kind, thank you. Your opinion is noted. Take care of my wife and son.”
“I’ll do my best. We’re going to find safe sanctuary. I promise you that.”
The door shut, and after what might’ve been an hour, or a day, Benjamin left the now cold stove, and shut the bolt on the door. As he did, he heard scratching on the glass at the store’s front.
Rachel and Mara had departed, and in their wake… were the dead.
November 21st
Been a fucking ride, Mr. Journal.
I um… I stutter when I have to write about a challenging experience. Not verbally, but when I try to get going here on the laptop. I start, I erase, I start, I erase. I try to think about where to begin, what details need to be told and explained first, what can be skipped over, what’s crucial, ya know? I feel a heavy weight as I continue to write in this diary. When I first started, it was me trying to stay sane by committing thoughts down, but now… now I’m creating a history. I’m telling a story, and I feel like I can’t miss a piece of it, or somehow, down the line, someone will read this looking for guidance and history, only to find out I fucked up and forgot to write something down.
But, I think what I need to do is stay true. Tell my story. Tell my history. Not worry about covering ALL the details. Someone else is writing shit down, taking notes, or telling their friends. A verbal history is being created at the very least.
This is my story. This is your story, Adrian. Tell it how you need to, not how someone else needs you to.
Deep breath.
The amount of moving parts we had on the fuel run two days ago was, in retrospect, beyond my ability to truly comprehend. Air assets, water assets, three ground vehicles, and ground forces here on the peninsula as well. Hundreds of men and women all doing their best under duress to get a dangerous job done in a dangerous environment.
We did it, but the cost we had to pay was steep, and we won’t fully realize that cost for weeks or months to come. More on that later.
The supply ship (Bridge is its name) made its move across the bay before light. She saddle right up where thousands of ships before her. She’s the biggest ship by far, almost twice the size of Reuben James, but again, crewed by a skeleton, and used entirely for storage. Anyway, they got the boat up to the fuel company’s wharf, or pier, or whatever you call it, and they tied off just at dawn.
To support them, our ground forces went out immediately at first light. Ladder truck, pumper and ambulance exited our airlock-container gate and drove around the peninsula, inland, then doubling back on the raised portion of the adjacent road at what amounts to the water’s edge. We parked in blocking positions. Pumper truck went deepest, away to the west on the road parking just beyond the supply ship, relative to the ground. Ladder truck went central, throwing down its stabilizers, and raising the ladder to provide and elevated firing position. Hal drew the first short straw on that assignment, so he climbed up with binoculars, and his weapons. Kevin wanted to fight him for the honor, if only to get off his still-healing foot, but Hal insisted it was better if he do it, as he could get up and down the ladder much faster in the event of an emergency. So, Kevin stood near the door to the engine truck, which he drove. The ambulance parked parallel to the entrance of the fuel company. It would take time to lift the stabilizers and drop the ladder, but we figured the other two vehicles could respond if needed.
So we dismounted, and provided security from the city, and ensured that no one, living or dead, got too close.
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In the background (I wasn’t watching the entire time) the sailors and marines on Bridge got to the ground and got to work.
I’ll be honest, I heard all about this second hand, and from what I’ve put together, the early bits were slow going, and dangerous due to the damage that was inflicted when we shelled the shoreline. One whole tank (drum the size of a house) was perforated, and vomited its perfectly usable contents all over the ground there. It was still flammable, but I’ll get to that later.
So they went for marine diesel, which was clear of the mess, and closest to the dock. It took them hours to get the machinery functioning, and hooked up to the ship. They had dispense a little, test it, and then continue. The fuel passed muster, and they were able to get that ship’s fuel storage topped off, as well as the ship’s fuel. They were also able to load up regular diesel in great quantities, so much so that the barrels on the side of the ladder truck weren’t needed.
That was the entire morning. The two frigates got topped off next, and then we bailed on filling up the two destroyers. During each switch off, crews had to move around from ship to ship on the zodiacs, making each ship more able to fuel efficiently. Marines had to switch off to provide security and so on, so it was again, very slow going. Never mind the fact that these huge ass ships take a hundred thousand gallons of fuel at a whack, and the ground crews (protected by multiple fences, and three dozen armed men and women) had to moving hoses and tubing, and clean up a fuel spill using locally sourced emergency equipment, while clearing several buildings.
Professionals.
Anyway, it was getting dark, and cold, and frankly miserable by the time we peeled off Crommelin, and I radioed Rosario. I asked what her opinion was on finishing up the next day, and she and I both felt like nothing would be lost if we called it a day.
The ground workers inside the fence locked the place down, securing gates with chains and padlocks, or zip ties as appropriate. We didn’t leave a guard behind, but we did elect to post double the snipers in over watch across the bay to ensure that we had eyes-on through the night. I hugely regret that decision. We should’ve stationed four guys on a roof there, or in one of the small offices overnight. Bad decisions cost lives. This isn’t like buying the wrong scratch ticket. Ah shit, I didn’t get anything. Small gambles, small losses. It’s ah shit, three people died. Big gambles, big losses.
Zero injuries, no deaths on day one. We returned, celebrated quietly, and slept like old people after eating turkey. Yesterday, we started it all up again. Different results. So different.
Anything speculating HOW it happened would be… well, pure speculation. Guesses at best. There’s no proof, or evidence, or anything of the such. Once the fires die down, we might be able to piece a story together, but let’s be honest, there’s just no fucking way that’s actually gonna happen. I’m no fire marshal, after all.
The initial parts of the second morning of fuel transfer went exactly as the first did, though the first ship to pull over to the pier at the fueling facility was a destroyer. Higgins. Our destroyers are Higgins, and Howard. I guess both boats were added to the flotilla in San Diego, but that’s something I don’t know enough about.
Higgins went first.
All was going well, with us in our parked security position on the upper road level, ladder up for over watch, when all of a sudden we heard a loud… poomf noise, followed by a rush of overpressure, and heat.
An explosion.
Low, and slow, not like an artillery shell hitting nearby, flattening shit and sending dust in every direction. This was fuel-based. Not an explosive blast, but a large eruption and fast spread of fuel-fire.
We were lazy, plain and simple. Up on the hill, we were all paying attention to the fucking city and neighborhoods inland. Maybe one of us was looking back into the fuel company’s grounds. We implicitly trusted the marines and sailors to provide their own security. They were good, and made their stand, but all it took was a moment.
The explosion was near the water’s edge, far from where we stood. The flames erupted up and over Higgins’ hull, coating the entire boat in what looked like a wave of liquid fire. I saw it. It... fucking forgive me, but it was beautiful. Only lasted a few seconds, but damn it mesmerized me.
The fires died out fast on the boat; it’s fucking metal, but on the ground, where fuel had been spilled, the ground was, and I shit you not Mr. Journal, ON FIRE, and spreading fast. Our gorund crews were running like hell to get to the waterline to jump the fuck in, but somehow, someway, about six undead had gotten inside the fencing, and they were on fire (Because that’s fucking fitting, right? Not like the fucking undead give a shit about being set on fire) and they were attacking all the people they’d managed to either sneak up on, or flat out bum rush. A few of our people who’d been knocked down by the explosion, or were sto-drop-and rolling to put out the flames on their bodies were just tackled and bitten. I couldn’t get clean shots, but holy shit I went up and over that guard rail in a second, and started down the hill to the fence to try and help.
Pointless.
Fucking pointless.
In just… five seconds the heat from the fires overtook my bravado. The skin on my face started to, and I am not exaggerating, SINGE, and I had to stop. I retreated backup as Kevin started screaming.
“Move the trucks! Get us the fuck away, it could blow!”
He’s loud as fuck when he needs to be, and people listened. The ambulance disappeared, and our pumper truck took off too. Fagan had our stabilizers lifted and Kevin got the ladder down as I shot into the fires from the roadway, taking out zombies the best I could with limited visibility through the smoke and fire. I killed a few. Some old zombies, some were our people that I knew would be sitting back up soon enough. I’m sure some of them I shot were still alive. At least they didn’t suffer in the fires.
We were rolling in the ladder truck faster than I thought we could move, but another subsequent explosion rocked the truck, and set off a mushroom cloud of black smoke. We floored it away and back to the gates, and I swear to you Mr. Journal, the amount of undead we drove by, and engaged, had quintupled, at least. The drives there we past maybe three or four, but on the way back, at least twenty.
When we got to the gates, our security people were engaged actively, taking out a small crowd that’d formed. The zombies turned towards us as we approached, and we drove the fuck over them like it was no big deal.
Gates opened, and we were inside.
Higgins pulled away from the pier where the fires raged, with what so far has been assessed as minimal damage. They did not get a full belly though, and Howard got nada, and won’t get a drop from that place either. It’s a total wipe.
We lost twelve men. Six sailors, six Marines.
Two of the Marines I knew; Lucinda and Antonio Botelho, both from the night we landed. They were good. Real good. Good people, and very good at their jobs. Their leadership will be missed.
The rest of the day was just pure damage control. Head counts, ammo counts, scouring Higgins for damage. Rosario was… remarkably calm. She showed some emotion, but it was professional. She showed she cared, and her people felt that. They love her. I see it, and I get it.
I didn’t know what to do with myself.
We had no medical needs. No one came back hurt. We had twelve dead. No injuries. Snipers on the north side of the peninsula watched through scopes, and took out anything that moved. I had taken a few out, but there were more, obviously.
And more came, too. Like… vultures, they came. Thirty, forty of them. Right over the guardrail where we parked, down the hill, running, tumbling, unaware and uncaring of injury they might suffer. They walked right into the flames, setting their clothes on fire, entirely without reason.
But we knew that about them, didn’t we?
They ran to the shoreline, and they stood at the edge, staring across the water at us, like they’d made that trip, just to set themselves on fire, just to show us that they knew where
we were, and that they really didn’t give a shit if they were destroyed in the process. This was another tap tap tap moment.
The nail hammered home at dusk. The radio turned on, crackling to life, and that motherfucker started laughing again. This was a different laugh. Not madness, not drugs, not hideous disarray.
This was a satisfied, sinister sound.
I had been bested, and Chuckles was making the point.
When the radio went silent, I thumbed it on. “We’ll dance soon enough you sack of shit.”
Nothing came after that.
We need time to reassess, and regroup. Two steps forward, right?
More fire.
I want to leave this shithole city, and head north. I want to get Hal to Croydon to find his parents, and we need to keep searching, meeting people, and finding more leads to where the other pieces of the Trinity might be. This feels bigger than a local twerp acting up. I strikes me as an intentional delaying action to me. The Devil is behind this, and he’s using… someone, or something to slow us down. Trick us into spending time we don’t have, solving problems that don’t need to be fixed in the big picture.
Eyes on the prize. Gotta stay focused, and make good choices. I came here with a plan that felt right to me, and damn it, I’m sticking to my gut. No more big mistakes though.
Fuck.
-Adrian
November 24th
I’m tired. Not sleeping well in general, and really not sleeping well since the incident across the bay. I keep dreaming of the dead, and fire. So much fire. I see them walking between the giant tanks, bodies burnt and shriveled. Tendons drawn from the fires bending arms into hooks, and hands into claws. When they have them at all, I see their eyes. Not white yet, not filled with rage, but instead filled to the brim with pathetic sadness. Remorse for having failed at their task that day, and that kills me. I wake up, sweating, breathing hard, fine hairs standing on end. They don’t have to feel remorse for some perceived failure. They were there when it counted. They stood up, tall, and did the brave thing. They helped others when it counted. They were fucking rock stars in a crowd of wallflowers.
Dead Cities: Adrian's March. Part Four (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 12) Page 22