I invited them over, they accepted, and I left after Abby came down to say hello. When I got back Gilbert had dug out the remainder of the venison. I’ve done a pretty good job of stretching out I think. Although I did eat a lot of it early on, so maybe I didn’t. He planned on getting the grill fired up just about at 12:30.
I cracked open cans of a few different vegetables, and as you might expect Mr. Journal, I cracked a can of cranberry relish. Seemed like the right thing to do. Gilbert and I worked in the kitchen for a bit and we talked about basic planning and whatnot. He told me how good a job I’d done with the campus, and was really thankful for bailing him out of the bad spot he was in the other day. I told him there was nothing to thank me for, and that he’d do the same for me, and he agreed. He gave me some quasi-religious mumbo jumbo about it being important to have faith in doing good things. That ultimately we would either be rewarded for doing the right thing, or we should try to make right if we’d done the wrong thing. But most of all, he said what’s done is done, and we needed to make it through our trials before any salvation came to us. Redemption is earned, not given. It definitely took a weight off me I didn’t know I was carrying after talking to him. Gilbert Donohue ftw.
Patty, Chuck & Co showed up late, and pretty obviously were arguing over something right before they came over. Randy came in the door and immediately went for the Playstation and Abby went straight to Gilbert and started helping him. Patty and Charles sat at the kitchen table and had this awkward forced conversation with me. It was fake as all hell, and it really bothered me. Reminded me a lot of how my mom used to treat us kids when she got into the sauce. We were burdens to be tolerated, and not gifts to be cherished. Put me on guard and into a pretty smarmy attitude in short order.
Gilbert and I got the rest of the meal together with Abby’s help in a few minutes, and I pried Randy off the Playstation. The meal itself was really nice. Gilbert has a gift with putting seasonings on pretty simple shit to make it much better. For example, he sprinkled a tiny amount of paprika on the corn, and it was delicious! I never knew I liked paprika. One more thing I need to thank Gilbert for.
We ate in about thirty minutes, and Randy asked to play Playstation again, and with Chuck and Patty’s blessing I said sure. Abby hung out with us as we got the coffee maker going. She has officially been promoted from the little kid’s table I guess. As we sipped on some really good coffee, I shared some of the news of what had been going on lately around. Since Charles’s “back injury” he’d been out of the loop, and seemed almost rejuvenated by all the good news.
I am pretty sure he was “feeling” some kind of fake injury to avoid getting into trouble. We saw it all the time in Iraq. Even the hardest soldiers could break, and I’d bet my left nut (that’s the big one Mr. Journal, so you know I’m serious about this) that he’s dealing with PTSD. It makes a lot of sense after watching him this afternoon. I’m pretty sure that’s why Patty has been so off as well, and if it’s even a little serious, he’ll be a beast to deal with around the house. She’ll lose her mind if I’m right and he struggles with it for any extended period of time.
You know... we have medication here that can deal with anxiety. If it keeps up, we might have to sit down and have a real awkward conversation about him taking it. How’s that for a post apocalypse dilemma? Do we force medication on the mentally ill? Fucking world.
I told them about everything that’s happened, including the short gun battle at the house near the gas station and the subsequent raid on their house. Patty and Abby already filled him in on the stash we got, and while really happy about it, they immediately raised concerns about the fact that they were no longer able to just take what they want, when they wanted it.
Can’t say I didn’t see that coming, and I really can’t say I blame them. I tried to explain why it was a necessity, but all that did was ramp up their feelings about being cut off. Gilbert actually stopped us, and ended the whole argument with a few calm words.
I quote the old man, “Patty, Charles, control of resources is standard military strategy and procedure. If we can’t control the food, we might over eat, and then we’ll starve.”
And for whatever reason, those words made sense to them, and our ten minute bitch session ended abruptly. Sometimes I just don’t understand what makes people tick.
We continued on for about 45 minutes, and finally there wasn’t much more to say. I told them a few stories about when I was clearing campus that I hadn’t told them already just to give them a better idea of the nutty shit I went through, and they got a kick out of it. Mostly the funnier stories like when I had the damn zombie bite my collar in the kitchen. Man I still almost shit a brick when I think about that. Funny looking back on it now, but man... Phew. Gilbert took off after helping me clean up. I thanked him for his help with everything, and he just patted me on the shoulder.
Randy hung out with me after the other three Williams folks left. He was trying to finish some quest in a game and didn’t want to leave until it was done, or he got to the save point. Kids make the best faces when they play games or sports. He was twisting his face into all these grimaces and smiles as he dueled with some giant dragon. He wound up killing it just barely on the first try, and I walked him back to Hall A just as it got dark.
I used my key to open the door for him, and just as he was about to walk inside, he stopped, threw his arms around me, and gave me a squeeze. He said, “thanks Adrian, you rock” and then headed inside. I like that kid. I really thought he was going to be a shithead, but he isn’t. I wonder if everything that’s happened to the family has mellowed him out. Death has a way of growing you up in a hurry.
That put a smile on my face. Although I worry for Abby and Randy because of Patty and Chuck’s problems, whatever they might be. The kids always pay the highest price. I think tomorrow I’ll take it easy and maybe try to hang out with Charles. He’s awkward, but maybe I can think of something we can do that doesn’t require physical labor. He’s a bright guy, maybe I can recruit him to plan something with me. I might even try and get him on the Phase 2 ideas. If he feels like a integral part of the plan, he might not react as strongly against it as I think he would otherwise. I know I feel better about things when I have a say in my fate.
Now that we’re out of venison maybe I can take him out hunting. Or maybe he and I can hit the archery range and work out that new bow. I don’t think he knows how to shoot a bow, and frankly, even with our newly refurbished ammo counts we should be using the bow as much as possible.
I dunno, maybe it’s still too soon for either of those plans. I really need him to be onboard on a run downtown, but I hate sitting here treading water because of an issue he may or may not have. I’m not a psychologist, but I am pretty sure he’s got issues to work through.
I know I do.
-Adrian
Midnight
Doctor Michelle Lewis was sweltering in the African heat, despite it being almost 10 at night. She sat in a small village in the south east of the Democratic Republic of Congo, deep in the heart of Africa. It was June 23rd, and almost at the height of mother Africa’s summer power. Every few seconds she’d take her small red bandana off the frail wooden table in the rundown bar she sat in and wipe away the steadily beading sweat on her brow. The back and armpits of her khaki shirt had turned a dark brown from the rings of sweat. The white tank top she wore underneath exposed a rather substantial amount of sweaty, glistening skin. Trying to cool off was an impossibility. All you could do was hydrate.
The natives here couldn’t take their eyes off her, but gave her a wide berth just the same. She was definitely not like them. Michelle was a valkyrie, straight from Asgard. Despite her 40 odd years, much of which was hard living in places like this, she looked great for her age. Her golden blonde hair was straight and smooth, highlighted by a few platinum strands that betrayed her age. She was tall, much taller than most of the small locals with their dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. The man who ran t
he small bar she was sitting in was standing behind his three foot wide counter slowly drying a beer mug, staring at her as if she was a witch about to burn the place to the ground. She avoided eye contact with him and waited for her research partner to return.
Static filled music played off stolen CDs filled the African night. Outside she could hear men and women talking in a dialect she only barely knew. From what she could piece together, some of the men were bartering for some time with the women. Even here in the heart of the Dark Continent, the home of humanity, prostitution thrived. The AIDs virus was rampant, there was no education to speak of, and no money to spend to actually make things better. Living conditions here infuriated her.
Just as she sighed for the three hundredth time he returned. The half assed bar had no door, instead relying on a torn mosquito net draped across the opening in the wall where a door might’ve been once. Her partner Mike brushed the net aside and walked in, a boyish grin on his face. She knew he’d successfully confirmed what they’d come for. She sat forward in her rickety chair as he took a few large strides and pulled out another ramshackle chair and sat.
“And? Are we in business?” Michelle leaned over the table towards Mike excitedly.
Mike looked around and eyed the bartender. Even though they were here on legitimate research business, they both felt like they were doing something secret and dirty. The bartender watched on intently as Mike turned his attention back to Michelle.
“We are in like Flynn.” Mike grinned ear to ear. He was older than her, and looked just as young as she did. Mike’s dark brown hair was cut in a boyish trim and only showed a few of the grey hairs coming in at his temple. Mike had spent decades ranging far and wide on this continent and his enthusiasm as well as his connections made doing their research possible.
“Yes!” Michelle made a fist pump and sat back in her creaky chair. She let some of the beads of sweat run down her face. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and sent some of the sweat flying in the air. Mike admired the glow of her skin in the cheap light created by the third world light bulbs. She was so beautiful.
“We’ll have to drive for about an hour in the Rover to get there, but I found a guide, and a tribal elder that says as long as we’re quiet, we can watch from the back. Apparently it’ll be a pretty cool ritual. I guess the area we’re going to has been doing a unique ceremony to consecrate their dead for centuries. I guess it’s pretty special.” Mike’s exuberance was hard to contain in his hushed tones. Michelle could hardly contain her energy.
“Can we film?” Michelle really wanted to capture this on camera. They’d spent a good amount of their research grant on video and audio equipment and it seemed a waste to come this far trying to record ancient African religious customs and then not use the gear.
“Nope. That’s a huge part of the deal. We can watch and take notes, but we can’t film or record. The guy I spoke to said it’d mess with the diviner’s spirit or something. He said we were strictly to watch, and write. He didn’t want to risk the spirit of the dead not getting into the afterlife because we wanted a picture.” Mike seemed a little dejected by the restrictions, but they both knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. They both exhaled in disappointed unison, and smiled at one another anyway.
“We need to get moving. We’re following him out to the ritual site in about 15 minutes.” Mike winked at his colleague and stood up. Michelle stood up after him and sent a little wave at the bartender, who was still glaring at her.
He continued his cold stare as the two researchers left his place of business, and headed out in the sweltering African night.
*****
Michelle Lewis and Michael Reed were in Africa to continue their life’s work of researching ancient African religions. Specifically the two of them were fascinated with burial rights, and the concepts of the African afterlife. They’d gone from one end of Africa to the other the past five years. Malaria, dysentery, civil unrest, civil war, and running out of money were now their bread and butter.
They’d learned ten African dialects between the two of them, they’d been chased by Cheetahs, nearly trampled by elephants, and shot at by poachers who thought they were game wardens in the preserves. They’d suffered through broken bones, PhD research, and not one but two romantic flings with each other. Even if their research was a bust, they had discovered one thing in Africa; they shouldn’t try to be in love again. While still in Africa their passions in life left no room to let others in.
Michelle’s excitement grew as the two Americans drove out into the African wilderness. Trips like these were fairly frequent for them, but this was extra special. How people treat their dead, and pay them respect tells you a lot about their culture. It tells you how much they respect animal life, human life, and the world around them.
Michelle came from a long lineage of religious people. Her grandfather was a pastor in Utah, and her father was a missionary when they moved to Africa. Her mother was Jewish, Michelle had dabbled as a Wiccan, and for a while in college she was deeply, madly in love with a Muslim man. Religion was a huge part of her life, and she knew she’d study theology somewhere. It was in her blood.
Faith fascinated her. A person who doesn't have some kind of faith in their life never understands the truly magical power it has. Faith can heal the sick, end wars, and create life. Faith can be as evil as it is good though. Michelle had spent years reading about the atrocities carried out in the name of religions. Faith is a doubled edged sword. It can soothe and mend, or it can incite and destroy.
Michelle and Mike decided five years ago to study ancient burial rights in Africa for their newest project. What better a place to study religion than the continent where life had begun? Just a month ago in the depths of South Africa they’d witnessed a week long death ritual with multiple detailed, organized steps. Ritual sacrifice was involved in a few of the steps, as well as bringing in an outside man to sleep with the widow to “cleanse” her of the feel of her dead husband.
A ritual like that would seem alien to someone who had a lifetime of western style wakes and funerals, but to those people, it was the only way to consecrate their dead, and to mourn properly. Their rituals bound the entire village together as one, showing faith, unity, and support for one another for an entire week. It almost made Michelle weep for the lone hour westerners spent saying how “sorry” they were for someone’s loss. Sometimes the oldest, most backwards seeming cultures knew how to do things the right way. Sometimes their lack of busy schedules and technology gave them a pure, true faith that transcended anything modern people would ever understand. Michelle secretly longed for the old ways as she looked out at the thick line of trees in the distance, where they were headed for tonight’s mystical ritual.
She couldn’t help but remember the first time she’d really been touched by the power of faith. To this day Michelle didn’t know whether or not a God really existed, but ever since that day, she knew without a doubt that religion and faith had great power. Michelle’s mind drifted back to her memories as Mike followed their guide.
Michelle was just 7, maybe 8 years old at the time. Her mother and father had just moved the family to a small town near Lynchburg Virginia, where her dad was getting his Doctorate in Theology. They were traveling between the churches and temples there every Sunday to find the right one for their family. Her parents were powerfully religious people, and they preferred not to say what denomination or faith they were when asked. Her dad told her one day that no one church or faith had gotten it right, so what mattered more to their family was what church or faith made YOU feel right. Those words stuck with her to this day.
Her parents had dragged her and her brother Alex to yet another place this one summer day, and she’d long since bored of the process. They’d meet the pastor, or priest, then her parents would have a theological debate with him or her over something mundane. After that they’d sit through a service, and thank the pastor or priest afterward. Boring.
T
hat day was forever different for little Michelle. After talking to the Priest, her mother and father seemed rather unimpressed. He was an unassuming younger guy who struck Michelle even at her young age as being very energetic in his love for God. They sat near the back of the small church and he started his sermon. As he talked about the price of sin on humanity Michelle found herself staring out the window, watching the colorful birds fly through the trees. They darted to and fro, almost dancing in the sky as the priest talked about the power of having faith. She watched the majesty of nature as his words began to make more and more sense to her. She understood fully that believing in something greater than you, even if you didn’t believe in God, freed you from your inner turmoil. Her single most vivid memory was the trees swaying in the warm summer morning breeze, the rays of sunshine coming down through the stained glass, the smell of incense intoxicating her, and her smooth skin tingling with an energy she’d never felt before as he said aloud what was still her favorite verse from the Holy Bible;
“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” The verse was from Hebrews 11:1. It meant to her that having faith meant that your dreams were as real as you wanted them to be, and that so much in this world that moved mountains went by unseen every moment.
Midnight (Adrian's Undead Diary) Page 8