“Punisher we can see your location, but you need to move to us another block and a half. Whoever hit you has blocked the road leading to you, and we’ve got our hands full here at the wall. The QRF is already moving, and will be to you in five minutes but you gotta meet them.”
“We’re on it,” Thomas said through a wall of pain that threatened to snuff him out. As he dropped the handset with pain numbed hands Glen appeared beside him and took over. Glen’s pain couldn’t compare to his friend’s and he was much more able to make Thomas’ leg stable. He worked on his friend in the filthy street of the destroyed Afghan city.
“We gotta hoof it a block and a half. Mogadishu mile, motherfucker. The Kandahar klick,” Thomas said, the pain turning to the beginning of shock.
“The only easy day is yesterday right?” Glen said, turning Thomas around in the dirt and grabbing him by the canvas loop at the back neck of his body armor. With his left hand he dragged his massive friend and with his right he held his weapon at the ready. From both sides of the street, steadily like the drops falling off the roof of a home in a rainstorm undead came forth from the destroyed and desiccated city. Glen fired his rifle as if it were a massive pistol, and did so with skill that would make his trainers proud. Thomas, dragged as he was on the seat of his pants kept his mental focus, and fought off the shock. He fired his weapon at the undead following them. They looped around a street corner, avoiding a blockade placed by either locals or friendly forces and pushed on. Glen stopped briefly, letting go of Thomas to put a new magazine into his weapon and grab a lungful of breath, only to grab his friend again and drag him further. Glen’s stamina was endless, his perseverance in the face of certain death unchallengeable. Thomas, his mind and body ruptured was no different. Unable to walk, barely able to think he fired over and over at zombie after zombie, blowing heads and knees apart. The two men, even in their wrecked state were as deadly as ever.
Minutes later they saw a trio of Army humvees scream down the crowded street directly at them. Neither man really saw the soldiers coming to their aid, or could tell you later what any of them looked like. In the coming days, they thanked everyone they met, as if each were personally responsible for their rescue.
Thomas and Glen sat in the infirmary of the massive airbase. Most of the facilities in the sprawling fortress had been abandoned due to a lack of personnel. The hospital alone dodged that fate. Most of the medical staff couldn’t bear to leave the units behind, so the two SEALs had plenty of company. In the days after their arrival most of the remaining hundred or so people at the base had stopped in to welcome them. The two new faces were a source of hope for those remaining behind and everyone wanted to see people that reminded them they had made the good choice. The men and women had stayed back to help people like Glen and Thomas get home with them.
The two special operations men received hot meals, showers (or in Thomas’ case, a sponge bath from a reasonably handsome young specialist), and praise that seemed never-ending. After so much time alone, they were almost ready to be alone again.
Lieutenant Colonel Fallon was visiting them that day, carrying three paper cups of hot coffee on a steel medical tray. He handed the two men their cups and hoped they took it with cream and sugar. They drank the hot drinks eagerly, happy to have anything.
“I’m sorry about the girl. I know you two went through hell to try and save her.”
Glen and Thomas simply nodded. Her death was still raw to them both.
“On the bright side, six more soldiers arrived today, so another ninety or so more, and we can blow this pop stand. Looks like we might be heading home after all.”
“Sir, the doc tells me I’ve got three weeks of bed rest before I’m able to move at all. Would it be possible for me to get back in the fight once I’m up and running?” Thomas asked.
“Are you insane? The doctor says you nearly lost your entire calf muscle. You’ll limp for the rest of your life son. You can sit the rest of this show out; you’ve earned your wages.” Fallon sipped his coffee.
“All due respect, sir, but in three weeks you either let me help you find more folks out there, or I’ll go do it myself. I’ll climb the wall and limp away if I have to.”
Glen chimed in quickly, “You won’t be doing it by yourself, brother.”
“I guess a limping SEAL is better than none. Why? Why do you feel the need to do this? Like I said, you’ve earned your rest.” Fallon looked at the two men and could almost see the bond between the two. It was physical, emotional, and spiritual. Blood brothers in every sense.
“There are men and women out there just the same as Glen and I, sir. Scared, alone, and cut off from support a long ways from home. We can help them, and by God I will not leave those that would shed blood for me behind. You say we’ve earned our rest, but I think they’ve earned theirs just as much, and it’s our job to get them here to do just that. If I’m able, I’m willing.”
Fallon smiled, understanding what he meant. Fallon’s expression suddenly changed as he looked at Thomas’ face, “What’s your last name Thomas?”
“Ring, sir.”
“Ha. You got a brother?”
“Four boys in the family, sir.”
Fallon smiled knowingly, “You got an older brother named Adrian?”
Thomas grinned. The name clearly brought up fond memories for the young man, “Yes, sir. He’s my closest brother.”
“He served under me in Iraq. Not directly, but I knew him. His NCOs spoke very highly of him. He was a good soldier.”
“He’s a Ring, sir. They only make us one way.”
“What way is that Thomas?”
“Unstoppable, sir,” Thomas said with a smile.
November 13th
It’s a funny thing, working to not incite panic in our population. Remember how I said it was easier when people didn’t ask questions? When they were unaware of the developments that would keep them up at night? When I hated talking to people in a way so I could avoid making them fearful?
We’re working to be hush hush, and Abby is working directly against that. More on her later.
I’m not sure who is in the right. We’ve had a series of ongoing conversations here at Bastion with all the people who could participate in the defense of our locations as well as contribute to our attempts at a peaceful resolution to the situation that looms large over us with the NVC. Right now we’re assembling our Bastion logistics.
Kevin, Michelle and I have had sit down meetings with Fletcher the animal doctor, Ethan and Joel regarding our medical supplies and capabilities in the event we wind up entering into ground combat. (News is: we’re very good for a short time, but a protracted engagement with severe injuries will be very shit for us). We’ve sat down with Blake and Hector to assess the automotive capabilities of our four locations, as well as our fuel situation (good, and good, so long as it doesn’t become protracted).
Kevin and Mike have briefed us on our ammunition supply (good, so long as we don’t engage in a lengthy battle. Sense a theme, yet, Mr. Journal?) and our food supplies are good according to Melissa and Ollie. Food’s the one situation where a handful of deaths actually improves our situation. Addition by subtraction. Go figure.
Michelle reports that morale at Bastion is tenuous. People are nervous (her and I too) and don’t want more violence. I partially blame Abby. Celeste says the feeling at the Factory is the same, though several people there have said they are considering a move to Calendar Mountain because of the beautiful country up north, as well as the chance at more space, and greater levels of perceived security. I guess showing up with a shit load of machine guns and tanks makes people think you know how to use them. Hard to argue with that logic.
Patty reports that the small population at the MGR building in town is neither nervous nor scared, prepared to do whatever is necessary to survive and maintain their way of life. Agnes, Anders and Adam (how is it that until this moment in time I didn’t realize that the leaders of Spring Meadows ar
e all A names? I shall refer to them as Team AAA henceforth) all say that their people are good. So far it seems that they are entirely off the radar of the NVC, and we’d like to keep that feather in our cap.
Andy, our resident tech geek from the Factory has done a complete check over of our electronic surveillance systems. In the event of an attack on the Factory or Bastion our cameras mounted on the old phone poles are up and running. We talked with Andy about installing more cameras in series communicating via shitty laptops linked with wifi to give our video security greater reach. He’s looking into it. He’s also looking into beefing up the perimeter surveillance elsewhere. It’ll require us doing some materials retrieval, but we’ve never been shy about hard work.
Sigh.
I bitched about Abby earlier. Remember how I said she’s doing that newsletter? Well, because she’s a member of the inner circle here she gets to sit in on all our upper echelon meetings. It doesn’t work by invite really. You just know where and when we’re meeting, and you’re there if you want to be. Most who can be there, are. The meetings happen primarily in my dorm (Hall E near the river if you forgot) and for the most part, they aren’t secretive, but kept small so they can be efficient. Think… cabinet meeting.
My problem with Abby right now is this fucking newsletter she’s writing. As soon as she gets any reliable information it goes public in the newsletter. Then someone in the know inevitably is asked by the greater population for more info, and people don’t always know what to say. Shit, I don’t.
So then one of us gets testy at Abby, and talks to her, and she says what she’s always said about the newsletter; “It’s the right of the people to know.”
She’s right, and I fucking hate it.
I also hate that in the meeting where she and Hal were away taking care of baby Gavin, Kevin and even Abby’s mom Patty suggested that we stop inviting her to the meeting so she has less to say and much less to hear.
That won’t work. I know her. All it will serve to do is make Abby into a pit bull for information, and then she’ll treat us like the enemy. If we deny her that knowledge she’ll get it another way, and at least now she can tell the truth, instead of searching for half truths, speculating on whatever it is she can figure out, and writing shit that may or may not be true that conceivably might make shit far worse. Better a bad truth from a friend than a worse lie from an enemy.
She is a pain in my ass, but I think perhaps the awkwardness of dealing with the truth of a situation in the moment is the price we pay to lead our people honestly. I don’t know. I know I love her like she was my own child, and I know in my heart all she wants to do is help the people. The Scribes of mankind working at documenting the world at large once again. So strange.
Sigh.
Ethan and Joel identified the NVC helicopter as a Bell model 429. If you’ve ever seen a traffic helicopter fly above Mr. Journal you’ve probably seen a Bell 429. It’s an unarmored civvie job that sits maybe six souls and needs a single pilot. Popular and in common use before the shit hit the fan in 2010. The one we saw the other day had light machine guns mounted on both sides of the open doors, and if I’m not mistaken, the guns were on swivel mounts atop a steel or iron pole that had been welded to the landing struts. Obviously aftermarket… Kate (the Air Force AC-130 pilot who flew Kevin and company across the Atlantic Ocean to get here) says she has enough hours on the stick of a helicopter to fly it if we could get it from them, or find one of our own. Of course… what the hell do we do with our own helicopter if we get one? Chopper dogfights?
We have very little weaponry designed to take that out. AT4s aren’t suitable as ground to air, which leaves us with the spray and pray tactic with the SAWs or a few lucky shots with a heavy caliber hunting rifle. If we hit the pilot, or a fuel line, or the engine we can take it down, but that requires an awful lot of luck, and if I’ve proven anything, luck isn’t something I can rely on.
Dammit. Just dammit. That bird is a huge smear of shit in my planning underwear. We can take out the fucking APCs. We have the gear and the know-how, and I’m confident we can get that done if we need to, but that chopper…
Today is the… 13th? Michelle and Kevin reminded me we have a meeting with the NVC people on the 21st, and shortly after that we’re supposed to meet with Captain Maria and her boondoggle group to the south on the 25th. We’re sitting down with some of the NVC group to hear more about their place and what they have going on, which I’m sure will feel an awful lot like being a Jew in Germany right around 1936.
Between now and then… we fret. Clean guns, harvest food, and hope the skies stay clear of storms so we can get the food off the land and saved for winter.
Though a storm will put their bird on the ground, and I’m not sure what’s more important as I write this.
-Adrian
November 17th
Despite my doomsaying and worry-worting in the days after the meeting with Captain Pasta and the Pastettes, I am in a good mood today.
I don’t know why. Maybe I have multiple personality disorder, or I’m bipolar.
Light snow falls here at Bastion, and across our humble associated estates. I love snowfall. I am not a big winter fan, but I do love the early days and nights when the white flakes first fall. The feeling in the air coupled with the quiet brought on by the density added to the air feels serene. Sometimes when the snow falls at night I like to step outside and just walk around. Couldn’t do that when the zombies were here, but now it’s safe.
I used to hate the orange glow from all the streetlights in the clouds when I did it. They cast this weird, chemical harshness against the bottom of the puffy clouds, and somehow took away from the magic of the moment.
That no longer happens.
There are no sodium arc streetlamps, or xenon ones, or LED ones, or whatever the hell they used before that day. Now it is dark as can be every night, and the only light around us is the light we make ourselves.
There’s something in that idea I need to ponder.
Last night I went out into the snow as it fell. I left Michelle with our homeboy Otis and said I needed to get out for some fresh air. She told me to take my time, and to warm myself up with a cup of hot chamomile before I came back to bed. I appreciate her carte blanche support. Feels supportive.
When I got outside, on a stone bench near Hall E I saw Abby and Hal sitting. They didn’t have baby Gavin. They sat next to Rich from Texas, and Jay, the guy who came over from the Wilson scrap yard. Romping around in the snow were the two German Shepherds he brought with him. I know now their names are Pacer and Knick. Apparently Jay played point guard for his high school basketball team, and he named all their puppies after NBA teams.
What’s up with people naming their dogs after NBA stars and teams? My buddy John named his dog after Dwayne Wade. Can’t be hating though, Dwayne was John’s homeboy, and I’m sure Pacer and Knick are the same to Jay.
Anyhoo, when I stepped out of Hall E and let the outer fire door click shut behind me, they more or less looked over in unison at me, and got real awkward. Abby less awkward than the others (and that’s saying something) but still, they was weird.
I waved and walked over, and in the twenty steps it took me to get to them, I figured out they had been talking about me. You know how I know? They asked me about the weather. You don’t ask people you have years of history with about the weather unless you don’t want to talk about something.
Rich said, “Man snow is weird, huh?”
I said yeah, sure was, and he told us that he spent a few years in the suburbs of Philly before his parents took jobs in the Dallas area. He didn’t remember the snow.
Everyone chuckled, and I pretended not to know they were talking about me. After a few minutes of me doing my best to throw snowballs to engage the dogs, Abby and Hal excused themselves to go take care of Gavin, who they had left with Patty. I forgot Patty had come back to campus to see her grandbaby.
Rich hung out for a few more minutes, and the
n he excused himself. Said he was cold. I then took a seat on the frigid stone bench next to Jason and stuck my hands in my hoodie pockets. I won’t lie Mr. Journal, by then I had a growing sense of paranoia. With all the strife that’s been building, I started to think that Abby and Hal were building a consensus against Michelle, Kevin and I. Like maybe they were starting a grassroots movement to stand up against our decisions for Bastion. I had that feeling of anger and betrayal start to creep up the back of my neck, and I then I didn’t feel cold anymore.
“Did you really end it all?” Jason then asked.
That kinda broke my concentration on being angry. “Yeah. I think so. I mean, I know it all ended when I did what I did. Couldn’t be a coincidence. Others who had better connections to the powers that be know more about it than I do. I didn’t get the same insider access others got. You’ll need to talk to Michelle about that.”
“Abby and Hal told Rich and I a bunch of stuff. We’d heard some of it, but to hear it from people who have been there with you since it all started…”
“Hal didn’t show up until pretty far along. He was in England and Africa with Kevin.”
“You know what I mean. And Abby… she was with you, here, right when it started. She watched you work, helped you.”
I laughed. “Without her none of this would’ve been able to happen. Don’t let her dodge her role in it. You make it sound like I’m some kind of celebrity.”
“More than that, dude. Rich and the others from Texas drove like, two thousand miles through hell to get here, because they hoped they’d find you,” Jason looked up to the sky, and the snow that fell from it, amazed.
“Yeah that’s loony.”
“You don’t get it, do you? People dreamt about who you were. You, man. You. Dead people visited strangers in their dreams and told them all about you. About how one man was going to make it work. People are coming to see you, to meet you. The shit is real. You’re more than a celebrity man, you need to really digest that shit and start acting like you know. Do you have a cigarette? I’m dying for one.”
The Dealer of Hope_Adrian's March_Part 1 Page 17