The Dealer of Hope_Adrian's March_Part 1

by Chris Philbrook

  His decision definitely saved his entire unit from an ugly, ugly situation in the Brockton/Boston area during the first year of the apocalypse. He told us some stories about savage illnesses, and looting and pillaging that happened right at the outbreak after that day. People waging wars over fresh water and food. Cities didn’t do well, Mr. Journal. Not at all.

  But they fared well in the mountains. Fewer people there during the summer meant fuller grocery stores to loot, and the mountain was operating at light staff so there was little fighting required to secure it. They got the APCs trucked up, the HEMTTs up, and immediately got to work making what is now known as the NVC.

  I got all of this out of the conversation he and Kevin had, all with Captain Pasta watching on, impatient and angry. Polarizing watching him. Thorpe was congenial, friendly, disarmed and polite, happy to be talking to us and elated to be with his old friend. I could see genuine appreciation and relief from Thorpe, and Picarillo couldn’t be more different.

  I decided then and there Picarillo was indeed, a bad apple. I couldn’t speak to the remainder of the apples in the barrel with him, but Thorpe seemed on the level, and that made me feel great about the meeting. What if Picarillo was alienating people on his patrols? What if everyone we’ve met this far ran into units that he has been in charge of? It would explain why they had such negative things to say.

  After Patrick and Kevin reminisced and reforged their friendship, we talked about the bad rap the NVC had. I explained that I had heard literally NOTHING good about them, and that based on the stories of dozens, I couldn’t agree to a fair shake, or any kind of community sharing until I knew they were legitimate.

  “Yeah I totally get that,” Thorpe replied to me. “I can see that. I can also say that we’ve had some pretty burnt out soldiers working the expansion details, as well as providing security. You know how it is; operational tempo can burn a man out. You guys know about what it’s like working with a local population that is hostile. It isn’t easy doing the right thing. There’s always a price to be paid. Either from laziness, or action. Never mind people hate authority, and they’re jaded about the lack of government too, especially since the dead people stopped biting everyone. Back when the undead were around, most of our enemies were obvious; they were walking corpses. Now it’s a little tougher to discern. We’ve made personnel changes, Adrian. Things are different. We really do want peace and quiet. We’re holding down the fort to allow for a better future. Buy the people time so our nation’s infrastructure can return, and believe me; it will.”

  Colonel Thorpe used hard sell; it was effective.

  “That’s all fine and well, Patrick, but I have a lot of people who are trusting us to make good decisions about this. More than one community contributes to our collective, and there are different agendas for each community. Different needs, values and goals. I can ascertain who you are as a person, and your organization to an extent through you, but ultimately my people are like the states; collected, but separate.”

  “I hear you. Look, I totally understand, and please know there’s no pressure. We came at you very heavy handed thus far and for that, I apologize. You have to know that you’re a name, man. People know who you are. People talk about how badass you and your group are. You’re this bogeyman in the night, riding around as you see fit, slaying zombies and evildoers like it’s your fucking job. You’re a vigilante, and you’re the exact kind of people that have cost us lives.”

  “It IS my fucking job,” I said back to him. “Because someone has to be the hero, Patrick, even if you’re an asshole like me. I don’t want to risk my life, or the lives of my people, but when you can step up to do good, you fucking do good. When you can help; you help.”

  He smiled. “Then we understand each other.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look Adrian, this was great. I think it went as well as could be expected. Let’s plan to meet up again in a week or so. After Thanksgiving. Tell me the day. I’ll bring some other personalities down from the mountain, as well as some goodwill gifts to show you a bit more of who we are, and it’ll be diplomatic, and terrific. There’s no rush to this. We don’t want to push, we just need to know we’re safe from you, and where you stand as it relates to what would happen if violence broke out. Are you our ally, or a potential foe? Right? Let’s see if we can’t sort this out.”

  “We’re good people, Patrick,” Kevin inserted. “You know me. I’d die for Adrian and what he stands for. What we’ve done for the people. We’ve done good. At every turn, all we’ve done is what we thought was best for the most.”

  “No doubt. And Kevin believe me, your reputation with me is rock solid. It’ll carry weight back with the council. This meeting was big for everyone. Things are going to be great. I really think so.”

  And I think he’s right.

  We meet again on the 30th.

  -Adrian

  One Last Hurrah

  Late September, 2010

  The lack of warmth in the day and the sharpened, rocky terrain made Thomas incredibly uncomfortable. The sun sat brilliant and high in the bright blue sky, but it cast precious little warmth down on the late September day. Enough of a cross wind split the air, chilling exposed skin, and lifting the dirt so as to clog the eyes, and sting the flesh. The spot that he and Glen had settled on for their sniper hide was a very unlikely place anyone would think to look for a shooter. Two large boulders leaned against one another, both the color of sand, had tumbled together a long time ago in what was now Afghanistan. The colossal stones were oval, the size of mattresses, and had chosen a bone dry creek bed as the site of their geological struggle. Multiple other stones littered the slope of the hill nearby, making the two boulders blend in.

  Thomas lay on his stomach, pointed downhill about three paces behind the two boulders, situated so he could point his scope and the weapon beneath it through the triangle shaped gap at the base of the two stones. Sister rocks to each side protected their position from view, and if they needed to extract under fire, there were multiple avenues of escape to cover. The angled slope of the hill also had many other large stones scattered across it, making the two boulders they chose as home blend in.

  Many of the stones in the creek bed were still jagged. Had the water run for centuries here they might’ve been worn smooth by now, but it was not so. The water had only streamed here long enough to wear the loose soil and dirt away from the stones, leaving a torturer’s bed of sharp edges behind. That was the trick. Find the place most uncomfortable, or most difficult place to pass, and pick that as your strength. Go where others could not, or would not, and dominate that place.

  Glen sat slightly more comfortably a foot away from Thomas. His ass rested on a large pack jammed full of ammunition as he kept watch for anything approaching their position. The SEALs had to worry about the Taliban attacking them just as much as the undead in this region of the country. Where they were was serious Wild West territory.

  “See anything?” Glen asked quietly. He scanned the ridge to their rear through the ACOG mounted on his M4A1. Nothing had approached since they’d taken up the position two days prior, but diligence was the hallmark of staying alive, and these two men had a reputation for making very few mistakes when it came to diligence.

  “No, nothing has approached the compound since this morning.” Thomas blinked hard, spreading some moisture out of his flesh and onto his parched eyes.

  “You took six hostiles right?” Glen asked absently. He already knew the answer was six, but these conversations passed the time.

  “Yeah.” Thomas had taken a half dozen wandering undead down with his powerful rifle earlier. It was child’s play shooting the slow, ponderous dead walkers to an experienced shooter. More so when they were hundreds of yards distant.

  “Leg sore?” Glen probed.

  Thomas lied. “No it’s good. Wish it were warmer though. This breeze is killing my eyes, damn it.”

  “Should’ve brought you some Visine brothe
r. One of the medics told me a week ago that he has a whole box of the shit stowed away someplace. Worth its weight in solid gold.”

  “Hells yeah. I’d suck his dick for a few bottles of it,” Thomas said idly.

  “You’re gay. You’d suck his dick for a chicken nugget or a pat on the head.”

  Thomas grinned. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’d still blow him for eye drops, Glen. Don’t get all grammar Nazi on me. We’re dealing with an apocalypse here, and the rescue of fourteen very good U.S. marines in that compound down there. I don’t need your shit, good sir.”

  “I get it, I get it. You’re all ‘on task’ and shit. I’ll change gears, get professional as well.” Glen adjusted his sunglasses and fidgeted with all his gear to ensure full professionalism.

  Thomas didn’t even look over his shoulder at the show. He knew Glen’s routine. Thomas kept his keen eye on the scope and through that scope, he watched the marines they’d come to rescue and the firebase they were fortified inside. The firebase was a simple affair; Conex containers and sandbags mixed in with plywood and scavenged timber. The base had only just been started when the end of the world hit in June, and the marines inside it had struggled to keep their footing in such dangerous territory. They’d managed to expand it some even, despite the dangers. Now they had a tiny area dedicated to a garden, and a small pen for captured goats. Near the base were several ravaged trucks that had the remnants of weapons mounts in their beds. They’d been shot to hell with a heavy caliber weapons, and had burned to a crisp. In the flat ground between the destroyed vehicles and the firebase’s wall, Thomas could see several burnt corpses. He wondered if they had died of their burns, or had walked, dead and on fire towards the base they so wanted to destroy in life.

  This had been hardcore AK-47 country before June 23rd 2010, and when the dead had stopped staying that way, things had only gotten worse. When the Taliban hit the local villages surrounding the firebase, they’d done so to send a message to the marines, and to create a few hundred extra threats for the young men and women to deal with. Even trained marksman wasted some rounds when the only shot that counted was one to the head. Trained marksmen that were firing at the walking dead wasted a lot of shots back in June. It simply wasn’t something the brain easily digested, training or not.

  The marines of Firebase Walker started off with a full rifle platoon to establish their foothold in the crux of the two Afghan ridges. Three squads of twelve plus support officers and a corpsman would’ve been enough to wage war against a decent size province, but with no air support, no reinforcements to call upon, no ammunition resupply to expect, and no hope of ever getting home, the marines were hard pressed to survive the past few months. They’d suffered the loss of two thirds of their fighting force, as well as both of their corpsman. Hope was running lower than ammunition.

  It had been a genius gesture by their lieutenant to save batteries for communication, and here they were now, almost dead, and able to receive the support they’d been begging for since June 23rd. The first wave of that support, small as it may seem, was Glen and Thomas. Once Glen and Thomas were certain that a chopper could land safely outside the base, they’d send for it, and the marines would be scooped away by one of the few remaining CH-47 Chinooks, and taken back to Kandahar.

  They had one chance at the helicopter evacuation. The fuel supplies for aircraft at Kandahar were dwindling far below the emergency level, and the parts needed to keep the choppers in the air were nearly gone as well. When Glen and Thomas called for the helicopter to come, it would signal the end of any air rescues for friendly forces in Afghanistan.

  There could be no mistakes.

  The plan had been to arrive via the sole remaining Little Bird helicopter in Kandahar, and hike four klicks into the spot Glen and Thomas had chosen. Once they’d made it across the harsh terrain and established their hide successfully, they would contact the base; let them know that they were in position. Once they’d observed Firebase Walker for 48 hours, the two men would make the call on go-no go for the rescue.

  The call could go one of three ways; the coast could be clear enough to call for the helicopter, and the fourteen marines plus two SEALs would fly home, safe and sound. If the SEALs felt calling the Chinook was too much of a risk, then they would exfil the entire firebase on foot, using the meager supplies the SEALs brought to fight their way to a point close enough for a column of humvees to come get them. Or, if those two opportunities were negated by circumstance, it would be the decision of the two SEALs to leave the marines to their fate.

  Glen and Thomas hopped off the Little Bird two days ago completely disregarding the last option. The SEALs were leaving the firebase with the marines one way or the other.

  The infiltration to their rocky home had gone smoothly. Suppressed weapons and moving at night meant that when they engaged threats the fighting was enormously in their advantage, and drew minimal excess attention. The men had learned that the greatest threat to their safety was drawing attention to their activities. It was bad enough that the Taliban might hear their rifle fire, but the undead… all of the undead would come from miles around and converge on their location if they made any serious noise. In platoon strength or less the attention would be little bother, but two lone SEALs would struggle to kill an entire valley filled with dead, hungry Afghans.

  The firebase had been elated to hear of their arrival. The highest ranking marine in the base, Staff Sergeant Theo Ellem, had received their call with clear elation in his voice.

  “Man it is some good to hear from you, Punisher. We been expecting you.” Ellem used Glen and Thomas’ moniker proudly. When the war had been in full swing, the pair had been referred to as Punisher One over the radio.

  “We’re glad to hear you and have eyes-on Firebase Walker. We’re going to wait a full 48 hours before making our decision on the extraction. You’re all set on food and water? Ammunition?” Thomas had asked.

  Ellem’s elation changed quickly, “We’ve got H2O. We’ve got enough MREs to last the end of the week. We are on E when it comes to ammo though. Our .50 cal is drained entirely after the four vehicle assault last week, and we’re down to about two magazines of 5.56 for our M4s. We have five salvaged AKs, and about 200 rounds for ‘em. The grenades we’ve got left to throw are just handfuls of shit. We got plenty of that.”

  Thomas laughed. “Well, we’ve got our own combat loads of 5.56 plus we brought you guys another 14 mags as well. It ain’t much but it’ll get us through the extraction, even in the face of a small firefight. When was the last time you guys saw any Indians?”

  There was a pause before Ellem replied. “The last serious face off was when they rolled up on us in the technicals with the DShKs and the PKMs. I believe our headcount was five dead bad guys, and all the guns were trashed when we lit up the vehicles. Scorched earth.”

  “Man that’s a bitch. A DShK would be nice to have to have on hand. No other sightings since then?”

  Ellem responded quicker this time. “Our sentries are reporting the same shit as usual. Far fringe on the edge of the valley we get a head poking up over a rock to take a look at us every so often. We had a mortar round drop in our bread basket two days ago, and there’s nothing we can do about it. No counter battery radar out here in the sticks anymore. We’re lucky it was small, maybe 60 millimeter, but those fuckers have us zeroed in something fierce.”

  Thomas shook his head and realized the plight of these marines. Cut off, without options or adequate equipment, fighting an indigenous force that’s not afraid to die, that hates you with every fiber of their being, and then the end of the world happened and zombies started showing up. At least they were marines, and were prepared as best as any could be.

  “Alright Ellem. If you’ve got nothing else critical, let’s go silent. We’ll be observing and attempting to engage any of the dead we see with our suppressed weapons, and if we see any of your rag head spotters, we’ll send a nice metal jacketed kiss their way. Right on t
heir forehead. Send ‘em home to mama.”

  “I love you guys man, for real,” Ellem said, his emotion coming out.

  “Shake our hands on that Chinook in two and a half days. Remember marine, we’re just as likely to call you asking for help too. We’re all a long ways from home.”

  Thomas rested. He’d sat behind the scope of the rifle for almost sixteen straight hours, letting the pointy rocks dig into his body. Even with his body armor his muscles and skin cried out in pain as he took a rest inside their stone fortress. He laid on the barren soil, his head resting on the top of his helmet with only a pair of Nomex gloves to serve as cushion.

  He dreamt.

  Thomas never was much of a dreamer, even when he was a civilian, safe at home with his family. Since birth Thomas had been blessed with the ability to fall asleep almost immediately; an asset of immeasurable value. Most of the time when Thomas dreamt his mind relived the events of the day, or the prior week. He would see training exercises play out again, or he’d reenact entire gun battles in what felt like slow motion. Occasionally his brain would skew the perspective, and he’d see it from an aerial view, or from the eyes of his foes. That too had become a skill of great use.

  The past few weeks he had dreamed of family, and that made him restless when he awoke. He dreamt of his mother and father every night, and several of his SEAL team brothers. His brain had seen fit to deny him happy dreams of his brothers and little sister though, and those were the dreams he felt desperate for. He wanted to relive happier times, joyous times, with people he loved and wanted to see again.