Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 7): The Trinity

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Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 7): The Trinity Page 5

by Chris Philbrook


  The passengers in the three vehicles started to return fire at the house, not the church. Two of the vehicles were Volvo diesel wagons, and there were three shooters in both of those cars. The amount of return fire was heavy according to Mike. Mike said they, “Worked those lever guns,” like pros. Our people got pinned down momentarily by their return fire, but Mike chambered another round in his rifle, and blew the head clean off the Outsider that appeared to be the one in charge.

  As they say, cut off the head and body goes limp. The other Outsiders froze for a second, and that bought them enough time for the rest of our people to get back in the fight. The Outsiders started running away, and our people popped off a handful of rounds as they went. Abby said that we shot two of them in the back, but Mike said just one.

  Just for the record, and I know I've said this before, but I have NO fucking problem with shooting enemies in the back. There’s a huge line of thought that says shooting a retreating enemy in the back is evil, or a coward’s way to kill the enemy, but the people who say shit like that have never had an enemy retreat, gather themselves, and return with a second more powerful attack. You learn real fucking fast that a retreating enemy is just an enemy trying to get away long enough to try and kill you again later. If they throw down arms and surrender to you that’s one thing. Running away though, that catches you a bullet. I expect the same from my enemies should I show them my back.

  I lost my train of thought.

  Oh, yeah. Sometime during the return fire after our first wave of shots Chad took a round right to the fucking jaw. The bullet zipped just over the window frame he was hiding behind and caught him just left of center on the jaw, right around where your canine teeth are. Or where his were. The shot was powerful enough to send him ass over tea kettle into the living room he was in, and looks like it killed him instantly. Damn near spun his whole head off like a twist cap on a beer. Poor guy. At least he went down fast, and we didn’t have to kill him after the fact.

  It sucks extra too because I really think he was going out of his way to make up for the Sean bullshit. I have no way of really knowing that, but it certainly felt like he was trying to earn my trust, and make a better life with us. Sad ending to a sad story.

  After the Outsiders ran off, leaving all three of their vehicles behind our people took cover and waited for us (the QRF) to arrive. There was a good chance the Outsiders could’ve mounted a fast second offensive, and it made little sense for them to expose themselves without significant backup on site.

  As I said when we arrived the party was already over, and the Outsiders never came back to play with us. We cleaned up the bodies by bringing them to the park where we brought the dead from the church, and took all the vehicles the Outsiders left behind. We made sure to take Chad’s body back here for a proper burning on our pyre. It’s become our ritual.

  Then we came back here. Everyone gathered all somber like for Chad’s fire setting. It was nice that no one said anything bad about him, even the folks that used to hate him back at Westfield. It speaks to the amount of work he’d done here to get back in everyone’s good graces. It also speaks to the amount of class the people here have.

  We’re figuring the Outsiders are not coming back for a day or two. The dilemma now becomes this: do we hit them, and finish this? Or do we set up another ambush in a different location, and hope they come back again like a bunch of fucking morons? I think we got a little lucky today with just one dead. Maybe even a lot lucky.

  Having said that, the two women who run the Factory sound a lot like the kind of assholes that aren’t gonna take this and sit down. I think they’re gonna get sneaky on me, and start doing some serious bullshit. The frontal assault hasn’t worked yet, and we have got to be hitting their numbers hard now. One more set of losses like today and they’ll be combat ineffective against not only us, but any undead incursions, and these assholes live in or near the city. I don’t care how many zombies they’ve dropped to this point, the city is still a dangerous place to be. A sensible person would cut their losses and run.

  These bitches don’t seem sensible to me though.

  Mike and Abby are 100% behind going out again to drop the hammer on these pricks. I still haven’t had the chance to find a goddamn phone book yet. Where is this motherfucking Factory? Is it big? Is it small? Is it in the city, or on the edges of it like I think it is?

  How do we hit it and not kill the apparently large number of innocents inside? If I had to guess, the place will be fortified, and we won’t just be able to snipe at the windows to kill the bad guys. Furthermore, how the fuck do we identify the bad guys? Are they wearing a uniform? Dunce caps? Sagging jeans? Overalls and banjos?

  It’s an uncrackable egg unless we hit the fucking place with everything we have, and kill everyone. I also don’t think coming at it from a diplomatic standpoint will work. It seems as if though the message I sent that Barry fella back with was poorly received. I mean they came right back at us, despite my threat.

  I think we find them. I think we invest the time and effort, and put an X on the fucking map where these people lay their heads at night. Once we know where they are, then we form a plan on how to get inside, and show these people what’s up. I’m not sure exactly how we’re going to do that just yet, but I have that sinking, ugly feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach that this will get bad before it gets better. This won’t be like Westfield. I don’t think I can turn these people in on themselves. These people feel righteous to me. Consolidated. Unified.

  Crazy too.

  I can’t reason with crazy. I can’t convince crazy of the error of its ways. I can only hit it with a hammer until it isn’t crazy anymore.

  I really don’t want to do this.

  Chad, I suppose at the very least I should do this to make your death worth it. Safe journey brother. Hope you find peace and forgiveness wherever you wind up.

  -Adrian

  September 16th

  Found 'em. I think.

  I’m writing this early in the afternoon because I am headed out in an hour or two. I swung down to the houses below us on Auburn Lake today with Mallory to check for phone books. As it turns out, I really have burned all the phone books here on campus, and Google is still fucking down.

  I got the address to a “diesel import” specialty dealership in a small town just north east of the city, and it was roughly in the same area as where the Outsiders were coming from. I’m betting anything it’s the right place. I can tell. Feel it in my bones and whatnot.

  I’m going alone. I know that sounds dumb, but I work better on my own, and I don’t need to burden anyone with covering my stupid risk-taking ass. I also think that I will still be in radio contact that far out now that we have the repeater tower perched on the top of MGR, so in reality, I’m only a walkie transmission away from help.

  Not that the hour plus it’ll take for them to get to me won’t factor in. Guess I’ll just have to do this quietly, and try to get in and out of their neighborhood without bloodshed. Or a little bit of carefully planned out bloodshed.

  Not that I’ll complain if I get to bring an abrupt end to the life of a bad guy. The trick seems to be whether or not I can figure out who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are.

  I’ll put an entry in when I get back. Hopefully that’s pretty soon. I’m thinking maybe the 18th or 19th. I’m planning on being gone for a few days, and I’m not bringing this laptop. Too heavy, and God forbid they got their hands on it, and read all of this. Even with a password required to log in, I don’t trust it. Plus someone needs to read this if I die.

  And as I’ve said abundantly, dying is pretty easy nowadays, even for little old me.

  Fuck you Jinx Fairy.

  -Adrian

  White Blood Cell

  The shredder jammed again. Damn piece of shit.

  Lancaster took a deep breath and hit the reverse button on the industrial strength, washing machine sized paper-eater. The quarter inch thick stack of pa
perwork regurgitated towards him with a grind, and he yanked it out. After splitting it into two halves, he fed the first portion back in, and the machine ate it with a happy whine. It ate the second part of the too-large stack greedily. Lancaster imagined the belly of the shredder filling with paper strips like it was an enormous serving of sauceless spaghetti.

  But the paper wasn't sitting in a belly. The shreds were being chopped once more as it headed down a long and dark chute to the incinerator in the basement, two floors below. The Department of State left no bit of trash behind when this shredder was used. Only the most secret, most damaging things were fed to this machine.

  Things Lancaster often had a hand in. That was a good part of the reason why it was in his office, just off from where his hand was.

  The old man with the loosened tie and coffee stained dress shirt had a stack of manila folders stamped CONFIDENTIAL to destroy before he left the Harry S Truman building, nerve center of the DOS, and his home away from… it was his home. No use denying it. He hadn't actually gone to where he paid a mortgage in months. He kept a blanket and pillow in a cabinet drawer for when he slept on the leather couch against the wall. He knew every detail of the painting of the signing of the Treaty of Versailles that hung above the couch from staring at it at night as he tried to sleep. Calling the townhouse he had partially furnished a home would've been an insult to the relationship he had with his job. With his nation.

  "Mr. Lancaster, are you leaving too?" a female voice asked him from the doorway to his office.

  Lancaster knew who it was, but looked over his shoulder anyway. One of the fast-movers in the office. A young Georgetown graduate that had been earmarked by the higher ups as having potential. Lancaster liked her. She worked hard, and minded her business. Usually. "I need to shred these forms Kelsie. Have you heard anything back on the line of succession status?"

  "No new news today yet, but we got confirmation the Secretary is finally home safe with his family and some friends in Utah. His security detail is with him on the ranch as well as local police. The Secret Service is flying out a private jet with a full protection team to make sure he's okay until this blows over," Kelsie said.

  Blows over. Not likely. "That's good. It's important to protect the line of succession in times like this. The people need stability. I hope the Salt Lake airport is under control. Most airports are a disaster right now."

  "Speaking of which, did that team get Henke out of Jerusalem?" she asked him.

  "They did. They had some struggles in London though. I was made aware that they arrived at a secure airbase in England," Lancaster said as he fed his mythical paper eating monster another stack of food.

  "Good. That's great. I think the President made it to a bunker," she said, half with worry, half with hope.

  "That he did."

  She lingered. "The Vice President?"

  Lancaster didn't want to talk about the Vice President. "He was trapped at the airport after the primary in South Carolina and killed the day of. Shot by accident it would appear. Some of his team and aides made it out on Air Force Two with his body. Of course he came back to life and killed a couple more of his own on the plane. Terrible mess." Losing such an important person was awful, and despite having nothing to do with the death of the VP, he still felt like he should've been there. It would've gone differently. He was sure of it.

  Kelsie covered her mouth and let out a small gasp. "We'd heard on the news he'd managed to…"

  Lancaster cut her off. "Don't trust the news Kelsie. Don't trust anyone, or anything you don't see with your own eyes anymore. Some our internal 'facts' are proving to be wrong. Things are going to get worse. Much worse. CDC has no idea what's causing this, and it's spreading faster than we could've possibly predicted. Go home to your family. Take care of them. The government will survive this. Somehow."

  "Can I trust you?"

  Lancaster clucked his tongue. His trademark noise when he thought. "Many people have put their trust in me over the years. You'll just have to roll the dice and see. That's the beauty of trust. There's no guarantee which way it'll go on ya."

  She couldn’t help but agree. "What will you do?"

  The old agency man shrugged and fed his shredder again. "Finish this. Head to where I'm needed."

  "You don't have any family?"

  "I'm married to the Department Kelsie. To the oath I took a long time ago."

  A slew of co-workers trotted past Kelsie down the hallway to the elevator to leave. They were near frantic. Worried about what was happening to the world. To their country. Right outside their office door. Kelsie saw them turn the corner and knew she had to go. The sound of sirens in the distance was unsettling.

  Lancaster urged her. "Go. I'll be fine. Get a gun somewhere. And water. Lots of water. Get out of the city. It won't be safe here much longer. Isn't safe now. Police scanner is going off every five minutes with a report of another shooting or stabbing. Protests are getting larger and larger near The White House and Agriculture. All the airports are shut down so the roads are a mess. Head for the hills. Get gone."

  "Yes sir. Director Lancaster, thank you. I wanted to say it's been a pleasure to work with you in the security department. I wish I'd gotten to know you better. Maybe after all this I can have you over for dinner at my place? You can meet my fiancé finally?" Kelsie asked him. She'd leaned on him since starting at the Department. She was so far from home (Ohio, was it?) and all her local college friends had moved on to greener pastures.

  "That sounds great Kelsie, now go. Before it's too late," Lancaster pushed another stack of papers into the shredder and motioned for her to shoo. It might already be too late for her.

  With a regretful smile the twenty-something waved, and left the old government spook. She should be happy she didn't know him any better. He wasn't a very good person all the time, and some of what he'd done for his nation should be left buried underneath six feet of earth for the rest of time.

  His office phone rang. Interesting. It would appear some of the landlines are still working. Lancaster walked around his desk and saw that it was an international secured line. Probably one of his teams protecting an embassy overseas. He picked the handset up and answered.

  "Lancaster here."

  "Lancaster it's Kevin Whitten. You got a minute?" Whitten was the leader of the contracting team that had been assigned to Senator Henke. The Senate President Pro Tempore, fourth in line to the presidency. Whitten and his team had done the incredible, and gotten the man out of both Jerusalem, and London even after a helicopter crash.

  "That's about all I got son. How's Mildenhall? Sunny?"

  "When can we get out of here Director? I'd like to deliver this Senator States-side pronto, and get home. It's a fucking soup sandwich here sir. The base is on lock down due to the shit that's going on outside, and everyone inside has lost their fucking mind. Discipline is lacking, and the operational tempo since we got here has been off the chain. Birds are flying 24/7, and we're fending for ourselves. Henke is a prick sir, no offense, and he's up my ass to get him home, and I can't do shit because the base commander is saying everything is committed to the western Europe front, like we're a world at war. He keeps waving this Presidential order around like it's a get-out-of-jail-free card. I just need you to free up one plane for us. Mildenhall to Andrews. Boom. Done."

  Lancaster waited. He knew the man's rant wasn't over yet.

  "And another thing, are we still getting paid? I fucking hope so. If I miss a truck payment and my credit rating takes a whack I'm gonna get real angry, man. Don't get me wrong, we're doing okay here, but it ain't pretty." Kevin paused again. Lancaster could hear the man self-assessing. "Sorry. I'm pissed and I don't have anyone to bitch to."

  Lancaster clucked his tongue again and grinned. He'd been in the young man's boots before, though not exactly like this. "Kevin, don’t sweat it son."

  Lancaster liked Whitten. He hoped the ex-Ranger made it through this alive.

  *****


  Lancaster left the Truman building after everything sensitive in his office had been destroyed. The only thing critical that hadn't been set on fire or shredded was his laptop, and that piece of technology was in a Kevlar lined briefcase in his left hand. The old man made sure he took his tie and government ID off at the exit. Ties could be a problem if he was attacked, and he didn't want to advertise to a protestor he was a government employee.

  Outside the glass doors were three Capitol Police cruisers and six officers , a mix of men and women. They stood their ground, protecting the building with military style AR rifles, and heavy duty SWAT style helmets and vests. This wasn't a too uncommon sight here in the nation's capital. Any lockdown was met with a similar response, and there were enough of those that the sight of a M4 or AR rifle wouldn't alarm too many of the locals. You couldn't live and work this close to The White House without these kinds of things. A thick skin was required to work in D.C. for many reasons.

  Lancaster approached the tall and thin black officer nearest to him with a disarming smile. With a grunt Lancaster pushed out his beer belly and approached the closest cop. It helped when people thought he was only an old fud. "Officer, things getting any better?" he asked, rubbing his tummy like a Monday Morning Quarterback. He already knew the answer.

  After scanning him for injuries, the cop disregarded Lancaster as a threat almost immediately. A feigned slouch and a beer gut did that for you. "No, not really sir. You should get to your car and head home immediately. There's a curfew for 8pm."

  "I heard. How's the walk from here to the lots over near Penn. Ave.?" It was a little over 1.1 miles. Lancaster knew that number for a reason. Everything he knew, he knew for a reason.

 

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