Kevin drove our humvee up to the center of the overpass, and waiting there for us was Captain Maria and her humvee. Weird that there are humvees everywhere. I suppose that makes sense with the bases getting raided, and the higher likelihood that military people might survive longer.
“Captain Maria. It’s good to see you,” I said in as friendly a way as I could. A friendly a way as you can say while you’re wearing body armor and have a M4A1 strapped across your chest.
She didn’t have a gun across her chest, or body armor, but she did have a pistol in a holster at her waist. The same pistol her hand was on. To be fair, my hand was on the grip of my rifle too. It’s sad to say, but trust is earned with a gun in your hand now.
“Adrian, I hope you’re well,” she said back.
Maria always looks at me like she expects me at any moment to start head banging to metal music only I can hear. I could understand that if I had the Mohawk still, but I let it grow out and just keep my nugget buzzed now. Maria’s hair is short. I think she comes up to my armpit at best wearing boots and yesterday she had her hair down for the first time. Black shoulder length and hyper curly, like a Jewish girl on a humid day in Miami. Longer than I thought.
“I’m well enough, thanks. Looks like you’re still in one piece,” I said.
“Yeah. We’re doing fairly well. Crops are harvested or harvesting and winter should be a solid one for us. We’ll see what the weather brings.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Good for you guys,” I said. “Gasoline and diesel doing okay? We’ve got a good stash still if you’re needing trade on it.”
“We might need a few hundred gallons of diesel, come November. The generator in the base runs on it. What would you want for a couple barrels?”
I already had a list from Michelle and our redheaded farmer-in-chief Ollie of stuff we needed. “Um. Well. The big name stuff like usual. Antibiotics, bleach, 5.56mm, 9mm, horse feed, a male cow if you have one, table salt, size 14 and 15 men’s shoes (or boots), and pumpkins. We’d love to carve ‘em up with the kids and then make pies.”
Maria laughed at that. “Well we could probably scrounge the shoes, the horse feed, the cow and the pumpkins. There’s a farm on the west side of town that has a pretty good sized pumpkin patch still. We’d need more than two barrels of diesel though. Can you do three?”
“If I bring my farmer guy and if he says the cow is a good stud for us I can do three,” I said back to her.
“Sold. Next month then. Actually, later this month if you want the pumpkins for Halloween. Meet on the 25th?” Her hand came off the pistol, which I took to be a sign of her comfort. My hand didn’t come off my rifle.
“Sure thing. You got any news?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Some radio stuff trickling up from the DC area. Maryland and West Virginia it seems. Elements of government returning. Bunkers opening up, that kind of thing. Fractional stuff though, nothing centralized. No one I’d take orders from at least. Sounds like there are factions fighting for control. The two party system has been retired and replaced by something far worse. Also a handful of people asking about you.”
“Me? For real?”
“Yeah, by name no less. Bunch of folks heard about some stuff you supposedly did that helped end the zombies back in ’12. They’re talking about making some kind of pilgrimage to meet you. To thank you. That kind of thing.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Tell them not to bother. I’m nothing special. Not anymore at least.”
“Not anymore huh?” She asked me with a curious look on her face. “Care to elaborate on that vague statement?”
“Not really, Captain. Just a normal, vague kind of guy. Do me a favor and tell them to skip the pilgrimage. We’ve got enough to deal with without people coming to pray or say thanks. Pilgrims eat food and drink water, and we need to manage what we got for who we got. I got a question for you. We swung by the people at that scrap yard north of here. Wilson’s? You remember us talking about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well someone hit them pretty hard and cleaned them out. We found a handful of dogs shot dead, plus three bodies. I know they had at least a dozen folks living there which tells me if there were survivors they left after an attack, or were kidnapped. You have any idea who might’ve done that?”
She shook her head. “None. Wasn’t us.”
I pressed. “Whoever did it had military hardware. We found 5.56 all over the place, and some .50 cal too. Belt fed .50. There were some tank tracks in the driveway. You sure you don’t know anything?”
Her hand went back to the pistol on her hip. I guess she didn’t feel comfortable anymore. “Are you accusing us Adrian? I don’t appreciate the implication.”
“I’m not. I apologize. But in this neck of the woods Maria there are very few people with access to tanks or .50 BMG. You guys are guard, Westfield’s base is cleaned out and abandoned with everything there under our control, and that leaves….?”
“The bigger base up north in the mountains,” Maria said without hesitation.
I’d forgotten about them. Do you remember them Mr. Journal? The group of Guardsman that set up some kind of municipality at a ski resort? Couple hour’s drive north past the city? We took in a bunch of people from the north who ran from them before March when the zombies were all still up and ornery.
Lindsey came from the north with her little kid that wound up dying when we had that terrible flu outbreak. Uhhh.. what’s their name? The people we took in that brought the flu in, they too were from the north. Jackie and Warren… and… Danielle! I had to ask Michelle downstairs. She’s better with names than me.
Anyway, they came back down from the north telling us about this ski resort that had been taken over by a large National Guard unit. They had asserted control over the bio diesel facility there and using their fuel production assets, base equipment and training, they’d created a fiefdom or whatever you wanna call it. They had forced people into what sounded like servitude to support their little town, and it was their way or the highway. We never crossed paths with them.
Yet…
The Wilson Auto Salvage wreckage fits their MO to a T. lol. MOAT. Simple things amuse me. Back to the subject at hand. The northern Guard base and their reportedly despicable action fits this, and it makes sense in my head. Go with your gut, right?
What I don’t like… is that I can’t think of a damn thing we can do about it. If they have a tank, and .50 caliber Browning machine guns, and theoretically endless amounts of fuel to drive said tank and guns around… there is precious little we can do about it. Lay low, don’t look like an easy target if they come by?
When Kevin and crew made the trip across the Atlantic trying to find the mythic third person in the Trinity (that’s me Mr. Journal, if you forgot) they managed to appropriate a large supply of military hardware from the airbase at Mildenhall England. We have a small number of AT4 anti-tank weapons remaining, and that’s a huge asset we can bring to bear, but as powerful a weapon as they are, they can’t scratch the paint on an Abrams main battle tank. I can’t recall exactly the tracked footprint of an Abrams, but I’d be willing to bet my left nut (that’s the big one, so you know I’m serious) that the tracks we saw at Wilson’s didn’t belong to an Abrams. Track pattern was too narrow. Going on gut.
If they have APCs, then the AT4 warhead can take them down, though that’d be a fight I’d like to avoid. We’ll see if that’s a fight they want to avoid. I don’t think they know we have the heavy weaponry we do, and that again is an asset. I also don’t think they know that we can probably make some of our own IEDs to go at the bottom armor of their vehicles. Let them underestimate us.
I’m getting so far ahead of myself here.
Maria and I were still standing there, sort of looking at each awkwardly, the news sitting in the air like a fart in a car with the window rolled up. I had to say something to make peace with her. “I’ve heard bad things about those people. I’m worried they’re expanding, i
f it’s them.”
“That’s a possibility. We’ve heard bad too. People who left the more urbanized southern parts to head north to the woods got caught up in their bullshit. They gathered up all the salvage and forced people to work to earn their own food back.”
“That’s not cool. That won’t fly with my people,” I said to her.
“Mine either. If you hear more, will you keep us informed?”
I nodded at her, looking around at the distant woods, suddenly concerned with what I couldn’t see in the trees. “Absolutely. If you hear or see anything keep me informed as well, please.”
“Alright. Let’s plan on meeting back up here at one on the 25th,” she took her hand off her pistol and extended it to be shook. I took my hand off my M4A1 and shook hers. It was the first time we’d shaken hands, and it felt good.
Everyone departed with no shots fired or trouble raised. A great meeting by all accounts, despite the potential revelation of a very large threat not that far away. I think we might’ve crossed them off as potential enemies, and that’s a big win.
Kevin and I talked about it the entire way home. Not a lot of good was said.
Gonna take a few days to think this over and formulate a plan of some kind. A contingency at the very least should they start knocking on our door.
-Adrian
October 8th
I hadn’t set out to write this often when I cracked this laptop open a few weeks ago, but life conspires against the plans of those living it, and here I am, writing about that life. My life.
Clarity is something that often evades us. That fact has only gotten worse since June of 2010 when society collapsed, and the undead began to cull the herd. Trying to obtain facts when leaving your fortified house could cost you your life and that meant you chose ignorance every time. It’s better today now that the undead have fallen but still, there are precious few ways to get clarity.
This morning we got really lucky, and got the answers to a few questions.
As part of our perimeter ‘defense’ of Bastion’s walls and to beef up our ability to screen for people trying to find us Kevin has operated and managed a series of patrols. For a few months we used the humvees but after the Texans arrived we switched over to using the horses. They don’t consume fuel in the normal sense, and they allow us to take a series of routes off the road to be more efficient and harder to track. Typically the patrols encounter a traveler or two, occasionally a group of people passing through heading north or south, east or west. Nomads looking for family, or the few people who are stupid enough to think that there are still resources left.
We haven’t had to engage any as hostiles which is nice, but periodically we do have a moment where dick measuring occurs. They pull, we pull, they talk, we talk, and eventually they leave, and we stay. It pays to have highly trained, well armed, and patient people guarding your borders.
Today Kevin crossed paths with six people and two German Shepherds moving on foot to the west side of town. Route 18 actually, the road that heads to Westfield.
He was with Hal (our token black dude and British Royal Marine in exile) and Rich, the handsome Texan who most of the guys here hate because he’s handsome. He’s going gray a smidge early, and has that whole ‘silver fox’ thing going on. Good for him. The three men in our patrol encountered the six walking our way exhausted as hell, and they waved, beckoned our men over, and told Kevin who they were.
The leader (if there was one) said his name was Jay Wilson. He was the son of Bart Wilson, owner and founder of Wilson Auto Salvage. The same scrap yard we found his dad’s body at, as well as his mother’s and one other man’s. Kevin knew I would want to talk to them as well as Michelle, so he called for a car to be sent out to retrieve them. They had been on foot making their way for days.
The cast of characters from the scrap yard was Jay and his little sister of I think 15 years, Sharon. She had enough freckles on her face and shoulders to make her look like a chocolate chip cookie. Her boyish, tattered haircut didn’t help her look either, whatever look she was going for. Jay looked like his dad. Lanky and long, hair that needed a trim. Must’ve been genetic.
With him he had a guy named Frank, and Frank’s two daughters Emma and Aubrey. They had a spunk to them that told me they’d kick ass given time and opportunity, though their dad struck me as the kind of guy that couldn’t see the bad in a situation if the Jinx Fairy flew over and shit straight in his mouth. I think he’d swallow it and thank her for stopping by and thinking of him.
The last on the list was a dude that is easily the largest human being in town by a long shot. His name is Roy, and he is a solid head taller than I am (and remember Mr. Journal, I am over six foot) and he has to weigh at least 280 if he weighs a pound. Maybe more. He’s like Shaquille O’Neal only white, poor and awkward. I keep thinking of Lennie from Of Mice and Men.
I plan on hiding all soft and squishy things for a few weeks until I sort him out.
Jay arrived in the back of one of the old Auburn Lake Preparatory Academy vans, Miss Daisy style with the rest of the crew and Michelle accepted them as ambassador and took them into the school’s cafeteria. We got them back to Bastion here at about lunchtime so the food was already cooking, and from the looks of it, they were hungry.
The two dogs laid low under the tables as their owners ate. I watched the humans eat ravenously as Kevin and I got our trays of food, then we headed over. I made a note in my head to make sure they got a few bags of dog food. I also made note to ask my balls to drop when I got away from the dogs.
Jay stood up quickly, almost out of fear and stood straight as an arrow. Roy (the hulking dude) stood up too and balled his fists. Over time you learn to ignore that kind of posturing stuff, and I did.
“You must be Jay,” I said as I sat my tray down` beside Michelle’s. I smiled a little. Not too much. Too much would’ve been fake. Plus the dogs were nearby.
“Yeah. Yeah I uh… I am,” he said back.
I extended my hand and he took it. “You must be Roy?” I said to the behemoth.
“Yes sir,” Roy said back to me as he stuck his own hand out. I shook it, and he sat down, staring at the tattoos on my arm. Sometimes the ink says more than my mouth.
“You guys already met Kevin Whitten. He’s the dude in charge of keeping us safe. Has Michelle been treating you well? She’s pretty good at treating folks decently,” I said to while winking at her.
The chocolate chip cookie answered back. “Yeah she’s cool. I’m Sharon. This is Frank, Emma, and Aubrey,” she said, pointing to each in hand. I shook everyone’s hand and sat down.
“You’re the real Adrian Ring aren’t you? The one people talk about?” Sharon asked me.
“I guess so. I’m definitely Adrian Ring. As for the talking about me, I try not to listen. I tried that once and only heard people talking shit.”
“Oh he is Adrian, alright,” Michelle added in. “He’s the one, foul mouth and all. In the flesh, proof that we can live a better life on this Earth. Kinda cool eh?”
I hate it when she gets preachy, and prose-y. I guess I should expect it from a woman with a PhD. in theology that I’m in love with. I sure do hate it when people talk about me.
“Neat,” Sharon said like a teenager would. That is to say, unimpressed.
“I’m sorry to hear what happened,” I said to them.
“Thank you,” Jay said.
“I heard you picked over one of the corn fields on the way here and intend on donating it to our stores? Is that true?”
“Yeah. My father and I agreed to take a small group away for the time the NVC would be visiting. If it went well we’d return with the corn. When I heard the gunfire in the distance I knew the meeting hadn’t gone well, and we started to head here.”
“Smart. Gusty, but smart. Why here?” I asked.
Jay shrugged and hunted for words. “My dad liked you more than any other choice we had. He didn’t respect you because of your tattoos, and he had a hard
time believing you were the real person so many people think stopped all the zombies but still. He knew you were better people than them. I think he thought you’d give us a fair shake.”
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“About what?”
“About me. About me stopping all the zombies?”
Jay chuckled. “I don’t know what to believe. I know the world is far, far stranger than I could’ve possibly imagined.”
“You got that right,” I assured him. “Look, here’s the big picture; I pulled the trigger on the woman I loved before this happened. Took me almost a year and a half to find her and do it, but when I did… the undead fell. We were being tested by the Almighty. Whatever you want to believe is upstairs was fed up with us and set the dead upon us to wipe the slate. But if we were able to redeem ourselves before it was too late, we got a second chance. Me shooting her and forgiving myself for my failings, and living as a better man, and rescuing people and doing good as best I could was enough to give us that second chance. Or so I’m led to believe.”
The six from the scrap yard looked at me like I’d grown a third eye on the tip of my nose. Perhaps I said too much. I’m really awkward with talking about everything that happened.
“Enough about that. You’re here, and I’m sorry for your loss. What’s the NVC?”
“The Northern Valley Cooperative. That’s the name of the… government or whatever they have up there.”
“We’ve heard a fair amount about them from folks who left their borders. I didn’t think much about them after the zombies went away. Aggression by living people has almost disappeared.”
“Did you see any of their gear?” Kevin asked. Kevin would ask that.
They all shook their heads.
“They had a tank?” He asked again.
“It was an APC,” big boy Roy said with a certainty in his voice.
We both looked at him a little surprised. Like how you’d look at a goldfish if it started singing. Kevin continued. “You’re certain of that Roy? Any chance you know what kind?”
Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 9): The Dealer of Hope [Adrian's March, Part 1] Page 7