Uppity fuckers, these dead folk.
Living people were chill though.
Our sentinels at the new outer perimeter were flagged down by four survivors approaching at a slow clip about an hour before sundown. Legit waving white flags taped to mop handles and brooms, they came down Basin Road, moving slowly, spinning in circles and lifting their shirts to show they had no hidden weapons. I guess they’ve seen a few episodes of COPS in their day. What they must think of America, or what used to be America.
United States, that is.
Four survivors. Thin, gaunt, unwell as a whole. No substantial medical care in a long time, but I’ll throw an asterisk on that statement for later consideration. They were stopped by our guards twenty meters out from the van-gate and stood in the middle of the street, with weapons pointed in their general direction. They waited until someone with decision-making capability showed up, and on the main stage of The Shit Show (tickets available through Ticketmaster), I’m the headliner.
I woke Kevin (who somehow was getting decent sleep, and I hated to wake him, but when you’re going into a potential confrontation, you bring the fucking Warden, right? And we hoofed it in full battle rattle. Not long after I reached the main gate and the wharf area we’d cleared Hal caught up to us. Apparently he heard us leaving in the cabin he and Abby share.
Not sure how, but I’m glad he was there. It just feels better when he’s there. He’s rapidly assuming Kevin levels of trust with me, and that’s saying something.
We are keeping those three shooters in an elevated over watch to cover both ends of the peninsula. One watched the harbor and water side to ensure no floaters wash up in a dangerous spot to become land sharks trying to bite our asses, and to also prevent aquatic incursions at the boats, or on the less-defended/less gated sides of the land.
The other shooters are posted up at the top of the container walls, watching the ground approach and providing potential cover fire to the guards at the gate. Center shooter can reposition to support deeper in the peninsula if necessary, but if that’s necessary, we probably ought to fire up the guns on Reuben James and Crommelin. The destroyers we have with us have cannons too, but those are dead last resort. That being said, we cannot lose the port.
Make no mistake; we still got ammo for all them loud fuckers.
We cannot lose the port.
I scoped the survivors, still standing in the middle of an empty street heading towards us, shifting around nervously, looking in every direction at all times for a pack of running undead. I saw two adult women, one adult man, and a male teenager of about sixteen or so.
Nervous in the service, as my dad used to say. I get it; these people have been in complete lockdown, moving only when completely necessary, no firearms, no gun experience, nothing. And now, here they are, standing in the street, in broad-ass daylight, with foreigners pointing a SHITLOAD of guns at them, just a couple weeks after BLOWING THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF THE PORT AND NEIGHBORHOODS THEY LIVE NEAR.
Surreal for them, for sure.
After watching them stand around for a few minutes (mostly so I could see if they had weapons on them beyond the two cricket bat, and baseball bat the men carried), anxious as all get-out, I said fuck it, and took Kevin and Hal out to meet them. We pushed the weird Ford van out of the way, and hopped over the fence into the street.
Mind you, this street is a two-way street. Two ways ONLY. One way into the city, one way straight towards us. If shit happened, they would have to run into the teeth of the zombies behind them, or straight into the teeth of our guns. No running sideways. Giant, dense hedges to the east, giant fences to the west. Their pants-shitting nervousness was all the clearer to me when I made that realization.
The three of us walked down the street, guns at the low ready, body armor on, fully kitted, and I turned to Hal, and told him he’d be our lead. A familiar accent seemed like a smart thing to bring to bear at our first interaction with locals. Anything to reduce the risk of violence, right?
Alright, so you gotta like, imagine that all this happened in a British accent, because I’m not typing in a British accent. Lots of ‘innit’s,’ ‘decko,’ ‘squiz,’ and ‘whot, mate,’ and shit like that. Couldn’t understand a damn thing once they got going real fast, and American speech started out from these people. Kinda like how we made pugs from wolves. Crazy. At least Hal seemed happy.
“Keep your weapons handy, and if we get rushed from the city, run to the men with weapons you see behind us,” Hal started when we were about five yards distant from them. “We’ll cover your retreat, and meet back up behind the fences right over there, yeah?”
“Brilliant,” the adult guy said, eying the area Hal indicated. Five foot ten. Slim. Dark hair, dark eyes. Reminded me of Captain Pasta. Immediately put me on guard, but his accent sent that packing. “I figured you all from America, but you’re not.”
“We came here from there, but not all of us are from there. Croydon here,” Hal said. “Trying to get home, at present, actually. Hal Parker here, that’s Kevin Whitten, and the strange haircut is Adrian Ring. He’s in charge.”
He nodded. “I’m Joey SIlvaroli. The girl with the glasses is Fish. She’s our goldmine. The mom is Misty, and her boy is Aidan. Mess of noise you make. Cannons, helicopters, all that. So if that guy is the one running your show, why are you talking?”
Fish was a woman, not an actual fish. Average height, slim. Glasses like I said, shorter, curly hair. Quiet, but had bright eyes. In a different world, she’d have been my type, I think. Now no one is my type. At least, no one deserves to be my type. Never ends well.
Misty is like most apocalyptic moms; eats too little, worries about her kid too much. Smiles like she’s scared of what’ll happen after. She clutched the much larger, heavier, and well-built Aidian to her like he was a toddler, but he dwarfed her. He stood in a way that put his body a little in front of hers, so if we did something off, he’d be able to protect her. Brave.
I instantly liked them both. Their fierce defiance told me about their souls, and I mean that.
“He told me to talk,” Hal answered him. “And when Adrian Ring suggests you do something, you take a listen.”
“I see,” Joey said. “Are you here to stay? Is this part of a wider effort to help us? Do you have news of the world? We’ve a million questions.”
How to unpack the next hour? If I typed it all, this entry would be like, twelve pages long, so I’ll paraphrase it in the extreme: You already know what I know, Mr. Journal, and we told them everything, except for the Trinity stuff.
I like them, but I don’t know if I trust them yet. Look, I like buttered toast. Getting me to like you is easy. Doesn’t take much. Toss me a fucking Twinkie, you’re in. However, my trust is earned, and the time investment and blood investment to get that trust is a steep fucking slope to climb, even from the point of being liked.
They didn’t like the news I gave them. America is good, recovering, rest of world is likely a shit show, and we were the only help coming, that we knew of. The entire world… a handful of ships. Maybe three hundred people.
From their perspective, it’s like saying we came to paint your whole fucking house but showed up with a paint brush.
Just a paint brush. No paint, no ladder, not even a fucking wooden stick to stir paint with. Yet here we are, paint brush in hand, and eager as hell to get this bitch painted red. We’re working the details of this paint job out as we go.
The four survivors we have here are the last four people remaining in a large apartment building right near the water. It’s visible from where our fleet is parked in the harbor. They told a VERY brief story of the apocalypse from their perspective, and it didn’t sound good at all. They also said that it’s gotten worse over time. They described the zombies as getting faster, and more able with each passing season, more or less. Like… the clock is ticking faster, I guess. The longer it takes for this area of the world to get their shit straightened out, the more difficult it’s
getting for them.
Thank God I got my ass in gear when I did.
Anyway, these four clowns are living high off the hog (note the malnutrition I mentioned earlier) in this thirty unit building, all to themselves. Misty said they’d moved a floor up every six months or so, and now they’re on the top floor, and have blown the walls about between three units so they have a single dwelling they can protect each other in. I don’t know if that’s smart or not yet. I guess they have several exits to descend through, so that’s good. Joey said they cut a hole through the floor in one place so they can just drop down a level if need be.
Here’s the good news: Fish, in her unassuming manner, is a stone cold UK Bandit of the highest order. If the Queen is still around, she’d slap a sword on that bitch’s shoulders twice and call her a Knight or Dame or some shit. Fish (no idea on a real name yet, not pressing, because frankly Fish is sort of awesome) worked at a pharmacy in the center of Brighton back before, and when the shit hit the fan, she kept her cool, locked the front doors, and looted the motherfucker all by herself.
The entire pharmacy, down to the shoe inserts and the shitty candy in the back of the shelves. She even stole a truck to put all the shit in, and to me, that’s got hero written all over it. Fish has managed to dole out the meds since day one to the people in her building in exchange for food and supplies, so she’s managed to fairly keep everyone as healthy as she could, while staying fed and taken care of. She has plenty of meds still, but they’re bingo on food, and they reported that their rooftop gardens are lacking. Not enough proteins.
Joey installed signs for a living. Like, he’d drive a company van to a new business, and climb up some ladders, operate a lift, and install giant signs of the electric and plain variety. Handy with tools. Not like Picarillo yet at all, so he stays. Kind. Desperate in a respectful way. Honest about it, ya know?
Misty and Aidan lived together before everything. She worked in an office, doing office things, and Aidan was in high school, or its equivalent here. Played rugby, which makes a lot of sense, based on his stature. Big kid. The moment I said, “bad ass,” when his mom said he played rugby, his harder stance and posture softened up, and I knew we’d be good to go. He reminds me of the Ginger Assassin back home, Danny McGreevy. The two of them were home the day it happened, and have been around since, trying to keep their heads above water, and help as much as possible. Aidan has been working his ass off doing labor with Joey, and they’re tired, man. Damn tired.
I offered them medical care and food, and they accepted on the spot. I felt safe enough after our almost two hour bullshit session to invite them inside our outer cordon and they came with. We got the swing gate shut (the one with cuffs), the van parked in front of it again, and we fell back to the last warehouse before the actual container wall. Furthest we could get from the first line of defense.
We chatted for a few hours. Cooks on Reuben James brought out fresh meals for them, which they ate voraciously, and thankfully. They told us more of themselves, and more of their story, and we listened, and learned.
I can’t relate all of it right now (I’m spent) but the general gist matches up with everything the refugees told us back in the States; it’s shit here, and it got that way fast and stayed that way. Not enough guns, cops died early, military didn’t roll out fast enough, whatever. Oh, and bombing. So much bombing in the big cities. They’ve been suffering a far worse situation than I had to deal with, and my heart goes out to them.
After the late afternoon came and went, and the evening settled in, we were standing and sitting in a goddamn parking lot, in the dark, and I offered them shelter in one of the buildings right there. Within our outer perimeter, within our protective reach, but not inside our safe area. I couldn’t in good faith ask them to leave in the dark. No night vision, too much danger.
They accepted, and a bunch of us gathered up some spare mattresses that we’d found in the buildings on the peninsula. Only needed four.
Four British citizens.
Our first four. We didn’t rescue them. We joined them. These are now my people. The people I came to help, the people I came to learn from, and the souls that deserve a second chance.
I’m excited in a new way.
Oh, and they said something else that intrigued me; we seem to have created a void in the undead presence here; Joey, Fish and Misty all reported that no undead have been visible since we dropped the bomb a few days back, and cleared out the place to come to shore.
I reckon we made such a clatter with the ship guns, and the constant gunfire, that we’ve drawn in every undead that could hear us, and we took them out. If we can stay quiet for a while, we might be able to operate in that void for a few days before the undead infesting the surrounding areas start to bleed back in.
Good fortune?
I’ll take it. Just keep the hammer ready to smash that Jinx Fairy if she comes a-flying with her shit stick magic wand.
Aidan told me a funny story too, but I’ll save that for another day.
Bedtime.
-Adrian
September 21st
I started writing on September 21st, 2010.
Four years. Crazy.
-Adrian
September 22nd
The locals are still within our outer wire, and we still haven’t seen any undead coming closer. To better prepare ourselves for deeper trips into the city, and eventually the country, we’ve been trying to pry as much intelligence about the lay of the land and its people from our new friends as humanly possible, within reason. We’re not pushing them hard enough to driver them crazy, or feel interrogated, but we’re steady.
They’re incredibly helpful, and we owe them a debt.
We have maps now. That’s big. We can measure and plan, and with their on the ground info, we know what doors to kick, where the undead tend to come from, and which doors to leave closed, or secure to contain the contents of. We have been moving forward conversationally with them regarding where we should search to obtain vehicles we can fix to use, and they’ve led us in a couple directions.
Trucks and vans on the sides of the street have either been damaged to the point of being relatively useless, or are in such tragic disrepair that the work needed to bring them back to life isn’t worth it. A month to get a shitty Mercedes van up and running isn’t worth it, on the net. So we really need to find a depository of vehicles that have been maintained, or at a bare minimum, shielded from the ocean side elements. Salt water and winter weather is pretty harsh on cars, Mr. Journal. There’s a lot of undriveable metal with flat tires around here.
So, where to look?
Joey, Fish, Misty and Aidan gave us the approximate locations (plus or minus a few numbers on the street) of several car dealerships that might have vans or trucks on the lot, as well as where they thought garages might be that worked on similar vehicles.
Our next step is to make a plan to explore the first of the stops and see what’s good there.
The greater Brighton metro area is dense, and packed along the coast. We landed to the west of central Brighton, right in the thick of the sprawl. The road we want to get to eventually (the one that heads north to Hal’s family in Croydon) is called the A23. Heads straight from central Brighton to London, with Croydon two thirds of the way to London. I don’t want to go ANY farther north than that, unless we’re setting sail and hoofing it around the coast.
To get to the A23, we can head directly into the center of Brighton (prolly not an A+ idea) or we can head further west to a highway our local friends says used to be clear that skirts the whole metro area. That’s the A27. We can also risk pushing straight north to the A27 through the suburbs of Brighton, which appears to be a trip of about… like a mile. I could run it, if there’s room to maneuver.
Big fucking if.
Without heavy trucks that can push debris or mobs of undead out of the way, we’re not in good shape. On foot, slow isn’t smart either, right? Can’t carry enough shit, and then it mea
ns we’re sourcing vehicles far from the port, with no way to get them back to the port for repair. We’re then, what? Clearing garages and we have to bring a mechanic with us? Well… then we’ve got to bring some tools, and at least two mechanics, because two is one, and one is none, and they’ll need food, water, weapons, ammo, clothes, yada yada and then all of sudden we’re rolling fat and loud, and drawing in too much attention. Speed is our friend with this.
Only way to balance the equation is to find wheels within a mile of where I’m writing this. More specifically, getting wheels in a direction that gives us the chance to clear out an area for the rush north when it happens. Site prep, as it were. Only way out.
Misty pointed out a garage she knew worked on trucks and delivery vans.
Joey pointed out a fire station that was operating trucks as recently as four months ago.
Fish knew of several dealerships clustered in an area maybe a half mile inland from where our peninsula meets the mainland.
Aidan remembered the specific locations of a few trucks he saw on the streets.
We also have multiple vehicles options here on the port, but thus far, none have been salvageable in a way that works for us. I’m hopeful we find one or two, but… we’ll see. I’m not holding out hope. Lots of rust, and a lot of flat tires like I said. Big tires. Ones that will be a challenge to replace, because most of the easy tires we can get are flat too.
Our first stop will be the simplest; the garage. It’s on a relatively wide road, not too far from here, and as they could explain it, the space between should be easy to navigate on foot if we do get into a situation. Plus, it’s within sniper cover range for the first half, which makes my ass less itchy.
Speaking of itchy asses, do you remember when I said that Aidan kid told me a funny story?
Dead Cities: Adrian's March. Part Four (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 12) Page 4
