Dead Cities: Adrian's March. Part Four (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 12)

by Chris Philbrook

  When we were sitting around the other night, getting to know each other, Kevin made a comment about how important it was to be ready at all times for an “operation.” Then he said something like, “Can’t have the ninja shits getting in the way when it’s go-time.”

  “Whot’s the ninja shits, matey?” Aidan says or something British-y like that, and Kevin laughs, and explains it’s diarrhea. Sneaks up on you like a rectal assassin.

  I shit you not, the kid starts to cry on the spot, and Misty goes to comfort him, and the kid is a damn mess. It’s a classic ninja shit social moment. Verbal diarrhea, as the case may be.

  Kid starts laughing after a bit, a smidge hysterical, and then his mom laughs too, and we’re all sitting there, dicks in hand, not sure what the fuck to do, because talking about diarrhea just sent this kid and his mom off on a tearful journey to fucking Miserable-istan, population two camels, a bunch of crying people, and some awkward social engagements.

  After like, five solid minutes of emotional tragedy, the kid wipes his tears of laugh-sadness away, and says something like, “My dad slipped and fell down the stairs in our building when the zeds came.”

  And we’re all silently like…. Cool story, kid.

  “He wasn’t feeling well earlier in the day, and he shat himself as we ran, and that’s what he slipped on. Fell down the stairs and broke his neck. Stopped the zeds for a second and we slipped away up to a higher floor.” More laughing tears.

  Oh… yeah… now I see what’s up.

  “And you saying it’s the ninjas shits is funny, cuz it means he didn’t die of an accident, it means his ass assassinated him,” he said, with each word turning further into a hysterical string of laughter.

  I mean, that shit IS pretty funny, literally.

  I thought back IMMEDIATELY to my slip and fall accident in the snow suit, and I got up from the pallet of dockside shit I was sitting on, and I went to Aidan. I beckoned for him to stand, and I gave him a too-long, too-tight, fully awkward hug.

  “When I was in third grade, wearing a full snowsuit, I got the shits, and slipped on the ice. I shit myself so much the snowsuit filled up and ran down my neck like I was a Diet Coke with a Mentos dropped in it. Your dad sounds awesome. I would’ve liked to have been his diarrhea friend.”

  He cried some more, then thanked me.

  “Tell me more about him. Soon?”

  Aidan nodded, and I smiled.

  He and I will get along.

  Sucks about his dad though. It sounds like he went quick, and probably died of a head injury, and probably didn’t come back. That’s good. He may have shit his pants and died as a result, but his kid is rock solid.

  That’s more than a lot of us get to say. His dad’s name was Nicholas, if you care, Mr. Journal. Forever more, I shall refer to him as Daddy Ninja Shits. I pray he looks over me as we wander this wasteland of tea and crumpets.

  It’s a term of endearment.

  We’re observing the area of the gas station as best we can from the ground tonight and tomorrow, and rolling out to hit the place on the 24th.

  -Adrian

  September 25th

  Empty.

  The streets were empty…

  No undead anywhere.

  Dogs running around, keeping their distance, and barking now and then, cats skulking in the thick grasses, staring over their shoulders as they escape, but no zombies. No undead roaming at all.

  Frankly, I’m terrified at the thought of this; it’s never, ever been good when things go wonky like this. When a few hundred undead start shuffling in a specific direction for no good reason; evil is afoot, y’all, guard your butthole.

  This feels no different.

  We exited under the cover of about six shooters with long distance rifles at the crack of dawn. Despite their offers to accompany us, we asked our local friends to stay put. Brave souls, they are.

  The garage is on the mainland, set a bit off the shore of the inner harbor our boats are docked in. It’s almost directly north from where Rueben James is tied off, but to get there, we went on foot to remain silent. At our backs we had two zodiacs ready to zip across the harbor to rescue our asses, plus William had his bird on standby to provide a vertical means of escape should it get real ugly.

  We didn’t need anything, except maybe a fucking wheelbarrow. We stalked our way there, using cover and bounding, and being sneaky, but we fucking walked back. Not a damn threat to be seen, beyond the movement of curtains in houses our local friends said were occupied. We brought two backpacks filled with cans of food to drop off where we knew we’d be crossing close to, and on those cans, we handwrote little notes explaining who we were, and what we came here to do. We placed them where the hiding survivors could get to them as safely as possible, and we pushed forward down the road.

  Kingsway, by the way, as if that should surprise you, Mr. Journal. Most of our transit was along a street called the Kingsway.

  Fucking England and their monarchy shit. America needs more roads called Congress Ave, and Senatorial Street, and FULL AUTO DRIVE. Actually we have most of those already. I take my snark back. England, you do you, you royalty-having, colonial bastards.

  We saw a TON of ropes connecting buildings at higher floors. Pulleys too. Pretty quick we figured out that the people in the buildings were able to pass stuff to and fro safely high above, using the rope system. Not all buildings were connected in this way. Smart people.

  Garage was actually damn big. I don’t know what I imagined, but it was bigger than I expected. Four bays street side, two in the rear down an alley into a parking lot. Surrounded by fencing on all sides, the parking lot was filled with cars that were fixed or about to be fixed. A few trucks/lorries, as Misty indicated during our conversations.

  The overhead doors were all closed, so we breached the front door with a halligan and cleared the place like we would any other. First room in was a sitting room; about ten chairs arranged against the walls, magazines on low tables, a black television hanging on the wall, obscured by cobwebs as thick as falling snow. Whole place was thick with cobwebs. I picked more out of my hair in the shower an hour ago.

  That’s another red flag we need to cognizant of; if an interior space has a ton of cobwebs, nothing has moved through it in a real long time, and it’s likely to be safe. Now… no cobwebs… well, you’ll see.

  Breached interior door into an office with a glass window to the waiting room for a cashier. Empty office, cobwebs.

  Breached the next door into a small cafeteria space and found a dead male body in the corner, and a zombie banging at the far door. The mostly rotted out corpse was kitted out as a cop, with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chin, and a series of deep bites on one forearm. Jaw and front of the skull gone. MP5 and a Glock in his lap. Some ammo, not much, but some. That’s all ours now, vest, radio, and cuffs included.

  Door in that room had a big glass window in the top half, and bumping, almost smashing up against that was the face of another dead cop. He kept biting at the glass, snarling in that… airless way, scratching with nails that did nothing, and staring… staring with those vacant, empty, white eyes.

  Hal went to the side of the door, and got its attention, and when it pressed its head against the glass, trying to eat him, I put the spike of my halligan through the glass, and into its forehead. The poor bastard went limp, and his weight pulled the head of my halligan down through the safety glass with a six inch crunched line down to the bottom of the frame. He fell of the spike and went to the floor, blocking the door.

  We had to shove the door hard to push him out of the way to get into the garage, but we profited another MP5, and another Glock out of it. England is treating us well, so far, it seems. The garage was empty, free of low-hanging cobwebs, and filled with parts, and cars, and fluids, and all matter of mechanical goodness.

  No suitable vehicles for us to steal, not even the ones in the rear parking lot.

  No idea on how the cops got inside, or how they m
et their paired demise, but we know it had something to do with zombies, and the end of the world, and beyond that, I guess the details just don’t matter. Two more bodies in a dark building.

  We spent a few hours examining the cars with our relatively limited vehicle skills (As it turns out, Fagan knows cars well, and impressed us with his ability to assess the vehicles in the shop), and we picked up some light loot that the engineers on Reuben James asked us to look for. Gaskets, belts, lubricants, that kind of stuff. Stuff that doesn’t age well, or is expendable, basically. We made them happy yesterday.

  As I said, we made our way back with far less anxiety, and we even noticed that our care packages had been retrieved while we were at the garage. We watched the windows we saw movement in earlier, and the curtains had been pulled back, and some people even waved.

  These people have been holed up in apartments for how long? Isolated, living off of what?

  We must look like bat shit crazy madmen (and woman) to just walk down the street, regardless of how many weapons we’re carrying. I can only imagine the psychological trauma our hard landing at the port caused. Turret guns going off all day, gunfire for hours and hours… Bullets flying as thick as bees coming out of a smoked hive.

  We’re either saviors, or conquerors to them. Time will show them we’re trying to be the former, but often enough, you come across as the latter. It’s gonna take distinct effort to make sure we’re seen as being helpful at all times. I don’t want to make these people feel anymore threatened than they already have been.

  The rest of today is a day of rest, and planning. I’ll cuddle up with Otis, spend some time with baby Gavin, and make sure my weapons are clean, because that’s what I do when I feel like I’m due to start using them on things or people trying to kill me.

  Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn yet again, we’re headed to the dealerships that Fish mentioned. It’s a further trip out, and on the way I think we’re going to deliver our friends back to their apartment building so they can gather some supplies, and check on things. From there, we’ll head beyond, and check the dealerships. I’m not sure, but I think they want to stay in their homes. They’ve been staying in the warehouse offices we cleared, on beds we found on the peninsula. Not homey, not in the least.

  They were safe though. That’s something.

  If our venture to the dealership neighborhood goes south on us, it’ll be a helluva run back to the port while William spins up his Seahawk to cover us from above. Our backup plan is to go up to the roof of a tall building we’ve identified as a suitable point to ascend to, and extract that way, up and out. We can also fall back to the building our friends live in, and deal with the issue in a more ‘nuke it from orbit’ fashion.

  Good run yesterday. Tomorrow’s gonna be a good day too.

  I still need to come up with a name for the port. People asked me again today. Mr. Journal, like I don’t already have enough shit to think about.

  If you’ve got any ideas, let me know.

  Leaning towards Beertopia.

  -Adrian

  September 28th

  Been a hot minute since I wrote, Mr. Journal. Been a little confused on how exactly to report what’s been going on.

  Our delivery of canned goods to the local’s doorsteps (ala the retired profession of milkman, but with less 50’s housewife boning jokes) while out on our loot run to the garage seemingly dragged out the entire local population.

  Not like, everyone, I don’t think, but enough that when we were on the way to and from the dealerships, we passed by multiple wanderers who were slipping around, trying to get into, or out of places they’ve probably wanted to go to for years, man. There was a desperate glee in their faces. Saw it clear as day.

  Like they’d say, “Holy shit, I’m outside, and nothing is trying to kill me.” Then they’d hit the bricks, going where they knew someone dropped a fucking pocket knife in the grass two years ago to go pick the fucker up.

  Some of them waved at us as we moved, but most went to ground like meerkats into a hole. We try to present as not intimidating as we move, but that’s a fucking figment of our imagination. A half dozen of us, all armed to the teeth, wearing body armor and full kit as we stalk our way through a ruined city. We are the epitome of a scary group of people, and that’s just fucking reality.

  Many of them still waved.

  The dealership was a bust. So much of a bust that we learned a bit about the town, and at least one group within it.

  The dealership had been looted. And when I say looted, I mean fucking LOOTED. The parts rooms, the tire warehouse, the car key lockers, the popcorn machine in the lobby, all of it. ALL OF IT. Even the fucking tool carts, carjacks, and the tanks of fluids in the ground were drained.

  Someone… took the whole of the goodies from the four dealerships, and relocated it somewhere. This is not a small task. It requires multiple strong men and women, plus additional men and women to protect them while they work. Wherever that is… wherever those people are, we’re gonna find our vehicles. Let the barter begin.

  Hidden bright side to having your target buildings looted already: they were cleared of undead already. Cleared, and locked back up again, which might be a tip to the idea that whoever looted the place wanted to be able to return at their leisure, and have it be safe when they got back.

  Also… no undead in the wilds of west Brighton.

  Not a fucking one. Saw a shitload of long-dead corpses all over the place, but didn’t see a single undead anywhere in the open.

  That’s a big deal. If it weren’t for the fucking zombie cop I brained with the halligan in the garage the other day, I’d say we arrived, and all the undead keeled over out of sheer terror of the size of my cock, but that’s not true. Neither part of that is true. The primary emotion my dick gives anyone is disappointment.

  Runner up emotion: remorse.

  Look, we went deeper into Brighton than we’ve ever gone (further proof we’re definitely not talking about my dick), by a good-ass distance, and still no undead. Our loud landing must’ve drawn in the mobile undead from a very long ways away. And that could mean… that if we’re quiet, it’ll still be quite some time before we encounter any sizeable amount of threat from the undead.

  Call me a silver-lining Sally, but I swear that the people we saw (despite their clear fear of us) seemed like, relieved to see humans walking. Fearless humans, I should add. Hopefully we inspire them to be brave again.

  Brave, not reckless. With all I’ve done with my life, I’m pretty sure I know the difference between the two by now.

  Pretty sure.

  So that was that. We’ve been kicking back, watching the locals come out of hiding (quite a few, to be honest. Maybe a hundred survivors) and move to and fro. Occasionally we’d see them cross each other’s paths, and most of those encounters were peaceful.

  Here’s the menu of interactions:

  Eye contact: awkward backpedaling, often fueled by evident fright.

  Eye contact: careful approach, careful conversation, measured retreat.

  Eye contact: jovial, familiar recognition, loving embrace, sometimes then a parting, sometimes they’d leave together.

  Eye contact: aggression.

  That was rare though. Only a few moments where someone reacted that way. Rocks thrown in one case, and then screaming, running, chasing off perceived (or actual) enemies with knives, axes, whatever. None of our observers saw anyone get killed, but we did see someone get whacked in the back with what was likely a machete. We had a very short debate as to whether we should help them, and the guys at the gate unanimously decided to send help from our QRF team. A small team of our shooters, led by Joel went out to render aid, but all they found when they got to the alley near some apartments was a trail of blood that disappeared.

  No sense chasing that down. We want to help, but we’d be putting too much at risk. Our guys could run into an ambush and get taken out, or, Oprah forbid, we get into a scuffle where we take out a
shit ton of locals. Us losing a few people is bad, but the public relations nightmare of turning into a hit squad is incalculable. All that being said, they returned safely after a couple hours outside our wire. They left a small first-aid care package near where the attack happened with a note to come down the street towards us in a specific, non-threatening way to receive medical aid, food or water.

  I should bullet point that menu thing above, shouldn’t I? Would that be the professional thing to do? Is this writing thing a professional endeavor? I’ll think on it. Until I make my final decision, it shall remain as-is.

  So yeah. Locals are moving about, no undead moving about, dealerships were a complete dry well. No injuries or deaths in our people, and we’re planning the departure out for the fire station on August 1st. Before we head out to do anything else, we’re going to take a few days, lay low, and take care of business here on the peninsula. There’s a lot of rubble and debris to pick up, and we NEED more fencing on the shoreline.

  Every day, and every night, at least one or two zombies float onto the beach, stand up, and start heading inland. Thus far, our snipers and security teams have been able to stop them, but it’s a matter of time before one of the floaters gets into the center of our AO and starts plugging the drain on us.

  I’m onto you, Jinx Fairy. Put your wand where the sun don’t shine, you rabid, life-wrecking whore.

  -Adrian

  October 2014

  October 1st

  I didn’t exactly think about this issue enough, when we were setting up shop here at the end of the peninsula, but with the vacuum of undead in the local area, and the first aid kit and welcome letter our little EMT run left out in the wilds, we have created a… well, it’s a good thing, so I won’t call it an issue.

  Let’s frame it as an opportunity.

  I last wrote a couple days ago, and since then, in a steady, measured line down the street, we’ve had over a hundred people seeking medical assistance. This has created a tremendous set of challenges for us, but it’s also dropped so much opportunity in our laps, it’s going to take me a week to sort through it all.