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

by Chris Philbrook

  “That can’t be,” the revealed Dennis said. “I’m sweating and my shoulder hurts from pushing it open. Look on the floor,” he said, and pointed to the scratches in the hardened cement.

  “Look around, there’s nothing.”

  They two men searched the area, and indeed, there was nothing that could’ve been behind the door that might’ve blocked it. The closest possible culprit was a drill press ten feet distant, and bolted to the floor.

  “Can you get the heat going?” Tommy asked him.

  “It’s still operating, so I think so. The boiler is still hot. I’ll be right back,” he said, and grabbed the candle be brought for light. He walked off into the deeper basement. Just a few seconds later, he returned. “Some valves that control the water distribution were shut. Can only be done by hand, in this room.”

  “Is that dangerous? If they’re shut like that?”

  “In this case, no. But whoever did it, somehow also managed to keep this door shut from within, then disappeared once we got it open. Or slipped out, and somehow pulled something against the door from the outside.”

  “Well shit.”

  “Who do we tell about this?”

  “I’ll talk to Colonel Fallon. We should post a guard down here. Last thing we need is some bored, mischevious prick blowing the building up.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I’ll um, I’ll head back to my room then,” Dennis said, then slipped past Tommy to exit.

  Tommy reached out and gently grasped Dennis on the wrist, pausing his exit. Dennis turned and looked at him, he looked… fragile in that moment. Not a typical look for Dennis.

  “It was good to see you,” Tommy said.

  “Yes. Good to see you too,” Dennis said, warming up. The look of apprehension faded.

  “I didn’t mind you being close,” Tommy said. “I was just a bit surprised. I’m sorry if my reaction… hurt you.”

  “It um, it didn’t?” Dennis said. “Not now, for sure. I’ll see you soon?” He smiled.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’d like that.”

  Dennis departed with his relieved smile, and Tommy smiled too. A few seconds later, he felt the tingle of butterflies in his stomach. He settled into that unexpected feeling, and tried to ignore the simmering background dread the strange experience in the boiler room had brought on.

  “What the fuck is it with German basements?”

  He laughed uneasily, propped the door open with a heavy hammer, and went up the steps with more energy than he’d gone down them with. He proceeded to the Colonel’s quarters on the same floor as his and Glen’s room.

  It took a trip down to the basement with Tommy for Colonel Fallon to agree to post a guard on the door to the boiler room in the basement.

  “Jesus,” the colonel said as he stood up from examining the gouges in the floor. “And nothing behind it when you got inside?”

  “You find it, you win a prize,” Tommy said. “Nothing. And no escape routes either. No vents big enough to crawl out of, no doors, no hatches, no teleporters, no Scotty beaming people up.”

  “How did this happen, then?” The colonel asked him. “You want to pose an idea?”

  “Promise to not lock me up in a padded room?”

  “You’d eat the hinges off the door and escape even if I did. Permission to speak freely.”

  Tommy took a deep breath, and said things he wasn’t sure he believed in. “Remember the church we breached? Where we found the tunnel? Do you remember us talking about finding a scurvy-sick pastor in the foyer?”

  “I do. He disappeared on you, right?”

  “Yeah, but we found his body behind a locked door in the basement later on. Same room that had the door to the tunnel that led us here.”

  “Not sure I follow, Tommy.”

  “There’s no way in Hell that man was in the foyer talking to us, and then minutes later, he was tied to a chair and dead—long dead—mind you. This is going to sound crazy, but I think when we found him in the lobby to that church… I think he was a ghost.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I would if I could but I can’t so I won’t,” Tommy said. His dad used to say shit like that. “But I ain’t fucking with you. I truly believe he was a dead man, but not like the zombies.”

  “Ghosts aren’t real, Tom.”

  “Neither were fucking zombies before 2010, Colonel. Is it that much of a stretch to think that ghosts could be real now? Yeah, I know, it’s fucked up; but there’s more to this story.”

  “What? Sasquatch? Fairies? Shit, is that homophobic? Sorry, that not what I meant at all. I apologize.”

  “Simmer down, Colonel,” Tommy said with a laugh. “No harm, no foul. No JAGs are gonna drag you before a court martial. Okay look, listen; we never told anyone this; it was bat shit crazy then, and still is now. But when we were Oscar Mike to the church, we got caught up in a bunch of the undead, and one of them approached me.”

  “You put it down.”

  “Not quite. The fucking thing looked at me, then snarled at me, actually making noise, then reached out with one hand, and offered me a pen.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Learn to say something different. So it offered me this pen, then like, tilted its head sideways, shook it a little, like it had offered it to me incorrectly, and then said, and I fucking quote, ‘no, not you.’ The fucker closed its hands, and walked away.”

  “There are witnesses to this?”

  “Glen, Dennis, Katrin, Stephanie. They all saw it. You can ask them. I wouldn’t lie, you know me.”

  “That’s the worst part of it. I know you’re telling the truth.” The military officer with no real army to lead put his hands on his hips and walked in a circle down in the basement lit only by the candles the two men had brought down with them. “Has anyone else seen or heard anything like this?”

  “I haven’t asked, and no one’s mentioned anything.”

  “We have to be careful. Admitting that we think potentially mischievous ghosts are real might spark a panic. Zombies are bad enough. I’ll work that angle. Are you willing to post up down here and make sure no… poltergeists mess with us? I don’t trust anyone but you and Glen on this.”

  “I’ll double tap Casper. I don’t give a fuck.”

  “That’s a relief. Okay. You want to move your quarters down here? Set up permanent shop with Glen? Get some holy water?”

  “No, Jesus no, I just got rid of having to room with that guy. I’ll move down here, but he can keep his ass behind his own locked door.”

  The colonel laughed. “Okay, that’s good. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re down here. Can you get a lock on this door? Get some keys handed out to a few trusted people?”

  “Dennis has been doing the building management, for lack of a better term. I’ll ask him.”

  “Tommy, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d shoot a whole lot, and miss most of everything,” Tommy explained.

  “I take that heinously wrong remark personally. Permission to speak freely revoked, sailor.”

  “Aye aye, Colonel.”

  “Get your gear down here. I’m gonna see if anyone else is seeing dead people.”

  “Ghosts, sir. Considering our current world situation, I feel like being specific right now is probably gonna matter.”

  The colonel laughed, and left Tommy in the dark basement alone.

  The SEAL looked around, and sighed. “Home sweet home. At least it’s warm down here.”

  Tommy cleared out his regular schedule of patrols, helping in the armory to clean and maintain weapons, and fucking off with his teammate Glen to move his stuff down into the basement. Glen kept pressing on the reasons why they were doing it, but Tommy deflected his incessant efforts to get info by spewing random facts about comic books at him.

  Only after two solid hours of morning labor, carrying Tommy’s bed frame, mattress and box spring down the echoing, cold stairwell did Tommy explain the situation. Glen sat on a wooden st
ool beside the drill press not far from the spot they’d set up Tommy’s temporary quarters. He was speechless as Tommy watched him recall the horrific events of the night they’d encountered the zombie that spoke, then later, the dead pastor that both was and was not.

  “If this really is a ghost… do you think they’re dangerous?”

  “Are you asking if you can be my roommate again? Because that’s gonna be a no from me,” Tommy said as he laid back on his bed. “I won’t need a blanket down here. At least seventy-five in this room.”

  “Toasty. Yeah, look, bro, I’m worried about this idea. What the ghost is dangerous? What if it’s a fucking traitor in our midst? You being alone makes my skin crawl.”

  “I’m moved by your strong feelings for me. If you think we have a traitor in the flesh? No. It can’t be a real person. I’m 100% Slimer on this.”

  “Because of the physics of the door being blocked?”

  “Yeah, more or less. There’s just no way a real person did what we saw.”

  “Do you think Dennis did it?” Glen posed. “He was here, fucking with the door when you showed up, right? What if he was the one behind it?”

  “Don’t say shit like that. He’s not that guy,” Tommy snapped.

  “Oh… whoa,” Glen said, lifting his hands in supplication. “I hit a nerve there.”

  “Sorry, just, you know….”

  “Oh I know now,” Glen said. “This a good thing?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not a thing at all, really.” Tommy’s face felt hot.

  “Well, you let me know when and if it does. Important to know when a friend transitions to family,” Glen said.

  “Thanks,” Tommy said, and meant it. “Look, I’ll be fine down here. There’s something going on, and we both know it. Germany isn’t Afghanistan. That zombie that talked to me, then the pastor. Next level weird shit is happening, and it happened in this basement. And if anyone—if any family—is well suited for living in the weird shit, it’s mine. Peculiar and unusual is in my DNA.”

  “No argument. You’re like a cocktail of the missing link, Olympic athletes, and a MENSA candidate. Promise me you won’t live down here like a damn hermit. Like Yoda on that swamp planet.”

  “Dagobah. He lived on Dagobah.”

  “Fucking nerd.”

  Tommy became a bit of a hermit, like Yoda on that swamp planet.

  Disengaged from his regular duties at the citadel, Tommy spent several days, and nights alone in the basement, exercising then reading book after book by the light of a kerosene lantern that hung above his bed. Hugged by the warmth of the nearby boiler, and the hot water pulsating through the pipes heading in every direction in the room, off to shed its heat for the others sheltering in the retired, repurposed military structure.

  Tommy devoured light, pulpy fantasy novels, then a science fiction novel, then a few thrillers. He raided their substantial library in a central building nearby and borrowed a few autobiographies, as well as two books about German history, written in English. Being that they’d lived in Erfurt for quite some time, with no real plan to leave to head home, Tommy wanted to learn more about his new residence.

  It all served to distract him from worry about a potential ghost, thoughts of his family back home, and the confusing, strange idea, that there was a person he thought he liked, and the fact that the person was nearby. SEALs had plans for almost everything—and the ability to plan—for anything that might come up, but they curiously overlooked issues related to romance.

  Tactical oversight.

  Tommy slept well all alone anyway, comforted by the building’s boiler-womb, a fresh mattress, good books, and a rigorous circuit training regimen. He dreamed of nothing important, and sometimes, though he did not realize it yet, he dreamt of the dead.

  He was woken up by the sound of a man’s voice whispering to him in the locked room.

  “Identify yourself,” Tommy said, reaching for the M4A1 beside his bed.

  “What do you call a sailor with no boat?” the tired voice whispered in the tomb of the basement.

  Tommy’s mind raced, trying to match the speed his heart sputtered at.

  “Not a whale… but a seal, yes?”

  That voice is familiar… wispy, spent. “Who are you?”

  “Proof of God, that’s what you are,” the voice said, confirming a suspicion it apparently had. “I remember now,” it added, the sound of the voice echoing around the room.

  “The pastor. From the church,” Tommy said after it clicked together. He still reached for the rifle.

  “I was a pastor once.”

  “In Erfurt Germany?” Tommy asked the presence, still in the blackness. His hand found the rifle, and the lantern beside it. He didn’t turn the light on. Not yet.

  “Yes. My hometown. I was lucky.”

  “You died,” Tommy told the voice. “And we still talked to you when we entered your church.”

  “I remember… I attacked you.”

  “Yes you did.”

  “I had to protect my congregation,” it explained. “You were… dangerous. Sailors without boats can’t be trusted.”

  “Well you’re not really wrong about that,” Tommy said. At least my sense of humor didn’t get scared away.

  “I was wrong about many things. Faith was the salve I applied to my wounds of character, and education. Through God I gained so much. I learned how to find righteousness, when I was blind. I am thankful.”

  Tommy sat up on his bed in the dark. The voice—the pastor, the presence—remained silent.

  “My name is Tommy. Thomas Ring.”

  “A ring. An unbroken circle. A promise kept.”

  “We are people of our word.”

  “That’s good. Where am I?”

  “The basement of a building at Citadel Petersburg in Erfurt. We’ve fortified it against the undead. Many survivors.”

  “Another basement I know nothing of. Why am I here?” the pastor asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you remember your name? Maybe you can tell me your name?”

  “I…” the voice trailed off. “Warrior. I am a warrior. Krieger.”

  “You told me I could call your Jonas. Is that still okay?”

  Nothing came back in return. More time passed in the void.

  “Pastor Jonas?”

  Tommy drew in a slow, measured breath and lifted the rifle. He thumbed the safety and reached over with his left hand to pick up the lantern. He sat in the dark like that for another minute, waiting for a man that wasn’t there to answer him.

  He mentally prepared to die, and twisted the knob.

  The light he made, showed no ghosts.

  A metallic ping woke an anxious Tommy several nights later. The SEAL sat up in his bed and looked around the boiler room. Dancing shadows cast by the candle he’d left lit moved back and forth as he searched the space. In his dreamy state he’d somehow pinned down the rough direction of the noise, and he turned towards the actually boiler itself. He focused on the shadows beyond its anvil-weight solidity.

  “Pastor Jonas?”

  “What time is it, Tommy?”

  He looked down at his watch. “Zero-three thirty-three.”

  “Awfully early to be up, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Pastor. It’s a little early. Welcome back,” he said, staring at the obvious blackness where the presence of Jonas Krieger resided. He saw something move, and shift in the umbra of the black.

  “I’m not sure why I’m here, Tommy.”

  “That makes two of us. Do you remember why you turned off the valves in here? Was it to do damage? Get someone’s attention?”

  “In here? I don’t remember doing that. But if I did… it wasn’t to hurt anyone. I would only be violent or destructive to protect my congregation. I don’t think anyone would want to hurt my worshippers.”

  A cool draft of air slipped along the floor, chilling Tommy. It came from behind the boiler, and the blackness where the ghost of Jonas remained out of view. />
  “What if you thought hurting us was protecting your congregation?”

  “How would that make sense?”

  “What if you thought your congregation was the army of the dead outside the walls of this citadel? What then, Pastor?”

  “I would never take them under my wing. Not a chance. The monsters may be doing God’s work, but they are not mine for the tending.”

  “Doing God’s work? The zombies? That’s fucking dark, Jonas. Why would you say that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the man in the shadows asked. “What else could take our lives at such quantity, then turn our very bodies against us one after another? Who else—what else—but God?”

  “Yeah I got no argument.”

  “When faced with a miracle, there can be disagreement,” Pastor Jonas said from his sanctuary in the dark.

  “If God is the one behind this all… then how do we explain your presence? You’re more than the undead. You’re a thinking, existing… spirit, outside of the physical constraints of your corpse.”

  “Did I get a proper burial? Were words said? Did I get an adequate service?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tommy said.

  “Then perhaps I am a restless soul, doomed to wander the world until some mysterious purpose is fulfilled.”

  “Wow. Unbelievably lame.”

  Pastor Jonas laughed; a warm sound from a being that existed outside of the rules of life.

  “Sorry, that might’ve been a dick move,” Tommy said.

  “Don’t apologize,” Jonas assured. “I took no offense. Why should I? I am dead after all. I lack only Heaven. Perhaps… perhaps that means this is my Hell?”

  “I can’t drum up much of an argument against that idea either.”

  “I don’t know where I go, when I’m not here,” the man of God said. “There is a passage of time I sense, but an absence of meaning. No dreams, no visions, no rest. Just… nothing. I have memories of being in the church, and laying in wait for someone to come, but that feels… primitive.”

  “Legends and stories say ghosts haunt places but you’ve materialized enough to have a physical presence in two places now. So that doesn’t hold water.”