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

by Chris Philbrook

  “Maybe I’m haunting a person?”

  “Who?”

  “Who is here, that was there? At the church when we first met?”

  “In this building right now? Myself, my SEAL teammate Glen, and another man named Dennis.”

  “Dennis is not a Ring, correct?” Pastor Jonas asked.

  “No ,not yet.”

  “Ah, I see. Curious. I do not think he has anything to do with me, or my lingering nature. I know what is inside me. Inside my soul. I may not be perfect, but I do not think that God would judge me as being unworthy of eternal rest in Heaven. I did kill myself, didn’t I? Maybe that is the well my curse springs from. Perhaps then, I am haunting you, or perhaps, God has more purpose for me on this world, and I must fulfill a God-given, mysterious purpose.”

  “We’re back to being lame again.”

  “You’ve little faith then, yes?”

  “If you’re asking if I believe in God… then the answer is maybe. I’ve seen a lot happen in my time; being a war fighter puts you in moments of calamity and crisis. I’ve watched events unfold in impossible ways. Bullets missing heads by inches, explosions not killing people. Miracles, I can only conclude. I don’t pray, but I do believe someone out there, is looking out for me.”

  “And maybe perhaps, that’s why I’m here.”

  “I don’t need a ghost to watch over me. I have Glen.”

  “I don’t think I was remanded to the physical realm after death to haunt you, Thomas. I wonder instead, if I am your guardian angel in the shadows.”

  “I need to see it myself,” Colonel Fallon said to Tommy.

  The colonel, Glen, and Tommy were all sitting in the building’s cafeteria after the staff designated for cleaning had just finished up. The room had thick wooden beams in the ceiling, and tall windows that let in the white winter light. The room felt cool to Tommy; but every room did since he moved his bed within fifteen feet of the boiler.

  “I haven’t seen him in days,” Tommy said. “And he always shows up late at night. Zero three-thirty-three. Without deviation, every time.”

  “I’ll drag my shit down later. I’m staying down there until I see or hear this guy,” the leader of the Americans said.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “He believes you,” Glen said. “But I bet he wants to see it for himself.”

  “Damn right I do,” Fallon said. “I am a man of faith, boys. Born to a family of Christians, and I practice my faith. I pray almost daily. To say the end of civilization has rattled my core beliefs is an understatement. If I can capture just… just an iota of that pure innocence I once had back… I’ll sit in that basement for a month.”

  “So that’s that,” Tommy said. “Bring a deck of cards. I have a bunch of books already.”

  The men stood up and went about their way. That night, not long after a modest dinner of chicken with roasted potatoes and onions in that same room, Fallon joined Tommy in the basement. When they decided to sleep—Tommy on his bed, the Colonel on a cot they moved down—the SEAL passed out immediately. The officer took some time.

  He was excited.

  It took three nights before Pastor Jonas Krieger returned to the shadows.

  “Colonel,” Tommy whispered as he nudged the leg of his commanding officer. “Wake up.”

  “Wha-?” the older man said, rolling over. A second later, he sat straight up in the dimly lit room, aware of the ramifications of being woken in the middle of the night. “Is he here?”

  “Yeah. He’s got a spot over there,” Tommy said, pointing a finger at the black smear beyond the hulking boiler. “Sometimes I can see his teeth when he smiles.”

  Fallon turned his attention to the corner, and its mundane appearance. A shadow, a machine thrumming. The sounds of water coursing through pipes barely audible. Nothing unusual. Nothing at all.

  “Hello,” a voice called out from the darkness.

  “Oh, Tommy,” Fallon blurted, his eyes going wide, his mouth dropping open. He saw the sunken, root-exposed teeth. “He’s here.”

  “I am here, sir. You must be Colonel Fallon. Tommy’s said nice things about you. I admire a man who takes on the mantle of leadership in times of struggle. It is not enough to lead when the weather is calm, yes? Storms prove a sailor’s worth.”

  “I can’t speak to that. I’m Army. Tommy here is Navy,” Fallon said, never taking his eyes off the depths of the shadow that contained the impossible.

  “Ah, I see. The difference doesn’t matter to me, I don’t think. You’re a man of faith then? I can see the Bible near your bed. That matters to me.”

  “I am. You’re a pastor?” Fallon asked.

  “I was. You could say in some way, I still am.”

  “Would you say a prayer with me?” the colonel asked. “It would still my nerves.”

  “It would be my distinct honor and pleasure. Let us say the Lord’s prayer,” the ghost paused, and let Fallon join. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  The basement resumed its quasi-silence, save for the steady, satisfied breathing of the colonel.

  “Thank you,” the officer said. He’d already forgotten about the unsettling image of the shadow with teeth.

  “No, thank you. I have been a shepherd without a flock. Your sailor Tommy has pretty complicated beliefs about God. He’s been a challenge.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I’m here, guys. I’m right here in this room, and I can hear you both,” he said with a wry smile. “Thank you for allowing me to skip over introductions. I’m not terribly good at those social niceties. Most of the new people I get to meet are either trying to kill me, or I’m there to kill.”

  “I think you are joking, but that’s a sad way to live. I am glad we could make your life easier,” the ghost said. “Now, are you a believer in all senses of the word, Colonel Fallon? Your first-hand experiences in this moment restoring not only your tremulous faith in God and Jesus, but in the supernatural?”

  “I’ve always believed in God. I’ve always wondered about ghosts. Now, I believe in both,” he answered. “I am feeling some mighty relief right now. I feel vindicated.”

  “Shelter in the arms of the Lord revitalizes like nothing else can.”

  “Sure is hella church-y up in here right now,” Tommy said. “Should I leave?”

  The ghost and the officer laughed in unison.

  “You’re wondering why I’m here, aren’t you? The same as Tommy.”

  “Making sense of what’s happening feels like a fool’s errand, Pastor. That being said, if we could just… just understand a little bit of this, it’d mean a great deal. Many of us are lost spiritually, and lost emotionally, and need guidance. Too many of us think this is all just a… just a virus. I don’t believe that at all. This is an act of the Devil.”

  “You might be on to something, there. Tommy, do you remember when I said that the spaces in between are blank for me? Passages of time, with no sense of memory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m starting to realize that perhaps… I might be somewhere, existing, contemplating during those strange periods. Not in a void where I lack, and await existence, but in a place and time where I struggle to bring back to here, what happens there.”

  “Okay, I follow,” Tommy said. “What have you been… thinking there?”

  “The depths of the machinery of God,” the dead man said. “And trying, trying so desperately to understand what the machinery is trying to create.”

  “That’s some deep stuff right there,” Tommy said. “Any revelations from the beyond?”

  “Ironic choice of words, there,” Jonas said from the shadows. “Revelations. I believe all of this is related to a Bible passage. I keep… I keep hearing it in my head, over and over. Not now, mind
you, but in the times where I am not here.”

  “What passage?” The colonel asked, grabbing his Holy Bible and splitting it open.

  “Jeremiah 29:11, I believe,” the darkness spoke. “But it has been a long time since I held a Bible. I could be wrong.”

  Fallon found the passage, and read it aloud without waiting. “For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’ He looked to the shadows where the ghost remained out of sight. “What does that even mean?”

  “I believe I am not just a ghost, Colonel. I believe I have been remanded into the service of Thomas Ring to serve as a prophet of hope for the people in his vicinity. Perhaps even to serve the prophet himself.”

  “Why me?” Tommy asked.

  “All I can say, is that I believe it to be the truth. I feel it… I feel it within my soul. He’s a beacon of some sort. A bastion of hope and purpose. A torchbearer in this long, cold night. And as for the message I believe I am to prophecize; Do not lose hope. A future awaits you all, if you remain strong, and have faith in one another, and God.”

  “Fuck that,” Tommy said. “On a bunch of levels. I am no beacon of hope, nor am I lining up to find faith while zombies are chewing my friends up wholesale. If the big old G-O-D wanted us to prosper, and have a future, he wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”

  Two soft eyes appeared in the depths of the basement’s darkness.

  “You are not the only one bearing a burden, Tommy. I suspect strongly that others carry that torch I spoke of; bringers of hope, and peace, and order. And as for why God did this… think on that idea long, and hard. Perhaps we needed to be tested. Perhaps humanity had grown unworthy of that promise of prosperity. And maybe, just maybe, God’s test is not quite finished.”

  “Whatever test we took is over, and got graded, my dead friend. We rocked an F on it, and now we’re onto some extra credit shit to get that diploma,” Tommy said.

  October 5th

  One of the things I dread most in life (believe it or not) is when I sit down with my laptop, and I crack you open, Mr. Journal, and then try to figure out where to start writing, all compounded by the fear that I’ll forget something or misrepresent the events I want to (read: need to) record into this… fucked up history I’m chronicling.

  I just blanked out.

  For like, ten seconds.

  Sitting, staring at this white electronic page, here in this fucking metal floating coffin. Why?

  I think I just figured something out.

  I’m still writing. Compelled to write. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I can’t even function if I wait too long to write in this journal. This diary of the living, and the dead.

  I’m… I’m the Scribe again, aren’t I?

  It makes sense, right? Explains why the Trinity here wasn’t able to get the job done. They couldn’t find each other. They couldn’t form like Voltron. They couldn’t win, because they were incomplete.

  I KNOW I must write. It’s not just a fucking hobby right now. I know the difference. I felt it when I wrote after the end back home. There was a... venting of pressure. The compulsion to write all day and night, over and over, never letting anything slip or be forgotten (I mean, I tried, let’s be honest, I’m a bit of a shit show) but fuck… when I had that moment of success, and Cassie went down, and the zombies all fell… and M… and I had her, I didn’t have to write.

  Now, I must write.

  I’m the Scribe.

  Three Trinities doesn’t mean nine people. We listened to Sylvia when she said it, and she was right; there are three Trinities, but that doesn’t mean nine people.

  There are nine ROLES. Nine jobs to do. Three of those jobs are done. Kevin was the Warden. He protected us. I was the Scribe. I recorded it all, and Michelle was my Savior. She saved me, and my soul, and helped me get to where I needed to be, at the moment I needed to be there, and save a whole lot of lives.

  That’s the first time I’ve written her name since Picarillo killed her.

  I’ll be back. I’m fucking bawling. I’m a mess. I miss her so much.

  Why can’t I just be left alone, and be happy?

  -Adrian

  October 6th

  I cried myself to sleep. I don’t remember falling asleep in the least, and I don’t really remember my dreams, so for that, I am thankful.

  I don’t feel thankful for much right now, but that’s me being a depressed fucking mess. I have so, so much to be thankful for.

  I can’t write about Michelle. I just can’t. I can’t even barely write her name without fucking falling apart. I keep seeing her smile, and her face, and then all that goddamn blood. And I keep hearing the last thing she said to me: “You have to save them. They can’t help themselves all the time. They’ll be okay. Go. Just go. Come back when you’re done.”

  I thought about those words a lot. More than I’ve ever said here, to you. Maybe more than any other thoughts, to my detriment probably.

  Up until just now, I thought she meant I had to save the people of Bastion. I couldn’t see it. Now I… I know.

  She didn’t want me to save the people of Bastion; they were already saved. They were given their second chance when we were successful in the task that was presented to us. Unfucking my guilt, and setting an example of how to take care of each moving forward.

  I mean, she lied to me. She said she’d be fine, and she wasn’t. She knew that too, when she said it. She knew she was going to die. She made me go, because she knew if I stayed, I’d be more broken than I already would be, and she knew… she knew I had more work to do.

  I am the Scribe again. I don’t know if my soul is the one on the line again. I don’t think so. It’s someone else.

  And I’m part of the team that needs to save them. I see it clearly now. My purpose.

  I didn’t come here just because I wanted to. I came here because I had to. The wheels were already put in motion to get me to Europe long before I even knew anything about it.

  Accepting this responsibility doesn’t change much though, does it? I am here, and I am helping the people, and I am going to find the others in the Trinity, and we are going to face fuck this apocalypse. I’m talking grabbed ears and powerful, back of the car in High School thrusts.

  I’m so done with this shit. I want it over with, and I want peace, and quiet, and friends, and family.

  I’ll write about the fucking fire station shenanigans tomorrow. I need to talk to me people about this Trinity revelation.

  Auspicious choice of words, there. Revelation.

  Sleep now. Tired.

  -Adrian

  October 7th

  No one in my inner circle blinked an eye when I said I thought I was the Scribe again. Kevin made a typical Kevin comment about how the world always ‘HAS’ to revolve around me, and how conceited I am, but I told him I couldn’t listen to him from my throne room in Fort “Go Fuck Yourself.”

  I also presented the idea that we should rename Shoreham Port to Hope Point.

  Received a few nods of approval, and even a thumbs up from a grumpy Kate and an indifferent Kevin, so I consider it a done deal. I’ll toss the idea in front of Captain Rosario and Lancaster before we start making road signs and shit. They’re as close as we got to leaders beside my crew, so let’s give them a say.

  Point Hope. It’s good.

  Cats and dogs, man. The worst thing about the trip were the fucking animals. I love animals. I’m currently dealing with some dog-hate over my testicular trauma from back when, but I do love dogs.

  Beginning cut short: followed the route I mentioned all the way to the railroad tracks that bordered the cemetery. If you’re curious, we were able to climb over the fence. Had to climb over it. Making a hole would’ve been a bad idea. Why, you ask? No, not zombies, none of those. You see, by that point in the journey, we’d been followed, harassed, and attacked by about… let’s say eight to ten different dogs, and
about forty cats. Prolly a rabbit in there too, somewhere. Few rats.

  A fucking Octopus. Animals everywhere.

  I already said it, it’s no secret, Mr. Journal… ever since I nearly had my entire groin eaten by a pet gone feral back at the Jones Road farm, I have not been the biggest fan of canines. I’ll say it again; I love animals. I love all animals, really, but dogs do bite, and they bark a lot, and they tend to be much bigger (more dangerous) than cats.

  I don’t want to kill a dog, or a cat, or anything or anyone. On the day we went to the fire station, we had to yell and scream to get them to go away (which didn’t work) and finally, we had to throw bits of our food as far away as we could, then hoof it, paranoid as shit we’d run around a corner into a wall of zombies. Was a Grade-A goat-fuck mess.

  That being said, we also picked up a train of cats. I mean a TRAIN. Thirty, forty of them. Meowing like drunk frat guys in heat talking shit about their bench press max after a college football game. The cats made enough noise on their own to draw in a crowd of undead all the way from fucking Scotland, I swear.

  We yelled and screamed, but after a fashion we just accept our goddamn fate until we got to the fence that blocked off the rail line. It would’ve been easier to use out bolt cutters to snip a way through, but we had to do something to shed our fucking Doctor Doolittle traveling zoo.

  Up and over we went, standing in a sea of hungry cats and dogs. I went last, based on the fact I’m the biggest of our crew by far. Kevin’s a little thinner, and a little shorter for sure. I jumped, and Hal and Kevin grabbed my hands to pull me up and over. I could’ve done it myself, but it’s faster with help. I can do a chin-up. I swear it.

  Anyway, we left the cats and dogs behind, and were able to cross the rails, and tiptoe through the giant-ass graveyard, using the headstones as cover and concealment all the way. With no animals yapping and drawing in attention, we were able to make our way with far less distraction and noise all the way to the road that led north to the fire station. City felt empty without the animals. Like we were interred inside one of those coffins we were crossing over top of.