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

by Chris Philbrook

  Heroes, man. They shouldn’t feel that way, and it will haunt me if a single one of them are on the Other Side right now, feeling like they failed us.

  You didn’t. Be proud. Please be proud.

  Could use a nice, quiet visit to the White Room right now, if anyone is listening. Gilbert? You out there?

  Michelle?

  I should be so lucky. Maybe I’m not actually a piece of this Trinity. Maybe the White Room invites aren’t coming to me now. Maybe I’m just another fucking has-been trying to make a difference from the far side of the hill.

  Beware the old man in the profession where men usually die young, is the t-shirt I need from Hot Topic.

  Enough waxing philosophical.

  We’re not making any excessive noise, but something is drawing in the dead from fields afar. From the north as it would appear, but we knew that was coming.

  It must’ve been the explosion at the fuel facility. It didn’t seem that loud when it went boom, but memory works weird. In Iraq my buddies would report that some of the IEDs that went off near them were no big deal, just a loud bang, and the truck shook a little, but then they’d see the crater in the road a day or two later, and realize a 155mm artillery shell went off about five feet below their nuts and you could watch the color fade from their face.

  Maybe that’s what’s happening. The undead rushing in is our crater. We’re now seeing the real fallout of what happened. Cashing that reality check in, and finding out the balance in your account is still in the negative.

  Still trying to figure out what happened, but clarity, as I often allude to, is fleeting at best. So fuck that. Let’s forge forward, flipping over tables, yelling and screaming at the sky.

  The fires have burned out across the water, finally. The stench of burning fuel, and chemicals, and just under that, the smell of cooking human is starting to fade. The billowing clouds of dark smoke have winnowed down to tiny trails of gray that reach up to the clouds that never seem to want to clear anymore. They still shit rain down on us all the time, but last night when I was out helping at the gates (spear duty, lots of undead) there was spitting snow. Few flakes here and there. I’m told it doesn’t snow as much here as it does at home, but we’ll see what happens. The Jinx Fairy has a track record of ignoring and/or fucking with the weather reports. Asshole bitch.

  So, as I said, moving forward.

  We have our armored trucks. We have not one, but two functioning Seahawks. Hal has mapped three variant routes for us, based on road blockages of varying causes, and has scouted six different landing zones for our birds if we need a fast exfil. We have twenty days of food and water loaded into the vehicles for our team. We have two spare tires for each vehicle, full gas tanks plus almost 700 gallons of diesel more, strapped to the side of the ladder truck, and squirreled away where can find space. There’s enough medical gear for Joel to handle anything up to, and including amputation. I’ve sourced four small boomboxes with appropriate batteries, but only two Lady Gaga CDs. Other music was obtained. I can’t speak to whether or not it’ll be as effective as she has proven to be. I hope that’s enough sound-distraction ammunition to draw away crowds when we need them to move away for us. We are bringing enough ammo to lay siege to London Tower, and Fagan says he found a large enough dildo in a crew cabin on Reuben James for us to never have to worry about close quarters battle.

  I think he’s joking, but I’m okay if he’s not. I’ll beat a motherfucker with a giant dick to stay alive. Shoot it with an enormous slingshot like a phallic javelin.

  The Cock-a-pult by Ring Industries. Or, if you prefer, the Cock-Ring.

  Not as funny when I write it out like that. Way funnier in my head.

  It’s so strange to think that we’re just a day or two away from heading north. So many weeks of preparation for this moment, and now it’s just gonna happen like it’s no big deal. The amount of man-hours that’s gone into making this fucking road trip happen is astronomical.

  All to give Hal some peace of mind.

  Sounds bat shit crazy when I think about it like that. All for my friend, and so he can maybe, just maybe find his mom and dad. Boiled down to that, all this effort feels foolish in the extreme. But, it’s not just that. Think of the people we’ve helped just here in Brighton, already. We’re trying to find the other two parts of the Trinity, and any ground we cover gives us the chance to meet people who might’ve met someone special, or, Devil forbid, actually cross paths with the vaunted people we need to get on-task.

  Whatever that task is.

  I am… leaving little Otis here on the boat. My soul will be staying behind with him, but you already knew that. I can’t risk bringing him in the trucks. Not even willing to risk that 1%. Bringing him here on the boat feels crazy enough, but dragging him out into the depths of zombie-infested England is just plain old stupid. He’s made enough friends here that he will have many laps to sleep in, and more than a few beds to keep warm at night.

  Abby and Hal have entrusted Gavin’s care to Kate and William, who are platonic life mates now, it appears. They are excited to take care of the baby, and Gavin is familiar with them. The last few days, in preparation for the departure, the parents have been spending all their spare time with Kate and William, acclimating Gavin to the idea that they’ll be gone for… well, we hope less than a week or two.

  Straight up, straight check on their hometurf, straight back.

  But it won’t go that way. We’ll white knight our asses across some fucking random town, helping dweebs and schmucks get food or water or medicine, or find their fucking lost pocketknife, or whatever other goddamn problems we can solve like no one else.

  My dollar is going on us finding some of Hal’s old school buddies, and we’ve got to help them rescue their parents from the vile clutches of an undead Duke who has them buttoned away in his crumbling castle-turned zombie sex dungeon. Surrounded by a moat filled with meth-addled sharks, polar bears, and toddlers who’ve been given multiple espressos and finger paint.

  That cock-a-pult will be CLUTCH when that siege comes around.

  So yeah, we’re heading north in three days, unless something happens to derail that timeline, and we’re taking all precautions to prevent that from happening.

  November 27th. Oh, and don’t worry, Mr. Journal. Your new, military-grade body will be making the trip. I can keep you charged up in the trucks as we drive. There’s too much risk of me forgetting something if I wait too long to type it up. The burden of responsibility.

  Our comms will reach all the way, and we can call in William and his sister helo on hella short notice. He says at top speed, he can get to Croydon from here in one hour. That’s counting the time it takes for them to start the motors, and pull up their pants. Fast chopper.

  In reality, as the crow flies we’re only traveling about fifty or sixty miles north. Driving, less than 75 miles, and that’s being generous with mistakes and roadblocks we’ll need to drive around. Not that far. Less than the distance between Bastion and Calendar Mountain back home, and we made that trip multiple times. It’s actually closer to the distance between Bastion and The Factory. The big difference, is the urban territory we’re crossing. Suburban London is multiple orders of magnitude more populated that the city would’ve ever been, and it’s foreign territory. I don’t know these road signs. I don’t understand how they number or letter highways, or interstates, or whatever the fuck they call them here. Neve mind the fact that city streets are as narrow as can be here, on account that they’re all old cow paths that some dumb local official decided to lay cobblestones down on. Fucking Romans couldn’t widen the streets.

  Oh, and the fact that it’s still chock full of hungry undead.

  Semi-cunning, jogging and occasionally running undead, in one of the biggest cities in the world. It wouldn’t take much for our journey to become worst-case scenario. Flat tire in the wrong place. Gun exchange with a few wounded.

  I’ll try and check in before we leave. Not sure what
I’ll say, but I’ll figure something out.

  Shit, something’s apt to go wrong between now and then anyway.

  -Adrian

  November 27th

  I had intended on checking in with a few update entries before our planned departure, but shit’s been delayed until tomorrow morning at dawn. I’ve been caught up in checking supplies over, getting a quick physical from Joel (all is well) and making sure that all of our loose ends here are addressed before we disappear for however long we’re going to be gone for.

  Logistics first, before news of the outside world. Logistics are positive, at least.

  We did the math, and figured that the 700 gallons of diesel we are bringing might not be enough. The ladder truck and pumping engine seem to be averaging about 4 miles per gallon. At a bare minimum, with no side quests or wide detours, our trip is going to be at least 45 miles each way. That’s 90 miles per big truck, times 4 gallons per mile, times 2 trucks. That’s a minimum need of 720 gallons, plus what the ambulance needs. That bitch seems to be getting about 10 miles to the gallon, which adds another 90 gallons of demand. That leaves us at bare minimum 130 gallons of fuel short.

  The vehicles themselves have fuel tanks that hold 60 and 75 gallons on the big rigs, and the ambulance tank is 25 gallons, which makes up that difference, but leaves us almost no wiggle room if we suffer a fuel spill, idle for any length of time at all, or take any kind of extra journey that’s more than ten miles in total, we’re bent.

  I’m shit at math, but like… a 10% fuel buffer seems smart to me. If we need 900 gallons, then we need another 90. I’m guessing what we can get away with, without foraging for more fuel as we go, was to slap one more 55 gallon drum of diesel to the pumper (so all our spare fuel wasn’t on the ladder truck).

  That’s what we did.

  Our welder nerds slapped a diamond plate platform about three feet deep on the ass end of Little Boy, right on top of an existing piece of steel decking, then fabricated a cradle for two more barrels. They also attached a hand crank fuel pump mount, which means we now have two.

  Two is one, and one is none, right?

  We’ve disbursed our supplies as equally as we can manage across the three vehicles, in the event we need to ditch. You know what our real worst case scenario is? Ditching Fat Man, and losing the ten barrels of fuel.

  Standing rule: our first three refills come off the ladder truck before we use Jerry cans, or the barrels on the engine. That’ll mitigate the loss of the ladder truck if need be. Just devastating.

  The trucks are good. Wheels are protected with armor, we have brush guards and an actual plow blade on Little Boy should we run into snow. It’s not like, a well-installed plow, but it’ll take the edge off any real quantity we run into. Remember, December is just days away, and the world hates me.

  Right. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re prepared. Otis is happy, for now, and I’ll be back in a few days if all goes well. He’s as loved as baby Gavin on this boat, and we all know, if someone won’t die to protect a little kid, they surely will go the distance for a cat. It’s like a Venn diagram of what people will risk their lives for.

  While we’re gone, Rosario will continue on. No massive projects before clearing undead that approach, and helping locals so long as it doesn’t endanger our operation. We want to help, but we can’t risk losing our foothold here. I trust her. She’s better at the big picture stuff than I am.

  If, in the event we’re going to be outside the wire for days and days, and they need to be productive, their plan is to recon the remaining local gas stations to see if there is any salvageable diesel, and provide assistance to locals who need it in a more robust, delivery-level fashion.

  Doing nothing, and maintaining is okay too.

  Why is that okay?

  Well…

  We had two more fires since I last reported one. You might now bring your attention to the deliberate choice of ‘remaining’ above. The two fires were set conspicuously at places that we were likely to loot or raid at some point. One of which was a gas station. Sorry, petrol station. They call ‘em petrol stations here I think. The other fire was set about twelve hours later at a six story tall apartment building. We were watching the first fire go, lamenting the loss of fuel and possible supplies at the petrol station, when all of a sudden miles away we saw the orange fires growing up level by level inside the windows of this nondescript brick tower.

  The fire couldn’t have spread that fast without some kind of intelligence assistance. Someone had to prop open the fire doors, at the very least. Maybe that’s actually how fast apartment buildings go up. I don’t know. But man, more fire.

  It raged, like a massive candle that cast light across the entire western side of Brighton, and it burned for fucking hours, well through the end of the night and into morning. Smoke just saturated up into the sky, acrid, and smelly, like chemicals. We’d only just gotten rid of the rotten, chemical-spill smell coming from the fuel facility across the bay, and boom-pow, it’s back again.

  Reminds me of Chief Bell End’s odor when he wasn’t chain-smoking the smell away. Clever idea, that. Hide the smell of smoke under the smell of a different smoke. I might’ve led with like, cologne, or perfume, but some people just want to watch the world burn, I guess. I hope he and his family have reunited on the Other Side, and are at peace.

  So, with sturdy gates, strong fencing, multiple well-armed, vigilant guards, me team and I leave tomorrow for Croydon, to try and track down Hal’s family.

  Oh… my team. I still haven’t said who’s coming.

  Fagan, Hal, Abby, Kevin (his foot is more or less healed up enough to not be a liability, not like he’d let me leave him behind anyway), Lancaster, Sgt. Oak (whose foot is fine. Like, Wolverine regeneration factor fine), Sgt. Maple, Joel, and myself.

  Any of us can drive the ambulance. Fagan, Kevin, and Maple have CDL experience, and can drive the big rigs proficiently. In some of our spare time, we’ve been practicing in the parking lots of the warehouses here on the peninsula, but those three are our go-to drivers. Roads are going to be challenging up and back, so there’s no sense putting the bench in when the starters are available.

  We’ll drive as fast as we need to, safely, and take only the risks we deem necessary.

  And Mr. Journal, by now, you should know that I take almost every risk I can, because I’m an idiot. An idiot that’s surrounded by people who are really good at keeping him alive. Thank God for that.

  I’ll check in again once I get time on the road. That might mean tomorrow night, or ten days from now when we get back. I have no idea of knowing how things go once we leave the coast here and head inland.

  We are as prepared as we can get.

  I’d say wish me luck, but at best you’re a file on a computer that I’ve anthropomorphized, and vent to in order to maintain my fragile sanity.

  It’s all good.

  -Adrian

  Ernest Goes for a Walk

  Croydon, England, 2014. On the Other Side.

  “It’s time to wake up,” Linda Parker whispered to her sleeping husband. She leaned over, lifting her floral dress up so it didn’t tickle his face. She planted a soft kiss on his smooth, soft forehead.

  “Not yet. I didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled back to her before rolling over in the bed, in the flat they shared before she died.

  “Dear, Harold is coming soon. The building isn’t getting any easier to navigate, or get into. He could get hurt.”

  The mention of their son’s name snapped his wizened, dark lids open. The whites of his eyes were yellowed more than usual, and a bit bloodshot, but the dark brown centers were clear. He blinked the sleep out of them, and sat up, creaky and sore.

  “I’m not awake, am I?”

  “My love, I’ve learned that there are many kinds of ways to be awake in this world,” she said, helping him twist to sit on the bed’s edge. She went to hand him the glass of water he always kept on his nightstand, but it wasn’t t
here. Food and drink didn’t exist in this paused, halfway world.

  He licked his lips.

  “How soon?”

  “They leave this morning. They have… a long trip.”

  “Brighton to here is a trot,” Ernest corrected her. “Two hours with traffic, even with how slow I drive.”

  “There are worse obstacles to navigate that traffic right now, and if you can imagine it, they’ll have to drive a lot slower than you normally would.”

  “They’re better off walking then.”

  “Part of the trip they’ll have to, if things sit the way they are,” she said, sitting down beside the man she’d left a widower.

  He reached over and took her hand, softly interlacing his fingers through hers until he formed a soft, warm shell over her hand. They sat like that for a minute, each breathing in a gentle sync, still and warm in the dark bedroom, in the illusion of a June where things might just turn out okay.

  But that was illusion, and they both knew it.

  Things might still turn out okay though.

  “Can you see into my heart?” Ernest asked.

  “A little,” Linda said, leaning over enough so she could rest the side of her head on his thin, bony shoulder. “Enough.”

  “If you can see how much I miss you, please don’t let that make you sad.”

  “Ernest,” Linda said, lifting her head off his shoulder. “Your sadness is just a reflection of your love for me. I hold a mirror up to it, and see what I choose to see. Any sadness I have is of my own making, and it is my burden to bear. Don’t fret over me. I’m safe, and doing all I can for our family where I am. It’s time for you to do more of the same.”