That sold him. Combat often is necessary. People who say war doesn’t solve anything haven’t studied history. War solves a shitload. I’d say ask all the cultures that were wiped out by war for proof but…. They were wiped out by war.
This is no different. We do not want to seek out danger and violence, but risking it is now seems to be a required facet of life. Without risk, we will run out of the things we need, or we will starve. Or worse, we’ll get killed by people who want our shit, and have the ability to take it from us.
We went over the basic details of what will be our first run to the municipal station. To sum up, we agreed that our first run was down to the station, grab the ladder truck if it’s there, and salvage everything we can find. We return to campus, lay low for a day to make sure nothing followed us, then we return again after a day or so. On the second run we can attempt to grab either a single remaining truck, or we can try for two trucks depending on whether or not we feel confident in trying it.
After that second trip we lay low again to make sure we are not leading people back here. If the coast is clear, we then make an additional trip to the station as needed. If we don’t need to do that, then we take the ladder truck to the grocery store, and do what’s needed there. Priority one is the guns, priority two is the food and supplies in the store.
The military has this neat saying about plans. No plan survives first contact. Our plan will inevitably be a moist, brie like turd being thrown into a tornado like fan. We’ll have to improvise, adapt, and overcome. Or run like sissy boys in a prison shower. It could go either way.
Gilbert has located four 55 gallon drums at a house about 5 miles away. Because he took the snow mobile to get there, it seems to be closer than it is. The house is actually sitting on Route 18 about a mile away from the gas station. I didn’t clear that far down because it was heading into town. He said the house looked clear of zombies but he couldn’t be sure. We both decided that we should get down there today and get the barrels back up here. So we made the plan to head down today, and after that we’d sit down with the Williams folks and present them our idea for the trips downtown.
Gilbert and I parted ways and we agreed to meet at his place with the maintenance truck at 10am. On my way back to Hall E I stopped by and said hi to the Williams clan. They were trying to get the place decorated like a home, which was nice. I gave Randy an Xbox when they moved out, and he was tuned into that like a champ. I said hi to him and he barely acknowledged me. Kids and their video games.
I asked Chuck if he was down to give Gilbert and I a hand, and he said his back was still sore, which is understandable. Mine still is. Patty is kind of a little woman, so I didn’t think to ask her. Abby volunteered, and I figured she could at least keep watch as Gilbert and I did what we had to do. Charles and Patty had an epic fight over that while I stood there, and eventually I told them it was okay and to never mind, and that Gilbert and I would do it ourselves. No sense ruining the whole happy vibe over some empty gas barrels. Abby seemed pissed she’d been shot down, but I told her maybe next time.
I headed back to my place and kicked my feet up for the evening. It was nice to get some more rest. It definitely helped my back. I had two cans of tuna fish, two dill pickles and some chips for dinner. Wasn’t gourmet, but it was pretty yummy.
This morning I woke up earlier than I’d intended to. I wanted to sleep in until 9am, but I wound up waking up at 8. I had some really trippy dreams about my family. My mother and father were in them. In the dream they were dead, and coming after me here in Hall E. They weren’t zombies in the dream though, more like ghosts or demons or something. Almost like they were haunting me. Very vivid dream and very weird shit. I’m a lot creeped out right now talking about it.
Anyway, I washed my face, got my gear together, and did an early patrol of campus on the snowmobile. Nothing to report.
I grabbed the maintenance dumper and swung down to Gilbert’s place at quarter of ten. He was ready and waiting already. Old soldiers, man. We double checked our shit, and I headed down to the house in the truck, and he went down on his trails in the snowmobile. The road down was clear of danger, and when I got to Route 18 there were no tracks in the snow. Snow had fallen recently during some overnights and put a fresh coat on everything. It pained me to leave tracks in the snow.
Gilbert was sitting like a king astride a warhorse in the driveway of the house. I’d driven by it several times heading into town and hadn’t noticed the drums. I backed the truck in and he spun around the back of the place. I hopped out, slung up the M15 and headed to the back yard, checking the windows for signs of danger inside the house. I didn’t see anything.
The house was a small cape with a teeny one car garage next to it. Parked in front of the garage was a small pickup truck. The house itself was an awful urine yellow with lime green trim. Just being near the damn thing made me want to scratch out my eyes. In the backyard behind the little garage were the four 55 gallon drums. They looked brand new, still shiny and painted clean. Inside the drums was some kind of powdered pigment or something. The four colors for process printing work. We looked inside the garage and lo and behold the dude had some small printing presses in there. Looked like some ancient ass offset presses that he was printing business cards on. Probably ran an internet business out of his house. I always thought ink was wet, but maybe this dude mixed his own? Fucked if I know.
Gilbert and I tipped the drums out and turned the white snow into a Technicolor dream. Looked like a rainbow went on a bender and puked everywhere. Once rinsed, they’d be perfect for gasoline. We got the drums rolled around the front of the house and to the back of the truck. It wasn’t too bad getting them into the bed of the truck alone. Empty they aren’t too damn heavy, and as long as I was slow, it was fine. I had just gotten the fourth barrel into the back of truck when I heard glass breaking from nearby. Gilbert snapped to attention and drew his .45.
I got the M15 up and shouldered it after I made sure the barrel wasn’t going to fall off the truck and crush me. The window nearest us was busted out, and lying in the snow flailing around was a man. I think I yelled “freeze!” at him, but he ignored me, and once he got to his feet we saw he was dead. It was an older man, probably in his 50’s. He actually looked a lot like Charles when I got a good look at his face.
He was wearing slacks and a button down short that was torn open. He had bite marks all over his arms and shoulders and had bled pretty badly from them. As I was putting my front sight on his face I saw another figure come into the window frame he’d fallen from. It was an older woman and she’d been shot several times center mass. Her blouse was blown apart by what looked to be shotgun pellets. Through the hole in the shirt you could see her exposed ribs and ripped up stomach. Her guts were straining to pop out of the strips of flesh that were remaining. She also had a few bite marks on her arms. As I looked back to who I thought was her husband she tipped head over heels out the window into the same spot in the snow he’d just gotten out of.
I made the decision to draw the sword and do them manually, but then I realized I’d forgotten the fucking sword at Hall E. Durrr. Fail.
I re-aimed the M15 and flicked the safety. One squeeze later the old man was face down in his driveway fully dead, and as soon as the woman stopped moving around I put one into her face and she fell on top of her dead husband.
I wasn’t pissed at that point, but I was really disappointed we didn’t clear the house first. I mean that’s been my general rule for some time now. Maybe it was because Gilbert was there, or because we were giddy to get the drums. I don’t know. I looked at Gilbert in disgust and he nodded. We both knew it was a mistake not to clear the joint. I told him I was going in. I fished around in the dead dude’s pocket and got his house keys. I let myself into the back entrance and Gilbert said he’d stand watch at the door.
The house itself was even smaller on the inside. The kitchen was cramped with a dine-in table, and the living room was filled with a few
too many pieces of tacky plaid furniture. Reminded me of 80’s rural décor. More Little Rock than Paris, if you get my drift.
The bottom floor had those two rooms plus a bathroom and what looked to be the master bedroom. There was a shotgun on the floor and blood all over the place in the living room and bathroom. Looked like one of them had been bleeding for whatever reason, and at some point the shotgun got involved. Hard to put the scene together after the fact, but the bottom line is they both died, and then came back as zombies.
Behind a thin interior door were the steps going upstairs. The steps leading up to the second floor were really steep. I had to duck to keep my head from hitting the sloped ceiling. At the top of the steps was another bathroom, and to each side was a small bedroom. The upstairs was empty. I checked all the closets and just as I was starting down the stairs I heard gunfire from outside. I leapt down the stairs and smashed my fucking forehead into the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs. Surprise, surprise, right on the fucking cut on my eyebrow. Blood everywhere.
I peeled around the steps and tried to look through the curtains to see what was going on outside as I distinctly heard a second kind of gun report. Gilbert’s .45 has a healthy throat to it, and this second sound was a snap, more like a .22 or a smallish pistol. I could see Gilbert. He had moved from the back door to the back corner of the garage, and was leaning around the side shooting through the driveway past the truck. I was scared shitless a tire would be hit.
Once I knew where he was shooting, I had a good idea where the threat was, and that was in the street. He was shooting slowly, and I knew he was waiting for me to join in. My heart was pounding hardcore and I decided I’d go out a window on the opposite side of the house from the driveway, and come around the front to flank. I slipped into the master bedroom and moved to the window. Literally as I was about to yank the curtains out of the way I saw a man walking all sneaky like just outside. He was doing to Gilbert what I’d planned to do to him.
He was a fairly middle of the road looking guy all bundled up for the cold in a hunter’s blaze orange jacket. He was carrying an over under shotgun and was clearly up to no good. I left the curtains where they were, brought the M15 up and snapped a round through the window into the side of his head. The glass shattered and the other side of his head blew out into the snow. He fell down in a heap and I paused to listen for any response from the foreign shooters. Gilbert’s slow fire kept going, one shot every five or so seconds. The snapping gunfire was still going. Apparently they didn’t hear me.
I cleared the glass out of the window frame and climbed out. Shitty to say, but I used the guy’s dead body as a step to get out easier. Morbid yeah, but effective. Fuck him right? He was gonna shoot Gilbert. I checked to threats, saw none, and went to the back corner to wave to Gilbert. He saw me, pointed at his forehead and then at me. He was wondering what happened to my head and why I was bleeding. I wiped the blood off my face and shrugged. I also made the DERP! Face and laughed. He laughed back at me, then returned to his slow gunfire. I turned and slow walked to the front corner of the house.
About 45 feet away on the other side of the road were two people leaning over the hood of a car. The car was covered in snow, so I knew it had been there for some time. I looked at the dude I’d just shot and saw he was wearing snowshoes. Sneaky.
I wanted to give these people a chance, so I waited and thought of what to say or do. Then it occurred to me that if these assholes were shoot first kind of folks, what good could come of trying to reason with them? I’d tried to reason with that Sean bastard and look what it got us. People who expect diplomacy to solve all their problems can kiss my fucking ass.
I got low and into a firing position. I assessed them, saw my two targets, and sent my first round into the figure on the right. He staggered back clutching his chest and eventually went down on his back, arms swinging wildly. The second figure stopped shooting and sort of half stood up to turn to their fallen partner. That gave me enough body to get a round off and into them too. That person just went down immediately, with no flailing.
I checked around and saw no other shooters. I hollered to Gilbert to cover me, and I walked slowly across the street. As I rounded the ass end of the car they were using for cover I could hear whimpering, and a really nasty gurgling noise. The last time I’d heard that noise it was coming from that dad who had been shot by his young wife at the gas station in October. Sucking chest wound is the phrase. A hole in the lung filling with blood.
I moved around the car and saw the two forms laying there. The dude I shot first was still on his back and he’d ripped open his jacket. He turned to me as I came around and coughed up huge wad of thick mucus and blood. I heard it thwap against the side of the car. He was a younger guy, maybe 25, and he had reddish brown facial hair. Not much of a beard, but it looked like he’d been working on it for months. He had so much pain in his eyes.
Once I was close enough I saw it was a woman next to him. She was down for the count. I think my shot zipped through her heart. There was a red stain in the snow getting bigger around the both of them. I stood there shaking my head getting pissed about it when I realized this kid was bleeding out slowly and painfully. I saw Gilbert coming out from behind the garage and I drew my Glock.
The kid tried to roll away, but all he managed to do was to roll over on his side. The snowshoes he was wearing made it hard for him. I shot him in the back of the head and he slumped onto his back. Despite forgetting the sword, I did remember to bring my knife, and I used it to finish the woman just as she started the twitching right before she reanimated. It grosses me out to do it, but stabbing them in the eye is effective.
Gilbert joined me as I cleaned the knife off on her jacket. He filled me in on the details as I wiped the blood off my face yet again. Apparently they’d started shooting at him when he went to check on the truck. He had no idea why. The girl was younger than the man, and the man with the shotgun was middle aged. I guessed maybe they were dad plus son and girlfriend. Hard to place any family resemblance with the older man’s face all swollen and fucked up from my head shot. No idea.
Gilbert snagged his snowmobile and followed the snowshoe trail a few miles down Route 18 to a house set back in the woods. He told me where it was and we agreed that tomorrow we’d check it. I got all their crap and put it in the truck. They had a Marlin model 60 .22 rifle, another .38 cal handgun, and the older guy had that 12 gauge over under shotgun. A Benelli, nice gun. Trap gun I think. He also had a Ruger P95, which is a decent 9mm. I was more stoked for his 9mm ammo frankly. They had a good amount of ammo on them for the four guns too, which excites me, because if they had ammo on them, they likely have ammo at home too.
That’s tomorrow.
Anyway, I got their guns, their ammo, their house keys, and got back in the truck and got the fuck out. I didn’t want to attract any more attention. Gilbert agreed he’d head home, and I told him I’d tell the Williams people what happened.
When I pulled in the campus Charles was sitting outside Hall A with his shotgun. He looked white as a sheet as I got out of the truck. He told me he’d heard the shots and they’d all gone to ground to hide in case something bad had happened. Reassured him it was all okay, and told him what happened. He actually gave me a big hug after, and I swear he started to tear up. Can’t tell for sure. It was nice to feel the affection from him though.
That sounded a little gay.
Anyway. I got the drums out of the truck bed and out of the way so we can wash them out in a day or two. All the new weapons are sitting on my kitchen table and tomorrow after we get back I’ll officially inventory them for my spreadsheet.
Earlier I ate more tuna fish, and I put some teeny weensy basil leaves on it. I probably shouldn’t be pulling basil off my small ass plants, but it smelled really good and I couldn’t resist. It was yummy.
How wrong is it of me to not feel bad about what happened today? We met three more people, and now there are three more dead bodies in
our wake. Is this the way it’ll work from now on? We are going to get into a gunfight with 80% if not more of the survivors out there?
C’mon people, fucking smarten up.
I’m a better shot than you.
-Adrian
January 10th
No such thing as a free lunch.
I’m sure you’ve heard that expression Mr. Journal. It’s pretty appropriate nowadays. Maybe even more now than ever. Every time we get something there’s a cost. We are more or less picking the bones of society for free, right? We’re taking leftover gasoline, cleaning out abandoned houses, taking equipment and food as needed, and even when we don’t get shot at, or have to fight off zombies, there’s a cost to be paid.
Stress is our most common tax. I know I’ve got more grey hairs today than I did in June, and it certainly fucking isn’t because I’m six months older. We worry about doing things, then we are filled with anxiety and fear as we do them, then we deal with the guilt over what we had to do when we did whatever it was we needed to do. It’s a toxic lifestyle for mental health.
I’ll get back to the toxic lifestyle thing after I talk about the last two days a little. Yesterday and today were filled with lots of activity, both good and bad, and I want to get it down on this pixilated paper before my anxiety ridden mind taps out on me.
Yesterday Gilbert and I had decided that we were going to head to the house where our snowshoe wearing ambushers had originated from. We’d made a plan to meet at Gilbert’s place at 10am again. Just the same as usual lately, I wound up waking up early. I had more fucked up dreams again last night. This dream was more dead people hanging around, staring at me like I’m fresh meat or something. They didn’t get violent or anything, but it’s creepy as a motherfucker. I wake up, grab the Glock, and sit in the dawn light waiting for something move. Otis bolts when I sit up too, and that’s unusual. It’s starting to really irritate me. Not sure what’s causing them. I’m not eating late or anything, and I generally have a pretty clear conscience. Maybe I’m getting a touch of PTSD and I haven’t realized it yet? I don’t know. I do know I would love to sleep peacefully, and get more of it.
Midnight (Adrian's Undead Diary) Page 6
