Well, with the exception of Jay Wilson and his little sister. They’re still completely certain that the NVC is responsible for the death of their family back at the junkyard, and I can’t say that they’re wrong. The problem is, even if they’re right, we’re so committed to this, and so many people are behind it, I can’t make a difficult decision (or advise Michelle differently) about it. People want this. It isn’t Michelle or peaceniks holding up signs on the quad.
I know Michelle isn’t throwing me under the bus about it.
I crawled under it on my own. Tires hurt.
Besides, what can our patrol of horses and shooters do about armored personal carriers with .50 cal BMGs? Not a whole lot unless we stumble upon a cache of heavy weaponry somewhere.
Deep breath. Big meeting tomorrow. Hopefully Jay and his sister behave. All is well otherwise.
Oh, and the meeting with Maria and her people was cancelled due to snow. We’ve rescheduled for February 7th.
-Adrian
January 31st
Two things to note. Mr. Journal;
Weather was good, and we met about having the NVC visit this morning. We reached out to the Factory, and on our behalf they scheduled the NVC trip here for February 5th. Everyone was on board with the idea. Everyone enough, that is.
It was weird to meet and not have Hector and Celeste there. They’re already on the other side of the fence though. Didn’t make sense to invite them.
Second thing to note;
Our meeting was interrupted by Danny Junior, who had guard duty on the wall for that shift. He came in rushing, freaking the hell out, happy as can be.
“You guys gotta come see this!” He said, standing in the door to Hall E after we opened it for him. He didn’t even use his radio to let us know, he just ran over.
We exited the dorm and followed him to an opening in the trees at the top of the berm wall. I knew something was happening; I could hear it. A faint hum hung in the air, like a distant piece of machinery grinding away at the earth, though I felt no rumble in my feet. We scampered to the top of the snow covered hill and watched as Danny looked up, and scanned the sky. He raised a single finger and pointed.
A white streak moved from south to north miles and miles above. At the leading tip of the contrail was a wide-winged military transport. A C130 Hercules, or maybe a C5 Galaxy. I think it was a Galaxy. I believe the wings were swept back a bit.
We cheered. A military plane like that doesn’t just take off by accident, and if it got that high in altitude, it had a plan to travel far, and that means there is infrastructure putting planes in the sky.
Maybe big government is coming back after all.
That plane above sure made the threat of the NVC seem small.
We meet them on the 7th.
-Adrian
The Last Plane out of Kandahar
May 2011
Thomas and Glen sat in the corner of a dilapidated conference room in the airbase they had called home for the last nine brutal months. It was May 4th, 2011, and the world had fallen apart.
Life in Afghanistan hadn’t been particularly good for anyone for a long time, regardless of whether or not the undead had been roaming the earth. The zombies that wandered the city outside of the base’s walls and fences were only adding a new color to the palette of horrible that the nation of Afghanistan was.
Thomas and Glen were artists in the medium of violence. They’d spent their entire adult lives in the United States Navy either training to become Navy SEALs, or putting that training to good use in the real world downrange. Though it didn’t feel like the real world anymore. It felt like a shitty horror movie on late night television.
The gathered group of military men and women were holdovers from stationed forces from the war on terror prior to the war on the dead. They represented every branch of the military, even the Coast Guard. Thomas wasn’t sure why there was a coastie at an airbase this far inland, but every living body counted right now. Air Force ground officers as well as pilots were in attendance, as were Army officers and front line ground pounders. Marines were accounted for as well, and the small contingent of Navy men and women sat proudly together. Uniforms and service creeds no longer mattered. Nationality and the color of your skin was an afterthought at best for most of the survivors.
Were you alive?
Could you shoot?
Then you were family.
Thomas Ring looked around the room and did a quick headcount. Of the 38 men and women in attendance, he and his best friend Glen had been personally responsible for rescuing thirteen of them. Thirteen souls given a reprieve from a lonely death in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the starving dead. There were more people on the base not in attendance that owed the two men their lives.
The highest ranking military officer present called a hush to the chatter, and started the briefing.
“Ladies and gentlemen you all know me as Colonel Fallon. I’ve been running this show since June 23rd. As you all have intimately aware of, we have been waiting patiently to retrieve all American and allied personnel from forward operating bases across the country so we can leave this godforsaken sandbox and head home. I am pleased to report, that after last September’s retrieval of the last unit of marines by Punisher, and the resulting radio silence, we are happy to report that we believe we have collected all our boys.”
The room applauded. Several of the men and women leapt to their feet and cheered, exchanging hugs and high fives. Glen and Thomas sat quietly, smiling at their fellow Navy men and women who were glad that the final phase had begun.
The tall Fallon gave the group time to celebrate before calming them again, and speaking. “As you are all aware on 20 January we sent out the first plane to Ramstein with a heavy load of 202 souls. As you probably have already heard, we’ve gotten no word of their arrival in Ramstein Germany.”
That silenced the room far more than anything could’ve. Thomas and Glen already knew that fact was coming.
“Which leaves us to this meeting. In country we have 75 men and women. 62 of which are American military personnel, or NGO American personnel. The remaining 13 are non US nationals who have been tremendous assets to our operations here, and I for one consider them indispensible. Eight are Polish, 3 British, and 2 are New Zealanders. I’ve invited two of the Poles in for this powwow, and all five of the other English speakers.” Fallon nodded over to the corner of the room opposite the SEALs. The seven non Americans all gave a bit of a wave to the group, and there was a modest round of applause.
“I’m gonna hand the real bad news portion of this over to my Air Force counterpart, Major Gary Locke,” Fallon waved a hand at the middle aged man sitting nearby and took a seat. The shorter Air Force officer took to his feet, and spoke loudly. He had a touch of a southern accent. Thomas pegged it as Arkansas.
“Y’all are excited to go home ya?” Major Locke asked, a grin on his face. The group shouted out their excitement, though it was tempered now. “Well as some of you know, we’ve got a single plane operational right now that can make the flight to Europe. It’s a C-17 with extended range, and we’ve got room for four vehicles in the belly, plus about 55 passengers. I’ll give you a minute to do the math on that.”
It didn’t take long for the assembled group to realize what the bad news was. The plane could only take less than sixty, and there were seventy five people to transport. Murmurs in the voices of the men and women started to grow.
“I got this Gary,” Fallon said softly. The Major sat as the Colonel stood. “Listen folks, we all knew it would be shit, now we’re in the shit, let’s be adults about it.”
A soldier stood in the center of the room, his face a painting of frustration, “Colonel, how are we going to do this? Draw straws? I already volunteered once to stay behind here to help bring our people in, but I want to go home. It wouldn’t be fair to stay behind again.”
Fallon nodded, “Lieutenant Carroll you are absolutely right. It would be unfair to
ask anyone to stay behind.”
The group seemed lifted by the officer’s statement. Thomas held his breath.
“But life ain’t fair, young man.” Fallon’s statement was sadness made aloud. “We have been talking this over for some time, and some decisions have been made based on the situation we expect to encounter in Germany when our bird lands, and what we expect to need in terms of expertise should we not be able to link up with our forces there. The situation on the ground here is dire, I don’t need to remind you. I can only imagine how bad it is in a heavily populated area like Germany. We’re expecting tens of thousands of the dead, if not more. We cannot afford to move fat, or slow, and we can only bring a lean force for this, or it’s our asses.”
The younger Lieutenant took his seat, a frightened scowl on his face.
“We are prioritizing shooters, medical personnel, mechanical personnel, and then those with electronics experience. After that, we’re looking at knowledge of Europe, and then basic skills such as gardening, knitting, weaving, pottery and the like. We’ve made up a questionnaire for circulation so we can assess what everyone is capable of, beyond what’s in your folders. Mikey, give those out please.” Fallon pointed to a stack of photocopies on a plain folding table. A Staff Sergeant, clearly the one named Mikey, jumped up and grabbed them. He then began to roam the room, handing the forms out to nervous and angry servicemen and women.
Fallon continued, “Anyone who lies on this questionnaire will receive my never ending wrath. Some of you are aware that I can be a mean motherfucker, and I assure you all my previous incidents of anger will pale in comparison to what I will do if any of you attempt to sneak on my plane. If you deserve a seat on the plane, and a shot at home, you will get it. If you lie to me, I will see to it you are thrown to the fucking wolves outside our wire.”
The room was silent as Staff Sergeant Mikey handed Glen and Thomas their questionnaires. The two SEALS sat them on the floor next to where their M4A1 weapons were. They already knew their seats on the plane were assured. Their skill sets were invaluable.
“Sir, thirteen are staying behind?” A female Air Force Tech Sergeant asked softly.
“No Sergeant, eighteen. I thought the Air Force taught better math than that. With ammunition, food, parts, and four humvees, we will only be able to bring 57 souls. Also, we’ve come to the conclusion that our eight Poles are already on the plane. They’re a hop, skip, and a jump from home, and if we can accomplish one good thing out of this, we owe them that. I don’t think I need to remind you how many of our people they’ve pulled from the shit in the past few months with our SEAL boys.” Fallon inclined his head directly at Glen and Thomas.
There could be little argument there. The Polish soldiers were hardnosed, never give up, deep drinkers of life that everyone loved. The round of applause was genuine, and the two Polish men who were present stood and attempted to appear humble. Thomas knew they were humble men naturally. The attention they were getting was not what they wanted.
Fallon continued, “Questionnaires are due back to my office by zero nine hundred tomorrow. Final decisions on who will remain behind will be made by the same time the day after that. We are wheels up and headed to Germany 48 hours after the decisions are made. I suggest you all enjoy the lovely March weather here in Afghanistan while we’re still here. Dismissed.”
Everyone but Glen and Thomas stood and left the room. Not one set of eyes looked up from the sheet of paper filled with questions that held their fates.
Glen and Thomas sat alone in the room, wondering who would be left behind.
There was no alcohol left in the base. No beer, no wine, no liquor. Even the mouthwash was long gone. There was no marijuana, or cocaine or meth. Even the coffee and tea was becoming rare.
So there was no excuse for the violence that ripped through the base late that night. Everyone knew why people had been killed.
Despite all their attempts, the local Taliban forces had wound up being unable to control the living dead to use as weapons. The soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors inside the base had watched through binoculars and rifle scopes as the insurgents were eaten alive, one by one by the very locals they’d oppressed for so long.
“I wonder how many virgins they get if they’re eaten alive? Do you think it’s extra, like punitive damages?” Glen had asked.
As a result, gunfire had waned in the recent months. With far fewer gun-toting fanatics in the city’s picked apart skeleton to target, there was little to no reason to waste ammunition on the undead. There were simply far too many to kill again, and when they finally left, there would far too many they’d need to kill where they landed. So when gunfire erupted late in the night of the meeting, hackles stood on end, and the response was swift and harsh.
Glen and Thomas were billeted in a hard roofed building that resembled a tiny mobile home with a single room, plywood walls, and two beds. Mice and rats came through when the men slept, and the thin wood did little to scare off the late night, early spring winds. The single light bulb that dangled from the exposed roof rafters hung dark. The men went to bed as soon as the sun set, or lit candles. Thomas felt the trailer was opulent compared to some of the places they’d stayed in. The sound of rapid gunfire a few hundred feet away was very loud through the flimsy walls.
Thomas sat his MRE bag down and grabbed his body armor without thinking. Glen tossed his beaten and dog eared copy of Clive Barker’s Weaveworld and went for his armor as well. Both men were suited up and out the door with their weapons in hand and off safe within thirty seconds.
The dark and cold base felt incredibly empty, especially after the lights went out for the night, and everyone retreated to their bunks, or their guard posts. It was a desolate place, despite being in the middle of a city filled with roaming bodies. But now, in the wake of the quiet night being shattered by violence, everything was starting to come to cold, electric light.
Guard tower floodlights designed to rain down a frigid beam of blue-white light were snapping on and training over to where the gunfire had come from. The two SEALs moved towards where the horizontal pillars of luminescence pointed. Another shot rang out in the dark coves of the alleys ahead.
One of the polish soldiers staggered out of a building that was identical to the one Gary and Thomas lived in. His dirty white undershirt had a dark red stain covering the side from his armpit to his waist. He was wounded. At first glance Thomas knew it wasn’t good. The Polish man looked over at the two SEALs and raised his AK clone a bit, but when he saw the two familiar SEALs for who they were, he began to sob, and dropped the weapon. He fell to his knees and pointed with a blood slicked finger inside the building he’d just exited.
His thick accent was further twisted by pain, “Amerikaans. Amerikaans.” He slid down the side of the billet and laid there, sucking in oxygen with stuttered, short breaths.
“Fuck,” Thomas said as he slid up the side of the building. Glen was directly at his back.
“Anyone inside still thinking about shooting anyone had better drop their weapons!” He hollered out, hoping to God whoever was still inside listened. Silence came back from the interior of the room in response. Silence could be good.
The raw, metallic smell of blood could only be bad.
Battery conservation be damned, Thomas and Glen flicked on the tiny flashlights mounted on the side rails of their M4A1s, and they went into the room, ready for anything.
Like theirs, the building had a single room, with four bunk beds, one in each corner. A round table had sat in the center of the room but that was undone. The table was busted apart and the remnants of it scattered to the four corners of the room. One leg was leaning up against a bunk bed comically, and many shards of wood were strewn about the floor. Five bodies lay in the room. Three were in beds, as if they were asleep, but the enormous, ominous bloodstains on the blankets revealed a murderous truth. The other two were American service members, and they were face down on the floor in pools of their own blood.
The room was entirely devoid of life.
“Motherfucker,” Glen muttered as four more heavily armed personnel came into the building, ready to kill. They stopped as soon as the carnage was revealed.
In the far corner, one of the dead Polish soldiers began to twitch.
It was by the grace of God that only four of the Polish warriors were in the barracks at the time of the assault. The others were likely playing poker at the mess hall. Thomas shook his head and drew out his knife. There were too few bullets to spare solely for the sake of mercy.
It took Thomas and Glen two hours to find the three US servicemen who attacked the Polish barracks. They made sure to bring along five other Americans who owed their lives to the dead Polish soldiers.
The three murderous miscreants disappeared into the depths of the base, and were found hiding in an abandoned maintenance building. A shed really. The men were injured, and following the trails of blood wasn’t too difficult. Two had taken 5.56 rounds to their limbs, and another was holding in a loop of his own intestines as he cried. They begged for mercy when the SEALs finally found them.
Glen and Thomas were kind. The other five men were not. They reported that the murderers were found dead in the shed, having succumbed to multiple stab wounds. Justice had been served.
Though now eight less names needed to be thought about.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Colonel Fallon said. The highest ranking officer still in Kandahar sat behind a ratty desk in a room that was lit by a single Afghan made candle. Five other men were gathered with the officer in the quiet room in the darkest hours of the night. Two of the men were Glen and Thomas. No one was happy for any reason.
Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 10): The Last Resort [Adrian's March, Part 2] Page 9
