Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 10): The Last Resort [Adrian's March, Part 2]

by Philbrook, Chris

  The group seemed to approve thus far.

  “We are bringing less water and food than we’d like, but water is heavy. We’ll have to rely on purification when we arrive in Europe, should the situation on the ground be bad. Major Locke also asked me to remind you all that the plane only has 53 seats as configured, so there will be quite a few of us hanging on for dear life during take offs and landings.”

  A soldier raised his hand, and the Colonel called on him.

  “Sir are we expecting this shit in Europe? Or is there a chance things are better than they are here?”

  “Son, I’d be lying to you if I thought things were good. We haven’t heard a peep from anyone in a real long time. I think the situation outside their wire will be similar to ours, likely far worse in fact. If we land at Ramstein, we’ll be up in the air safe here, and down on the ground safe there. When we link up, we’ll make good plans to figure out what’s next.”

  “What happens if we don’t link up?” Another soldier asked.

  The Colonel scratched his skull through shortly cropped gray hair. He coughed, and then answered the question, “If we are unable to link up, we will find a place to lock down, and then evaluate what we need based on the unfolding environment.”

  “This sounds dangerous sir,” another soldier said.

  “It does Corporal. But sitting here is dangerous too, and there’s nothing left in this country for us. I can’t speak for all of you, but I’d rather die in Europe, trying to make it work, than die here, alone, running out of ammo one dead motherfucker at a time.”

  More applause came.

  Thomas and Glen escaped away as the men and women who served their nation became more and more excited at the prospect of maybe making it home.

  Despite being trained warriors, the gathered military men and women had no idea what to expect.

  The base and all of its hungry inhabitants had two days to get their things ready. Glen and Thomas were already prepared. Living as a SEAL meant always having your bags packed and ready to go in a moment’s notice. Glen had taken the initiative and approached Major Locke already, and had gotten the clearance to bring along far more gear than what was okay’d. The SEALs had extra weapons gear, body armor, medical equipment, and more that they used on a regular basis. It would be silly to leave it behind if they weight could be accounted for.

  Glen and Thomas sat together in a guard post, far away from the bulk of their brethren. The only person nearby was an Army sergeant named Garcia, and his dog, Taco. The Sergeant was going over dog training drills with the animal. Garcia had been a canine handler before the world ended, but his original military-issued bomb sniffing dog had been killed saving his life. When they found the ugly mutt stray living under a pile of rubble near the airbase, Garcia had adopted it immediately, and the base voted to call it Taco. Now, Taco was a well trained, loyal canine that did anything and everything Garcia asked of it. Mostly, he told his soldiers when the dead were near.

  Watching everyone hastily run around the base packing and organizing was bad for Zen quiet, so the men had offered to take a shift from a pair of guys who still needed to get their shit together. Here in the tower the only thing that could bother them was Taco barking at his best friend Garcia. Thomas was prone behind the scope of his M110 sniper rifle, and Glen was standing, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  There were thousands of dead Afghans roaming the streets, wandering aimlessly. From his distance, they looked drunk, or high. Through the optics though, their truth was made apparent. Many were missing parts of their bodies. An arm gone here, a jaw ripped off there. Their clothing was stained dark from their own blood, and the blood of undead attackers. It seemed that everyone had died at the hands of the dead here, or in some kind of foolish explosion engineered by the now fallen Taliban.

  “I will not miss this place,” Thomas said as he scanned the sector they were assigned.

  “Yeah me either.” Glen spat off the tower. His phlegm sailed through the air and landed on the dirty Kandahar street between two zombies. They clawed and bit at the air, not realizing the spit had come from above. “You think the zombies in Europe will be as dumb as the ones here?”

  “I think they’ll be the same. I can’t imagine the disease or virus that’s causing this has different effects based on what it’s killing. I am kind of worried about what we’re going to see when we land though, in terms of numbers. Germany’s got millions of people, and Landstuhl is good sized town, as is Kaiserslautern. Shit, it’s like what, an hour away from Frankfurt? That’s a million people at least.”

  “We are not bringing a million bullets,” Glen said idly, watching the two zombies claw at the Hesco barrier wall below the tower.

  “No my friend we are not.”

  “You think we’re going to make it? You think this story has a happy ending?”

  “I think we need a plan B. What we’re going to do when the shit hits the fan after we’re wheels down in Europe. What is our short term, and what is our long term?”

  “Short term, assuming we are unable to link up with ground forces there immediately, is find a safe place for us to settle while we get intel on the region. Either that, or get into the base and see if we can gather intel there.” The two zombies shuffled and bumped into one another, throwing them into a silent frenzy. Taco the dog barked behind the SEALs. They scratched and clawed at one another needlessly, tearing skin and clothing away. The noise of the dog was getting them riled up. Glen shook his head.

  “I agree. Once we’re stable, then what? Is our end goal to try and make it back to the states? Do we risk a transatlantic flight? There are no air refueling wings up in the sky to give us a drink on the way.”

  “Boat?”

  Thomas pulled back from the scope and considered the idea. “Yeah. Maybe a boat.”

  “What’s a major port near there?”

  The two SEALs thought about it for some time, watching the city rot as their brains worked overtime.

  “We head south to Italy, or north to what? France? Belgium?”

  Thomas shook his head, “No. We head to The Netherlands. Northwest. Rotterdam. Big city, and one of the world’s largest ports. There should be a dozen freighters or cruise ships there we could take. We’d just need to clear a boat and make it safe, then train up a crew for a good long sail.”

  “We got the one coastie. Between the three of us that’d be something. Maybe we could link up with some locals?” Glen suggested.

  “We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. Who knows what it’s gonna be like there? At the moment we need to focus on the next forty hours, and making sure everything we need gets on that plane. When we land in Germany, or wherever we put down, we assess, and move then.”

  “I like the boat idea.”

  “We’re SEALs. We’re supposed to like boat ideas.”

  It seemed like no one slept, and that was probably the truth. The hive of activity centered around the C17 Globemaster aircraft that was their ride closer to home. Once the four humvees were loaded in by the loadmaster, the rest of the gear was packed in, person by person. Earlier in the week the loadmaster had his job cut out for him. A precarious balancing act was in the works. Too much weight in the wrong place meant the aircraft would fly strangely, and be unsafe. If the gear wasn’t stowed properly it could come loose, and become dangerous projectiles in turbulence. God forbid the vehicles came free while in flight.

  The C17’s passengers loaded in at zero three hundred in the morning. A zero four hundred departure on a roughly 2800 mile trip, with an average cruising speed of just over 500 miles per hour put them at Ramstein in roughly six hours. With no weather information, there was no way to gauge how powerful the head wind would be.

  Accounting for the change in hours due to time zones that put wheels on the ground in Germany at zero six hundred hours local. They’d have the entire day to figure out the world.

  Assuming they didn’t run out of fuel first, or crash and die for a
different reason.

  The plane lifted into the air with grace, cutting through the clouds like a knife and finding smooth air to ride above. Spirits were high. The wounded Pole was strapped down to a stretcher that was attached to the floor, and his comrades were near him. Their spirits seemed elevated, even after the death of so many of their countrymen.

  The pilots got the plane to cruising altitude and speed very quickly, almost before the remnants of Kandahar were left behind. From high in the sky the human debris they were abandoning was almost invisible, and things seemed normal, if only for moment, if only at a distance.

  As the plane racked up mile after mile of flight the pilots called out on all the channels, trying to hail other planes, or airport towers that might still be operational.

  None responded. The men and women departing Afghanistan were alone in the skies, and for all they knew, the whole world.

  The time passed as fast as the plane flew northwest.

  “Alright everyone,” Captain Allen said over the roar of the C17’s engines. “We are an hour from touchdown. When we land, every single weapon is to be charged, and on safe. If we are able to put down at Ramstein, we will assess the situation on the ground. If it is safe, we will exit the plane from side door exits initially, secure the tarmac, then open the rear cargo doors to get our vehicles out. If we put down at an airfield, we are going to try and secure a hangar to keep the plane safe for future trips. That’s our priority.”

  Glen and Thomas were putting their kit on. They were already on board with the plan. They helped design it.

  “If we are to put down outside the AFB, or not at an airfield, then the plan stays the same. Form a perimeter, and secure it so we can get the vehicles out of the bird. Once we get the heavy weapons loaded onto the turrets of the trucks, we’ll be able to rock and roll a little better. I’ve got my Sergeants assigned to form fire teams, they’ll be around to group and discuss specifics you need to know.” Captain Allen made his way towards the front of the aircraft, past the four trucks that were taking up so much of the space inside it.

  Thomas sat back in the cargo strapping seat, and closed his eyes. He fell quickly into a deep, and strange sleep.

  Colonel Fallon stood in the cramped cockpit of the C17. The two pilots sat in their seats ahead of him, slumped, and worried. All three wore flight headsets.

  “You’re sure?” Fallon asked.

  The pilot responded, “Yes sir. Nothing at all from the tower. Still nothing at all from anywhere. Dead air. By all rights someone somewhere should be hearing us. A HAM radio operator, someone, something, somewhere. But we’re pulling jack shit.”

  “Could it be our comms gears on the bird?” Fallon asked into the microphone. “Are we Helen Keller up here?”

  “We tested everything before we left. All green. This is grade-A fucking weird, Colonel.”

  “Roger that. Keep heading. Fuel okay?”

  The copilot answered, “Yeah we’re doing well. There’s almost no headwind at all, so we’re burning slow all things considered. We won’t be able to loiter long once we get there, but we’ve got some options.”

  “Good work people, keep me appraised,” Fallon said, and then took off the headset.

  Thomas slumbered in a deep sleep. The kind of sleep that only someone who has accepted their fate wholly can. The sleep of a guilty convict, or of a man with true faith. In this dream, Tommy met a stranger.

  There was an unfamiliar house in the dream. A small home, with a modest kitchen that had a mudroom attached. A living room attached opposite the mudroom. Tommy stood next to an island covered in dust.

  “Are you Thomas?” A man’s voice said from behind him.

  Tommy spun and reached to his thigh for his sidearm, but the pistol wasn’t there. He looked down and realized he was wearing civvies, and had no weapon. When he looked up, he saw a man sitting in the living room recliner, feet up. He was middle aged, and had the look of a proud father to him, though at the edge of his vision, Tommy felt he could see sadness seeping through the man’s face like a stain on a ceiling.

  “I’m Thomas. Who are you?” Tommy stayed in the dream house’s kitchen, and looked around for a weapon. A knife, a rolling pin, anything.

  “My name is Doug Manning, Tommy. May I call you Tommy?”

  “I don’t see why not. This is a dream after all.” Tommy spotted a butcher’s block on the counter near the sink. When he looked back to the man named Doug, he saw a stain of blood on the floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind he almost thought the stain was talking to him, rather than the man in the chair.

  “It’s a dream of a sort, Tommy. I’ve spent the last few days looking for you. You’re a long ways from home. A long trip from your brother.”

  Tommy laughed. “Which brother? I’ve got three.”

  “Your brother Adrian.”

  Tommy’s dream heart spiked, “Is Adrian alive?” Adrian was his favorite brother, the one he was closest to.

  “Very much so. He’s doing great work.”

  Tommy felt a strange relief from the dream. It almost felt like real relief. “Why am I dreaming this? Where is this house? Who are you?”

  “I don’t have long, Tommy. Keeping this connection is incredibly difficulty. Dozens of us are working together, focusing to get this message to you. I need for you to listen.”

  “Talk. I’m hearing you.”

  “You’ll be tempted to leave where you’re headed. To try and get on a boat and come back to America, but you can’t. You shouldn’t leave.”

  “Why not? I can’t go home? You don’t think I’ve earned it, stranger in my dream?”

  “Not yet. Your presence will be very important in Europe. You need to do work there. Prepare things.”

  “What things?”

  “We can’t see all the details Tommy, but we know that eventually your brother’s fight may move. He may decide to leave where he is now to help elsewhere, and if he should do that, he will need your help. Secure a place for him. Give him a home base and greeting that will live up to his stature.”

  “Ha, stature. You haven’t met him have you? Dick and fart jokes are the extent of his stature. Did you know he slipped and shit himself wearing a snowsuit once? They don’t give out statues for that.”

  “People change, Tommy. If he succeeds at what he’s been tasked to do, then he’ll deserve a welcoming that will be historic.”

  “Yeah whatever, Doug Manning.”

  “Time to wake up. Bad news is about to reach you.”

  “Tommy, wake up, you gotta see this,” Glen’s voice echoed in the dream. Tommy’s real eyes opened and saw his buddy standing over him in the back of the plane. Turbulence gently shook them side to side.

  Tommy rubbed his eyes, and huffed the cobwebs out of his skull. He stood with Glen’s help.

  “Come up to the cockpit,” Glen beckoned.

  “That’s Ramstein below us,” The co-pilot said to the two SEALs. Fallon, Locke, and Allen were all nearby, some squeezed into a space where they could see out the cockpit windows, others nearby just to listen.

  “And that is a large plane smashed apart in the middle of the runway,” Glen said.

  “Correct. And as you can see, there are multiple vehicles parked in the other runways. Those,” the co-pilot pointed out the windows, “are impact craters from bombs. Looks like the base was abandoned and they dropped ordnance to prevent it from being used by an enemy. We’ve got no clear approach,” The co-pilot said.

  “And I would assume that all those people walking about down there in uniform are not on patrol, nor are they doing PT?”

  “No sir. They look pretty fucking dead to me.”

  “Then Ramstein has fallen,” Fallon said with finality. “I wonder if the boys at the hospital made it?”

  “Plan B?” Thomas asked quickly. He didn’t want to give depression any time to sink in. For him or for anyone else.

  “We flew over a clear airfield in Erfurt. We’re going to turn us a
round, and put down there. We’ve got enough fuel.”

  Fallon seemed pleased, “Alrighty. Once we put down, we’ll secure someplace nearby as a HQ, and start making plans for tonight and tomorrow.”

  Everyone left the cockpit and began to head back into the aft of the plane except for Thomas. He pointed he eyes through the thick cockpit windows and looked downward as the pilots tilted the plane, and started to turn it around.

  Far down, thousands and thousands of feet below Thomas could see the ant specks of the remnants of mankind. As far as he could see in the streets, and in the fields, and across all of visible Germany, were the walking dead. An ominous army, mindless in purpose, endless in numbers, and unstoppable. The horde covered all he could see.

  In the face of all that, all Thomas could think about was his brother, and the strange visit in his dream.

  February 2014

  February 3rd

  Kevin and I have been preparing for the NVC visit behind the scenes, off the official record. Just two concerned citizens of Bastion trying to make sure our home is prepared for potential bad stuff.

  We’ve moved one diesel dualie and two of our Prius cars far off campus and to a secluded home on a country road on the north side of town. The cars are parked in a garage there along with two barrels of diesel, and two barrels of gasoline that Blake gave us, on the sly. We hid our tire tracks with brush to make sure they couldn’t see the movement after the fact from the air.

  We’ve also moved weapons caches, food, water, and more to several safe houses in the event we need to bug out, or they try and take our weapons. Kevin and I have drafted a plan for what to do if it goes south, and we’re ready to follow through in a moment’s notice if need be.