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

by Philbrook, Chris

White’s this short, gruff old dude with stark white hair and a square jaw. He’s seen some grizzled action. You don’t need to see the old scar on his neck to tell, I can see it in the way he looked at me, and by the way he chose his words so carefully. He had a small Beretta in a leather holster on his left hip and the holster didn’t look new, if you catch my drift. I’d place a two-Michelle butt-egg wager that the front site of that pistol is worn down nice and shiny from being drawn once or twice.

  I think the man has experienced some terrible stuff during a long life of being… busy, and even more so since that day. He says he came all the way up from the Virginia area with his two nephews, and their two wives. They heard of the Trinity (specifically noting me) and they’ve been making their way up for a couple months. They had dreams, just like many of us did.

  The boys were all cops in Virginia, and they still had their police issued gear, right down to the Velcro patches identifying the original departments they worked for. AR15s, Glock handguns, Kevlar, cuffs, etc. The wives looked just as rugged and carried firearms of their own. His nephews were mid twenties, both military veterans, and White served in the Army during ‘Nam. The five of them are shooters to a one, and I liked that.

  White reminds me of Gilbert, if Gilbert swapped a sense of humor for brooding eyes, and wary smiles.

  They asked if there was room in town for them to stay close to Bastion (and yes, they called it that) and Mike and Patty offered them apartments at MGR on the spot. I didn’t think there were any left, but apparently there were two on the top floor. The gravelly old dude with the icy blue eyes nodded and thanked them, and asked if they could start moving their bags in, and start building some kind of stable area at the base of the tower for their horses. Mike and Patty accepted the offer of the stable, and Patty led them off to their new homes.

  White’s got this funny habit of clucking his tongue when he’s asked a question. Sounds like bubbles popping rapidly. Old people are funny.

  I’m not telling the NVC people that we picked up five more souls, all of which with guns and skills to use them. I did tell Rodriguez (who I had wait outside MGR) that five people with horses made yet another pilgrimage to the Bastion area to find salvation at the hands of the not mythical at all Trinity.

  I got a chuckle out of that.

  I’m hoping to have Patty and Mike integrate White and his family to the point where we can put them into our patrol rotations. They are shooters, former cops, and they have their own horses. Furthermore, they seem like good eggs (not Michelle butt-eggs) and they feel like allies in a strange time.

  Speaking of which, I sent a runner over to the barn to have some hay delivered for their animals. I’ll ask Fletcher to swing down and check on the horses in a few days too. Gesture of good faith.

  Time to hit the other kind of hay, and listen to Michelle talk ad nauseum about how amazing it is to watch this spiritual explosion happen in real time. I’d say it gets old, but all this theological moving and shaking gets her excited, and the sex has been stellar of late. See nail, hit nail kind of guy, remember?

  Protip; chicks with masters degrees get horny when they are mentally stimulated by the shit they know well.

  -Adrian

  March 16th

  Just got word from the Factory that they’re in contact with a group of attackers. We’re spinning up a QRF to head out to them. I’m not in tonight’s rotation, so I get to sit here… waiting.

  Ugh. I’m still pissed at them for bouncing to the NVC cause early, but they’re my people, ya know?

  I’ll update as I get news.

  -Adrian

  March 23rd

  So much for getting back into the swing of regular entries. It’s been like, two weeks since I sat down and wrote something. I feel like a lazy schlub.

  But I mean, I’m actually quite busy Mr. Journal. Really frigging busy. I’m like a one armed wall paper hanger here. Or like a president with an intern, if you want me to get filthy again and talk about Michelle.

  Rawr.

  Sometimes it sucks to be the sounding board for a man. Tough break,kid.

  The big news is the NVC people are still being cool. We’re over a month into our agreement, and literally nothing has changed here. Well that’s not true. Lemanowicz and his two fire teams are still here, as are their vehicles, but they’ve integrated nicely, and the people like them. Sergeant Rodriguez has mentioned several times that when his rotation here is up, he’ll ask to move here from Calendar Mountain permanently, and I’m inclined to vouch for him. He’s a cool cat. Throws a killer game of darts too. He’s run train on our weekly darts nights in the cafeteria. Next week we start having him throw lefty.

  Texas people are still awesome. Still doing their thing and being tremendous community members. All the babies are well, and if I don’t think about Caleb and Sophie’s lost child, it’s a gift everyday to watch them grow.

  Our school bus of friends that arrived as well are doing well. They’ve taken on jobs here, and in the vicinity at other homes, and in fact, are working hard to get other houses on Auburn Lake Road back up and running. We’re turning into an actual town at the rate we’re going, not just a fort in the woods.

  Lol.

  Fort in the woods.

  Abby’s still writing her newsletter, though there’s little to report beyond what social event is happening in the next few days. Knitting clubs, shooting practice, cooking lessons, gardening and farming advice with Ollie, hydroponics with Becca, hunting with James and David. We’ve rewound time to the 1950s, and in only the best ways. Dialed up our sense of community, dialed back the red scare and the misogyny.

  Hal is great. He’s really stepped up as a father and friend of mine. It doesn’t take much beyond taking care of Abby to get on my good side though. He tries to get out and be social, and now that Gavin’s a little bigger and able to be brought to the school for daycare, he’s back in Bastion’s security rotation. Adding a former British Royal Marine to the mix makes me happy.

  The Factory is well, though Hector is recuperating from a gunshot wound he suffered during that encounter with looters a week ago. They repelled the small, late night attack easily, but he did catch a round. ’Tis but a flesh wound. He received his medical care from Doctor Tina up north, and that’s another feather in the NVC cap. Taking care of people I like will put you in my good graces.

  Spring Meadow is good as well. Team AAA manages their shit, and despite having to deal with regular people coming to their gate asking for help, it is well in their hands. We’ve moved two more people there to bolster their shooters in the event that they are attacked by these friendly people asking for help. It wouldn’t surprise us in the least if the people begging for food and water started taking shit by force when Spring Meadows can’t offer anything. Which as the winter drags on, we’re coming closer and closer to.

  Food supplies are a bit short. Hunting has been dismal the past two weeks, and we lost a few chickens to a fox or coyote a week or so ago. Ollie had a fit over it, and scoured town for chicken wire for a full day. The chicken coops are now better fortified than Bastion. We also need to tighten up the gates in the front and back. There’s just enough space at the bottom and on the side for animals like foxes to slip into campus. I think Ollie or Melissa asked Michelle to find some folks to help with that. Guaranteed it’ll fall to Martin or Blake to get done.

  Feeding the new faces at MGR (Pete White’s crew) and the nine folks from Calendar Mountain have put some stress on us. Michelle asked Lt. Lemanowicz to request some supplies on the next run to help offset the burden, and the Lt. assures us he will. It’s only fair.

  I’ve been working on building more hydro bays for people’s homes with Ryan and Becca, and volunteering for the security details. I’m trying to get as much face time with the NVC soldiers stationed here as I can. I’d like to know their skills better, and I’d really like to get personal. I want them to like me if push comes to shove. It’s harder to shoot at a person you like. I’ve
also put more than a few hours into roaming town and meeting up with the people who’ve come all this way to meet the Trinity.

  The funny thing is most people new to the area don’t believe me when I say I’m Adrian Ring. They think I should be bigger, or taller, or different somehow. Almost everyone says that the real Adrian Ring has a Mohawk. Funny. Like hair just stops growing. But in the end, they all come around, and they have this moment of joy when they realize they’re really where they wanted to be, and that they’re close to Kevin, Michelle and I.

  It’s a funny thing. Makes me uncomfortable, but I keep going out and making these people’s days. Maybe I like it. Maybe I haven’t made up my mind about it, or who I am?

  Speaking of big projects (which it wasn’t really, but it’s a nice segway into a random statement) Kevin is leading a team to the airport with Kate and new guy helicopter pilot Tom (our aviators) to see if there’s any kind of salvageable aircraft. We’ve got a shit Cessna operating (and I should put that in quotes for reals), but the parts situation is bleak on it, and ideally we’d like a chopper just like Calendar Mountain does. I’m tempted to reach out to Maria’s people to see if they have any aviation parts or planes or anything. Might be nice to shore that relationship up, and include them on the ground level as we try and head for the skies.

  We’ll figure it out. Or we won’t.

  Back to work. Hydro bays don’t build themselves.

  -Adrian

  March 31st

  Mr. Journal, some crazy shit is going down, and I don’t think it’s an April Fool’s joke. I would be pissed if it was. I might be pissed if it isn’t.

  Yesterday Agnes and Anders contacted our collective locations, and reported that they’ve had numerous peaceful encounters at their gate and in their neighborhood with people speaking different languages, each with strong, clearly foreign accents. They’re describing these new people as joyous and happy beyond sensible measure. Agnes described them as ‘starved, but elated.’

  I am reminded of the time I found a candy bar under my bed when I was a hungry kid late at night. I ate that bitch like it was my job. I can still remember how it tasted. That’s some fat kid tendencies for ya. Anyway…

  This is a pretty fucking American region of America, and to suddenly encounter large groups of people speaking different languages is a very strange occurrence. It’s like the reverse Rapture for foreigners. Time to send all the Europeans back, we got enough up here…

  Mr. Journal I hope that’s not the case.

  This morning, Spring Meadow radioed again, and said they had just met with about fifteen people, all hailing from the United Kingdom. Mostly English/British (what is the correct term for that, anyway? They’re English, British, UK… citizens? Pick one, please, thanks.) and they have just arrived on a good sized boat via transatlantic voyage. Fourteen days on the boat to get here. Slow going with extra fuel and rough seas I’m told. I know fuck all about boats. That’s a heads up if I ever start talking like I know anything about boats. I went in the Army. Ask me about guns, masturbation, crayon color flavors, and poop jokes. Ask my Navy brothers Thomas and William about boats. Or anal lube and self loathing. That joke would be funnier if my brother Tommy wasn’t gay. But he is, and it isn’t.

  I mean but kinda. He’d laugh, but only because I said it, and only because he’d give me a wedgie afterward.

  They told the Spring Meadow people that they left England on a boat because at one point or another, they all had dreams that America was safe from the dead. They also heard that there were people here that helped make America safe (read; safer), and that maybe, just maybe those people would go help them back in Europe.

  Those… three… people.

  So as it turns out, we might be celebrities across the pond, too.

  High-fucking-larious.

  Michelle and I are heading over to Spring Meadow tomorrow to meet with these people firsthand and sort them out. They’ve got to have good information.

  Abby finally has something exciting to write about again.

  -Adrian

  The Citadel

  Mid May 2011

  Thomas stayed in the cockpit while the massive Globemaster aircraft backtracked in the sky to the small city of Erfurt. The keen-eyed pilots had spotted a clear runway at a small airport there, and that would be where the foreign refugees would put down in Europe.

  “Are we on a straight approach?” Thomas asked the pilot after donning a headset.

  “We’ll be swinging all the way around to make an east to west landing. Better into the wind for this,” he replied.

  “Can you take us real low, maybe circle around once? This might be our only chance at getting the lay of the land from above.”

  The pilot made fifteen faces that all showed some kind of discomfort at the idea Thomas proposed.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Tommy asked him.

  “Low on fuel mostly,” he started. “But also it’s bad military protocol to fly that low. We’re easy targets.”

  “Sir, I highly doubt that anyone on the ground in central Germany has the weapons, will, or time to take a potshot at a cargo plane flying above. There might be a war raging below us, but not one a low flyover should be worried about. If I can get you to do that, let me see what the area surround the airport looks like, it’ll save lives today or tomorrow. I promise you that.”

  “Sure, yeah. It’s a good idea. Promise me you’ll do your best to shoot those fuckers in the head?”

  “I don’t make promises about things I’m gonna do no matter what,” Tommy replied.

  “Sounds good. Let’s just hope the runway is still clear.”

  “What could change in 30 minutes?”

  The pilot turned and looked at Tommy. “Everything.”

  The giant cargo craft took a fat, slow flight around the airport of Erfurt and the nearby central city. The talented flight crew kept the heavy bird a thousand feet above the tops of the low, old city and the forests and field surrounding it, giving Tommy and the few others who were at the windows ample view. Cameras and cell phones snapped pictures and took video for the survivors to look at once they had secured a shelter on the ground.

  Tommy’s military mind looked for two things: First, he sought out masses of the undead as they moved along the country roads of the suburbs and later the narrow streets of the central city. He saw many, and when he gauged how quickly they moved, he felt ill. These were… healthier undead.

  “Are they almost running?” the copilot asked the cockpit.

  “Looks like it,” Tommy said back. “Not quite jogging. They’re more… twitchy. Look at ‘em. They’re looking up at us as we move. Shifting. Pursuing.”

  “Not good,” the pilot said.

  “No,” Tommy muttered.

  “Can we deal with that?” the copilot asked him.

  “Not much of a choice, unless you guys roll down the windows and start flapping your arms like ducks.”

  The second thing Tommy looked for was structures. Buildings. Walls, the lay of roads and parks. Open areas where he could create space if he was moving on foot or in a vehicle. He looked at the blocked intersections (most of them-barricades and fences) and he looked at elevated positions; the hills, steeples, and the large amount of centuries old stone structures that dominated the downtown area of Erfurt.

  His eye caught a jagged stony outline atop what looked to be a hill on the western edge of the city. The circumference of the odd shape seemed almost star-like. He’d seen that shape or shapes like it in history books.

  “That right there… is either a fort, or a citadel,” Tommy said, pointing at the elevated spot. “An old one. Pre World War.”

  As they flew closer and circled to approach the runway he got a better look at it. Built like an irregular star with many points, the stone walled fort was covered in grassy fields, stone buildings, and hundreds and hundreds of survivors. They all stood, waving in the air at the giant plane as it soared overhead. Surrounding the medieval fortre
ss however….

  Was a sea of the dead.

  “That’s where we gotta get. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but that place is the safest place around,” Tommy said. “In the meantime, after we land, you gotta taxi us to the east most hangars. Park us a hundred yards off so we have distance and we’ll close the gap with the vehicles or on foot. We don’t want to be swarmed before the doors are open.”

  “I’ll get us as close as I can. That citadel is your job though,” the pilot said. “Right now my job is to land this big girl. Sit down. We’re about to do this for real.”

  Tommy had to get to his weapon in the cargo hold. When they dropped the rear ramp of the bird he and his partner Glen had to be squared away, and ready to put rounds downrange to protect the others as they got the humvees offloaded.

  He took his seat.

  True to his word the pilot put the plane down as soft as could be, and then got his winged bus looped around the tarmac until they were a hundred yards away from the row of hangars at the eastern edge of the airfield. He even powered the plane until the rear ramp faced towards the buildings the SEAL wanted them to capture. Tommy thanked him, and bolted to the rear cargo hold.

  “Captain Allen,” Tommy said to the Marine captain who hated him. “The second to last hangar in the row is open, and looks empty. The last one looks to be a business. Which do you want us to clear?”

  “Let’s dismount and secure the immediate area then make that call,” the officer replied.

  “Aye aye,” Tommy replied, and walked past him, shouldering his way gently to Glen, who tossed him his rifle and then his helmet. “You ready?” He slapped his helmet on and then slid ballistic sunglasses on his nose.

  “Born ready. Well, red at least. Caesarian section,” Glen said with a smirk as he fastened the light helmet atop his head. He put matching shades on as well.