The Failed Coward

by Chris Philbrook

  “Yeah.” He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. He wasn’t embarrassed, like Gavin was when he talked to Patty and I. Blake was… I dunno. Almost regretful. Guilty.

  I identified.

  “Wow. How old are you man? 25?” I cradled the M4 as we settled into the conversation.

  “I’m 23. Been alone for awhile. My parent died when I was 17, and I lived with my uncle for a year, but he died too. I used to live in his trailer over in Douglas Park off Route 18. I stay on the move now though. Can’t fortify anything. Takes too long, and makes too much noise.” He put his chin up slightly when he said all that. He was proud he made it this far. Proud that he was a survivor. Rightfully so in my book.

  “That’s smart. We’re pretty remote, and we’ve taken down all the undead nearby. We can make a fair amount of noise now so there’s no worry about that. Where are you living now?”

  He frowned. “I’d rather not say. I don’t know you.”

  I smirked. “That’s also smart.”

  Awkward silence.

  “So we had planned on taking the stuff out of that beige cape right there today. It was the last house on this street for us to empty of stuff. Do you need anything? You’re welcome to anything inside.” I gestured at the house as I talked about it.

  Blake turned and looked at it. He started to say something then hesitated. Finally he said, “is there food? All I need is food and ammunition.” He looked back vaguely hopeful.

  “I’m sure there’s some food in there. You want to go ahead in and check it out yourself? Take whatever you need and check in with us after?” I shrugged at him. I wanted to show him we were generous. Peaceful. Altruistic even.

  He turned and looked at the place again, thought about it, and took a few steps directly at the house without saying anything. I started to turn away to walk back to the truck, but I stopped when I heard him stop walking.

  “Adrian?” He asked.

  “Yeah Blake?” I stopped, half facing him.

  “You don’t mind? You guys did all the work inside to make it safe right? I feel like I’m stealing if I just walk in and take stuff. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  I waited and thought good and plenty about how to answer that, then came up with this; “Blake we have food. We have water, we have soap, and we have guns and ammo. Judging by your general disheveled appearance, your rail thin body, and your stink, you need whatever is in there a lot more than us today. I’d rather you ate, and we made friends. I’m sure you can think of something you can do for us later to square it away.”

  Blake lit up when I said the part about how he could do something for us. I don’t think he’s been in a position to do anything for anyone else in a long time, and the thought of being useful to someone definitely appealed to him. He nodded with a slow smile, and trudged off in the thin layer of melting snow.

  I listened to the sound of his boots crunching in the slush as I made my way to Gilbert. I killed the hotkey on the walkie and climbed up the gas tank to get to the window of the HRT where he sat. Gilbert nodded slowly, and told me that was, “well played.”

  We went over what to do next, and we both agreed that this kid was shaky. Unsocialized in a big, bad way, and he needed to be brought in slow. We went over a few different conversational tactics for when he came out, and just as we wrapped up our last idea, he came walking out of the house. His beat up black backpack was noticeably fuller than when he’d gone in.

  I hopped off the gas tank and hot keyed the walkie again. We met at almost the exact same spot in the middle of the street. He had a look on his face of almost joy. Nearly glee I’d say. He started talking at me before I reached him, and I waved for him to stop. When I got closer, he started again.

  “Wow man they had a lot of food in there. There was a whole box of dry spaghetti, a jar of sauce, two cans of sauerkraut, whatever that is, and three cans of fruit cocktail. Gonna eat damn good this week.” Blake looked stoked.

  “You’re gonna make that last all week?” I lifted one eyebrow skeptically.

  “Hells yes. That’s a haul man. I owe you guys big time.”

  “Nonsense Blake. Mind if I ask you what you did for work before all this shit went down? We’re trying to figure out what everyone can do. I was a… A bouncer, and a soldier.” I didn’t want to tell him right off I worked at the school. He might put two and two together and figure out where our “secure facility” was.

  “I worked at Mark’s Garage doing auto body and mechanic work. Mostly auto body. Welding, buffing, painting you know. I liked it. That crazy motherfucker Walter stopped in there sometime in like September and took all the barrels we had. Dude he was loony. He shot so many people here I didn’t dare to come this way. Things went quiet here about two weeks ago, and when I heard you all shooting it up the other day, I decided I’d finally investigate. I’m glad he’s gone. He was fucking dangerous.” Blake looked appreciative.

  “Yeah he injured his leg bad and it killed him from the looks of it. We put him down again when we breached his house. He was crazier than you can imagine man. Had his house wired to blow with hotdogs and Twizzlers.” I laughed.

  Blake didn’t. “You know he had real dynamite right? He drove around town a couple times tossing sticks out the window of his truck late in the summer. I heard them go off at least twenty times. He drew so many of those… those things over here it was impossible to move around on foot for a long time.”

  That was humbling to hear. We kinda knew Walt had explosives, but hearing it confirmed from someone was a different matter entirely. I nodded at him.

  “What’re your plans now Blake? Do you need a place to live? Are you safe?” I wanted to extend a gentle offer of assistance.

  “I move around. Only way to stay safe and find food reliably. I’ve been moving around more and more after dark since the snow levels came down. They have a hard time seeing me, but I also have a hard time seeing them. I might start laying low more often though. They’re getting around a lot easier, and I think the rest of us still around are getting nervous.”

  “The rest of us? I thought you said you were alone?” I was confused.

  “I am alone. But when I move around, I sometimes see other people moving around, or I can see lights at night or smell the smoke coming from their fires. If I can, I watch them with the scope on the Enfield. I kinda know some of the pockets of survivors now.” Blake seemed unfazed by how amazing this information was in the big scope of things.

  “Blake that’s outstanding. We can save lives with all that. How many people are still here in town?” I was giddy.

  Blake thought hard about it for a minute or two before replying. “I can’t say for sure. I haven’t done a real loop in some time. I know there are two or three houses with folks in them. Maybe two or three people in each house. Plus right near the high school there’s a small apartment building that got secured down early on, and I think there might be five or six folks there. Maybe 25 survivors across town all in all? That I know of at least.”

  Mr. Journal, I am not sure how to respond to that. 25 seems absurdly low for a town our size. I guess if you factor in us as well as the people who died at STIG, we might be approaching what I thought was a correct amount. 25 seems like such a small number.

  “Well Blake I’m sure that information will be useful later on. Is there any chance you can show me where those houses are? On a map maybe?” Knowing where we might encounter survivors might make things a lot safer for both us and them.

  “I would like to get to know you better man. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall, and if I point out where those folks are and you raid them or something, I’d be pretty damn sore about it.” He looked defiant, serious.

  I nodded at him in agreement. “Well, can we agree to meet again somewhere and maybe trade for it? After we learn more about each other maybe?”

  “Trade for what?” He licked his lips. A little creepy, but I think he just had chapped lips.

&
nbsp; “Well you said you need food. And you said you needed ammo right? .303 British if my memory still works in my advanced age?”

  “Yeah wow. You have some? I snagged four boxes of shells from Moore’s when everything went to hell last summer. Apparently I was the only person who used it around here. I’d love more. That and .38 shells. I’m getting slim on that too.”

  “Blake you’re slim everywhere. Need to fatten you up so the girls will like you.” I winked and grinned.

  The joke was entirely lost on him. He looked utterly lost when I said “girls.”

  “Anyway man, I’ve got some .303 British I can trade you, as well as some canned food, and if you want, I think I can spare some milk, and a few cans of food.”

  I shit you not Mr. Journal, but his mouth slowly opened, and his jaw drifted downward until he looked like he was going into shock. He had no reply for a solid minute. Finally I waved my hands in front of his face and he snapped back to reality.

  “Wow totally. What can I do to make it up to you?” It was his turn to be giddy.

  “Well, for starters, we had a truck die on the way here, about a half mile maybe up the road. You said you had a little mechanical experience, and if you could, I’d like you to take a look at it. If you can get it running, drive it back here to the cul de sac. And also, if you feel comfortable, anything at all you can tell us about town would be really helpful. I don’t even mean telling us about the survivors. I mean where can we find good stuff, equipment, concentrations of the dead people, whatever. Any intelligence is going to either save our lives, or the lives of other folks.”

  Blake nodded emphatically. “I’ll get moving right now. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon right here?”

  I checked my watch and agreed with him. He literally jogged away past me, and waved at Gilbert in the HRT as he went. Gilbert smiled in his clever ass old man way and we both knew this could be an important day for us.

  When I got into the HRT, all Gilbert said to me was; “And that’s how you develop local allies. Well done kid.”

  I beamed.

  We cleared the house of remaining goods (marginally worth the time), drove by Blake with his head under the hood of Gilbert’s truck, and made our way home.

  We’re meeting him again tomorrow at noon. Hopefully, he’s a little less edgy, and little more trusting.

  I’m excited.

  -Adrian

  The Siege of Mildenhall

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Fitz asked Kevin from the back seat as their lead humvee rounded a tight corner in the British city of Manchester. Out of habit and an excess of adrenaline the older mercenary flicked the safety of his M4 SOPMOD back and forth from semi to full auto. Putting it on safe at this point seemed unreasonably dangerous to him, after all, the city was overrun with the dead.

  From the front passenger seat of the humvee Kevin glared out the windows at the brown brick buildings and parked cars they sped by, just a foot or two from the windows in the essentially stolen military truck. Their driver Kyle drove evasively around a small crashed compact in the road. Kevin smirked as he tried to think of a clever answer to Fitz’s smartass question.

  The front fender of the heavy vehicle clipped a shambling zombie on the side of the street and sent it careening off the wall of an apartment building. Kevin heard a faint crunch fading away as the thing's bones broke on impact. Finally his brain came out of neutral, and he responded to his friend, “Well Fitzy. I look at it this way; we’ve certainly had better ideas. I mean that harem of prostitutes Alan brought back to our suite in Phuket was a pretty shitty idea, and I think that was a lot better an idea than this. Look at the bright side gentlemen; we are not likely to get crotch rot on this op. Unlike in Thailand.”

  All four men in the speeding humvee laughed. Kyle, Kevin’s driver was a young ex Army airborne soldier, and Quan in the backseat with Fitz was former Vietnamese army, and had years in EOD work. The four men were all that remained of Kevin’s original nine man protection team from June in Jerusalem.

  Kevin and his squad had been tasked to protect a high ranking Senator in Israel the day the undead reared their gory, ugly heads. That was June 23rd actually, about 40 days prior. They’d evacuated Jerusalem riki-tik and fled on a US Department of State bird for London, and what they thought would be relative safety. One of his men had died from what appeared to be a superficial bite wound on the plane, and as soon as they landed at Heathrow, he’d returned to “life” and bitten another of Kevin’s men. In the end, the team leader had to put bullets in both of their heads. The apocalypse had been hard on his men, demoralizing and painful beyond all imagination. Today they were trying to do the right thing, and reclaim their own. Hopefully they'd be alive.

  Before they had boarded the plane and left Jerusalem Kevin had lost one of his close operator friends, Alan, a British national. Alan had missed a video call with his wife and child in Manchester England that day, and Kevin vowed he’d see to it that Alan’s six year old daughter Shelby, and Alan’s wife Becky were taken care of. The Ranger motto of leave no man behind transferred to family in Kevin’s mind. He'd made a promise, and he'd see it through. When their helicopter had touched down at RAF Mildenhall, a massive military airbase outside of London, the first thing Kevin did was get in touch with her, and tell her to button up in their flat.

  “Don’t you dare leave. I know Alan has food and supplies there to last you some time. As soon as we can get to you, we are coming.”

  Becky couldn’t even manage a response through her gut wrenching sobs. She knew a man in Alan’s line of work might die, and as much as she told herself she was prepared for it, she wasn’t. All she could do was look at the growing hurt in her little girl’s eyes. Kevin heard her choke out a half hearted, “Y-, yes, okay.”

  They kept in touch via the landlines for a few days until the phones died in the UK, and after that Kevin made sure she had Alan’s spare satellite phone charged and working. From the roof of their small Manchester apartment building, they could talk for a few minutes a day.

  Every time they talked, they talked about today. The day Kevin’s men came to make good on his promise to come get them.

  *****

  “Everyone is good to go on the floor plan?” Kevin asked over the throat mics to the men in both of the humvees they’d ‘borrowed’ from the good men and women of the United States Air Force. Everyone chimed in with positive responses. Even the borrowed Royal Marine in the back truck was in the affirmative. His name and largely former rank was Corporal Harold Parker, or Hal for short. He’d shown his considerable value when their chopper had crashed after leaving Heathrow in the center of London, fighting their way to their extraction point like a man possessed. Since then, he’d done the same protecting the airbase perimeter from the never ending hordes of undead.

  In the rear truck with Hal were three Air Force Special Operators. Parajumpers to be exact. Normally these folks existed primarily to rescue downed pilots behind enemy lines, or to serve as medics attached to special operations units, but as many special operators find themselves sooner or later, adrenaline becomes more important to them than air. Stealing a few trucks and taking off to rescue one of Kevin’s teammate’s family members deep inside a city overrun with the walking dead sounded like a “fun day out” to them. It didn’t hurt that they were all expert marksman, trained to the highest degree in land navigation and combat tactics, and had medical training that rivaled the most well schooled trauma physicians.

  Yeah, Kevin thought, when I roll heavy, I roll motherfucking heavy. Just thinking of the quality of the team he’d brought to make good on his promise to Alan’s memory made his heart swell with pride. He was still a little pissed over not being able to finagle some air support as well, but thieves can’t be too choosy. You pick the pocket, you get the lint.

  Alan’s building approached them at the end of the narrow Manchester city street like a looming fortress. Three brick and mortar stories grew up from the street like a fun
eral monument to a dead city. Kevin’s Air Force friends had re-tasked a drone on the sly a few days ago to get a good look at the surrounds, and as it was just now, the sidewalk at the door was clear of vehicles.

  It was not clear of the undead. The two humvees screeched to a stop next to the building, hitting a few of the shiftless dead, sending them sprawling onto the damp pavement with twisted arms and legs. Kevin stepped out into the middle of the street and started firing his M4 on semi, lining up the red dot of his Aim Point on the faces of his targets before gently squeezing off rounds. He watched with detached emotion as face after face exploded in a dull brown and grey mist. From all sides he heard his teammates doing the same thing; slowly, carefully taking well aimed headshots. They’d learned any other shot was a wasted round.

  “Lock this street down, form a perimeter on the trucks. Exfil in FIVE!” Kevin hollered to the men. Over the hammering gunfire everyone replied again in the affirmative, and Kevin took his breaching team up the granite steps to the heavy oak door of the old three story stone apartment building. Kevin grabbed the heavy door’s handle, and as Becky had told him, it was locked firmly shut. Kevin nodded to Quan to take the door out after tying a small lanyard to the door handle.

  Kyle and Fitz covered Quan as he slapped two small breaching charges on the hinges of the sturdy door. Becky said there was no way to kick it in quickly, so they didn’t waste time trying. Quan had the two small charges applied in record time and waved everyone away from the doorway. As soon as everyone was clear he belted out, “FILE IN THE HORE!” In his thick, absurd Vietnamese-American accent, and everyone took cover.

  The two charges exploded with a viciously loud BANG that the men felt in their chests, even behind cover. In slow motion the cracked and tattered door tipped forward through the puffy white haze of the explosion, and thundered down onto the steps with a crash, shattering the thick panes of glass in the center. It skidded down the stone stairs and came to a stop cockeyed on the sidewalk. Kevin tugged on the nylon cord attached to the door handle and yanked the door clear of the steps and the sidewalk near the entrance. It wouldn’t do if one of the men tripped on it.