The Failed Coward

by Chris Philbrook

  I have to stay upright. I’m sitting against the headboard of the bed with my black and blue chest as tightly wrapped as I can bear. I struggle breathing at all without the wrap, and now that it’s wrapped tight, I can breathe a teeny bit, and it’s just sore as hell. Lose/lose I suppose.

  Yesterday went awesome by comparison. As I said before I think, we went to the auto parts store that Blake has been pining for, and got the bitch cleared out.

  The auto parts store is just off Main Street near the garden center we cleared the other day. It’s near the post office and some other local businesses that are useless to us now. Greeting cards? Previously awesome. Currently the only thing they are useful for is making a fire.

  My head is pounding from breathing all fucked up. Patty and Abby just came in for a few minutes with some soup and a couple of scrambled eggs for me. We’ve got unopened jars of salsa coming out the ass here, and they were kind enough to scoop out a few large spoons of it on the eggs. It’s really quite yummy, but it hurts to swallow. More or less everything from my chin to my balls hurts.

  Where was I? The auto parts store is a long building, and I mean deep. It isn’t wide, I think the parking lot for the place is only maybe six cars wide, and that’s the entire width of the building. Depth wise though, it had to be a hundred feet or better to the back door. Does this paragraph make sense? It does in my head.

  The entire front of the store was glass, and half of the windows were either smashed out, or had bullet holes in them. From the looks of it, there had been an exchange of gunfire in the street, and later on the window had been busted out so someone could get inside. The giveaway is where the broken glass fell.

  The interior of the building was empty of threats, but the streets for a block or so in every direction were cluttered with a fair amount of the dead. Fortunately, they were very spread out, and we started thinning them while on the move in the trucks. About three hundred feet from the auto parts store we felt it was a good idea to stop, and take down everything we saw moving, and then drive a hundred feet, and do the same again. That way we didn’t wait until we were surrounded at the store. I hate not having options, and being surrounded reduces options.

  It worked good. Really good actually. It makes me want to build a moving gun platform that we don’t have to leave if we do it again. Shit, we could kill the damn undead with sharp sticks off the back of a semi truck if we put enough brains into it. I’ll add that to the list of shit we should probably do. After we’re healed up.

  So yeah, lots of dead zombies. I forget exactly, but I think between all of us we came back with 10 empty AR/M4 magazines from that site, which is at least 300 rounds expended, and that’s not counting any sidearm fire. We are almost one shot, one kill efficient now, so I’d guess we put down a solid 250+ dead. They’re fucking everywhere downtown now. We can’t shit without wiping our ass on a zombie it seems. Seems like it is getting worse every day.

  At any rate, we were down Abby yesterday due to her finger, and when we pulled up to the shop and cleared it we had to split our group down the middle. Patty and Gilbert stayed outside to pull security while Gavin and I made sure it was safe inside. We went extra slow and careful due to the increased undead presence, proximity to downtown, as well as the broken windows. There was no telling how many were inside.

  None, if you’re curious Mr. Journal. Vehicle parts are apparently not high on the list of things that draw the undead.

  Once we felt we had a clear building, and a largely secure perimeter, we started taking shit out by the box full and armload. We took lots of electronics, sparkplugs, brake pads, oil filters, fuel additives, blah blah. We left the large shit like mufflers and whatnot behind for the moment because it’s all so subjective. We really only need the parts that apply to the vehicles we have, and we don’t know which of the parts in the store are the right ones, so there’s little sense in taking everything at this juncture. We can always return later for the parts needed for major repairs.

  Do you vaguely remember me talking about the largest apartment building in town? I think I talked about it the day we all went to the grocery store and got on the roof to retrieve the bags of guns? Anyway, there’s a fairly large apartment building in town, and it’s on the same street as the auto parts store. Now back in wheneverthefuckitwasItalkedaboutthebuildingbefore I think I said I saw smoke coming from a few of the apartment windows, or balconies or whatever. I remember saying that because the idea of burning to death in an apartment while undead banged on the door horrified me to the core. When we were leaving the auto parts store, I noticed right at the base of the building a fairly large debris field.

  Garbage. Large amounts of garbage. And as we’ve seen so far, where there is garbage, there are people, or zombies. That told me that in all likelihood, somewhere on the upper floors of the building there are or were survivors. Using the ACOG I went window to window looking for signs of life for nearly a half hour, but I didn’t see shit. We should get back there some time to check it out. Although, a large building like that scares me. Lots of halls, closets, doors, and dark nooks and crannies for the dead to hide in. Lots of danger involved. Filed under: fucked if I care.

  All things considered, the trip downtown yesterday was an entire success.

  Today, not so much. We knew last night today was the day we were going to set up a house as a communications point and refuge for folks. As I’ve said a hundred times, we’re calling them “safe houses.” In these houses we are setting up a single walkie, a small supply of fresh water, basic first aid supplies, and a small amount of food and spare clothing. We also decided to put a notebook and pen inside in the event someone stops in, doesn’t want to contact us via radio, but wants to leave a note. Any way we can get information is good we’re supposing. These houses will be set up with signs outside them so folks returning to or passing through will know there are some supplies inside, and that the house is safe.

  The idea is we will screen potential campus residents, feed the hungry, hydrate the dry, and give folks worse off than us a safe place, even if it’s only for a short time. We’d chosen a house on our side of town right on Main Street, but not quite in the more built up area. This is was a test run really, and we’ve already discussed altering plans for future safe houses.

  We chose a home right near Walt’s nut house. It was close to the road, had good parking, a large U shaped driveway that you could pull into, and out of quickly if needed, and the windows on the street side were a good distance above the ground. All in all, it was a fine choice.

  We pulled our vehicles into that huge driveway and began the process of setting the house up. I think we started fairly late, maybe noon or so. The morning was spent with us finalizing what we were leaving behind at the safe house, and painting up a huge sheet of ratty plywood as our safe house sign. The sign says “FOOD, WATER, RADIO. SAFE ON APRIL 27th”

  We felt putting the date on there was important because who knew how long that sign could’ve sat there for? What if we set up a safe house on October 1st, and it had been overrun ten times since then and we hadn’t updated the sign? We’re thinking we update the thing once a month, or as needed.

  Because this was a largely low key op, Gilbert and Abby remained behind. We figured it’d be a quick in and out, maybe taking an hour or two. We really wanted to chill out for an afternoon today.

  I hate making plans. The get ruined so fucking often. I should be spontaneous, so when things go right for me, I’m pleasantly surprised. Not meeting my expectations blows.

  Gavin stayed outside providing cover. Patty assisted me as we got everything inside, and got the few spots in the house that needed reinforcement fixed up. There were a couple windows in the back of the house we slapped a couple pieces of 2x4 on to make safe, and the large bay window in the living room also had a 2x4 slapped on the front of it. We put it up low in the frame so it would serve almost like a railing might. The dead can’t crawl over it, so it was as good as boarding the whole w
indow up.

  Patty ran out to the HRT to grab the final batch of supplies we planned on leaving behind when I heard a noise from the back of the house. The house itself was a sort of, shit, like a split level ranch, but only the back half of the house was on a different level, kind of like you had to take a couple steps down into the living room and kitchen? But the bedrooms in the front of the house were higher? That make any sense at all?

  Anyway, the noise I heard came from a rear mudroom where the laundry machines were, and that was right off the kitchen. I instantly figured a zombie had made its way through cover to the back of the home, and was knocking on the door or something. I called out on the radio that I heard contact to the rear of the house, and advised that I was checking it from the inside.

  I went around the hall and down the couple steps into the kitchen, and came to a dead stop right in front of the island when I heard keys jingling. I scanned quickly, and in the faint light of the back door’s small window, I saw the outline of a person standing. And I knew as soon I laid eyes on that silhouette, it was a living person, and not a zombie.

  I was fucking done. Had. A cooked goose. Flatfooted and fucked.

  “Freeze right there asshole!” I heard a man’s voice call out from the mudroom.

  So I did. I was thankful the first thing I heard wasn’t that last loud gunshot that finished my ass. I literally froze solid with my hand on the M4’s grip. Luckily I had thumbed the safety to semi before going into the kitchen, so I was a tenth of a second away from shooting if need be, but if he had a gun on me already, that still wouldn’t have been fast enough.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my house? Stealing my shit you asshole? Who the fuck are you?” As he asked, he came closer. When he stepped out of the dark mudroom I saw he indeed had a revolver trained on me. He was middle aged, had long, scraggly hair and a beard to match. He had dirty clothes on, and glasses with one lens cracked. He looked like a hobo. A hobo with a gun on me.

  I talked as slowly as I could, “I’m Adrian. We’re checking houses to clear them for the dead. I’m sorry, we thought this home was empty.”

  “Yeah well we’re home now. Drop your gun and all your food and ammo.” He said the last part with a stammer. I could tell he had no fucking clue what was happening. No control over the situation, and he was scared as hell.

  Now I knew that if I put down my gun and ammo, he’d either kill me, or shoo me out and I’d likely never see it again. I could gamble, and see if he’d let me walk out with my handgun and that ammo, but that risked him popping me like a wannabe gangster by accident. I thought all this over and looked at him hard. I think my delayed response made him nervous, because he piped up again.

  “DROP THE DAMN GUN!” He cocked the pistol and leveled it straight at me, dead nuts on my Adam’s apple.

  I didn’t have to decide about dropping my M4, or my Glock. Right then Patty came back in the front door, arms filled with the shit we’d planned on leaving behind, and that was the end of it.

  The homeowner rotated the gun towards Patty, and I saw the look in his eyes, wild and afraid, and I knew as soon he got that front sight on her, she was gonna take one. I brought the muzzle of the M4 up as fast as I could, and nearly simultaneously he and I pulled the trigger.

  I misfired.

  He didn’t.

  Anyone who has fired a gun in anger will tell you gunfire is loud as a motherfucker, but the louder sound is pulling that fucking trigger, and not hearing that round in the chamber go off. Not feeling that buck against your shoulder, and not seeing that little flash as the gas escapes the barrel… It is the exact opposite of adrenaline. Stops your heart fucking cold.

  Someone didn’t want Patty to die that day, because his shot sailed high and splintered the doorframe about ten inches above her forehead. I can still remember the look of shock on her face. I always will I think. I’m struggling to type right now thinking that would’ve been my last memory of her face had that bullet split her forehead and killed her. I dropped the M4 on the sling, and without missing a beat threw it around my hip and drew the Glock to hip fire.

  That fucking guy was fast as hell though, and he leveled back on me just as I drew on him, and this time when we fired, both guns went off. I saw his muzzle flash, and felt his bullet hit me before I registered that my bullet hit him.

  Being shot hurts. A fucking lot. I’d compare it to someone getting a good running start and hitting you at full force with a hammer. Granted, my vest kept the bullet from punching into me, and scrambling my insides, but it did fuck all for saving me from that motherfucking impact. Goddamn it Mr. Journal.

  Seriously.

  It hit me just right of center mass, just under the bottom edge of the ribcage. Tossed me two feet back and into the fridge like I’d been tackled by a linebacker. I caught the handle on the fridge door right in my spine too, which was a sharp stab in the asshole that I didn’t need.

  Here’s the reason why a heavier caliber is better for people; my Glock is .45 APC. It’s a heavy, thunderous round with serious impact power. Just getting clipped by the bitch will send most men spinning and tossed to the ground. Hobo took my round to the hip, and he was flung in a circle, losing his revolver in the process, and he crashed to the floor.

  Somehow I stayed on my feet, clutching my side where I was shot, and I came around the island to find him scratching at his shirt, trying to get to the bleeding hole in him. I stood there watching as he ripped open his shirt, exposing the leaking dime sized hole. Once he saw it, he snapped back to reality and looked up at me, almost standing over him. By that point the radio was going off as Gavin began running inside, and Patty as well had leapt into action. She dropped her shit, and was approaching us, AR15 up, ready to kill the guy on the floor.

  I could barely see. I had stars in my eyes, and was leaning heavily on the island, trying to keep my gun on him. It was clear to me that he knew things were bad for him, and he rolled over and started to crawl back into the mudroom to escape. He cried out in pain, screaming really. He scratched and clawed to gain purchase, dragging a long throw run towards him, making no progress forward.

  That’s when I saw the .45’s exit wound. They go in small, but sure as shit don’t come out that way. He had a hole in his back coming out near the spine the size of my fist. You could’ve pushed a coffee mug in the gap where his body used to me. I could see his perforated, ragged kidney shake like jelly inside him as he tried to get away.

  That’s when I went down. I couldn’t breathe for shit, and I think I was hyperventilating too. Everything went black for a few seconds, and when I came to, Gavin had me propped up against that fridge again, and he was ripping my vest off to check for similar holes in me.

  I still don’t know what happened to the guy. I think Patty or Gavin dragged him out back at some point. I think they killed him, which was the only sensible thing to do at that point. There was no fixing what I did to him.

  That makes me sad that he had to die. He shot me because he was scared, not because he wanted to kill me. It’s easy to kill people who you hate. That’s why soldiers demonize their enemy. We can kill who we can hate. Simple as that. Nazi’s, gook’s, nips, Japs, Hajji’s, muj, you name it something bad, and we’ll kill it.

  This guy had no bad name. I didn’t hate him, and didn’t deserve to die.

  He was just scared.

  I feel rotten tonight, and not just because I took a .357 to the chest. Incidentally, that caliber can go fuck itself sideways with a cactus. I will never forget I got shot with it, and from this point forward, I will probably hold an unreasonable grudge against it, and all those who use it. Fuck it, and fuck you all.

  I just took two vicodin. I’m on a coherency clock.

  Obviously this changes things for me personally. I can’t move much, especially if it turns out that I’ve got any broken ribs. I think I might have one that’s cracked. The one on the very bottom on the side I was shot on. I need to go see Lisa to have her check me out. No o
ne here can tell for sure. The best thing is I am not coughing up any blood, which means no perforations to the lung.

  Anyone want lemonade? Just made some. It’s fresh.

  Everyone’s all worried. Me included. I know they’ll be okay with me bedridden for a bit, but I can feel that I am going a little mental when I realize that we will fall behind on our already overloaded schedule. I know I can trust them to get shit done, but it still leaves me itchy thinking that I can’t lend some kind of support.

  I did not need this Mr. Journal.

  Fuck me.

  -Adrian

  April 29th

  I’m gonna go ahead and admit that driving to Westfield yesterday was likely a mistake on my part. I’m in a world of hurt tonight, and last night it was even worse. I could be clever about it, and blame my friends for not stopping me. Which… sort of sounds like fun.

  However, I really wanted Lisa to gimme a quick once over to make sure I didn’t have internal bleeding or broken ribs from the shot I took to the chest. Motherfucking .357’s Mr. Journal. It’s on my shit list now. I want to punch that caliber in the face.

  I am pretty much about to eat pillow here (yay painkillers), so I need to keep this short.

  Yesterday everyone else rolled out to get that frigging safe house set up. They left early, set it up fast, and hit another one of those little town properties with fencing all around it strictly to get the fence up and out for use here. I felt like a freeloading bitch when they left. I wasn’t helping them because I was hurt, and I wanted to go to Westfield.

  I took the Tundra and drove there as slowly as I could over the last remnants of the frost heaves. No rush really, so driving fast seemed stupid. Even taking my time I paid the price. I’m in less pain when I am sitting or standing, so you’d think that being behind the wheel would be a good place to be, but NOOOOOOOOO.