Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 5): Wrath

by Chris Philbrook

  I issued no warning. The Pastor’s son was crouched next to a bed, and had shot at me from shitty cover. I shot the Pastor’s son in the chest with the carbine, walking the final two rounds of the burst into his head, and he dropped the remnants of his face onto the bed he used for cover. Protip: beds make for shitty cover.

  I guess it’s good my sense of humor is coming back.

  Every door I kicked in on that hallway had someone inside that pointed a weapon at me. I kill people with weapons pointed at me. I didn’t ask them to drop their weapons. I did not judge their actions, I simply reacted to the threat they posed, and put three rounds into them.

  As I said multiple times already, some of those threats came in the form of pregnant women. I hate myself for having shot them, despite knowing that it was them, or me. Our humanity slips through our fingers every moment of every day now, and I am fighting so fucking hard to save lives, and bring new ones into the world, and knowing that innocent kids were lost to this mindless bullshit eats at me. I think it will always eat at me.

  I haven’t slept in days. I can’t take a pill for it. I won’t take a pill for it. I need to feel this guilt. I need to understand that I bear a burden so that no one else has to. I feel this way so that others do not have to. I suffer so that others might enjoy what passes for a life in this world.

  Blake started hollering for Kim when the last room in that hallway was empty. We heard her yelling back from around the corner of the hall, and we took that corner with force. Standing with her feet planted wide like roots imbedded in the hardwood floor was the Pastor’s wife. She was dressed in a baby blue nightgown, and had a double barrel shotgun leveled at my chest. Fortunately for me, I am faster on the trigger than an old lady.

  I stitched that cunt across the chest, and as she ate that hardwood floor, both barrels let loose and punched a hole in the floor the size of a sewer lid. Better the floor than my chest. I swapped out the magazine on the M4, slung it over my hip and drew the Glock, then sent a .45 slug into the floor through the back of her head. I got some of her head on my boot.

  To my left was an open door, and there was poor little Kim, pregnant as can be, scared out of her mind. She was curled up next to a trio of cribs, all decorated with hand painted religious nonsense. Images of the Mother Mary, Jesus, the Cross, and more were painted on the room everywhere I could see. Even in the dim light of the few candles spread about, the imagery was almost oppressive. It felt... forced. Artificial.

  Blake ran and threw himself down to her. I covered the door as they desperately clutched one another. He kissed her, and kissed again, and told her how much he loved her. When I looked back he had his hand on her round belly, and from the expression on her face, she could not have been happier to see him.

  For the record, Blake was right all along. We didn’t believe him, and I feel like if we had, there would be more babies being born soon, and less dead mothers in that house. Blake, I have already apologized to you in person, but if anyone reads this journal after I’m dead, they need to know he was right about The Farm all along. Our doubts and desire for caution got in the way of seeing the truth. Is this what happens in the absence of courage?

  The end of the hall had a single door, and like every other door in that house, I put my size 13 to it, and sent that bitch off the hinges. The wood of the frame gave way, sending long shards of wood in all different directions. I advanced inside alone, circuiting, looking for a threat, and all I found was the man himself, The Pastor.

  He was kneeling beside his bed, clutching his black leather bound bible in his hands and praying as feverishly as a person could. He paid me no attention until I walked right up beside him, and pulled my Glock once more from the holster.

  You already know how that scene ends.

  I guess he wasn’t praying for my mercy.

  After I watched the Pastor’s brains slide down the wall next to his bed we searched the place more thoroughly. Underneath the bed in the room adjacent to the Pastor’s were the final two pregnant ladies. They were scared out of their mind. Gilbert managed to coax them out with some kind words and his old guy charm. They are royally fucked. Complete basket cases.

  It took us 20 minutes to get their names out of them, let alone learn anything about them. Kirsten and Delilah. I’m guessing at the ages, but I’d say early 20’s. They’re both three months or so along, and they were both raped by the Pastor’s son. Looks like that fruit didn’t fall far from the tree. So much for immaculate conception.

  The two girls elected to stay behind once they calmed down and realized we were not the demons the Pastor made us out to be. We didn’t want to eat them, or burn them at the stake, or rape them like the Pastor’s son had. We just wanted to help.

  We found two more dead bodies in the back yard after we made sure the house was safe. During the ambush we returned fire and apparently hit two of them. They must’ve died there, or on the way back there. I am satisfied by that. I can’t recall who I shot, or if I shot anyone that day here. It’s all a blur now. Return suppressing fire is rarely something you do with a clear head.

  Blake and Kim were inseparable, sitting on the porch, clutching each other and telling their mutual stories to one another. They were useless, but I guess that’s for the best. The two pregnant girls helped Gilbert and I round up the cows in the dark and get the fence latch repaired enough so the cows couldn’t escape. We did not want to lose all that cattle after the work we’d put in there.

  We told the girls we’d return as soon as we could, made sure they were safe, and left. It was a hike to our vehicles, but the roads were clear of the undead in the dark.

  We collapsed into exhaustion back here. It was eerie. Campus was almost entirely empty. I forgot how silent it was here without all the people milling about. No Patty downstairs getting her late night glass of water. No Gavin or Abby sneaking away for a forbidden late night romp up on the third floor. The thin walls, creaky bed and the dirty sheets are dead giveaways. I don’t think they realize it. That or they didn’t care. Either way, I’m happy for them. Well, I was happy for them.

  Gavin died.

  My people returned today, limping, bandaged, and with Mike and Hector plus Ollie and Mallory as an escort. As soon as the HRT pulled into the center of campus near Hall E and Abby got out, I knew instantly he’d died. She lowered her eyes for a moment away from my gaze, and looked back and shook her head. Patty was behind her and was watching. Abby walked past me without a word, shoulder slumped, holding her damaged hand, and went into Hall E. There were no tears. I haven’t seen her since.

  Patty filled me in. Patty drove the HRT to Westfield, and Gavin died on the way. Before he died on the stretcher in the truck he and Abby got to say their goodbyes, and he told her a secret that he’d been carrying. Patty didn’t hear the secret when Abby leaned in to him to listen, but Abby’s face was full of stern surprise. Patty said she nodded at Gavin, kissed him on the forehead, and that was that.

  I can’t imagine how she feels. Stolen from maybe. Violated without doubt. Hollow.

  They were in love, and she watched him die.

  Melissa is fine, and Ollie has regained his sanity from her injuries. Her two wounds were largely superficial (well, as superficial as a flesh wound can be), and other than some kind of anxiety triggered contractions or something of the such, she was fine.

  Lindsey seems dangerously close to snapping. It doesn’t seem possible for anyone to have that much grief and stay functional. Losing your daughter violently like that? Right in front of you? After everything that family has already been through, one more dead was not deserved.

  Tucker stayed in Westfield. With his parents dead, he couldn’t return here to live. It’s for the best I hear, as his legs were royally fucked up from the wounds he took. Lisa said his pelvis was damaged heavily by the round he took to the hip, and even if he wanted to return, she would have kept him.

  Angela and Amanda. The strangers who wandered onto campus the day of the ambu
sh. I nearly killed them when I saw them walking across the bridge. I didn’t though, thankfully. As it turns out, Amanda is the woman spoken of in the note I found the other day. When she told me she found her dead husband tied to a radiator, I told her to wait, and I got the note. I kept it for some reason. Maybe somehow I knew one day I’d meet the woman it was meant for, and I kept it to deliver it.

  She cried.

  Angela is the wife of Dan McGreevy. I told her how he died too, and then she cried. This is a habit I need to break. Making girls cry. Not the kind of heart breaker a man ever wants to be. I don’t know what led them to us, other than them saying Dan mentioned maybe coming here back in July, but they’re here now with their three kids, and they have asked to stay. They were both dental hygienists before the world died out, and that’s nice. They can do cleanings for us. Less cavities, less tooth decay… While we were gone, and over the past few days, they’ve helped out all over the place, including shooting a few straggler undead that have followed us all the way up here.

  That’s disturbing to say the least. Undead near campus again. Just seeing them on Auburn Lake Road makes me angry. I feel like we’re doing the same shit over and over again. Evil keeps pushing forward every time we get ahead and fucks us back over.

  Mallory is a sweetheart. She’s in the bed with me again, and she’s just… here. No sex, no passion, she’s just present. I’m comforted by this. Just knowing she made the trip to be with me, even if only for the sake of making me feel better. Making me feel less alone. Less guilty about my choices in this. I am thankful for her. This is too fragile a life to not appreciate everything that is offered to me.

  We have so much to do. I don’t even know where to begin.

  Clearly campus isn’t safe. Isolation is no longer a viable strategy. Our mediocre defensive measures did nothing for us. We need to batten down the hatches in an industrial fashion once and for all. We’ve got ideas. It’ll take time and be dangerous, but what’s new?

  Kirsten and Delilah are still back at The Farm with the cattle. We need to figure out what to do about the women as well as the fields there. Do we occupy both places, despite being on opposite sides of town? Do we move there? Do we move everything there to here?

  More questions. No answers yet. Frustrating as all hell. Mike and Hector are staying the night to provide security for us. Ollie’s dad is on his own while the dad to-be takes care of his woman.

  We are resting tomorrow. At dinner, we are formulating a plan. I am leaning heavily on my people for this.

  I didn’t get shot, I didn’t get stabbed, and I didn’t break any bones.

  But I am starting to wonder if I am the most injured person around here.

  We will sorely miss Gavin.

  -Adrian

  May 27th

  Campus has fallen apart.

  I’m stealing the time to write this entry. I think we’ve got it under control, but I’ve said that before and been really fucking wrong. Once more we seem to have been found by the dead. At least this time they aren’t carrying weird shit in their hands.

  That’s a shitty bit of comfort Adrian, way to mail it in.

  Yesterday we all sat down inside Hall E here and tried to figure out what we were doing. Where do we go from here? Abby skipped the meeting. She shut herself in her room and ignored everyone. It must be her way of dealing with the pain of losing her first love. My heart aches for her.

  We were making some food to eat, and Hector wandered over into the living room and stopped the conversation when he hollered out “que chingados!” Apparently that roughly translates to your choice of either “what the fuck?” or “holy fuck, look everyone, there’s a shitload of undead outside.” Largely the same effect achieved regardless of which translation you choose.

  Of course we didn’t know exactly what he said at the time, but the tone of his voice was enough to tell us something very bad was happening. We rushed to the windows and saw the very beginning of what has developed into a real fucking problem for us.

  The windows look out onto the middle of campus, largely facing the cafeteria across the lawn and street. Down to the right, towards the main school building and the main three way intersection that heads towards the bridge were maybe twenty zombies.

  One or two is negligible. Twenty is a serious issue. We rigged up as fast as we could, and made our way outside to handle it. In the minute or two it took to do that, the numbers outside had doubled. In the time it took us to get down sidewalk to the street, the number had doubled again.

  When we opened fire, and they started at us in earnest, it was like a faucet had been turned on. A river of the undead came over the bridge and around past the staff office building. Ten, fifteen wide, and God only knows how deep. Those of us who went outside to handle it opened up, but we knew it was too many. I called out, “Get back in the Hall!” And we stared to peel back laying down heavy fire. Mike and I shot first, sending the front handful of dead down, starting the domino effect. Front row face plants, second row is too stupid to step over them, and before you know it, you’ve cut their speed in half.

  Half speed undead isn’t much of a prize when they are coming in like an avalanche. Mike and I emptied a magazine each as fast as we could send head shots out, and then we got the fuck out. Mike ripped off a final burst just as I was running past him, and I caught a hot casing right in the cheek. Hurt like a bitch. By then everyone was at the door to Hall E, and they began to pour it on. We got inside, slammed the two fire doors shut, and now… here we are again.

  Completely surrounded, trapped in Hall E once more. This time we were a lot more aggressive. I got everyone armed and into the windows to start firing immediately. The last fucking thing we need is for the dead zombie bodies to stack up like they did before. We were perhaps four hours away from them being able to get right in over the barricades last time, and that shit can’t happen again.

  I told everyone to go cyclic, and start shooting from the back of the crowd forward. That way, the pile would start away from the side of the building unlike last time. It seems to be working. We fired for hours and hours, steadily dropping them one after another. We half starved skipping meals and only having tiny snacks so we could keep everyone relieved. It was a well organized nightmare.

  That was yesterday, and we took the entire night off from shooting due to a lack of light. I don’t think anyone slept a wink. The sound of the river behind Hall E mercifully drowned out any noises the mob of undead might’ve been making. Today we picked up where we left off, though with a slower, more methodic rate of fire. It was apparent when we took stock of the situation that flat out opening up on them was a terrible idea. There were just too damn many to shoot next to the Hall.

  The crowd down at the side of the Hall is enormous. They’re pressed in, pushing forward like bloody cattle. Shoulder to shoulder they are at least forty deep on almost every side of the Hall. If we start shooting them now, they’ll stack up like cordwood again, and then we’re royally bent. At the moment, the barricades are holding, and we have time to formulate a plan.

  One thing is worrying me though. Abby. She’s been up there either shooting, or on watch all of yesterday, all of last night, and all of today. She hasn’t slept a wink. Nor has she said word one to me. I don’t know what to think about her, or her alternating violent, and reclusive behavior. I tried to get her to take a break earlier, and she glared at me. She must be working through her pain. It breaks my heart when I think about her.

  Sigh.

  I have formulated a plan for getting us out of here somewhat safely, and dealing with the undead surrounding us as well. I am relying on a tried and true weapon that has served me well in the past.

  Lady Gaga.

  Will advise if Plan: Fame Monster works out.

  -Adrian

  May 29th

  Plan Fame Monster nearly got me killed, but it did the fucking job.

  Never let it be said that I was not a little lucky from time to time. I guess I
was due for a big fat dose of decent luck after… all this.

  I noticed fairly early on during the past few days that the undead were only surrounding three of the sides of Hall E. The back of the building facing the river was never occupied. Now the shitty part of this is that the ground there is rocky, a little treacherous, and in order to get around either side of the Hall, you’d be in a pinch trying to get past the undead. The river is on one side, and the undead on the other. No escape route.

  There are two answers to that problem, but they both require a bit of preparation. The preparation is a planned distraction. Enter Lady Gaga. For whatever reason (I know it’s not good taste), there are a dozen of her CD’s scattered around campus, and we had two here, so that was fine. We also have a few small stereos spare that we can use.

  Once we had that ready to go, we simply needed to choose which of the two options I saw we had. First solution is the simplest, but probably the least safe. Run like a motherfucker past them. I mean screaming sissy boy in the prison shower sprint. Book it past the undead, out into the open, and viola, the runner is theoretically free.

  Second option is more difficult, but much safer. Swim in the river out to Lake Auburn. Due to all the rain we’ve had lately the river is pretty high, and the current is reasonably swift. If we slipped out with no notice to the undead, it was reasonable to expect that you’d get all the way past the bridge in the river and then be free to move about campus. I’m a good swimmer, so I elected to bag up my Glock, my knife, a few essential supplies, and hit the river.

  So why bother? What can one person do all alone to save all those folks inside Hall E? Well, with a small stereo and a Lady Gaga CD you can achieve miracles.