Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 5): Wrath

by Chris Philbrook

  Except it didn’t do anything. No one poked their head over the upper floor balconies to see what was going on, and no one hollered, and we saw no lights. What I did see once we moved out and approached the building was evidence that people had been throwing garbage and waste over the balconies. You could see smears of yellow and brown coming off of four different, distinct balconies on the building, and with the rain we’ve had lately, there’s little chance those shit smears are that old. In fact, I could see a sheen on at least one of the smears that told me it was still wet. Down in the street where the shit and piss had landed, the smell was pungent and fresh. Someone was without doubt up there, and they were peeing, and pooping.

  Which, if you’re a fucking rock star like I am, you’ll realize that means they are eating and drinking as well, which implies they have a steady source of food and water from somewhere. I don’t know where they’re growing or getting their food, but it means they aren’t starving, and they’re reasonably safe up there.

  The ground floor entries are all barricaded heavily from the inside, which also says that they were able to fortify the place at some point. From the outside looking in, the two main doors on the ground level are heavy duty exterior doors, and the windows have been covered with what looks to be plate steel. Further, when we jiggled the handles on both doors, there was no give at all in the frame, which tells me the doors are either welded shut, or somehow braced from the inside to withstand serious impact. Clearly this is an industrial fortification job. Now if you recall, I saw smoke coming out of some of these balconies over the winter, which meant at least one or two of these apartments somehow caught fire at one point. It would seem that the building itself withstood the storm though, and there were enough survivors inside to continue on, apparently indefinitely. That’s assuming they aren’t slipping out somehow, and they’re actually still alive inside.

  When we finally left and went home, we had no real idea what to do with that information. We have a fortified building that apparently has food and water inside, and is sustaining an unknown amount of people. Judging by the number of apartments that had shit smears on their balconies, it’s looking like as many as four balconies are occupied, and let’s make a generous estimate of as many as three people per balcony. That’s twelve bodies in there. Now I can’t say for sure there are twelve, or ten, or four people there, but there are people there, and they’re alive and kicking.

  If they didn’t come out to contact us, then that means they either didn’t hear us shooting, or they intentionally avoided making any kind of contact with us. Deaf folks seem unlikely, and it also doesn’t strike me as realistic that they couldn’t hear all my gunfire. If they lasted this long, then they clearly have been paying attention to the world around them.

  Gilbert and I have settled on the idea that they are playing dead because they’re scared, and don’t want to give up what they’ve got. How to do make contact with them? For that matter, do we even need or want to make contact with them? If they’re safe in there, and they aren’t fucking with us, why force communication? What is there to gain?

  Having said all that, everyone is dying to know who the hell is in there. Is it an astrophysicist? A gardener? A chef, a baker, a candlestick maker? Curious minds want to know what’s going on. I want to know what’s going on. There HAS to be a story to hear in that building that can help us.

  Gilbert and I decided with the help of some of the others that we should return to the apartment building in a couple days, and attempt more verbal communication. We’re making big signs out of laminated paper telling them who we are, and how to contact us using the safe house we set up heading out of town, and what channel they can contact us on should they have walkies themselves. We’re also going to use one of the athletic department megaphones to simply yell up at them.

  I’m anticipating there being a much larger crowd of undead on our return next time. We made a lot of noise down there today, and as we’ve discovered, noise draws the pricks in. There’s a damn good chance we led a few dozen or more of the zombies right to the building’s doorstep, and I suppose if anything, we need to be responsible neighbors, and go back to trim the weeds off their sidewalk, so to speak.

  Tomorrow we’re going to return to working here on campus, as things are going well. With any luck we’ll hear word from Westfield about how Blake and Kim (and possibly baby) are doing. I’d like to get the upgrades on the HRT going again, and plus I’m frankly curious to see how many horns that demon seed he’s fathering comes out with. I’m guessing five.

  Mallory is downstairs right now playing cards with Abby. Those two are becoming thick like thieves, which does not bode well for old Adrian. Whenever two women get that close to one another, inevitably I will pay some kind of price. I have anticipated that I will be harassed, and/or teased by the new Team Vagina look, so I have hidden a jar of icy hot for revenge purposes.

  Hopefully she’ll come back up here shortly, so I can get some stress off my chest. If not, I’ll just black out from exhaustion, and she can have her way with me.

  Win/win.

  -Adrian

  Dream a Little Dream

  Gilbert woke up in his bed, covered in a cold, clammy sweat. The warm June morning sunlight streamed into his window with the energy of a thousand candles, illuminating the soft blue paint his wife had just asked him to paint the room. New beginnings, she had said.

  The old man swallowed hard and rested his head back on his damp pillow. He’d had another dream. Another nightmare. Years ago Gilbert had finally shaken the nightmares from his time as a Green Beret in Vietnam, and having to experience a whole new series of nightmares recently had him shaken to the core. These were much, much worse than his dreams of seeing dead children back in the late 60’s. These dreams were real.

  They all began the same. Gilbert came to inside the dream wandering in the dark, in a cool expansive area that was neither inside, nor outside. His sense of smell was invaded by the overwhelming stench of fresh blood on the air, and even if he chose not to breathe it in, the coppery wetness sat on his tongue like sticky, bitter oil. He was scared to swallow in the dreams. Gilbert wanted nothing about the feeling he had in his throat to get any further inside him.

  The first few dreams ended with him wandering in that void all alone. He’d walk on his old, creaky legs for what felt like days and then when he thought he couldn’t go any further, the sun’s rays broke through his eyelids, and he woke up sweaty, and shaking. The past few dreams had been dramatically different.

  Last night’s dream had been the worst yet.

  Gilbert had come to in the darkness and it was colder than before, and the air thinner. He struggled to fill his Parliament damaged lungs with desperately needed oxygen in the hostile dreamy environment. His breathing labored to the point where he had to stop moving and rest his hands on his hips, inhaling the near frigid metallic air carefully and deliberately, trying to quell his racing heart.

  Then the voice spoke to him. It was unnatural, and overwhelming. It came from everywhere, but spoke only to him.

  “Gilbert Donohue.”

  Gilbert’s heart leaped into his chest, nearly blocking his airway, causing him to let loose a cough that freed up a thick wad of dark mucous. It dribbled down his chin. “Who the hell is that? What’s happening here dammit?”

  “The end of times Gilbert Donohue. Humanity’s last stop. I am here to let you know that you play a pivotal role in deciding the matter.”

  “Who the hell are you? What’s happening? Why me?”

  “Your questions are to the point. It speaks to why I have chosen you for the tasks laid out ahead of you. I shall answer you thus; I am no one, and nothing. I am the devourer. I am the end. I am the force about to be set free to break humanity like a wave on the rocks at the shore. I shall turn you all inward, eradicate you from existence, and show your folly so that this life can begin anew. You have been chosen because you have skills and experience that are applicable for controll
ing the outcome of this.”

  Gilbert looked around in the dark expanse trying to figure out where the voice came from. As the voice tapered off into silence he came to the realization that he wasn’t hearing the voice. He was experiencing it. “Why do I get the feeling I am not going to like this?”

  “Because in the end Gilbert Donohue, you will die. You will die a traitor’s death as one of the men and women who will stand against humanity. Rest assured Gilbert Donohue, despite your feelings to the contrary, you will reside for eternity as a hero amongst my legions. You shall be known as my Voice, and as my Advocate here.”

  Gilbert closed his eyes in the darkness and let the words sink into his soul. His stomach knotted as his mind came to a stunning conclusion. “You’re the Devil, aren’t you?”

  “That is as good a name as any.”

  “You seriously want me to be the Devil’s Advocate?” Gilbert shook his head in disgust.

  “You ARE my Advocate. Your wishes do not factor into this equation.”

  “Try me. You can’t make me do shit. I will not betray my kind, even in this fucked up dream.” Gilbert sneered into the darkness.

  “Gilbert Donohue, do you love your wife?”

  Gilbert’s blood ran like ice water suddenly. He could be tough forever. He’d die before he did anything for the Devil. His wife on the other hand... That’s dirty fighting. “I love my wife. You stay out of her dreams, and out of my head too you prick. I’ll square off with the Devil without thinking twice. Been there, done that you asshole.”

  “Oh Gilbert Donohue. Your strength of will shall be her undoing. You will fulfill your role in this, or I shall take her from you. She will suffer. Forever.”

  “The hell you will. She isn’t dead yet, and I’ve got plenty to say about you trying to touch her.” Gilbert’s bony old fists knotted up in anger. No one tried him. Not even the Devil.

  “Gilbert, allow me to appease your anger, and lay out a single simple task for you. We will build a relationship based on trust. Achieve this simple task, and your wife is safe for some time. Can we agree to this one simple task?”

  Gilbert thought about it long and hard. He thought of his wife’s beautiful blue eyes, and how she looked at him in the morning when she woke up. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being in danger. Besides, if anyone could outsmart the Devil, it was him. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The end of times will be brought about in a rolling crescendo of death. The first day thousands will die. The second day tens of thousands, and the third day shall see the end of millions. Eventually, you will all perish. Your dead have been chosen as the instrument of justice, and they are crude weapons. I can only control them to a point, and there is good chance one of them will let slip from my leash, and try to kill you and your wife. To prevent this, you must fortify your home, and obtain more resources. Food, ammunition, water, wood, everything to survive the end of the world that you will help bring about. Do this, and I shall spare you and your wife for the foreseeable future.”

  “Seems fair. It’s a deal. How long do I have?” Gilbert’s mind slipped into Green Beret mode, thinking, assessing, planning.

  “When you awaken, it will be the morning of June 6th. The end will begin on June 23rd. You must be ready on that day, or you run the risk of being killed by the horde.”

  And that’s when Gilbert came to, sweaty, shaking, and wishing his wife hadn’t gone into their warehouse that day for work. He knew instantly the dream wasn’t just a dream. His chin was covered in the phlegm he’d coughed up in the dream, and sitting on his pillow next to his face was a freshly cut flower. A white poppy.

  The flower of death.

  *****

  Gilbert told his wife that evening when she got home from work that the plexiglass he’d just put on the windows was there for insurance purposes. There had been a break in down the street a month ago, and she’d been complaining about how the neighborhood was on the way down. She could understand that rationale. The following day's activities were a bit harder to explain. They were just as hard to rationalize for Gilbert. Was he mad?

  Gilbert had no idea what the voice in the dream meant when it said that the dead would be the instruments of justice. He assumed it meant that dead people would rise up from the grave, and the thought of that chilled him to the bone. Gilbert decided that shoring up the porch railing, and building a heavy duty gate at the top of the steps behind the screen door was the way to go. It also looked fairly nondescript, and if this all turned out to him just being crazy, the more he hid it, the better off he and his wife were.

  His wife was not impressed by the sudden carpentry work. “Gilly," she asked, "why is there a new sheet of plywood all across the brand new railing we put in last summer?”

  “Well dear, you see," Gilbert had said to her, "we’ve had some trouble with raccoons getting up on the porch. This is a temporary fix. I’ll get something better looking up in a few weeks.”

  That bought him enough time until it started. The end started. June 23rd, 2010, just as The Voice had said in his dream. Gilbert’s wife went to work that day despite his insistence that she stay home. They even had an argument over it, which Gilbert would regret daily until he died. The company warehouse would run itself he’d said, and if the end of the world really did happen that day, then it wouldn’t matter one way or the other anyway. He didn’t tell her that part. Nevertheless, despite his protests, she went in anyway. She was never the type of person that could let go and let others do her work for her. Either she did it herself the right way, or it was certain to be done wrong by someone else. Gilbert watched her leave that morning in her small Volvo, and that was the last time he saw her.

  When the early morning news came on, and the pictures of death and destruction from around the world began to roll in nonstop, he knew the end was in his lap. Gilbert tried to call her, but she didn’t pick up her cell phone, and he suspected it was off. She never used the thing.

  Rather than leaving to try and find her, he knew he should finish the preparations on the house for her return. He knew she’d be safe. He’d made a deal with the Devil, and he’d held up his part of the bargain.

  *****

  The funny thing about deals with the Devil is that they’re never quite what they seem. When his wife never came home, or called, or returned his calls that day, he knew he’d been had. Gilbert sat at the window in the living room of his house, his trusty AK-47 in hand, watching the few neighbors that made it out of the city alive frantically loading things into their cars to escape to somewhere else. Many could head north maybe, where it was more rural. Anywhere but here. Gilbert knew it wouldn’t matter in the long run. Hell had released its fury, and the flood would spread until it covered everything.

  That night he had another dream, a nightmare really. He felt the voice in the darkness before the cold sank underneath his skin, and he tasted the presence of blood.

  “Well done Gilbert Donohue. Your home will survive the onslaught for some time.”

  Gilbert was furious, and reached for the AK that had been slung at his side all that day, but it wasn’t in the dream with him. He was full of anger. “Where is my wife? You promised me she would survive.”

  “And she did for some time. Sadly, she did not make it out of the city alive. Crude tools occasionally fail at what they are tasked with.”

  “You motherfucker! You promised me she’d live!” Gilbert was raging now. He felt the hot tears slide down his cheek, warming the skin in the cold air of the dark space.

  “I have no mother to fuck. Gilbert Donohue your time to rest is upon you. You have earned a respite. Remain where you are, and when the time is right, I shall visit you once more.”

  “Is my wife dead?” Gilbert trembled with a mixture of rage and heartache. Inside his chest he felt acute stabbing pain. His nerves were burning from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. For the first time in his memory, he felt helpless, and vulnerable.

  “She has died. However
, I have set her soul aside for safekeeping. It is under my eye, and so long as you continue to do my bidding, she shall remain in a blissful state until this catechism passes. Should you not do my bidding Gilbert Donohue… She shall suffer for eternity.”

  *****

  It was December when the next dream came. Gilbert had spent the autumn months keeping busy, mostly clearing small trees out of the backyard to use as fuel in the woodstove. The electricity died early, the phones even earlier, and he knew he’d freeze to death over winter without a lot of wood. Of course it takes a tremendous amount of energy for a 70 year old man to chop down a tree with an axe.

  It didn’t help either that the dead family down the cul de sac tried to smash their way out of their home every time he went outside. The family had starved to death inside their own house. The wife was convinced a plague was the cause for all the death and destruction. Gilbert wasn’t aware of any disease that caused the dead to rise up and kill the living. She on the other hand forbid even opening the door to take the small offerings of food and advice Gilbert offered to them. It was sad when he saw them scratching fruitlessly at the windows, their now dead fingers trying to break the glass to get at him. In truth, they were the only dead people he’d seen up to that point.

  The dream that came to him in December scared Gilbert. He awoke in the cold, dim expanse and immediately shouted to the voice of evil, “Where is my wife? How is she?”

  “Patience Gilbert Donohue. All is the same with your beloved. But for this to remain so, you must begin the next phase of your task.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying to me like before? Why should I trust you?” Gilbert’s heart ticked rapidly away in his chest like the rattle of a baseball card in the spokes of a bicycle.