Something about what she said sent a shiver up and down my whole body. Images of a destroyed London and Berlin flashed inside my eyelids as I blinked. The Eiffel tower rusting and covered in vines, Frenchmen smashing in skulls with hard loafs of bread. Spaniards using red capes to dodge charging undead. Italians beating away zombies with enormous pots of pasta and sexist beliefs.
I joke but it messed me up. I’m still thinking about it.
After that we wound down and set another meeting for November 25th. A month seemed like plenty of time. Ollie did in fact love the bull which meant we offloaded the diesel and loaded in the cow, which I will now call Romeo henceforth. They had the pumpkins in the back of beat up Silverado and we swung our truck around and swapped them out. This marked the first time our second line people met their second line people. Not all of them were Guardsman. Most were just ordinary folk. Lots of hands were shaken, and smiles exchanged.
I feel real good about Captain Maria and her people. Goes without saying that I feel far better about them than how I feel about the NVC people. Them and their fucking APC.
Michelle and her other teachers in the school were elated when the pumpkins arrived. We set aside a dozen for the kids to carve and the rest will be used for seeds and cooking immediately. We’ll be able to have pumpkin pies very soon, and that makes me happier than I can describe.
Oh, and Annie’s bio-diesel facility is near to completion. She’s been forced to nickel and dime her parts acquisition as we’ve shuffled things around, so there’s been a delay of sorts. She’s adjusted her fuel production expectation from Halloween to Thanksgiving, which I consider to be no net loss in the big picture. Go Annie, go.
Beyond that, all is well.
I’ll write more when the urge strikes me.
-Adrian
October 30th
Like oatmeal left on a table, the plot thickens.
I mentioned quite awhile back that Kevin is now running our military frequency radios 24/7 to listen to traffic from the people north of us and that decision hit pay dirt this morning and through the afternoon.
Hector has his humvee’s radio on the same as Kevin does, and he alerted us to distant comms coming through. The talk we heard had a similar feel to ours. Meaning it’s obviously military men and women speaking, but with notably relaxed radio protocol. Lax officers, I would imagine. Same as us.
They’ve gotten as lazy as we have. It wasn’t long before our radios picked up their talk and a mess of us clustered around the truck parked near the bridge gate of Bastion with the operational radio in it.
In total there were perhaps twenty or twenty five transmissions over the course of eight hours, starting at about 9am and ending sometime around 5pm. The early messages were coordination of cover and instructions as they searched a neighborhood. The latter messages were them talking about their spoils (not much) and then discussing falling back to a secure location for the night somewhere near the hospital. Same hospital we raided back when we first started going into the city. They referenced a few street names in an obscure fashion that a few of us locals pieced together to get their approximate location.
We were able to figure out that they have a six vehicle force and that the command vehicle (which they referred to as “Call sign-Pasta”) was the M113 APC. That meant the toughest nut to crack had the brains of the outfit in it. Pasta-Actual came on the radio several times and very clearly had what I felt to be a forced Italian accent. Maybe it wasn’t Italian? Maybe it was Bronx. Not sure. Jay Wilson of the scrap yard was there listening with us, agitated as fuck I might add, as the people who lit his mom and dad up chatted like it was nothing, and he identified Pasta-Actual for us.
Lieutenant Picarillo.
Didn’t make sense though as they referred to him as Captain or the Captain several times. It seems he’d been promoted for killing Jay’s family, or some other horrifying act of bullshit. Jay said he was a short Italian guy who ran the exploration/salvage truck team we were listening to. That he’d been promoted struck me as strange, as typically a promotion came with an increased responsibility. You don’t get a title without a new job, more or less. If he got a promotion, but was doing the same job, maybe he caught the title as a lip-service thank you?
Maybe his group got larger? That might explain it. Same job, bigger team. Then again, there’s no reason for them to follow promotion procedures from the old Army now. Can’t read too much into it. Sometimes the Devil in the details is just wasting your time.
Anyway, he sounded like an asshole (as most officers do) and we gathered that they had two sergeants too. The tank, four humvees, and two civilian trucks was their complement. I couldn’t tell if they meant pickups or semis or something in between. No idea on what weapons were mounted on their humvees, but if the APC had a .50 I’d wager the humvees at least had a few SAWs. Worst case scenario another .50 cal or Mk19 40mm grenade launcher. Jay couldn’t fill us in on details.
Not good.
They went radio dark around five, and we spent the rest of the evening planning like paranoid monkeys. Kevin and I agreed that Hector and another skilled person would take up observation positions in the neighborhoods near their movement to take some digital pictures and get a better idea of what we’re looking at.
Tomorrow we celebrate Halloween for the kids. Should be a good time, if those of us in the know can forget about what’s moving around in the world out there.
I get the impression it’ll feel like enjoying a picnic on a floating dock with sharks in the water all around us. Drops of blood dripping down one at a time… hitting fins, bringing more and more death in from miles around…
Cheery bitch, ain’t I?
-Adrian
No One’s Home
Early July, 2010. Afghanistan.
“Is she stable?” Glen asked Thomas. Glen crouched low in the center of one of the debris-strewn classrooms in the Afghan school building. He watched carefully out the openings in the wall and through the broken windows for anything moving in their direction. The light of the approaching dawn danced flirtatiously on the horizon outside and both men were becoming antsy. If they waited much longer they’d lose the protective cover of darkness. The SEALs owned the night. The loss of the advantage they had was something they had to weigh against Rasa’s life. If they waited too long, she’d likely die from the wound she sustained.
“I would kill for another set of eyes. I can’t watch everything,” Glen continued before Thomas had a chance to respond.
“Well the bleeding has slowed dramatically. Little thing has drained three IV bags. Not good for us. She was so fucking dehydrated to begin with. I could barely find something to put the IV in she was so collapsed. Almost did an IO line.” Thomas sat next to the girl, his warm hand on her frail shoulder. She slept deep despite the agony her hip wound put her through.
Glen nodded. He’d seen how weak her body looked when they were saving her life from the gunshot wound. Underneath her clothing her bones poked against the inside of her skin like clothing hung on a hangar. “What’re you thinking? Move her to the FOB or sit here until nightfall? Give her a chance to recuperate some?”
“If we sit here, she will probably make it to tonight. I have three more IV bags and you have two. I think she’ll piss through one more. If we take off right after dark to the FOB I think we’re in good shape. If she gets worse here during the day then we change our plans.” Thomas looked down at her with pity. Her life hung in the balance and his decision would tip it one way or the other.
“Sounds good. What are your thoughts on clearing this village now? We have a large pile of dead tangos outside and I can’t imagine there are more out there. They’d have come for us by now. They know where we are.”
Thomas nodded, “Yeah it’s a solid idea. She’s stable. How long do you think it’ll take for us to clear this place? I haven’t gotten a clear look at the size of the town.”
“Three hours tops,” Glen said.
“Man that’s
risky. Leaving her alone that long.” Thomas sighed; worried they’d lose her while out checking the town.
“Man it’s risky not going out there and collecting these Hajji’s food dude. They looked healthy, those fuckers are eating and drinking on the regular, and they’re carrying weapons and ammo and likely have more wherever they were putting sweaty head to shitty pillow. Plus, what the fuck do we do if there are two or three more of these pricks still here when we try and leave? They start chasing us or shooting at us as we carry her and then what? We engage them on the run? With her on one of our backs or on a stretcher? It’s got shit written in shit all over it. I think we got to clear this place. For our own sake, not Rasa’s,” Glen said with steel in his voice. His patience wore thin with the waiting. Paradoxically he needed action to feel safe.
“Yeah you’re right. Let me put a fresh IV bag on her and we can get on it. If she dies though, I am gonna be in a foul motherfucking mood.” Thomas got up and began to get the IV bag.
“Roger that, brother. I’ll be right there with you.” Glen stole a glance over his shoulder at the small deaf girl. Her weak form and shallow breathing exuded misery, and he hoped they’d be able to save her. Losing her would hurt both men something fierce.
The younger Ring brother and his partner Glen Torrance moved through the town with rapidity and fury that bordered on recklessness. Were there other SEALs watching, the two men would certainly be scolded for their brash actions. Both men were doing things a little too loose, a little too full of emotion. Behavior like this got SEALs killed.
The two men had been exceptionally lucky. Home after home the special operations men put boot to door only to find the home filled with dust, and the memories of residents recently dead. There were hundreds upon hundreds of blood stains on the walls and floors of the homes. So many signs of violence that the two men had their stomachs fouled. No bodies remained. All were gone. The men who attacked them earlier had done the vast majority of the heavy lifting when it came to killing the undead in the tiny town.
Thomas moved across the living room of a large two story home with fluid grace. They had been at it over the three hours Glen estimated, but both men were still focused and on point. They had raw emotion coursing through their bodies, and despite the loose tactics it brought out in them, it fueled better than adrenaline.
Glen went into the large home right behind his best friend and panned his weapon to the side. The room was empty. Far to the right of the room near Thomas was at the staircase heading upwards to the second floor. It had no railing, and looked hewn from soft stone similar to the actual building itself. They could’ve been in an episode The Flintstones if it wasn’t for the congealed blood everywhere.
“I got a bad feeling,” Glen said as he looked at the stairwell. The stairs were too… easy. They were too open and far too inviting. It felt off to the warrior. Wrong.
“Something’s up, we’re missing something here. Look around quick,” Thomas said as he froze still. His heart quickened and the pit of his stomach wobbled with hesitation brought on by years of experience and Glen’s sixth sense. His partner’s hunch felt right. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong exactly.
Both men dropped their eyes in unison to the sparse living room floor. By rural Afghan standards the house would’ve belonged to a village elder. The largest in the town by far it would have been reserved for the wealthy or an Imam. The SEALs hadn’t found the home their attackers had been staying in yet, which meant this could be the home, or the earlier perpetrators had come from elsewhere.
Thomas’ eyes bulged as his mind assembled the clues. “There’s no furniture in this room. Or the little dining room over here. Nothing. Just this damn rug.” Thomas kicked the edge of the rug, rolling it over and revealing the corner of a hidden wooden door in the floor. The dry edge of his lip cracked into a smile as he raised his weapon to the threat the door posed.
Glen mimicked him and reached down to the edge of the rug closest to where he stood. Many Afghan homes had trap doors like this here. Afghans had no love for proper basements, but fucking loved the trapdoor cellar. Glen’s work pulling the large oval rug away yielded a thick wooden door recessed into the floor and held shut by two iron rods fastened across it. Rudimentary but effective.
“What is down there that they needed to use steel rebar to keep that door shut?” Glen whispered.
“Good question. Do we open it and find out?” Thomas asked back.
Glen shrugged. “Could be food. Or ammo.”
“Or a hundred zombies with flamethrowers and jelly dildos.”
“Ditch the flamethrowers and you’re in heaven,” Glen said with a smile.
“I do love me some jelly dongs. I say we crack the door and see what happens. I bet there is food, or perhaps other perfectly normal Afghans that we’d be rescuing. Hearts and minds right?” Thomas said with his trademark smirk.
“On it. Cover me,” Glen said as he slid his weapon to his side and laid flat on the floor. Inch by inch on the dusty floor he slid over to the door. If anyone fired up out of the door they’d miss him by a mile.
Thomas crouched down and kept his weapon trained on the door. His low position put him out of any likely line of fire. After adjusting his angle he looked to his side at the stairwell that had triggered both men’s bad feelings and made sure nothing bad came their way.
Glen rotated the first iron rod as slowly as he could, attempting to be silent but failing. The metal grated slightly and sent a short but shrill noise into the afternoon quiet. Both men winced. Torrance slid the bar to the side out of the locking mount and moved to the second bar. It too gave way with a slight noise, though the grinding noise was quieter than the first bar’s. Glen shifted, drew his handgun and got the pistol into a firing position. He pushed the rod out, unlocking the door. Nothing moved as both men remained silent and still, waiting for something to happen.
Hearts pounded. Sweat ran.
Glen gave a quick glance to Thomas who nodded in return. The SEAL on the floor reached out with his free hand and slipped a finger into the space between the door and the frame. He gave it the slightest lift, and all hell broke loose.
The door blasted open from the darkness below, propelled by the impact of several hands punching up in awkward unison. The door flung upwards and both men were immediately ravaged by a stench of unparalleled power. A charnel den lay below, filled with the rotten flesh of the undead and offal. Glen scrambled backwards, firing his pistol twice as three zombies clambered up through the square hole in the floor, their heads reaching a height a foot or two above the floor. The hole they were attempting to leave couldn’t be deep where the door sat. Both men opened fire within a long heartbeat, filling the air in the living room with flying bullets that bit like supersonic, angry, flesh-destroying hornets. The withering fire let loose cut the three zombies reaching at Glen down as if they were bloody grass being mowed in a morbid lawn. Their already deceased bodies gave way to the torrent of firepower and the bodies collapsed back into the hole, hopefully slowing down any other undead that might be sharing the evil space with them.
Glen reached to his belt with his free hand, freed up a grenade and pulled the pin. “FRAG OUT!” He screamed and tossed the grenade under-handed into the hole on top of the three zombie corpses they’d just dropped. Glen was already flat by the time Thomas dove into the corner furthest away from the impending explosion. The grenade went off only seconds later with a concussive punch that rattled the ears, bellies and lungs of both men. Dust, rotten blood, and desiccated flesh billowed out of the hole in the floor like a volcano that grew from the geography of Hell. The mist and smoke filled the air of the living room as the two men got to their feet and brought their weapons back to bear on the hole in the floor. Breathing heavy, Glen listened hard for movement in the space below.
He heard scratching almost immediately. “What the fuck? They’re still alive,” he said as a hand missing two fingers reached
up and out of the hole.
“Thermite,” Thomas said flatly.
Glen nodded and fished out a larger grenade shaped like a canister. He pulled the pin as he finished getting to his feet but held on to the spoon, not quite arming the powerful incendiary device. Glen swung his M4A1 up and fired a few times into the hole, sending brass to the side and the reaching claw-like hand back into the darkness.
“Burn you bitches,” Glen said as he let loose the spoon of the grenade and let it fall from his hand into the hole. He swung the door up off the floor and shut it quickly, kicking the bars across and latching it shut. A loud noise underneath the floor told him the thermite charge had kicked off, and was starting its task. He could already feel the intense heat radiating through the stone only seconds after. Soon the crawlspace would be hotter than a blacksmith’s forge, and twice as destructive.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here. Gonna get real fucking toasty up in this bitch,” Thomas said.
The two men left the building, abandoning any interest in the foreboding stairwell, and the rooms on the second floor.
Glen sat in the doorway of the slightly smaller home across the street almost an hour later, watching as yet another burnt, charred, and ruined zombie crawled out of the hole he’d dropped the thermite grenade into. The intense heat and flame brought on by the grenade had burnt the steel barred door away before burning the zombies to death. Now they had a steady stream of undead set aflame to deal with. Fortunately from twenty feet away it was easy work for the SEALs to shoot them in the head. To conserve their precious 5.56mm ammunition Glen used the local’s weapon of choice; the AK-47 he’d recovered earlier.
One shot at a time Glen put a round into skull after skull. Emotionless, he watched as blackened undead dropped to the ground over and over beside a handful of similar, sad victims. Thomas watched idly from a few feet away, sickened by not only the stench of burning rotten flesh, but by their entire situation. Ten shots from the stamped rifle later, no more of the burnt dead came out of the hell hole. Their grisly task seemed completed once more.
Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 9): The Dealer of Hope [Adrian's March, Part 1] Page 11
