Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 9): The Dealer of Hope [Adrian's March, Part 1]

by Philbrook, Chris

  “I want to see my wife,” Glen said, looking up at his friend, and brother in arms.

  “I want to see your wife.”

  “Not funny asshole.”

  Thomas grinned, “It was kind of funny.”

  “Yeah a little. But seriously, I want to see my goddamn wife. I want to go home.”

  Thomas nodded emphatically in agreement, “I say we give our little deaf anchor here a full day to recuperate, then we load up with everything that isn’t nailed or screwed to the floor in that last humvee and we head the fuck out.”

  “I’m down like a clown.”

  “Kandahar, here we come,” Thomas said, as he opened up his second MRE of the morning.

  November 2013

  November 2nd

  More radio traffic from the NVC people. More of the same as well. Command and control messages from Captain Picarillo to his team as they searched the city outskirts to the north and progressively west. We’re getting the impression that they are trying to get last minute supplies before the snow starts, which will be soon. Hector and Jason (my old bouncer colleague at the Factory) got some distant eyes-on the other day, which I’ll talk about in a bit.

  Kevin has been listening to them intently, going so far as to leave his new woman Becky and their daughters Shelby and Chloe here in Hall E with the rest of us close family folks so he can sleep in the humvee and listen in as needed. He has christened them Pasta and the Pastettes.

  I tried to explain to Kevin that his overnights were unneeded, but he wouldn’t listen. “Every hint could matter, brother,” was his comeback.

  And he’s right. I just hate to see his family suffer as he takes nights away. I guess that’s the bitch of having your family so close to danger and duty. When we were deployed to Iraq it was easy to forget about how you were treating your family. Easy to forget that a missed phone call home felt like the end to someone. That’s not to say that shit didn’t weigh on you. I still lose sleep over it once in a blue moon.

  Bah. I’m nervous. Like, really fucking nervous.

  We celebrated Halloween a couple days ago here on campus and had just enough leftover candy and homemade sweets. Lots of tiny caramels, which are absurdly yummy. We did it here at Bastion. I know Spring Meadows and the Factory celebrated as well, but the couple of kids at MGR just came here. The apartment tower in town is only a few miles away after all.

  Most popular costume of the night for girls was a ghost. White sheets are plentiful (well, stained sheets really), and since the dreams that so many of us had during the days of the undead walking everyone firmly believes in the afterlife and in ghosts. Michelle had each of the kids wearing a sheet as a ghost pick who they were being, so that they could tell the story of a dead relative or friend they lost during… during it.

  At first I thought it was morbid, but it turned out to be cute. It’s helped build the feeling of closure I think. Ghosts are people we knew. Friends. Not just malicious spirits that turn your television on in the middle of the night. They were people. They’re memories. They matter.

  The most popular boy’s costume is a split down the middle with half the boys dressed in oversized BDUs wearing the closest thing they can find to a white baseball cap and the other half all cut their hair into Mohawks, and drew fake tattoos on their arms and legs.

  If you’re keeping score at home Mr. Journal that would make half of them little Kevin Whittens, and the other half little Adrian Rings.

  Creepy, yet flattering at the same time. See also: Michelle gets no love, unless everyone thinks she’s a ghost.

  They were so fucking proud of their costumes. So excited when they showed off who they were to Kevin and I. So frigging happy. I put on the best possible face I could to make it seem like I was enthusiastic about it, but my mind was elsewhere. I kept thinking of the movement of the NVC people less than an hour away and of how strange it was that all the suffering I experienced has led to people thinking I’m some kind of fucking folk hero.

  Michelle knew it bothered me. When we laid in bed that night with Otis stuck between us like the filling of an ice cream sandwich she talked to me about it. Reassuring me, letting me know it was natural and good for heroes to be celebrated. We made love after, and that helped.

  She doesn’t get my perspective of it. She can’t. I didn’t do anything to be a hero. I hated so much of it. Dreaded it. Avoided it. Fought against it. It took Herculean will to achieve what I did over the course of almost two years, and if they knew how scarred I was on the inside, how hobbled and hindered and infested with doubt I am they wouldn’t celebrate it. They wouldn’t think what they do of me.

  I’m not the man they want me to be. Not the man they think I am.

  Michelle’s retort (with that fucking beautiful smile of hers, backed up with all this wisdom and shit) is that I am a hero because I bear those scars. She says that the people know what I suffered, and that it is because I survived they look up to me. The see me for the man that fought beyond his own doubt and achieved the impossible anyway. They look up to Kevin and her as well though for different reasons. She for her spiritual calm, conscience, and foresight, and he for his bravery and dedication to duty.

  Sometimes we are celebrated not because of the ease with which we bore a burden, but because we bore that burden at all.

  I have a real hard time digesting the whole fucking… thing.

  To make matters worse to pass the time while Abby takes care of baby Gavin, she has started to write and publish a small newsletter. It’s a single sheet of paper with three ‘columns’ of news that she posted yesterday and today across campus. She posted one on each of the dorm’s doors, as well as on the main school building, the gymnasium where my sister Becca and her boyfriend Ryan run our substantial hydroponics garden, as well as the maintenance area down the hill in back, and at the cafeteria.

  I gave Abby shit about writing a newsletter at dinner tonight in that very school cafeteria and she claims, and I quote; “It gives me a reason to go for a walk with Gavin, and it’s an easy way for us to get news out to the people who have questions.”

  I politely suggested that she find something more productive to do, and she reminded me, with I smile, I quote again; “Our liberty depends on the freedom of the press, and that cannot be limited without being lost.”

  I fucking hate nerds.

  I wouldn’t object to her writing about current events nearly so much, but in just two of her newsletters, she’s managed to share little tidbits about our listening to foreign/potentially dangerous radio traffic as well as bringing up weird spiritual questions that make me think she’s been spending too much time debating deep theology with Michelle.

  Who oddly enough, rarely brings up anything religious with me.

  I guess I’m really bitching about having to field questions alongside Kevin and Michelle as to who we’re listening to, why it’s a big deal, what our plans are to deal with it, and will we have enough food for winter Adrian? Will we? Will we? Will my kid starve? Will you protect me when they come?

  Jesus, shit all I do is try to answer fucking questions. If I leave Hall E it’s like a goddamn water boarding session and I have no answers for people because shit is still developing. I can’t tell them who these people are because I don’t fucking know. I can’t tell them what the plan is because we haven’t made one yet. I can’t tell them why it’s a big deal beyond the fact that they are strangers, and strangers are scary.

  We’ll have plenty of food barring a fire or crisis. That much I know.

  I shouldn’t have fucking said that. Goddamn it. I need Fairy repellant spray now. And a lighter. I’ll set that ornery bitch on fire and punt her over to the NVC assholes for them to deal with.

  Sigh.

  Cranky today. Like, really cranky. It’s stress, I get that. Do you remember me being all tough-guy macho back in the day, talking about me being a see nail, hammer nail kind of dude? I don’t do diplomacy all that well, and I hate being second guessed. In the militar
y you are told what you need to know, and if you don’t get the info you need, you do the best you can with the information and resources you have. I want to tell these people to do their damn job, stay in their fucking lane and not worry about it, but it doesn’t work like that.

  They need to be placated. Kept happy. Assured that everything will be alright. And of course they don’t fucking want to be lied to, but when you give them real news, as bad as it could be they get pissed and angry at you because life isn’t perfect and somehow it’s all your fault. All my fault.

  Politics. I hate fucking politics. I hate it almost as much as stubbing my toe in the dark, or that feeling when I know I’ve said something hurtful to someone I love.

  That’s a shit feeling Mr. Journal.

  This is running long and I have more to say. I’m a long winded motherfucker at times. As I said Hector and Jason went out and essentially scouted the NVC people using decent digital cameras and rifles with decent optics. Their goal was to gather information, and take photos under the radar.

  They did that. Hector swung by this morning and showed us what he had gathered.

  Using Jay’s previous meetings with them to identify people in Hector’s photos, we were able to put names to a handful of faces (most notably Captain Picarillo, who is a little Mediterranean looking dweeb with a visible case of little man’s disease) and a few of his sergeants.

  They definitely have a M113 APC with a heavy M2 .50 cal mounted on top. Hector snagged a picture with an angle on the belt fed ammo going into the weapon, so we know it’s not just for show. He didn’t take any pictures of cannons thankfully, but that’s bad enough.

  On the days that Hector was able to take pictures they had twin Humvees stripped of unit markings, and both with M2 .50s. In the pictures Kevin, Mike and I were all able to identify belted ammunition feeding all the guns, so we know they aren’t just for show. We have to assume they have enough ammo to run train on us.

  The good news (if you’re like, optimistic in the face of doom) is that they didn’t have any Mk19 grenade launchers. That would’ve been a big fucking problem. Well, a bigger fucking problem growing on top of our existing big fucking problem like a problem wart.

  He also saw a total of 14 uniformed soldiers, each with M4 or M16 platform weapons. Hector and Jason both commented that more than half of the soldiers looked to be amateurs. Or at least new and nervous, which I took to be a good sign in the middle of a whole lot of bad. 14 of those guns against us is a bad thing. That’s an entire squad, and that’s just their search team. What happens when they get ramped up for a real fight?

  Sigh.

  This sucks bad. But alas, I’m tired as fuck, and Michelle is restless beside me. I think she can tell when I’m annoyed or nervous, even in her sleep. She’s such a receptor like that. I’m shutting down for the night, and curling up with her and Otis so they can both sleep better.

  Can’t speak to whether or not I’ll find peace.

  Yeah.

  -Adrian

  November 5th

  Ohhhhhhh it’s fucking moving now. The NVC people made contact with the Factory earlier today, and as I’ve often said to myself when the ninja shits strike me in the dark of night, ‘shit just got real.’

  ‘Shits just got real.’

  It’s often plural. My shits come in team-format. Rarely solo.

  Furthermore, I know far more about the cut of Celeste’s jib, and I have much more respect for her than I ever thought I would’ve. I like being impressed by people on my side. Way better than being let down by them.

  Let me get to it. It started an hour or so after noon.

  Sentries on the Factory roof saw the NVC search patrol heading their way, and they too saw the sentries on the roof. We chalked it up to shit luck that they hadn’t found the repurposed strip club up to then. We heard on the military channel immediately that they changed posture, anticipating an attack. Here at Bastion we spun up as well. Our QRF got ready and into the vehicles and started moving east. I was off rotation today as was Kevin, and while they relocated to be closer in the event shit went down, the two of us clung to the radios like a crack head to a rock.

  Picarillo over the radio made the call to approach, and make contact. While they were talking over the military channels, we made small talk over the civilian channels, using innocuous codes to inform the Factory and Spring Meadows our QRF force was heading their way and that they should avoid hostilities at all costs until they arrived.

  I wanted to go SO BAD. If things had gone even a little differently both Kevin and I would’ve been on the road in seconds regardless of whether or not we were on rotation that day. When the call comes, everyone answers. The rotation exists just to make it feel like you have a day off.

  You never actually have a day off.

  Back on target.

  The NVC people rolled up at first with just the M113. Made sense. In a setting such as ours armor like that is basically impenetrable and I imagine that idea lends them balls. They have little reason to expect that anyone in the continental United States has a weapon powerful enough to take that tank out.

  Celeste and Hector made a plan and followed through. They filled us in about it just a few minutes ago in person.

  Hector had his shooters move to elevated positions in the industrial area the Factory is in. The larger mill buildings and actual factories nearby had been cleared and they knew good shooting positions (had several prepared already, in fact), so as the M113 made its approach they already had four shooters ready to strike if anyone dismounted.

  Hector went to the roof of the Factory and Celeste, like a boss I might add, walked out the reinforced steel front door straight up to the tank with nothing more than her 9mm on her hip. Well, the 9mm and one of the little walkies we’ve been using since way back.

  We heard her whole conversation with Picarillo live, matched up later with the closed circuit video feed that Andy set up, which was an entire treat. You remember that right? Andy the tech nerd from the Factory who set up the closed wifi camera system over there? Then did it here? We’ve managed to maintain the systems and keep them up and running, which up until now has been only marginally useful, but today the system paid off. After listening live, we watched the electronic recording of the video, and then watched it again later with Hector and Celeste once they got here.

  Good shit, yo. Back to the story at hand.

  The hatch opened with a creak and Celeste said, “Hello. I’m Celeste Carleson. I’m in charge here. How can I help you?”

  He says, “I am Captain Picarillo with the Northern Valley Cooperative. Pleasure to meet you. We’re reestablishing a central government in the area and have been conducting a search for supplies and assets, as well as taking a census. It’s nice to meet you Miss Carleson.” I knew it was him. He had a strong Italian accent. Reminded me of Goodfellas. Joe Pesci but with less nasally whine. Kind of looked like a younger version of him too, but with a stronger jaw line and no talent. As he finished talking we could hear the hydraulic release of the APC’s ramp dropping. They were dismounting to take up defensive positions around their little convoy. They’re not entirely stupid.

  “Are you guys in contact with Washington?” Celeste asked. She sounded unimpressed by the show of force happening around her.

  “No. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in charge down there, Miss. We are a remnant force of several National Guard units that’ve come together to help get the infrastructure back up and running. We’re working with other government agencies in the region to restore order.”

  “I see,” she said. “Where are you located? There aren’t any bases near here.”

  “Couple of hours north. We’ve reinforced the old Calendar Mountain Resort. We have food and water, and a fully operational bio diesel facility on site. Plenty of room in the luxury condos for new residents and the town at the base of the mountain is clear and safe of undead and raiders. It’s heavenly.”

  “That’s a pretty hard se
ll Captain,” Celeste said. From the tone of her voice on the scratchy transmission I could tell she was grinning at him.

  He laughed. “Yeah well, I drank the Kool Aid. It really is great.”

  “Understood. You know there are no more zombies anywhere right? Saying it’s clear of zombies up there is sort of a moot point. It’s clear everywhere.” She teased him.

  “Yeah that’s what we’re discovering. Seems like one day they all just fell down and gave up.”

  “March 3rd of 2012,” she said.

  That was the day I shot Cassie’s zombie. The day I forgave myself, and proved to the powers that be that humanity was worth a second chance. Well, most of humanity. I think. Maybe.

  “I guess it was about then, yeah,” Picarillo said.

  “No it was exactly that day at 3pm, give or take. That’s when Adrian earned us our second chance.”

  Picarillo seemed… thrown off by that comment. “I keep hearing of this Adrian dude. People passing through talk about him every once in awhile. I don’t get it. Folk hero bullshit legends, I bet. People trying to figure out why lightning strikes.”

  “You haven’t met him,” Celeste said with far too much confidence for my tastes. “Or Kevin, or Michelle. The three of them. They did it.” I looked over at Kevin and he winced at the mention of his name too. What is it about us that he and I hate to be talked about like we’re important?

  “You’ve met this Adrain guy? You being serious?” Picarillo asked. You could tell the dude was shocked. We must’ve felt very fictional to him. Theoretical people. Bogeymen.

  “Yeah. He doesn’t live that far from here. He’s a great guy. You’d imagine that, being the savior of mankind and all.”

  “No shit. Huh. We had heard he was local. Well, I know if he’s the real deal I’d like to meet him. Does he run a settlement too? Or is he like a forest hermit being all Yoda?”

  She laughed. I laughed. Kevin snickered. “He’s more Han Solo than Yoda. I might be able to get in touch with him. I can’t guarantee he’ll make the trip to meet you, but you’ll like him if he does. He’s a good man.”