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

by Philbrook, Chris

  “Not on me. I don’t smoke. We have some stashed away in the cafeteria, follow me.” I took him across campus with the dogs, and we walked in silence. It wasn’t until I let us into the storage room at the school’s cafeteria building and he’d lit up a butt outside before either of us spoke. “If I’m not a celebrity, then what am I?”

  He laughed and spit while the dogs ran in circles, chasing each other. “This is way fresher than the last pack my dad and I were splitting. Thank you. So you’re like, a religious figure, man. The second coming.”

  I felt that hot anger come back. “Bullshit. I won’t listen to that. I am so far from the second coming it’s not even funny. I am at best the distant cousin of the 33rd coming. People need to stop that shit right now.”

  He laughed and spit again, then clapped me on the shoulder like we’d been friends for years. “Adrian, Mr. Ring, whatever it is you want to be called, I don’t get to be in charge of what you did, and who you are.”

  “That’s a pretty good comeback.”

  “Yeah I’ve been working on a few of them. Glad that one had a chance to step up to the free throw line,” Jason joked.

  “I dunno man. I’ve never been good with dealing with attention. I hate being in charge. I hate thinking about feelings. I need a simple life. One lane, limited exits choices, nice scenery. I can’t handle the idea of being someone people look up to.”

  “Is that why you’re not a dad yet?”

  And that stopped me cold. Kid had a point. Like, a good fucking point. Did I dodge marriage with Cassie not only because I was scared to love her, but because I was afraid of being a dad? Because I was afraid of her relying on me? That I was afraid I’d let her down? That I was afraid that I couldn’t handle the responsibility of being looked up to by a kid of my own?

  Well played, Jason.

  I think I want kids. WANT a kid. No more we’ll see what happens. I want to talk to Michelle about this.

  “Too deep for me,” I told him. “Bedtime. You okay out here? Are you okay here? Is your sister doing okay?” Captain Deflector to the rescue.

  “I’m okay. I won’t be all okay for a long time, but it helps to be around so many good people. You’re like, legit good people here. My dad read you wrong. He almost never reads people wrong. I guess he never gave you a chance. That’s a shame.”

  “It’s the tattoos. Or maybe the old haircut.”

  “Maybe. But I’m okay, thanks for asking. Still not sleeping. That’s why I’m out here. Sharon is a mess. She misses Mom and Dad. She’s sleeping. That’s good.”

  “Try and get her into work. Have you been given permanent housing yet? I mean, are you staying with us? We’re pretty full up here on campus, but Auburn Lake Road still has a few empty houses I think.”

  “They’re still figuring it out. Roy is settled in with the couple that work the land here. The redheaded guy and his wife.”

  “Ollie and Melissa?”

  “Yeah, they’re good people. Frank and his two daughters I’m not sure about. I haven’t seen them in a couple days. They aren’t staying where we are.”

  “Cool. I’m sure they’re good for now. Good chat, Jay. Back to bed for me,” I said, then I threw another snowball for the dogs to chase, and Jason and I said our good nights. I drank my chamomile tea, ate one of the snickerdoodles Michelle baked earlier in the evening (not my favorite cookie, but a fresh cookie is a fresh cookie when you need a cookie), and snuggled up next to a warm Michelle after booting Otis out of my spot. He meowed in protest, but jumped back up on the bed and cuddled in my butt crack. I fell asleep so fast I can’t remember anything after that.

  I’m at peace for some reason. That talk with Jason somehow gave me some kind of clarity. Not sure why, but I’ll think on it. Maybe it’s the kid thing. Maybe clarity is the wrong word.

  In more practical, non-wussy news, The Factory and Spring Meadow as well as MGR are reporting ground movement. The Factory and Spring Meadow are seeing the NVC vehicles moving about at-will, but they are saying the humvees are staying away at a safe distance. It still unnerves us that they are even around, but they are not being aggressive. Moving around is not being aggressive. Say it again, Adrian.

  MGR is seeing foot mobiles, and Kevin started sending out another patrol shift on horseback to keep an eye on town. MGR is saying it’s a small number of people, ragtag civilian types scouring the area for food or supplies. I’m wondering if it’s more people heading south to avoid a harsh winter. Or disguised NVC operatives scouting our area?

  Or religious pilgrims coming to wash their feet in the rivers of the holy land?

  Laugh the fuck out loud.

  Staying positive.

  Food harvest has stepped up. The regular light snow has Ollie worried about our few remaining crops, so he’s pulling stuff up as fast as he can to save all that he can. I don’t think we’ll lose much, but I’m not the expert.

  A few more days and we meet back up with the NVC people at the Factory. Someone from their ‘council’ is supposed to meet me. If I’m lucky, I get a tour of Calendar Mountain. Probably not that day, but soon, hopefully. I understand I risk being captured, but you can’t win if you don’t play. I guess how we proceed beyond that is based off of how the meeting goes.

  Is it weird that I’m excited? I feel like this will go one of two ways; the council people are legit and awesome, and we ally with them, and things get better or; the council dude is a complete jizz bucket shit head and we have to go to war.

  One way our people get safety, and the other way…

  I get to shoot guns. Call me selfish if you want, I deserve that.

  -Adrian

  November 20th

  I need to go to bed. I say that as an adult capable of making adult decisions, yet apparently unable to do so.

  Negotiating from a place of weakness is not something I’m familiar with. If I am familiar with it, I have chosen to forget what it’s like. As best as I can remember, whenever I came into contact with another group of survivors, I had the upper hand for one reason or another, or I at least was able to delude myself into thinking so.

  Delusion! Not just a river in Egypt.

  When I dealt with Westfield, I was mobile. I could stick and move, and could cut and run from campus here if they came at me hard.

  When I dealt with the crazies at the Farm, they couldn’t move. They were tied to their misled beliefs and their convictions coupled with their lack of agility and lack of skill led to their demise. I give them credit though; they came at us here at Bastion and hurt us bad before Gilbert and I went at them with Blake. We waited too long for proof to go at them and it cost us dearly. I’ll never forget Abby crying. I’ll never forgive them for hurting her.

  Rest in Peace, Gavin.

  The same happened with the Factory. Well not really. When we went head to head with the two sisters who ran that place it was a fight from the get-go, but in each engagement we had the upper hand, even when they ambushed us. We managed to stay one step ahead of them every time, and that step let us whittle them down until we could overwhelm them in a head-on assault. We paid a price in blood as you must, but we had a coupon to get that price down.

  Spring Meadow (though entirely peaceful) never had a chance to win a fight against us if it went that way. Not enough people, not enough guns, not enough vehicles or expertise.

  The hits keep coming. Well, until now.

  The NVC people have us at a disadvantage. They outnumber us, they probably out-skill us in terms of volume of trained shooters, they out-resource us in terms of their bio diesel production and they outclass us in firepower with grenade launchers, .50cal machine guns, and not one, but THREE armored personnel carriers. I won’t even go into the up-armored humvees and the HEMTTs.

  They also know more about me, than I do about them. I mean, I know what I’ve been told by the refugees that came south from their AO, but I don’t KNOW them. I know Captain Pasta. I know he’s a wart on the side of a pig’s dick, but he could
be a bad apple in a barrel full of good ones. I won’t know until…

  We are heading out to the Factory for the meeting at o’dark thirty tomorrow. Kevin, Ethan, and Joel are taking up sniper positions while I meet with whoever shows up from their ‘council.’ We are not rolling fat. We’re taking two pickups. No humvees, no HEMTT of our own, no heavy force.

  Kevin reasoned that if we KNOW we’re walking into an overwhelming force, there’s no sense in committing our whole strike ability and losing it all. If we’re going to lose, lose small. And if we’re going to win against a large force, let’s risk minimally, and try for a surgical strike with some talented trigger pullers from afar.

  Yes, my ass is on the line, but what’s new? My next tattoo is going to be a line, on my ass, because my ass is always on the line.

  Inside jokes only I find funny. Good times.

  I talked to Abby an hour ago. I informed her what the situation was, in complete honesty, and she looked shocked that I did so. She must’ve expected kid gloves, or a line of bullshit.

  “Thank you. Everyone will really appreciate what you just told me. It means a lot to me that you’re being open and honest. I knew you would come around,” she said to me.

  “I don’t like people knowing my business. It’s hard for me.”

  “It’s not YOUR business anymore, Adrian. It’s their business. When your decisions impact their safety and future, and that of their children, they deserve to have a say, or at least deserve to know what’s coming down the pipe. Think of the families. Think of MY family.”

  “Yeah I suppose. I hate you being right. You’re smart for someone who can’t legally drink.”

  “Ha! Says who? The alcohol commission isn’t exactly open for business. I mean, I wouldn’t drink anyway, I’m breast feeding.”

  “The little prunes working okay? Does Gavin get like, three mouthfuls before you gotta tap out and take a break?” She slapped me harder than anyone else could’ve. I deserved it.

  “Funny. Look Adrian, you’re a good man and you do smart things, mostly, but you also need to be held accountable just like anyone else. Michelle is good at that; being accountable. She listens to criticism, but more importantly, she builds consensus before making decisions. She gets opinions, and picks a course of action after. You do the opposite. You and Kevin and whoever make these military and political calls, then tell us how it went. I remember how it goes. I helped make some of those decisions.”

  “I hear you… But you gotta understand that we could have plants here from the NVC. Spies. We could have people ferrying info to them. We could easily say too much about dangerous shit and it could lead us straight into an ambush. I need to be careful with what gets said, and to whom. I understand people have a right to know, but at what point does their right to know interfere with my safety, and ability to handle an opposing threat to the group at large?”

  And there you have it.

  Abby and I talked in circles for twenty minutes as we swayed each other back and forth. Nothing was hostile, but I knew I couldn’t convince her to soften her stance, and I knew I wouldn’t change much either.

  I just hope the people here are trustable right now, because tomorrow…

  Well. I will deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.

  -Adrian

  November 21st

  Two pickup trucks and a humvee meet in the street. The truck says to the pickup, “Hey asshole, why are you so wide?”

  Humvee replies, “It’s the only way I can mount your mom.”

  Pickup replies, “Joke’s on you, I’m an inanimate truck, we can’t talk, and I don’t have a mom.”

  I worked on that joke for like, two hours earlier today on the ride home. I feel that there isn’t enough car humor in the post-zombie world. There aren’t that many running cars anymore. Maybe that’s why.

  That joke was awful, I apologize Mr. Journal. But, if you can rub two sticks together, then you’ve probably realized that if I’m cracking jokes, I’m in a good mood, and if I’m in a good mood, then the meeting with the NVC people didn’t end in violence, and went fairly well. (Big. Ass. Sentence. My high school English teacher just rolled over in her grave. Assuming that she made it into one.)

  But seriously, two trucks and a humvee met in a street. We actually parked the trucks far out of the way with Ethan and Joel while Kevin and I went to the Factory to meet up with Pasta and the Pastettes. But Pasta rolled up in a single humvee, with no Pastettes. Instead, he brought Parmesan to the party.

  I was out in the front of the Factory with Celeste and Hector, sitting on a picnic table that they continue to forget to bring in despite the shit weather of late. Earlier today was clear and cold, but the sun was warm, and sitting at the table while Kevin provided overwatch with the PJs seemed like the right way to warm up and send a message to anyone approaching that we were friendly and ready to chat.

  So the humvee rolls up and Picarillo gets out of the backseat. He’s still wearing his OD winter cap down over his ears and full weather gear. Out of the other back door opposite him a man of average height wearing a clean Army uniform and sporting a full bird appears. He’s maybe 35 years old, but looks younger than that with a military haircut. He’s tight. I can see that. No arrogance in his posture, no smarmy bullshit face, and he’s relaxed. Maybe even a little worried, and that made me feel better about whoever he was.

  Shitface McDickforBrains walks around the humvee towards us and meets up with the Colonel. He says something in the Colonel’s ear and they then approach us. I hopped off the table and walked towards the two NVC officers.

  “You must be Mr. Ring,” the Colonel said as he put his hand out. I shook it. “I’m Colonel Thorpe. Formerly of the 1st Battalion, 101st Field Artillery. Now I work with the Northern Valley Cooperative. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  In my earpiece, I heard Kevin say, “No fucking way. Holy shit, I’m coming down to you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” I said back after Kevin shut the hell up. “Please call me Adrian. My dad was Mr. Ring.”

  “I say the same thing. Well, my dad was Mr. Thorpe.”

  I chuckled politely at his volley of my dad joke. “This is Celeste and Hector. They are the community leaders here at the Factory.” They all introduced and shook hands and were social and stuff.

  “Adrian, thank you for taking this meeting. It’s been a mighty nerve wracking period of time as Captain Picarilo’s unit has crossed paths with your people repeatedly. It became even more troubling when we realized whose toes we were stepping on. THE Adrian Ring. I gotta say, I thought you’d be bigger, and you’re a pretty big guy. You’ve done some incredible things the past couple years. You’ve got a reputation. Did you know that?”

  “Of course he knows that,” Celeste said. “He’s who he is.”

  I gave her a look and returned to the Colonel. “I do what I can to help folks. I’ve got a lot to make up for. As far as having a reputation is concerned, that’s not for me to decide or care about. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

  “I heard you were in the 75th Regiment. Sua Sponte, eh?” Thorpe teased.

  “Not quite. I scrubbed out after RIP. Nothing more than a wannabe operator. Couple ticks up from an Airsoft gladiator.”

  He pointed to a Ranger tab on his shoulder. “One of the hardest things I’ve ever done. You finished the indoctrination program and then scrubbed out? How’d that happen?”

  “There was alcohol involved. Let’s leave it at that,” I said with a sad wink. He chuckled and nodded.

  Just then Kevin came bursting out of the heavy double doors of the Factory, practically stomping through the entryway, wearing a menacing expression. I looked over my shoulder and knew something terrible was about to happen. I heard one of the two NVC guys draw his sidearm as Kevin appeared.

  “You fucking ‘Bury cocksucka!” (pronounced Burr-Ree, as in Roxbury) Kevin bellowed straight at the Colonel, angry as me when I spill my coffee in the morning. Right then and there, I
knew shit was going south. I turned to face the Colonel and the Captain, and made the split second decision to punch the Captain straight in the throat before he could do anything, but when I turned, the Colonel had a pearly white grin like I’d never seen before.

  “Jesus did I step in shit and have to wipe the Southie off me?” Thorpe said, striding forward towards Kevin.

  “Holy shit,” Kevin said, walking forward.

  “Human gahbidge,” the colonel said.

  The Boston accents were thick now. The handgun went back, and fortunately, I hadn’t punched out any throats. The two men smashed into each other, hugging like they were family.

  Which as it turns out, they kind of were.

  After the two of them practically swapped spit for ten minutes, and both crying a little in a manly fashion, we migrated over to the picnic table, and sat under the November sun while Thorpe (first name Patrick) and Whitten (first name Kevin) exchanged a spirited round of Bostonian slang to catch up. I understood it all, but there’s no way I’m regurgitating it here.

  There were lots of ‘wicked pissahs’ and ‘no suh’s’ while they told each other the stories of how they got to where they were. Kevin maintained a modicum of secrecy with our details post-arrival in America, but he did tell a lot about his time in Jerusalem, then London and Mildenhall, and of course Morocco and the Azores. He told him about the dreams, the White Room, and the Trinity. All of that inner circle supernatural mumbo-jumbo. It’s still weird to hear.

  It’ll always be weird to hear.

  Oh, I should add that they knew each other from the Babe Ruth baseball team they played on as teenagers. Kevin grew up in Southie, and Patrick grew up in Roxbury. (Boston neighborhoods) Kevin went in the Army full-time, while Patrick went in the National Guard, went to college, and has done well in the civilian world. He was working as a general manager at the Calendar Mountain ski resort when the shit hit the fan, and when his unit formed up to help, things were pretty far gone, and he suggested that they move to the mountain to secure it as a base.