To plug the actual space that the base wall had for an entrance, the marines had screwed together two layers of 4x8 plywood with 4x4s in the center. They narrowed the base’s entrance to just the width of a single man’s shoulders using steel cargo containers, and covered the entire front of the hole with the double thickness wood barrier. The door could only be opened by pulling on ropes that lifted it up like a guillotine blade. Two of the marines had called down from the sentry towers and the others had gotten the door lifted for the SEALs. Glen and Thomas were able to insert into the base quickly through the narrow opening with the homemade portcullis dropped closed in their wake. Both men were mildly winded, Thomas more so.
“What’d you see?” Thomas asked Glen, stifling the pain in his legs and the need to inhale more precious oxygen. The higher altitude played havoc with breathing here.
“Well I saw four large trucks unloading insurgents,” he blurted. Glen pulled off his helmet and scratched at his thinning brown hair.
“I thought you said there were just two trucks?” Thomas asked. Just as he finished his question a substantially built black man with sergeant stripes walked up to them. Out of the corner of his eye Thomas saw the Ellem nametag on his left breast. He thought it strange that he was wearing the stripes this far out in enemy country. Ellem approached them, but let the SEALs talk.
“I saw two at first, but two more came. Farm trucks. For hauling. They had twenty or thirty more people in the backs of each. Might be a hundred of them out there. But that’s not all.”
Tom watched as some of the color disappeared from his friend’s face.
“I think all of who got off the damn trucks were undead. A hundred or more. Blindfolded with their throats cut. An entire village worth of the damned, heading our way over that ridge.”
Ellem entered the conversation, “Well shit that’s easy. As they come over the crest of the hill we pick ‘em off. None of them will even get close to us. I’m sure of it.”
The two SEALs and the gathered marines exchanged some expressions of relief. Had there been a hundred shooting Taliban coming over the hill, the likelihood of injury or death would’ve skyrocketed. With just the mindless, shambling dead coming, there was a chance they might not even head over the hill properly and make any kind of formulated attack. The enemy might’ve disgorged a hundred wandering threats to themselves.
Above in the sky, all of the gathered men heard a whistling noise that coupled with a faint rumbling in the air. The vibration of something moving towards them very fast shook the air.
In perfect unison, the SEALs screamed, “INCOMING!”
As the collected mass of armed and armored marines and SEALs hit the deck the lethal mortar round impacted on the other side of the sandbag encircled center structure of the base. The structure served as the sleeping quarters, and had been built low and strong with sandbags around it and atop it. The deadly shrapnel smashed into the earthen defenses and no one yelled out in pain. From the tops of two of the sentry towers young marines scrambled down to find some kind of suitable cover that might absorb the power of the mortar explosions. They tipped and wobbled and grabbed on to the wooden structure to avoid falling out of the towers in their hurry.
“Motherfuckers!” Ellem yelled as he lifted his helmet off his nose and his chin out of the ground.
Thomas smiled, “Clever bastards. Shoulda known.” Glen matched his smile and agreed. The Taliban were improvising and adapting to the new world order.
“What the fuck are you talking about? Who is clever? What’s so damn smart about this?” Ellem was a little behind the SEALs in the realization of what was going on.
As Thomas started his reply another whistling projectile screamed down from above and impacted in nearly the exact same location, once again hurting no one, and causing minimal damage. When the dust settled, he continued his explanation.
“Dropping these mortars on us makes a helluva lot of noise, don’t it, Staff Sergeant? Plus it means we need to keep our heads down while the noise sends all those dead bastards right at us. They’re providing indirect cover for their undead army, as well as giving them a big fat fucking bull’s eye to find us. Smart. Real Smart.”
“Shit,” Ellem said.
As another mortar round began its hellish descent on the base, all Thomas could do was agree, “Shit indeed, Staff Sergeant Ellem.”
November 25th
I’ve caught a bit of a stomach bug yet again, hence my disappearance after such a big meeting. I would’ve written more earlier, but between running a fever, and having semi-solids launch out of both ends of me like the beginning of tactical nuke strikes from missile silos in the midwest, I’ve been sleeping. Michelle has been a rock star while the ninja shits have their way with me. Fletcher Thomas has come into Hall E here twice a day to check on me. He’s worried it’s something serious like fucking cholera, or diphtheria (thank you, spell check), or whatever. The PJs don’t seem concerned, and I trust their judgment more than his. (Motrin and water, kid.) Fletcher helped horses, the PJs helped people in developing countries with the above mentioned diseases. I’m like, 25% sure Fletcher will diagnose me with hoof and mouth disease.
Michelle’s homemade broth from chicken bones with teency weency diced carrots and bits of meat have been my savior. It gave me enough strength to make the trip to the overpass to meet with Captain Maria this morning, though I don’t think I should’ve gone. I feel worse now, though the meeting went well.
I let Kevin manage the group when we went out this morning, and did my best to remain in control of my vomiting and diarrhea in the second humvee. I managed to get a seat next to Rich, the guy from Texas, and we had as good a time bullshitting as you can in a vehicle with shitty seats, shitty suspension, shitty visibility, and the shits. I didn’t, if you’re curious. Mission accomplished.
Anyhoo, Maria beat us to the meet as she often does, and James drove the humvee out onto the overpass to meet hers. Long story short, Maria said she was well, her people were well, and I talked to her about meeting with the people from the NVC.
I was open and honest about how I felt, which was positive after meeting Pat Thorpe. A lot of that positivity came from Kevin’s unabashed support of him. The two of them go way back, and it’s hard to overlook that history. I explained to her about Picarillo, and my gut-check dislike of him and whatever it was he did for them. I went on and explained that I was going to meet with them again and try to get a better feel from other higher-ups in their organization what their real deal was. I need more info to make a reasonable decision, and she agreed.
Man, I miss Gilbert.
I think she was happy with what I said. We’d talked nervously about them moving in the AO for months now, and our collective groups have been worried about their military strength. In a fair fight, the NVC could take us both on at the same time, and probably win. If they didn’t win, the cost to defeat them would be so steep we’d be celebrating our victory after a hundred funerals.
Unacceptable.
Peace is the choice whenever we can make it. Only warriors really know what that means. It takes more strength sometimes to choose the peaceful route than the violent one. People who pay the cost when violence is chosen are acutely aware of what the best decision in that regard is. Their choice could mean their life, and that decisions must be worth it when they make it. The funny thing is, the people who make those choices are rarely the ones who actually pay the price.
Ship politicians to war!
Blah blah. Poop and stuff. Got heavy there for a second.
Before we traded minor goods, set the next date for a meeting and split, Maria did ask me if I was willing to meet someone who had traveled a long ways to meet me. A pilgrimage, of sorts. I felt a little uncomfortable about it, but I knew I was safe enough, and if Maria thought I could meet this person, it was probably okay. She said he came all the way from Honolulu.
That’s a helluva drive. Though in his credit, people were leaving that island in d
roves long before the apocalypse hit it. Too expensive, and the work there is shit, so my brothers in the Navy told me. Nice weather, though.
Eventually I gave up and agreed to meet the guy. A few minutes later one of her uniformed men escorted a man, a woman, and a teenager up the overpass to Maria. She welcomed them, and introduced me to David, his wife Jennifer, and their son Bruce. They were wearing coats that were either too big, or too small, and they forced smiles despite their shivers. Not indigenous to this kind of environment…
David worked in industrial fabrication, and his wife worked in a zoo. I shit you not. They were awesome people. Funny and polite, bright eyed and intelligent, I liked them all immediately. The kid was personable after getting over his five minutes of shyness, and in all, I’m glad Maria had me meet them.
I hadn’t considered that they would ask if they could move to Bastion.
Which they did. We don’t have any room inside the walls really. I think I already talked about that. New people coming from all over have taken up the limited space on setting, and we’ve flooded them out into the town to keep them close. We are trying to be selective on who we allow inside the walls.
I thought about it for a few seconds, and decided another skilled worked to help Blake and Martin was too important to pass up. Jennifer as well has experience tending to animals, so she’ll be of tremendous help to Ollie and his animal managing crew. After talking to them about what would be expected if they moved to the Bastion region, David’s response was, “Will we get to meet Michelle and Kevin? What about Abby and Hal?”
Weird, right?
I suppose I should get used to this. It’s going to happen more and more I suspect.
I told them that would be up to Michelle and Kevin, Abby and Hal. Kevin and Michelle greeted them when we got back to Bastion while I hit the shitter like a dropped bucket of paint and crashed on the couch downstairs with a cup of tea with honey.
Honey’s growing on me. I wasn’t a big fan of it for years for whatever reason, but with processed sugar all but disappeared we’re left with our home made maple syrup and harvested honey to sweeten things. I use maple for some things (French toast and coffee, for example, though our cinnamon supply is getting meager), honey for others. Now if we could get a steady supply of coffee…
We scheduled our next meeting with Maria and company for December 20th, just before Christmas. David and family rode back with us in the second humvee. I moved up front and they sat squished in the back with Rich. Turns out both of them lived in the Houston area for awhile, and they got on well talking about H-Town. Listening to Rich talk with David made me like him more. He worked with a veteran’s charity outfit for years before the shit hit the fan, and as a vet, that spoke to me.
I tried to ignore the parts where they talked about the Trinity, the apocalypse, savior of mankind, scribe of the new world bullshit, etc.
This is definitely going to get old.
Anyway, I’m tired as fuck. I’m still in a good mood despite my stomach bug, and I’m excited to celebrate Thanksgiving in a few days. I’m told by the lovely woman who takes care of me that preparations are well in the works, and spirits are high. They’re high because people are excited for the feast, and also because the word that our meeting with the NVC went well has gotten around.
People are excited that a peaceful resolution seems possible. Abby seemed really happy earlier when she took little Gavin up to bed. In a stroke of pure luck, the baby isn’t screaming tonight, so I should sleep well.
Talk to you in a few days, Mr. Journal. Now, I cuddle with Otis and Michelle.
-Adrian
November 25th (2nd entry)
The baby woke up.
-Adrian
November 28th
Today is the day Americans (or those living on the land that most recently was called America, aka The United States) are thankful for… things and people and whatever. Also known as ‘turkey day’ and ‘the four day weekend where I must associate with my family, against my will, all for the sake of gravy coated foods.’
Earlier today we had a massive feast in the central cafeteria at Bastion to celebrate the year’s harvest thus far, and to commemorate all that we should be thankful for. While our population is still small-ish, we’re trying to instill a gravitas to holidays again. They’re not just a day off; the time they are setting aside means something. The time SHOULD mean something, at least.
The food was out of this world. James, Eddie from Texas and a few of our other resident hunters spent the last week hunting wild game, and they were quite successful. They were able to take down over a dozen turkeys, two deer, and a handful of pheasant and quail. Ollie and crew have grown a stellar offering, and the vegetables and grains were fresh and delicious. Fresh baked bread, and churned butter followed with leftover liquor and fresh milk made everyone as happy as could be.
Michelle and I sat in the center of the cafeteria area and more or less entertained everyone at one point or another as they passed by with their cheesy plastic school plates full of food. To a one (I think) every person who made eye contact with me said thank you for all I had done, and I caught more than thirty or forty people doing the same to Kevin and Michelle, as well as the old-guard of people who stood with me from my early days.
Mostly the new faces, but conspicuously, Abby and Hal both were very… I think the word is reverent, when they said thank you. Felt strange to me, but it wasn’t until now that it really hit me how weird it was. Maybe being parents have given them some kind of new perspective on things. Never having been a dad before, I can’t speak from experience.
Michelle surprised me with the invitation of the lion’s share of people from MGR, the Factory, and Spring Meadows. Turns out she’d been working on getting them to come here to visit on the super down-low. They sent about half or more of their people to attend our celebration, and in return we sent out a care package to the locations so they had a fresher feast at home.
Radio traffic tonight from the locations after everyone got home was positive, and appropriately thankful. It makes me feel good.
At the dinner I happened to see Blake and Kim, who are super pregnant again. They’re due in about two weeks, so she’s approximately the size of Hall A, and only slightly more mobile. This pregnancy has been tough on her (so she said) and leaving bed to attend dinner was the most she’d done in weeks. Our medical team has had her on bed rest due to swelling and blood pressure stuff. It was great to see her and the growing little Adrian Gilbert.
Some of the Texas transplants asked me if I would say something, and despite hating public speaking worse than sitting on tacks, I stood up and addressed everyone. Mr. Journal I tell you, it was dead silent when I got up. Not a single murmur in the place. Everyone watching me and listening. I got nervous, and asked for Michelle to come stand with me, and once she got up, I had the guts to say something.
I don’t remember everything I said, but you can rest assured it was moving, and well formulated and thought out. People shouted from the rooftops in my name, and children wept for joy.
I made some awkward dick and fart jokes to get people laughing, then I said I was thankful that so many of my friends and family were here to share the day. I said I was thankful the future looked peaceful and bright, and that I was excited to eat next year’s meal.
Some folks clapped, some laughed, and others just looked at me like I had tried to smash a watermelon with an infant.
I mingled with the old guard, played with my brother Caleb’s kids, as well as chatted with the newer people who I don’t know that well, and after drinking one of the last fingers of Blue Label in Gilbert’s honor with the people who knew him best, I retired here to my safe place, Hall E. I played some Infamous on the PS, and now I’m writing here.
But I think I’m done. I don’t have anything to add other than I’m nervous and excited for the meeting in two days with the brass at the NVC. One more street meeting with Colonel Thorpe, Captain Pasta, and whoever el
se they choose to bring in the attempt to impress us into collaborating with their group. I’m nervous because any meeting could go south, but I’m excited because Thorpe was on the level, and he gives me hope that a proper alliance and future is possible.
Going to crash now. Michelle won’t be back until much later, after she’s done helping EVERYONE IN THE WORLD WITH EVERYTHING.
Love her, but she struggles to know when to quit.
Of course, that’s part of what I love about her.
-Adrian
November 30th
We exchanged gunfire with a group of ‘survivors’ on the way to the meeting today, and we called the meet off.
Perhaps in an error of judgment we headed out to the Factory in a two pickup convoy. Kevin rode in the front truck with James at the wheel, and Ray from Texas and Ethan in the backseat. I rode in the second truck with Angela and Quan in the back seat, and Texas Rich at the wheel. Like usual, we were armed with our weapons, but no crew-served guns in turrets.
As a rule, we drive like maniacs wherever we go. When I say we drive as fast as we can, I mean it. It’s harder to hit a moving target and it’s a lot harder to hit a fast moving target. On straight stretches we are floored as often as not, and if the roads are clear, we take corners on two wheels like drift racing is a post-apocalyptic hobby. It keeps you safer if you have a good driver.
Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 9): The Dealer of Hope [Adrian's March, Part 1] Page 21
