The zombie was moving from my right to left and clearly following something I couldn’t see behind the ambulance. I got the van parked and got out of it before the thing realized I was there. It was a fairly tall middle aged guy in life. Skinny as a rail too. All I could think of was rotting beanpole when I saw him. Lol I’m such a prick.
I hopped out of the van and drew the sword. I wanted to be quiet here as much as possible. Once the rotting beanpole saw me get out of the truck whatever it was he was following became much less interesting. I could see as plain as day in the early light his arm had been bitten really badly. His right forearm had been stripped of flesh from the elbow straight to the wrist and his hand hung limply when he came at me. I took a solid backhanded swipe at his neck and took his bad hand clean off in the process. Only a few inches of the sword wound up hitting his neck, causing a fucking rugged wound across his throat that would’ve killed a living person. I could see his windpipe sticking out of the hole I’d made. The impact of the sword swing sent him into the side of the van where he smashed his head on the frame. I took the moment and finished him off with a solid down stroke to the skull.
The beanpole had been cut down to size.
I had to say that. Strictly for dramatic purposes Mr. Journal. It’s my moment of badass-ery. One of the few times I can say something like that and feel like I was legitimately kind of a badass. Now then, moving along…
I wiped the goop off the sword using his shirt and sheathed it. I went in with the shotgun raised. Noise be damned. If I saw a bunch of them, I wanted firepower. That’s when I heard someone yell out to my rear, “Freeze!”
It had come from behind me, from the back end of the ambulance. The zombie had chased whoever this person was around the far side of the ambulance, and I hadn’t seen them. They’d come around the back end of the vehicle and more or less snuck up behind me as I killed the tall dead guy. I lowered the shotgun and raised my left hand slightly.
I said, “I’m not here to cause trouble, just wanted to see if any ammunition is left.”
The guy from behind me said back, “Holy shit, Ring?” As soon as I heard him say my name I recognized the voice. It was Officer McGreevy.
I turned and I was right, it was him. He had changed out of his uniform and into a more tactical style black jumpsuit. He had an ammo and gear vest on with POLICE in big white letters velcro’d to the front and back of it. I smiled and we exchanged a hearty handshake. God it was good to see another human, especially some form of authority figure.
He looked like shit though. McGreevy was big, bigger than me, and it looked like he’d skipped quite a few meals. His black paramilitary jumpsuit was covered in swaths of dark stains, and dried on bits of… people. He looked like he’d been through a frigging ringer. He also looked really happy to see me.
We stood there in the parking lot bullshitting for maybe 15 minutes. As I recall he said he’d left here maybe an hour or two after I had and that the shop had gone to shit in a hurry. I guess the dude he’d shot there in the parking lot that day was probably a zombie after all. Good call on his part. The bad news was the kid in the passenger seat had been bitten as well and he croaked after they got him inside. He bit the paramedics, and you can see where it went from there. The dudes working at the shop took the fuck off and the Chief told McGreevy to go take care of his family. So he did.
I guess he got his family safe three towns over, and he had headed back to town to raid the police station of more heavy duty guns that day. The gun locker at the station had already been emptied though. He said it was unlocked, which told the both of us that one of the local cops had been responsible. After coming up dry there, he headed over here in the hopes that he’d find something left behind, and as you might expect, this place was empty now too.
That’s when his head exploded.
And I mean exploded. Blew the fuck up. The gunshot that took the top of his skull off and showered me in bits and pieces was almost simultaneous to his death. I dove down in the general direction of my van as his headless body smashed to the ground beside me. Here one second, gone the next.
Mr. Journal have you ever seen what a high caliber projectile does to a skull? The violence of it is unreal. The skull can’t take the kinetic energy of the round passing through it and shock explodes it. One of the more unpleasant things to witness, of that I can assure you.
From my stomach I could hear a faint echo of a gunshot moving through the vicinity, and I rolled onto my back to try and look around. I could see McGreevy’s head was smeared all over the windshield of the ambulance which told me the shot had come from beside us, basically from the direction I was exposed to. I rolled and rolled until I was under the van and started looking that way. I still had my shotgun, and I was aiming in the general direction I thought the shooter was. It was down the same road I’d driven on when I left here “that day.”
Patience is a teachable skill in combat. Sticking your head up frequently gets it shot off, and I knew whoever had shot the cop was at least a decent shot, or really fucking close. I knew if I exposed myself I stood a damn good chance of getting my own head exploded. I decided to displace and advance in the direction I thought the shooter was.
I rolled to the opposite side of the van and got to my knees. The only other cover around was the Yukon, so I bolted to it. No one shot me. However there was a shitload of movement coming from the surrounding area. I could see about four shambling undead coming my way from about a hundred yards off in various directions. I didn’t have a lot of time to work with, but what’s fucking new, right? If I’m not knee deep in bullshit I’m waist deep.
I did a low walk to the small raised flower garden right at the edge of the parking lot. I did a headfirst dive into the mulch and got as low as I could right in the middle of the vegetation. I squirmed up so I could see through the plants and waited and watched. I sat there for a solid thirty seconds. I kept a close eye on the four dead guys coming my way and the closest was halfway to me when my shooter finally made himself known.
It was a fucking kid. I mean, maybe 18. Probably more like 16. He rode his goddamn bicycle right up to McGreevy’s body and hopped off, he even putting out the fucking kickstand and propped the bike up carelessly in a chunk of McGreevy’s fucking head.
The scrawny prick un-slung a hunting rifle off his back and took careful aim at one of the undead coming in our direction. One by one with accurate head shots he dropped the four zombies heading our way. He didn’t see me from where he was. I was mostly hidden in the tall plants and flowers. He stopped after he was done shooting and did a stupid little dance to celebrate. Fucking fist pumping how badass he was. I was so fucking furious. I’m mad now just typing about it. I wanted fucking blood.
He threw back the bolt on the rifle and started to reload it. I took my chance and leapt out of the greenery, shotgun up, screaming at him. I started off with the industry standard, “Freeze, drop the gun!” but all he did was look up at me with a completely confused look. He did freeze, but he didn’t drop the gun. I knew he’d gotten one round in the chamber, and as I got to about 20 feet away from him, he threw the bolt forward, and started to raise it quickly to his shoulder, pointing it at me.
I bucked him center mass with the 12 gauge twice, sending his body backwards into the ambulance like it’d been hit by a car. One of my shots hit his rifle dead center, blasting the damn thing into pieces. His hand holding the gun was vaporized by the heavy shotgun pellets. The boy slid down to the ground, resting against the white ambulance, blood spraying from an arterial wound in his neck. I remember his jaw opening and closing reflexively as he watched his own blood spray across the parking lot.
I remember screaming a lot of fucking profanity. And I mean a lot Mr. Journal. I hate shooting people, and I really hate the idea that I shot a kid. I mean I fucking despise myself for that, and I fucking KNOW I had to do it. Him or me, it’s that simple. He may have thought he had the drop on me or something, but the bottom line was; I w
asn’t dying that day.
Him or me, right Mr. Journal?
Right?
Ah shit. I forgot how much this trip really pissed me off. It reminds me so much of the senseless fucking bullshit Kevin and I had to deal with in Baghdad. Suicide bombers, kids with AK’s, donkey bodies filled with explosives. Just fucking stupid shit that we humans do to each other. Makes me think we deserved this. Almost like this is some divine bitchslap to wake us up from being complete dinks to each other. Whatever I guess.
As I was finishing up my angry tirade in the parking lot he had died and was starting to twitch and sit back up again. I kicked the fucking idiot’s bike into the middle of the road with a huge boot and stomped over to his body, still slumped against the side of the ambulance. I kicked him onto his side and used the stock of the shotgun to smash his head into a pulp. I kinda regret that too. I could’ve just stabbed him in the head with the sword, but I wanted so *badly* to teach him a fucking lesson, even if it was after his death. I threw up on him after I realized what I’d done. I didn’t mean to throw up on him either, it just hit me like a freight train when I looked at what I’d done and it came out. It hit him in the leg. Eggs. Fresh eggs too. Some of the last eggs I’ve eaten.
Just a complete waste on every fucking level.
The kid had a .30-06 hunting rifle, but as I said, one of my shotgun blasts totaled it. In his backpack he had 6 rounds for it, and I grabbed those. McGreevy’s vest wasn’t bulletproof. It was a vest cops wear over their Kevlar. I was kind of pissed because man I would have loved to have gotten his vest. He would’ve been about my size too. McGreevy’s service weapon was gone. He didn’t even have his holster on him. I suspect he left it with his family wherever they were.
He did have a hunting rifle. Gorgeous too. Savage Model 70 in .30-06 with a Burress 2.5-10x scope. Legit sniper rifle shit. Probably McGreevy’s Cadillac hunting rifle. This is like a $2,000 rifle here. McGreevy’s vest was about the same thing as the vest I already had on, and I didn’t feel like taking it off him. I emptied his pockets of ammunition for his rifle, and found his keys, as well as a security pass card for the municipal complex where the police station was.
Yeah. I said that. I have the keys to the police station. Why haven’t I gone there yet? McGreevy said everything there worth taking was already gone. Well, there’s at least one thing that I think is still there that I want. Plus the station is downtown. Like… downtown-downtown. Downtown with a capital D. But that plan is for another day, and another entry Mr. Journal.
Once I got his ammunition and his keys I headed inside and proceeded to check the interior of the gun shop.
Just as he’d said, it’d been tossed already. There was almost nothing left inside of value worth taking. The gun vaults were all wide open and empty, the ammunition shelves were cleared off, the clothes were all gone, there was almost nothing there worth taking. I snagged some extra holsters, belts, and rifle slings. Those are surprisingly useful items to have around too, I was sort of in awe they hadn’t been taken.
In the far back room I found the body of old Sheriff Moore. He was the owner of the shop, and he’d been bitten in the leg. There was blood all over his foot. I could only tell it was him by his nametag. His head had been blasted open by a large caliber round. There was nothing to identify him by. His face was gone.
In his desk I found a box of .357 magnum shells, which was cool, except I don’t have a .357 magnum. If I find one though, I’m ready to rock and roll. I gave the shop a final once over and got into the van with my meager gains for the day. As I pulled out I saw another tall male zombie shuffling towards the shop, dragging a broken leg or foot as it went. I got out real quick, sighted in the Savage, and obliterated the damn thing’s head at 75 yards. The rifle sounded like a cannon going off. I could even hear the birds flying away out of the trees the gun report was so loud.
And I left. The drive back got a little hairy when I crossed Main Street near my condo. I had to drive through a dozen or so undead in the road. They were making their way towards the gun shop like a mob of undead Somalians. Awful shit Mr. Journal. I ran over a few of them and drove away from the rest. They left bloody streaks on the windows that are still there to this day.
I took the same route back. That’s where I saw the zombie caught in the swing again. I laughed for an hour about that. If you can’t recall Mr. Journal, I’ve mentioned this before. There was a zombie who had walked into a swing, and kept walking far enough that the swing had gotten lodged up under its armpits. These things are so single minded it kept walking forward, straight into the swing, like it was on a treadmill. I stopped the van and watched for a bit, and it actually turned in my direction to walk towards me, still bound up in the swing. Hilarious. Stupid zombies. It’s probably still stuck in that fucking swing right now.
Got back here, parked the vans on the bridge and holed up for the rest of that day. It was a shitty trip all in all. I guess you could say I saw fireworks that July 4th, although it wasn’t the kind I was interested in.
Can you see now why I was a little sour on telling that story Mr. Journal? Meet Adrian Ring, mom killer, child murderer, abandoner of girlfriends.
My whole life I feel like I’ve always been the guy that has to go all in on 7-2 off suit.
At least I’m a good shot.
Classy fella.
-Adrian
December 17th
I think I’ve gotten rid of the Ninja shits. At least, I think I have. I’ve been wrong before though. They are…. Very sneaky. I haven’t had the shits in a few days, so I’m pretty excited. It might’ve been the painkillers though. I know many of them cause constipation as a side effect. If that’s the case, then I killed two birds with one stone. You have any fucking idea how painful and difficult it is to take a shit when your leg is fucked up? I had to crap with one leg sticking straight out in front of me, grimacing the whole time. Forget standing up afterward. Yowzas.
Something happened today that has me somewhat excited. I went outside today for the first time in a week I think. It was around noon, and it was actually pretty nice out. A pleasant 40 degrees F according to the thermometer. My leg has gotten much better and I desperately needed to get outside and get some direct sunlight and fresh air. I stood outside of Hall E, holding the door open if I needed to make a quick escape when I heard a weird, thrumming noise. It was a sound I hadn’t heard since late June.
It was an airplane.
I didn’t see it, but I heard it. It was distinct. I nearly danced for joy. Signs of educated, advanced survivors. Pilots who knew how to fuel a plane and fly, overhead. Holy shit I was, and still am excited about that. Full chubber.
The first thing I thought of was 9/11. Mr. Journal you might not remember this, but for almost two days they stopped all flights here in the states. No planes overhead except for military ones. It was weird, especially if you were anywhere near a major city with a big airport. I remember feeling weird back then when someone pointed out to me how quiet it was without the civilian planes. I’d forgotten how quiet it was again.
Who was in the plane? What kind of plane was it? Where was it going? Large planes don’t take off without a damn good idea that they can land where they’re going, which implies to me that two locations were still communicating effectively over vast distances. I’m betting my shirt it was a military plane flying from one base to another. A lot of bases use satellite comms, and as long as they have power on base, the satellites will last for a year, maybe more. Now whoever runs the orbit corrections for the comms satellites needs to stay alive for them to last though. More than likely our bases are still operational all over the world, and it was people shuffling about. Man that’s exciting. Hope for stability.
So what’s new with me Mr. Journal? Damn little, that’s what. Yesterday I spent inside yet again and tried to stay off the leg. I can get around more or less without pain, just soreness, but the less activity I have, the faster it’ll heal. I read a few books this week that I had h
ere in the dorm from the kid’s rooms, and I also experimented with canned food recipes with mixed results. I haven’t had any venison in some time. I only really like it if I can grill it, and the grill is outside, so I’ve been skipping the meat. I’ve checked the meat twice, and it’s holding up pretty good in my freezer room deal.
I am going to have to make a trip down to the gas station as soon as I feel comfortable moving around. Maybe I can do it tomorrow or the next day. I could have done it today I think, but on the outside chance I run into trouble, I can’t risk re-injuring the leg. I’ve been burning through fuel for the gas generator like a motherfucker. It’s been really cold, so I’ve had to turn up the heat a few degrees above where I had been keeping it. Also, because I’ve been inside all day, I haven’t been turning it down a few degrees like I had been when I went out to clear houses. All in all, I’m at least halfway through big Blue already, and that’s far ahead of my schedule.
If I can just fill up my gas cans I’ll be good to go until my leg is fully healed. At least into January I think. I can’t recall how much gas is in the Tundra, but I think it’s somewhere less than a half tank. That plus the fuels cans would be terrific. It sucks being all alone when you’re hurt or sick Mr. Journal. There’s no one to bring me chicken soup anymore.
Much like the previous few days it’s been boring here. Nothing has passed through the campus, and other than hearing the plane earlier today, there’s nothing new to report. Food is good, the plants are slowly growing, Otis is his mischievous self, and my leg is getting better. 1st and ten.
More tales of the past you think? I’m getting low on stories to tell about what’s already happened to me Mr. Journal. In fact, if I spend the rest of this entry talking about the remaining time between June 23rd and when I started the journal, I’ll be flat out of shit to talk about. Not like I won’t be doing stuff in the future, but I won’t have much to talk about as it relates to the past. Is that good? I always had this notion I could talk forever about that crap. Maybe it’s because I’m putting way more entries than I planned on. When I first started this I was looking at doing entries once a week. I must like your company bud.
Alone No More Page 17
