Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 11): No God [Adrian's March Part 3]

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  ALPA map

  July 2014

  July 4th

  July 8th

  July 11th

  A Man of God

  July 15th

  July 19th

  July 20th

  July 22nd

  July 23rd

  July 24th

  July 25th

  July 27th

  The Cleaving

  July 29th

  August 2014

  August 2nd

  August 6th

  August 10th

  August 12th

  August 13th

  August 15th

  August 16th

  August 18th

  August 19th

  August 20th

  August 22nd

  August 23rd

  August 24th

  August 25th

  I Can See Clearly Now

  August 25th (2nd entry)

  August 26th

  August 28th

  August 31st

  The A Game

  September 2014

  September 1st

  September 3rd

  About the Author

  Also by Chris Philbrook

  Dedication

  Patreon Patrons

  Free Ebook

  July 2014

  July 4th

  I haven’t been out of my bedroom in two weeks. Two fucking weeks, Mr. Journal. Fourteen days of bed rest here in Hall E. I’ve pissed in the bathroom down the hall, and I just took my first shower since… well, since before I was shot, but beyond that, I haven’t done jack shit but watch movies, read a few books, clean my Kimber repeatedly, and scratch Otis as he pushes his fat, furry body against mine.

  He won’t let me go anywhere without him.

  Picarillo shot me in the side, just above my hip, between my belt line and my ribs. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but the bullet tore through my guts, and punched a hole through my large intestine. The greasy prick poked a hole in my pre-shit tubes and didn’t even do me the reach-around solid of having the bullet pass through. Maybe not having an exit wound was a good thing.

  Kevin rushed me back down the hill to help, and I blacked out on the way. Turns out I was bleeding pretty good internally, in a world of growing pain that clouded out the real world, and I went into shock. I almost died. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Who fucking knows?

  Joel and Fletcher got me stable, and operated on me. I had what Joel described as a “destructive” colon injury with risk factors. Infection, blood loss, yada fucking yada. Whatever. They pulled my fat turd tube sausage straight out of the side of my stomach through the hole Picarilo shot in it, stitched the intestine shut, got the bullet fragments out the best they could, and kept me sedated a fair bit until it healed shut enough for them to poke the sumbitch back inside, then stitch the outside of me shut. Two weeks of that, more or less. You have any idea how hard it is to not fuck with a piece of your insides that are hanging out a hole in your side? Gross, I’ll grant you that, but it’s like having something stuck in your teeth, or a hangnail. You can’t just ignore it. You can’t. I just… had… to touch it. I’m lucky I didn’t give myself sepsis. My hands are bruised from where Fletcher slapped me ten times a day. I should thank him.

  Two weeks of sitting in the cleanest room in Bastion, in the cleanest bed, doped up, and dealing with sad, traumatized people sitting at my side, crying and pleading with me to stay strong, and to not give up, and how sorry they were for….

  Sigh.

  Yeah.

  So with a handful of Percocets and Vicodins, I moved back to my room in Hall E against their mutual wishes. Fletcher shit all over the idea of me having to go up and down stairs even once with my side healing, but I thanked him for all his help with a scalpel and antibiotics, and told him I’d be fine. My turn to heal on my own. Joel didn’t say shit. I think he knew how any protests he could’ve put up would’ve gone. He’s not a quitter, and I’d like to think I’m not either. Fuck the police.

  Don’t fuck the police. Most of them were very nice men and women who wanted to help the public. If you want to fuck the police do it sensually, and with great care. Be an attentive lover.

  So a month of healing, give or take, some of it conscious, some of it not. I can make it to the pot now without taking a pain med, which is great news. Taking a shit is a little bit like getting into a street fight with a honey badger, but once I get my good cry over, and give the handicapped bars hell while I grunt, it works out. I do see stars, but I reign victorious over my turds, and that’s a win. Tough shits are always preferable to death.

  Right now I need all the wins I can get. Docs tell me I need to heal up for another week or two before I can do anything even remotely robust. I will of course ignore their advice, because I am a man, and a dumbass at that.

  I’m not talking business with anyone. Not Kevin when he sits in my room, not Caleb or Abby. No one. People keep telling me it’s okay to cry, but I can’t. I just can’t. The tears don’t come, and I don’t know why. I want to cry. I want to let it out, but it… doesn’t.

  The only sort of work talk I’ve entertained is from Kevin when I ask him about whether or not the NVC has done anything against us, and about Lancaster. The NVC has moved against us, but as we discussed, we had some defenses readied, and, we were able to ambush them before they got into position. No warnings, no chance to turn back. Kevin saw their lead humvee, and lit the fucking thing up with a .50cal we stole from them before they had a chance to react. Took the truck out, and gave pursuit long enough to fuck that truck up too. As a message, he sent a large team north to wreak some havoc up there to teach them a lesson, but enroute bailed on the plan when he crossed paths with refugees leaving their AO. He helped them instead. That was the right call.

  I also gave Lancaster a request. I told him I needed him to bring my little brother William to me. Now that I know he’s alive, and even sort of close, I needed to see William. I needed him and my brother Caleb, and my sister Becca here, and then, maybe, I could start to think about what moving forward looks like for me.

  I hope moving forward involves sleeping, because right now, I’m not sleeping.

  I’m afraid… I uh, I’m afraid I’ll dream of her, and I’m even more afraid of how I’ll feel, and what I might do after I wake up from that dream.

  I’m ashamed I’m not angrier. I should be angrier. I’m comfortable with anger. I’m comfortable with rage. I guess right now sorrow feels indulgent. Grief feels like a luxury I don’t WANT to afford. I… fuck.

  I’m so mixed up. All over the place.

  I don’t know why I’m writing tonight, Mr. Journal. I don’t have anything to say.

  I should say something. Say anything. Make a statement. Come clean about something. Be honest with myself. Spill my fucking guts in a way that isn’t fucking literal.

  I think you need to be alive to do that though, and like the undead that have crept back to our shores, I’m walking around, but right now…

  I’m not really alive.

  You know they buried her without me. Couldn’t wait. Another plot near Gilbert and Ollie. I haven’t been to her grave yet. Not sure I’ll ever go.

  Lancaster has asked some of the resources his connections have to be moved up here for additional protection. They’ll be under his command, and he’s under ours, so we’ll see how that works. They’re supposed to arrive here in two weeks, he claims. He is also freeing up William from his post aboard a Navy destroyer and then getting my brother to me within a week, and that’s the biggest thing keeping me from putti
ng a gun in my mouth. The hope of seeing my little brother, and staying near my cat. Maybe I’m being dramatic.

  Maybe I’m not.

  It’s July 4th. Not that today means anything anymore. I know I don’t feel very free, sitting here, figuring out a reason to… well, to live.

  Again.

  Long live the republic of Bastion, whatever that means.

  -Adrian

  July 8th

  Kevin told me I’m being flippant about my situation, and plight of Bastion at large. That I’m not taking things seriously. That I’m edgy, and not well psychologically, or physically.

  Well, he can suck my dick.

  Earlier today I left Hall E and went for a walk I’m told I shouldn’t have gone on. As you already know, Mr. Journal, I don’t listen well, so I went on my walk around Bastion, and I didn’t ask for permission, and I didn’t leave wearing sweatpants, like I wanted to. I wore my cargo pants low and loose (well below the healing wound on my side) and I holstered my pistol, and my spare magazines, and I went wherever the fuck I wanted to.

  …I probably should’ve stayed inside.

  Not because my body wasn’t ready for it; it was. I’ve been in good shape for years now, with all the physical activity I get, and the restricted diet the end of the world offers, but because seeing the buildings and the state they are in again stirred up all the emotions I don’t want to address.

  The month of healing I’ve had gave my people time to destroy what was about to fall down, and start to rebuild or build anew where they could. We’re in July, so it’s hot as balls and likely to stay that way here for a couple months, and it looks like Blake, Martin, Melissa, Kevin and Abby have been keeping people busy to get as much done before cold weather sets in. We aren’t general contractors, or electricians and plumbers by trade so we don’t build fast. Lots of consulting text books as we figure it out on the go. Remember when a new building would show up before that day? You’d see them breaking ground, or clearing out trees one day, the next week the foundation was poured, the week after that the frame was up, and two weeks later customers were parked in front of the new business, or in the driveway of a new home.

  Ayup. Not happening anymore. Diligent as we are, hard working as we are, we don’t have the expertise with the tools, or whatever to get stuff thrown up that fast. Hell, it took us forever and a day to build a barn before the NVC shit went down, and that had no plumbing, no foundation, and minimal electrical.

  They’re rebuilding Hall A, and adding two floors. Whole other dorms are getting gutted because of damage done by the attack, and at least one of the dorms has all of its repairs done already. They gotta get these buildings fixed. People looking at them are reminded of how close we came to being erased off the map. How many friends died here, and how many are still in beds healing from their wounds.

  I’m still healing from my wounds, and I could’ve very easily been one of the people tossed on a funeral pyre, or dropped into a hole to feed the flowers. If Picarillo’s bullet had entered me even an inch or two more towards center mass… I’m pushing up daisies.

  My people are doing what they can, as fast as they can. I’m not bitching because they’re lazy, or not doing enough. Please don’t read this that way. I’m just saying it needs to be a priority. Fixing everything.

  I limped my way to the cafeteria in time for lunch, and sat at a table with round plastic chairs attached to it while everyone and their damn brother came over to offer me a hug, and give their best wishes, and to shed their fucking tears for my loss, our loss, and how much they miss her, and I shoulda just fucking stayed in and watched Point Break again with Otis.

  I had soup. I was hungry like, fifteen minutes after eating the soup, so when I shuffled back to Hall E, I raided the cupboards and found one of my stashed cans of brown bread. I brought it up here, and just put Monty Python and the Holy Grail in to watch as I eat it shamefully.

  There are so many elephants in the room with me right now. So many things I need to put real thought into but just can’t yet. I’m in a holding pattern that I can fly for as long as I need to, and that feels shitty to me, but I can’t quite get my mind to focus long enough to feel good about anything I try to figure out. I’m… well, shit. I’m paralyzed with indecision.

  I’ve been here before. More than once. Maybe I need to realize that my paralysis boomerang is part of my personality. Maybe this isn’t a moment in time for me, but it’s me. It’s just who I am. Does that mean I am a quitter?

  If me being locked up with indecision is the case (and let’s just assume it is) then what do I do to shake it off, and get back to Adrian, Man Of Action? ™ I’ll have to dig through my old journal entries and see what galvanized me back then, I guess.

  I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes twiddling my thumbs, trying to figure out the answer to that question, and all I’ve done is work up cramps in my thumbs. I’d lament the fact that I wouldn’t be able to rub one out later, but the Percocets I’m taking at the moment to make my side feel like there isn’t a spear in it keep me from enjoying any kind of sexual pleasure. All I’ve been able to do is chafe myself the last few days, and cramp up my abs something fierce all for no payoff. No happy endings.

  No joy in Dickville, it would appear. At least not until the Percocets are sent packing. Only have a few left, and we all know how I feel about taking painkillers. Bare minimum.

  I started reading Under the Dome, but gave up on it. Couldn’t keep my attention. I want to go back to the school’s library and find some other books to read. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. I haven’t actually been inside the library in a long time. Something fresh for my peepers while I anxiously await my brother, and the passing of my crippling indecision.

  There’s gonna be so many young adult books. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe some of them will have highlighted sections, or pictures drawn with crayons to help me through the tougher portions of the novels where the writer used lots of large, confusing words.

  Maybe I’ll grab a box of crayons for a snack while I’m there.

  Sigh.

  I’m not angry, but I feel anger nearby, lurking like a rain storm out of view you can feel coming. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling paralyzed. Maybe I’m afraid that whatever I decide to do will open the floodgates on that anger, and I’ll do things I’ll regret. Hurt strangers that don’t deserve it. Probably hurt people I care about.

  Speaking of people I care about, I want to go see little Gavin. Kiss his pudgy cheeks. Soak up that joy before Abby and Hal put him down for the night.

  Yeah. I’ll do that. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll build up the courage to ask Abby how she gets to sleep at night after crying loud enough for me to hear it for an hour. She lost her mom and Mike, remember? She didn’t get to say goodbye.

  -Adrian

  July 11th

  I remember when William went into the Navy. Real young. Like, right after his eighteenth birthday young. The night he left the rest of the family happened to be home at the time, and William had to get on a bus to begin his journey as a sailor.

  Tommy was already a SEAL by then, fresh out of SQT I think, if memory serves, and was so proud he had to fight away the tears in the car as we brought William to the bus station for a late evening departure. My parents were in their car behind us with Caleb and Becca.

  I can recall alternating between pride, or excitement then fear, and frankly, disappointment. William was a smart kid. Smarter than boot camp at least. He should’ve gone to college. Or at least, college first, then try for officer status. He isn’t the guy that should be mopping decks. He should be in command of his own nuclear sub, or at least running a Subway shop.

  But, like all Rings, he’s a stubborn one, and does things his way, because we can’t be told how to do what needs to be done. Personality flaw? Or personality asset? Hard to say, but we’re all doing okay, all things (read; personality flaws) considered.

  Minus Mom and Dad, who have both shuffled off this mortal co
il for different reasons (sorry Mom, but to be fair, you were a zombie and you tried to kill me), and you could argue that they did pretty okay with us kids before passing on.

  We put a little boy on that bus. A goddamned kid. Skinny, with arms about two inches too long, and hair a month overdue for a trim. He was wearing a System of a Down t-shirt and jeans he used to wear to his summer job at the local landscapers. He ran the weed-whacker, and the leaf-blower. Occasionally he’d be a weed blower, but he cut back before enlisting. I remember him having to scour his body for ticks every evening after getting home. Found them as often as not.

  I saw him over time, here and there when he came back on leave, no different than how I saw my other brothers. If I was in town I’d see Caleb when he was home from Afghanistan, Tommy when he was home from… wherever the fuck they were sending him, and me when I was home. Does that make sense? When I was home? You get the point. Becca was still living at home with mom and dad, and the rest of us were all just orbiting.

  William grew. Got his promotions, did really well. Think he got one promotion ahead of schedule too, which is big when it happens early in your military career. His went into naval aviation, specifically to work on helicopters, and wound up doing that for years on a couple different ships. He’d send letters, and emails now and then, and the last thing I knew he was doing, was working on the flight crew of a SH-60 assigned to an aging frigate. I remember him talking shit in an email because the actual boat he was assigned to had been mentioned in a Clancy novel. USS Reuben James.

  I called it the Reuben sandwich and asked him if the ship was covered in Russian dressing.

  He was so proud. He had talked of flight school so he could fly his bird, but everything happened, and then… you know. That day.

  Lancaster rolled him into Bastion in a convoy of civilian vehicles, fronted by a humvee driven by his ranger buddies. It’s been pretty safe out there of late I guess, minus the attempted attack by the NVC shitholes that Kevin cut off at the pass. Anyway, the convoy of vehicles he borrowed from us to get my brother rolled over our fucked up bridge and parked in the center of main road where the parking lot is, near Hall E and D.