The Failed Coward (13 page)

Just past School Street the undead population got noticeably thicker and more aggressive. Maybe aggressive isn’t the right word. They attacked us as any undead asshole would. As soon as they see, or hear you, they turn and shuffle in your direction in this… urgent apathy. I don’t know how to describe it. Like flesh eating robots. Incidentally, urgent apathy would make an AWESOME band name. It could be emo, or punk, or whatever. I’m so fucking creative.

We slowed our drive speed down so we drew in a reasonably large following of undead. By the time we reached the industrial park that contained STIG, Gilbert said we had along the lines of 75 dead folks heel-toeing behind us. It was a pain in the ass to drive that slow. I wasn’t plowing as we went, and the few inches of slush left in the street hindered the retards just enough that we almost hit the gas and said fuck it. We didn’t though. Patience saw us through the irritation.

I did drop the plow when we reached the park. I wanted open area to move around in if we got out on foot. I scooted ahead of Patty and told her to keep plugging along slowly. When we rounded the curve into the parking lot near the ruins of STIG, I knew this was going to be a rough day. Milling in the wreckage of the explosion was at least another hundred undead, and as soon as they heard my giant yellow plow scraping the pavement, they turned on us, and came shambling over to say hi, and try and eat us alive. You gotta hand it to the undead, they are always looking out for you. Attentive hosts.

Now we needed a way to kill these assholes efficiently, and safely. We could just drive away and kite the fuckers, killing them a few at a time, but that was a big drain on bullet resources. The obvious choice was to use the two vehicles and Grand Theft Auto the whole crowd. Everyone was onboard with that idea.

Despite being the smaller vehicle, the plow is actually the better vehicle for ramming pedestrians. It has a giant metal ram on the front, and we brought spare tires for it if we got a flat. Over our radios we talked the plan over, and made sure we knew what to do.

We wanted the HRT stationary. It was high off the ground, heavy duty, and we wanted to avoid a flat on that thing like we wanted to avoid getting between Lindsey Lohan and a line of blow. (Incidentally, I’d love to see what she looks like right now. Probably the same, dead or alive. Or much better if she’s off the stuff.) I asked Patty to do a single loop in the large open space of the parking lot on the side of where the STIG plant used to be, and then had her stop in the center. Once parked, I had her GO OFF on the damn horn. 

While she did that, I drove in slow, wide circles around the parking lot. Eventually we had the entire crowd of zombies going everywhichway. Some were attracted to the horn, some to the plow as we drove, and others couldn’t make up their damn mind what to do. Abby and I laughed our asses off watching them putz around. We reached a critical mass when they started to climb their way up and onto the HRT. Play time was over.

I gunned it to pull away from the mob, and spun us around. Abby and I made sure we were buckled in, and I gave it some gas and started to mow the lawn. Hitting that many people with a car is actually sort of weird. Ever get your car stuck in mud, or deep snow, and you give it gas, and it moves forward much slower than you’d expect it to? 

Same idea, only the resistance was stacks and stacks of zombies pressing forward towards us, reaching up and over the hood. I wound up having to gas it like a bitch to break through the heavier portions of the crowd. I asked Patty to lay off the horn for a bit, which took the heat off the HRT truck. After two or three gory swipes of the parking lot, I’d managed to knock down and incapacitate maybe half of the undead. By that point the bodies were so thick on the pavement we couldn’t drive anymore. The plow simply didn’t have the torque to push the bodies lying on the ground away. They just tumbled onto the blade and stacked up like morbid cordwood. 

So plan B quickly formed, and we relocated to the industrial park street. No flats occurred either, which was a godsend. Once in the road, we did the same thing on a smaller scale, and managed to take out the mobility of the remainder of the undead. After that was finished, we had to actually kill them.

That’s when things got... weird for us. Smashing in the skulls of the undead is dirty, depressing, mind numbing work. I am reminded of those videos of seal hunters clubbing seals that were too stupid to slither away and escape into the ocean. It’s the same basic idea, only with rotting animated dead bodies, and severe emotional distress, as you destroy the bodies of people you recognize from work, and town.

Unhappy and dangerous work. We started in the road where we wouldn’t be surrounded by the dead, and worked our way in slowly, hitting every single body in the head with heavy blunt objects. The halligans became our best friends. Gilbert took Patty’s .22 rifle and sat on the back of the truck, plinking away anything that that could move faster than a crawl. He was our black comedy routine as well to try and cheer us up.

“Ooop! Fat chubber at 10 o’clock, moving at one half mile an hour!” Followed by a crack from the rifle.

“Careful Abby, ten feet to your six, that skinny bastard ain’t dead, I think he wants to take Gavin’s place in your heart. Oh wait, he just wants to kill you.” Then another snap of the rifle.

I’m glad I stole the remainder of the Johnny Walker from Gilbert, otherwise he’d have shot us to death in a drunken stupor. 

As I said, things got weird. An hour into Gilbert’s sit down corpse insulting comedy routine, Patty started to get emotional as she had to kill people she recognized from her short time at STIG. I reckon this is the first time she has had to kill zombies she recognized en masse. 

You know the great thing about Team Vagina? 

They do everything together. 

Including have mental breakdowns. 

I physically had to restrain Patty and Abby from curb stomping dangerously into the fallen mass of dead folks. They dropped all sensibility after a bit, and started to get dangerously surrounded by the dead. Gilbert and I started to yell and scream for them to slow down, and back off, but the two of them became too grief stricken to listen.

I had to unsling the M4 and drop the halligan to get their attention. A handful of shots and a firm grab of the arm got Patty snapped out of it. I dragged her twenty feet back to relative safety, and shoved her up and into the front seat of the HRT. Abby stood in shock, watching as I manhandled her mother, and she nearly got bitten again as I walked up to grab her too. She snapped out of her staring session when I stopped to shoot the damn zombie just a foot away from her leg. I couldn’t risk the adult zombie testing her shin guard’s strength. They may protect against little kid bites fine, but I wasn’t risking it. 

I dragged her back to the HRT, and threw her ass inside with her mom. They were safe in there, and I could focus on the task at hand.

I should’ve seen that coming Mr. Journal. I’m such a penis sometimes. I overlook the emotional toll tasks can take on others far too easily. I forget not everyone has been through what I’ve been through. I forget that I was gifted with a weird kind of short memory for bad things. I forget that I hurt the people I care about. 

I forget that Abby and Patty are two family members short, and I dragged them back to where they died, and asked them to destroy the dead bodies of folks they knew.

Too ignorant. Too much to ask of these people. Asinine really.

I forget that my decisions may have cost me the love of my life. I need to be smarter than this if I’m going to survive, and if I’m going to keep them safe.

I worked alone walking amongst the fallen dead for an hour. Gilbert stopped his comedy routine and focused on keeping my ass safe. Largely in silence I brought the firefighter’s tool down more times than I can remember, and my shoulder is as sore as hell tonight as a reminder. The wages of ignorance I suppose.

After my hour of solitude (just me and the couple hundred mangled mostly dead folks), the women came out and rejoined me. I gotta tell you Mr. Journal, it was difficult to tell the difference between them and the zombies. Lowered heads, silent, blurry eyed, and emotionless.

I stopped in the middle of the parking lot and pulled them both in for hugs. I told them I was sorry, and just held them for as long as they let me. They held on a long time.

I had regret.

By then it was nearly mid afternoon, and we were starving. The stench coming off the parking lot was almost as bad as the smell coming up from the daycare basement. Gilbert suggested he and the girls go in the HRT and pull away to eat lunch. While they were gone, I ate some of those fruit snacks we got the other day and gingerly pushed all the dead bodies to the far corner of the parking lot with the plow. 

Fed, somewhat energized, and largely free of imminent zombie danger, we went to work on searching what remained of the STIG building.

Long story short: more than you’d think. One whole side of the main office complex remained. Essentially the area where Patty was doing her guard detail that night. The explosion ripped the warehouse and factory to shreds, and demolished half of the offices, but left the lower floors of the front of the building unscathed.

The rooms we could get into were filled with clothing, tools, and miscellaneous supplies. We found a locked closet loaded with hygiene supplies, both personal and industrial. Abby monkey-climbed her way up to the second and third floors using the remnants of the stairwells, and found our old Marlin 60 rifle somewhere. It was rusty as hell, but I think we can get it working again. I’d love to get a second .22 rifle into the mix. She also found multiple other weapons that were rusty as shit, as well as a few mixed boxes of ammunition. Not sure if the ammo is still good, but we’ll figure that out soon enough.

The warehouse and factory were complete wipes. A three foot deep crater was at one end of the building, and demolished factory equipment stood like twisted tombstones on the remnants of the cracked cement shop floor. Each one was a memory of the people who might’ve operated it before everything went to hell. I couldn’t help but wonder where Charles and little Randy were when the blast happened. I hoped they were right at the center of it, so they went fast. I’d like to think they didn’t suffer much when it happened.

It was nearing dark by then, and after Gilbert started popping off a few shots to take out wanderers coming in from the surroundings, we elected to get out. We’ve made a commitment to come back to the park though and check through the other buildings for anything we might be able to use. I think it’s safe to say Brian and his people ransacked the shit out of these buildings, but from what Patty said about them being perpetually surrounded by the dead all the time, there’s actually a chance there are some things we can use left behind.

As before, the worst case is we clear some buildings. Check that. Worst case is someone gets killed, but I’m going to operate under the mindset that injury and death are not an option. Therefore, worst case it’s just a collection of cleared industrial buildings.

Positive thinking right? 

Abby and Patty face planted from exhaustion as soon as we got back. Gilbert needed help getting back into the house due to him leaving his pills and liquor here. I think tonight will be the last night we force him to stay here. As long as he’s got a painkiller in his system he can get around okay. Not to mention the area around campus seems to have quieted down considerably.

Let’s hope we didn’t lead yet another group of undead back here though. That would figure.

Tomorrow is a sit and do shit day. I might work on cleaning the weapons we found and seeing if they’re salvageable. My hope is… they are. I am hoping Abby and Patty can put their heads back in order tomorrow as well.

Because one way or the other, I am going home this week.

-Adrian

March 24
^th

I need to go home. It took everything I had to not stop there today.

Man….

The other side of town near STIG seems to be largely empty of the undead. It seems as if our recent mass destruction of undead at the STIG plant has reduced the numbers over there to a fairly manageable amount. Not to take away from what Brian and his people accomplished when they were looting and clearing those areas. And the explosion at STIG that killed them too. I’m sure that blast took out plenty of undead as well. If there’s any justice left in this world it did.

I don’t quite know how to describe my emotions right now. Mentally I feel like I am at wit’s end, and I’m not sure why. I feel nervous, and pensive. I am short tempered. I feel angry over the things that have happened to me. My sense of humor is gone the past few days, and all of this makes me angrier. I hate being the person I am right now, and I hate not knowing why I am being this way. I think this is what it means to feel helpless.

Yesterday I had plenty of time to think about my situation, and I damn near put an entry in to talk about it. To purge myself in this electronic confessional I’ve created for myself. How many Hail Mary’s do I need to say Mr. Journal? Do I need to put on my yarmulke and stand at the Wailing Wall of the laptop to beg for inner peace? Do I need to sit at a waterfall and contemplate the Vedas to discover the source of my inner turmoil?

Man. I need a break. I need to get home. I need to get inside my place. I need to figure out why there is a black BMW parked in my parking spot. I need to figure out who parked it there. I need to stop listening to my radio waiting for Steve to call at noon. I need to move past my fetters and get the fuck over this.

I need to shut up. I need to grow a pair.

Yesterday I got the weapons we found in the STIG ruins in working order. Well, I got some of them in working order. About half of them were so pitted from rust I wasn’t comfortable using them. I stripped them for parts, and started our official campus armory. In the basement of Hall E there is a staff office that’s fairly large, and has no windows. I showed it to Gilbert and asked him if he could work his magic in our woodshop and get some racking and a workbench put together. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree (or Menorah, if you prefer) and he agreed to get on it by week’s end.