We Will Rise: An Adrian's Undead Diary Novel (Lockey vs the Apocalypse Book 2) by Carl Meadows (have you read this book .TXT) 📗

mentioned before my moods are extreme ends of the scale; I’m in-your-face Tigger on crack, or I’m Eeyore after downers washed down with cheap bourbon having a pity-party for one. I don’t really have a middle ground. Laugh or cry, that’s me.

I’ve moved, I think, to the bargaining stage now. I’m looking for meaning, I’m reaching back out to those around me and as expected, they held no ill will or judgment. The hugs I got from Maria and Norah made me realise I should have reached out much earlier to them, but when grief puts its big boot in the crack of your ass, you don’t get much wiggle room. Logic and reason go right out the window.

So, here I am, back at the keyboard. I realised just how much my storytelling and rattling stream of consciousness helped keep my emotions and thoughts in some kind of order, and it’s weird how therapeutic it’s become now. This is my version of lying on a couch and talking about the random shit storm of thoughts and feelings that make me who I am. It’s a release in a way. Lord knows, I’m in need of some therapy after everything.

I’ve processed everything this past week. The god-awful fuckery here at the lodge when I heard Ariel’s mind break and I had to leave her, the horror of the apartment block and its tales of tragedy, pulling the trigger on live people at Castle Bancroftstein for the first time, the sight and stench of the ten women executed there, and then you, Freya. You were the weight that tipped me over, that caused me to crumble under the press of emotion that had been threatening to consume me for weeks.

So, now you’re my therapist, which is kind of weird when you consider it. It’s your death I’m trying to come to terms with after all. Talking to you, while you silently listen wherever you are, unable to respond, about your death? Hmm. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s all I’ve got.

Everyone has done their part in holding shit together. I mean, it’s not like I’m the keystone to our little settlement here, but I am Nate’s only reliable partner for venturing beyond the gate. He’s used this grieving time to start live firing with Alicia and Mark, busying himself with the familiar, as your death only emphasized just how much we lack in both defence and attack. Norah’s knowledge of the shotgun is a handy last resort – as displayed in dealing with Laura’s reanimated body – but the woman is in her early sixties and isn’t going to be clearing buildings or pulling sentry beyond the gate, though I don’t doubt she could. That woman is a rock.

Nate and I can’t be the only active shooters, so Alicia and Mark need to get up to speed. By all accounts, they’re doing pretty well. Safe, sensible, and steady, at least when doing drills. You never really know how anyone’s going to react when the shit hits the fan, until said shit hits the aforementioned fan and it starts flinging around. Still, all the groundwork is done.

This situation got me thinking about who else is out there, as well. Bancroft’s macabre setup won’t be the only band of survivors we come across I’m guessing, and we can’t bank on any new communities or individuals we cross paths with being amenable to trade or alliance. People are suspicious, scared, and desperate, and those three things make for an explosive mix. Plus, some people – as Bancroft adroitly showed us – are just fucking rotten.

Sigh.

Anyway, I will continue to grieve, but I’ve had my self-indulgent pity party, and winter is coming. There’s a lot to think about, and a shit ton of stuff to do, so now I have to put my own feelings aside for the moment and join the collective again.

And the best way to start these dark new days is with a hot shower.

OCTOBER 2nd, 2010

DEMONS AT THE DOOR

The rain has finally let up, but the world outside is drowned, so we’re still getting under each other’s feet. There isn’t a great deal of personal space to be had except when sequestered away in our own rooms, so it’s taking time to really get used to this new way of life. Still, they’re good people, and everyone is making the best of it we can.

I’m grateful for Grace and Theo’s bungalow attached the lodge, though it’s a little emptier without you here, Freya. I can’t face going into your room just yet, though I know I’ll have to eventually. Hell, sooner or later, we’ll have to give that space to someone else, but it’s too soon right now. For the moment, it’s still just me, Nate, and Particles living in here.

I decided to use my renewed desire for contribution by helping Nate with the weapons maintenance. He’s a stickler for regular cleaning and to be honest, the simplicity of the task was what my brain needed. I was doing something of value, as I hate sitting idle, but it’s not taxing. Nate is also great to be around when you’re low because he’s so unobtrusive. If you just want to work in silence, he lets you, and the two of us spent an hour in comfortable quiet, each with our own thoughts, as we worked our way through the weapons that needed attention.

I have to keep reminding myself what I asked of him, so I don’t forget the burden I placed on him that day we lost you. He took that gun from me, pulled the trigger that you’d asked me to pull, without hesitation or word of recrimination. He takes so much on himself, when he must already carry so much from his time in the military, and he does so without expectation or need for gratitude. He just does it, no questions asked, no judgment.

I felt it was time I addressed it. We’d been sitting in silence