Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 6): In the Arms of Family by Chris Philbrook Page A

roadblocks, or mobility deterrents in other areas. Blocking roads, etc. We really need to put up some staggered weave roadblocks on the road heading to the bridge so if anyone does get by the semi at Jones Road, we can light them the fuck up as they slalom through the obstacles.  
    More shit to do.
    So yeah. Not much else going on. I mean shit that’s enough for sure. I’m tired just thinking about doing it all.
    Little worried too. We haven’t done a fuel run in fuck, months? Open ground, flammable fuel everywhere, we might need to bring a few rookie guns too... Seems like a pretty fucking scary proposition all in all. Tomorrow night we’ll go over the logistics of who should go, what they will bring, and how exactly we’ll get it done. I really want a zero mistake run here.
    There are still two more gas stations in town that we haven’t visited yet, plus the convenience store that we already hit once, which for the life of me I cannot recall if it still had fuel in it. I want to say yes it did, but it seems like forever ago. Old age is just destroying my damn memory. Good thing I’m writing all this shit down Mr. Journal.
    Headache is setting in. Gonna pop a Tylenol, down a glass of waterr and curl up in bed next to my man Otis.
    I wonder how Mallory is doing?

    -Adrian

July 11 th

    Have you ever had one of those days when you know you just should not have gotten out of bed?
    Like the kind of morning where you turn off the alarm clock, knock over the glass of water on your bed stand, then stub your toe like a motherfucker all in the span of thirty seconds? And at that point you make the game time decision to either call it a day thirty seconds in and go the fuck back to bed, or you tough it out like a fucking idiot and plod along anyway?
    I should’ve gone back to bed this morning.  
    Our fuel run downtown was Grade A clusterfuck. I mean of serious soup sandwich proportions. Like, “I can’t quite figure out what’s going on right now, because my head is lodged in my upper intestines.”  
    Bad.
    I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like a fucking shopping list of injuries and broken shit today. And you know what pisses me off the most?!? My fucking Glock broke.  
    BROKE.
    I know I have two, but fucking A. Never break a man’s gun. NEVER. That’s like fucking with the seat and mirrors in my car and then not telling me about it later, so I sit down and simultaneously smash my knee on the steering wheel and break my back at the same time.
    Grrr. Granted, no one in specific broke it, but I feel like directing my anger at some fictional character. Pisses me off.
    After careful consideration last night we decided that we would roll out in three vehicles today. The HRT, the dualie, and the plow. The plow runs on gas, which obviously we didn’t want to use, but the dualie has less storage area in the bed than you’d think, with the fifth wheel attachment right in the middle. We needed the full dump bed of the plow to get shit done.
    All the empty drums were cleaned yesterday and loaded into the plow bed along with our hand pump, the barrel jack, our barrel dolly, and the hand operated sump pump we used before to get the gas out of the in-ground storage tanks at the gas station.
    In terms of personnel for the trip, we opted for the following people: Martin, Abby, Patty, Ryan, myself, Angela, and don’t laugh, but Danny junior. The kid can shoot, and he’s really calm and stable. We wanted him on the roof of the HRT as a lookout with the Marlin M60. Especially after I took him shooting with it last night.  
    Oh yeah. Speaking of last night.  
    After a really terrific day of progress on the wall work, I took Zach, Martin, and Danny Junior back out to the firing range area to see if they were workable. I knew at that point I wasn’t bringing Zach anyway, so this was partly for practice, and partly to placate the kid. Nothing more irritating than a bratty 18 year old, or however old he is.
    Martin had