Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) đ
Book online «Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) đ». Author Meadows, Carl
Boom. Both feet, centre mass, and that fucker shot away like heâd just been snapped back by a bungee cord, right over the edge. I popped my head over the roof just as the undead teen died from a severe case of concrete poisoning, which caused the rotten bastard to burst like a bag of vegetable soup.
Wow, check me out, Hemingway. Check out my awesome simile. Iâm a literary genius.
Like a bag of vegetable soup?
Facepalm.
Sometimes I think I should just stop saying words.
Anyway, retarded descriptions aside, I put that quick fright behind me and surveyed the realm. The burst zombie splashing on to the concrete drew the attention of some nearby zeds and they came shuffling in my direction, but as they werenât exactly gymnasts, I was okay up on my perch.
There were three cars close together on the right side of the car park and if I could get their alarms going, theyâd draw everything away from my escape vehicle, while I made a circuitous route back across the roof of the school buildings, preventing me having to work my way through the shambling mass. Then it would be drop down, scamper to the murder wagon, get in the car, grab Mum, kill PhilâŠ. yeah, you get the picture.
So thatâs exactly what I did. I worked my way round the back of the building, set those bitches off (Iâm not gonna write all the technical ins and outs, because itâs boring, so letâs just accept my awesome) and off they went. Wee-ooh, wee-ooh, wee-ooh. And like a sirenâs song to horny sailors, the mass began to move.
Up to the roof again, began my scamper (with far more vigilance this time) and I watched with a fat grin as the mass pulled away from my target vehicle like iron filings to a magnet. It was glorious. Now I really was feeling like a strategos after all my initial fuck ups.
This was going brilliant. As I watched the SUV clear of all zombie presence, Iâm not gonna lie, I felt like a champ. I could do this planning shit. It wasnât that hard. Now all I had to do was get in the car, grab Mum, kill PhilâŠ
I need to leave that joke alone. Iâm tugging a dead horse there. Wait, thatâs not it. Flogging a dead horse, thatâs right.
Shit, that changes the saying in all kinds of weird ways.
Flush with my newfound confidence at my awesome skills of strategy, I shimmied down to ground level and prepared to head to the car. Not gonna lie, I had a bit of a swagger.
Of course, that overconfidence results in anal penetration by a corroded metal sex-toy, doesnât it? That sloppiness I was talking about earlier? That one that gets you painfully butt-pumped by spikey things with no lubrication for maximum friction? Yep, didnât follow my own advice.
I dropped down and landed about eight feet away from three zombies. They werenât in school uniforms; all three of them were dressed in tracksuits, with baseball caps on and hoods pulled up over. Teenager zombie chavs.
Sigh. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.
Honestly, at first glance I couldnât tell if they were alive or not. I mean, teenage chavs are complete dicks anyway with âuhâ as their common response to any question posed at them. Even giving them a sniff didnât help determine their life status, as the little bastards usually have a weird cocktail smell anyway, like Lynx Africa, weed, Red Stripe and a weekâs worth of groin-sweat, all mixed together in one malodorous Eau de Twat. Honestly, thatâs not much different from the walking dead.
The only reason I could tell instantly that they were actually dead was their silence. They werenât shouting âyeah broâ, âfuckinâ tell yer, ladâ and âdo you fuckinâ know who I am, brah?â⊠though I swear the grotty little fucks were still trying to roll their faux gangster pimp limps even in death.
Even so, they were damn close, and their ass-scratching hands began reaching for me as I touched down, lips drawing back to reveal teeth that had never seen the inside of a dental surgery. I had to go through them to get to my goal, so I took five quick steps back (and Iâm not ashamed to say I squeaked like a little bitch when I first saw them, such was my surprise and their proximity), pulled out the crowbar, dropped my backpack to the ground so my balance wasnât affected, and I did this United Kingdom a great service.
Chavs are a curse on our once great and noble land. Theyâre like the human version of wasps. They all look the same, theyâre all really aggressive and wonât just fuck off and leave you alone andâto a oneâthey are all little fucking cunts, and I donât often drop the C-bomb.
Braining those three little shitsâwho probably spent their days in life doing nothing but seeing how much of a twat they could beâwas no great labour. The other zeds I killed were for survival and generally scared the shit out of me, but this unholy trio of smelly little shits were like a bit of catharsis. I felt absolutely nothing other than grim satisfaction smashing the hooked pointy end of my crowbar into their brainpans. You donât need a full description; suffice to say, Lockey three, Chavs zero. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bad-ass bitch with a crowbar.
After wiping the crowbar clean, I did a ninja run over to the SUV, checked the back seat first (always check the back seat like Columbus advised), and laughed aloud as the keys were indeed still in the car. I laughed louder still when I turned that key and it thrummed into life first time, so I closed the door, saw it had a three quarter full tankâhell yeahâthen popped it in reverse, connected the seatbelt (Zombie survival rule
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