Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) 📖

I do. I broke the mould. I made my own mould. It’s a bit wonky and has a stupid grin scratched into it, but this is me.

“Nate,” he said, gripping my hand eventually. I smiled, trying not to weep as his mighty gorilla-grip nearly shattered the dainty little bones of my hand.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, hiding the flex of my crushed hand as I spoke.

“Saw the car at the gate, parked like it was in a rush.”

Fuck you buddy, I’m great at parking.

“Put my hand on it and felt it was still warm, saw the backpack inside and figured someone must be here.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d check it out.” He curled his lip. “Wasn’t expecting to find… this.” He swept his arm round Old McDonald’s rape barn.

I glanced down at the dead man. Shit, Nate was a good shot. Clean between the eyes, no reanimation for you. I tipped my imaginary forelock to my grizzled saviour.

And that, dear reader, is how I met Nathaniel Carter, ex-SAS (I think), all round bad-ass and the man without a smile. I’ll make this straight-faced fucker laugh if it kills me. Though, he might kill me first. But hey, life is for living eh?

I don’t know when I’ll write again, as I’m at the end of this notebook. I can’t really just pop down to Office Outlet and get myself a new one, so for now, I must bid you farewell.

It’s been emotional. Stay safe. And watch your ass, literally, and I will leave you with this inspiring motivational thought.

When life closes one door, another door opens. So shut the fucking door, there are zombies you dick. Hide, run, stay away from doors.

I hope we meet again, dear reader.

Toodles, Lockey.

PART 2

THE PUG LIFE

8th Entry

PARTICLES

Today I found a new notebook to start scribbling my thoughts in. I think this is my… eighth?... entry now, after all the weird school and farm shit went down. So, hello again, my fine imaginary reader that has not read my journal because I’m still writing it.

It’s weird that writing helps me figure out all this jumble of crazy bouncing round in my head all the time. The world shat itself a couple of weeks ago now, and after I escaped the school I got trapped in, only to get trussed up and almost anally invaded by a freaky Cheshire farmer, then saved by Clint Eastwood’s long lost English cousin (aka Nate Carter), it’s good to be writing again. I’m especially pleased though, because I have big news!

I found a dog.

His name is Particles and he’s my lucky charm.

Yeah. Particles. How frickin’ cool is that name? What makes it better is that he’s a pug, so he’s this tiny little grey ball of awesome that looks perpetually outraged by the apocalypse. I carry him in a little backpack I wear frontwards, with a hole cut in it for his head to stick out. Honestly, I look like fucking Kuato out of Total Recall, only my belly-face is a permanently outraged pug staring balefully at the world. Judging it.

I love him.

Nate hates my Kuato-bag, as I’ve dubbed it. I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t like Particles despite all the good he’s done. Probably because he keeps saying, “That’s not even a dog, it’s an accessory.”

Bah. The man has no soul. He’ll see. Particles is lucky, and I’m going to tell you why he’s lucky and how we found him.

Going back to Nate for a minute, I can forgive the big, grumpy bear. He’s a fifty-something ex-SAS badass (I think) with a jaw that can chew bricks and that rarest of all rare animals in this not-so-Great Britain; he has guns and knows how to use them. He’s seen some shit in his time, no doubt, and I’ll forever love ol’ Gunny Highway for saving my ass (literally) from Old McRapey on his farm, but how he can hate little old Particles with his particular brand of cute outrage, I’ll never know. War has taken a piece of his soul he needs returning, so my mission in life is to make him love Particles. Love him and squeeze him and call him his own. You watch me. I can be really annoying when I put my mind to it. I’m going to irritate Nate into loving Particles.

Not a sentence I expected to write today.

So how did we come by Particles? Funny story. Well, actually not funny for Particles’ previous owner.

So, after Nate popped Old McRapey between the eyes with his pistol and saved me from hell, we raided that farmhouse for supplies and hung round there for a few days. Eventually, Nate turned to me.

“We can’t stay here, Erin,” he said, in that throaty growl that makes him super-manly.

“Lockey,” I replied for the fifty-seventh time, flicking my long dark hair dramatically like I was in a shampoo commercial. “My friends call me Lockey. Everyone calls me Lockey.”

Nate has this way. He lifts his left eyebrow about half an inch, managing to convey—in that tiniest of gestures—the displeasure and contempt of someone who has just watched a leper take a shit in one of their favourite shoes.

He still doesn’t do outrage as well as Particles though. Pugs have that shit nailed. Indignation is another forte of the pug. If I’d had Particles at this point, I’d have held him up to Nate’s face, so they could have a stare-down. Nate can’t lick his own nose though, so I reckon Particles would win every time.

“We’re no farmers and there’s little enough food here. Plus, it’s miles from anywhere. We need to stay on the move.”

“We huh?” I said. “So, we’re like Starsky and Hutch now? Like Cagney and Lacey? Butch and Sundance?” I smiled sweetly at him. “Are we a power couple, Nate?”

He shook his head, pug-like in his expression. “Are you taking this shit seriously?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied. Ha. That stumped him.

“Erin, the world is over,” he said, all grave and serious and baritone, purposefully