Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) š
Book online Ā«Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) šĀ». Author Meadows, Carl
āFuck no,ā I snorted. āThe world is shit and miserable, Nate. Itās taken everything away from us, so the one thing Iām giving the apocalypse back is my ability to drop my pants and wink my brown eye at it in a grand cosmic āfuck you.ā No point living if youāre just gonna mope about. Be more Tigger, and tell Eeyore to cheer the fuck up, thatās what I say.ā
Nate looked at me like Iād just boned his dad in front of him. Weāve not known each other long, but he looks at me like that a lot. Most people do. Usually when I say words.
Anyway, we decided (and by āweā I mean āNateā) to load up the SUV Iād swiped on my escape from the school with what supplies we could, then head out and keep on the move. Maybe look for a survivor community if any had started to form. I mean, itās early days yet and people in this country are notoriously selfish assholes at times, and the world only died and shat its pants a couple of weeks ago, so thereās some way to go yet before anything coherent starts to form I reckon.
But then again, this is my first apocalypse, so what do I really know? Iām an apocavirgin, so to speak, so I donāt know how much this is really gonna hurt.
Damn, sometimes I should really stop writing. But Iām using a pen. I canāt delete. So, youāre getting the unfiltered Lockey brainwaves Iām afraid, my imaginary reader. Youāre welcome.
Only a day passed before my life changed for the better. We started hitting up some of the country houses for supplies in the local area, mainly diesel for the SUV. Nate has a real hard-on about fuel supplies and being mobile, and always insists on driving.
And he drives so slow!
Itās like Driving Miss Daisy with that old fart behind the wheel. Not a soul on the roads and heās driving like a pensioner on his way to Sunday church after three hits on a super-skunk bong.
I asked to drive once, he let me, then after a half hour of Hurricane Nate blowing in my face as he raged at me for my speed and late braking, a load of old man stereotypical whine about women drivers, threats of shooting out my knees, and general āI fucking hate you Erinā in various forms, I relented and swapped with him. Usually heās all calm and stoic, showing his contempt with an eyebrow, or a tightening of the jaw. Enough to let you know youāre edging close to the line. My driving, it would seem, was his rage-trigger. And oh mama, that rage is scary.
For the record, I only swapped because heās got a gun. And that he could probably snap me in two like a twig without one. Iām a fast little ninja with skills of my own, but Nate has āthat look.ā I read a really great description in a fantasy book by David Gemmell that really sums it up.
āThe look of eagles.ā
Thatās a bad ass statement that just tells you anyone with this look is a stone-cold killer, backed by experience and will not be fucked with. I can hold my own with anyone in fisticuffs I reckon. Iāve never really thought āI canāt take youā when Iāve been involved in a fight, and I had a few growing up in the care system. I learned to fight fast and dirty, because if you didnāt fight back twice as hard, youād always be prey. When youāre a girl, you have to be twice as hard so you can rip the dicks off guys who think youāre easy meat to satisfy their boner. So, I learned to fight and never show fear, to blast in headlong and whirl my arms, keys in fists, windmilling in classic British Kung Fu style. Iāve never been afraid to take anyone on in a scrap.
Except Nate. Iām just glad this guy is on my team, because I swear to God, heās the first guy Iāve ever met that genuinely scares me. If he lost his shit, like really lost his shit, I bet heās fucking terrifying. You donāt get in the SAS unless youāre a quadruple-hard motherfucker.
Pretty sure the bastard drove extra slow after we swapped back though, just to mess with me.
I do go off on tangents. Okay Lockey, focus.
Particles. Yes.
So, we rolled up to this secluded farmhouse, but this one didnāt seem like a working farm. It had a pretty garden, more like a cottage to be honest. It had this weird little Nissan Micra parked on a gravel driveway as well, bright yellow. God awful thing, but it suggested the owner was still home. Not that anyone being home bothered Nate, as he stopped the vehicle at the end of the path, slid out the door and drew the shotgun heād taken from Old McRapeyās farm.
āCan you shoot?ā he asked, his voice low.
āLike a boss,ā I replied with supreme confidence. Probably too confident, as he cocked that fucking eyebrow at me again. āIām a stone-cold killer on Call of Duty,ā I added, making the finger guns and firing them off with a whispered āpew pew.ā
Nate didnāt let me have a gun.
I followed in Nateās wake, at least able to match his light feet with my parkour skills. Balance and grace, Iām not afraid to admit, are two things I can actually boast about. I think I surprised Nate, because he looked back to find me in his wake, not blundering around like a drunk bitch fighting with her bra before bed. There was no eyebrow raise, judging me. I call that a win.
Nate has this freaky way of moving, his combat walk. His knees are bent,
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