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

underpants from somewhere, though old lady knickers were off the list. I don’t have much self-respect, but I have to draw the line somewhere.

Dropping the shotgun, Nate smoothly drew the handgun at his hip and stalked the hallway, completely ignoring me until he’d swept the rest of the building for any other undead. Then his hand gripped my shoulder and gave me a shake, bringing me back to my senses.

“Are you hurt?” he said, his voice sounding both distant and underwater. Jesus, guns are loud. “Are you okay?”

“Well,” I shouted, like an Englishman pointing at fish and chips on the menu in a Spanish hotel. “I’m so damn happy, I might need to sit on my hands to keep myself from clapping! You?”

Again, that “you’ve just boned my dad“ look.

Hey, at least I’m consistent.

Well, it turned out that Long John Grandma was named Patricia Fox and—I shit you not—she was a god damn quantum physicist.

Now, I don’t know what a quantum physicist actually is, or what they do, but I do know that it’s all science and shit, and she had books in her house that I struggled to even read the title of, never mind the content. Her picture was on the back of some of them, so she even wrote about quantum silly string theory, or whatever it is. Anyway, she was a scientist, she lived on her own and from what Nate deducted from Sherlocking the place, it looked like she’d taken a fall, broken her ankle and either died from infection, or overdone the pain medication just to end it all.

I can’t tell you how sad that is. She was a quiet woman, smart as all hell, and she died in terrible pain, knowing there was nobody coming to her aid.

The apocalypse sucks, man.

She didn’t die alone though. That little yelp-bark came from under an ornamental bookshelf or dresser or… I don’t know. I don’t know what furniture things are called. Anyway, whenever poor old Patricia spun off the mortal coil, she must have gone chasing after her little doggy, knocked this furniture thing over and trapped said dog in it.

Because the dog was so small, the way the shelving had fallen trapped the animal inside a shelf space. Unbelievable luck. That dog had a tolerance of about eight inches either side or this big heavy bookshelf thing would have pancaked it, and that would have probably upset me more than Patricia’s lonely death. How weird and messed up is that?

Thankfully, Patricia’s spectacular living intelligence didn’t translate to her undead state, so she didn’t have the presence of mind to lift said furniture up to get at the animal trapped beneath. That was one lucky little dawg.

Nate and I lifted the toppled furniture up and found a shivering little pug beneath.

“Is that a dog, or a rodent?” muttered Nate.

“That, my dear Nathaniel, is a pug.”

He couldn’t have been under there more than a day, Nate reckons. Dr Patricia hadn’t been dead all that long. Again, that makes me sad. If only we’d arrived just a little earlier.

Despite no doubt being terrified, trapped under there for up to a day, the pug looked up at me and though pitiful, shivering and scared, somehow, he managed to look outraged.

I fucking love that about pugs. There’s something so very British about their quiet, unspoken indignation. They don’t possess the “small man syndrome” of a terrier or Jack Russell. Those little hilarious bastards act like they’re twenty times their size to compensate for their small stature, barking and screaming a challenge at everything.

Pugs accept their diminutive size and accept they will spend most of their lives being carried around like babies, yet they have this look on their face that mirrors an angry middle-aged man that listens to Radio Four. It’s a really sarcastic outrage, like the face of someone who holds a door for another, only to see them pass through without acknowledgment of the act. The quiet whisper of, “you’re welcome,” lathered in a thick coating of sarcastic outrage, is embodied by a pug’s face at all times. It’s like the world just annoys them and they have to accept being surrounded by absolute morons. I love it.

Anyway, I picked the dog up, feeling him shiver and found a blanket to wrap round him. Once I was sure he was okay, I fumbled on the collar and saw the name.

Particles.

I think I’d have liked Patricia. She was an old science looney who had an outraged pet called Particles. My kind of girl.

“We’re not keeping it,” Nate said.

“No way are we just abandoning him,” I said. “Particles saved my life.”

Again, that look. “What?”

“Had he not yelped when he did, I wouldn’t have had the step back that brought Patricia into your line of fire. She’d have totally blindsided me and ripped me open.”

“If you hadn’t charged in here like a dickhead, you wouldn’t have been in that situation.”

“Ah, but I did act like a dickhead,” I argued.

Admittedly, not my best retort.

“And I’ll probably act like one again before too long.”

I felt like the hole was getting deeper at this point, but I was committed.

“But with Particles here as my lucky charm, I might just make it to the end of this… end of days.”

Nate looked at me for a long moment, silent and thoughtful.

“You know none of that makes sense, right?”

I held Particles up to his face, so the little dog could convey my disgust at the notion of leaving him behind. Pugs have mastered that, too.

“I didn’t choose the pug life, Nate,” I said solemnly, with a completely straight face. “The pug life chose me.”

Here’s where shit gets hilarious.

Nate was having none of it. We took anything we could of use from Patricia’s little cottage—canned goods and the like—but I found a little backpack. I also found a big pair of those seamstress scissors, absolute monsters, and I set to the backpack as inspiration struck me. I got the measurements about right, packed the bottom of