Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 2 | We Will Rise [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (an ebook reader txt) 📖

turned towards us. I held my breath in anticipation, waiting for them to lock on and do that weird purposeful stride towards me.

However, they did not. They had the same glassy vacant look common to the undead, shuffled aimlessly towards us with blank expressions, and only twisted their lips into that silent snarl at their usual pre-lunge distance. They didn’t focus solely on me and were equally interested in munching on Nate. Weird, like whatever was driving them at the pharmacy, the main road through downtown, and the builder’s yard, was now simply… absent.

We let them stumble into the open and brained them with ease, saving bullets and unnecessary noise by spiking their melons with the halligans. Just another normal day in the apocalypse.

Until we went inside.

My heart sank the moment we entered. Pictures dotted the wall in the entrance hallway, matching the couple that lay with their heads caved in outside the front door. Right between them in those pictures, however, was a little mousy-haired girl. She was no more than five years old.

“Nate,” was all I said, gesturing to the picture.

He glanced at the framed photo. His jaw tightened a little, and he exhaled long and even, but I know him well enough now to see the little signs of distress that nobody else will spot. To my eyes, I witnessed a visible sag to his posture. Nate’s whole demeanour hardly moved to the untrained observer, but I saw his entire body radiate sorrow, each little sign melding together into a single, unspoken sentiment.

God, not again.

Then we heard the scratching.

Where the parents had been stood when we popped the door, there was a little cupboard under the staircase. There were deep scratches and smears of old, dried blood on the outside of the once-white door, with broken pieces of bloody fingernail embedded in some of the grooves. The undead parents had stood there, scratching at the door, trying to get at their tiny daughter as she trembled in the darkness.

Only the mother had wounds. The father must have died, and when he turned, it must have been a flurry of shock and panic. The mother had likely bundled their precious daughter into the cupboard to keep her safe while she tried to deal with her reanimated – and now murderous – husband. She clearly failed, killed by a hungry bite to the back of her neck, severing an artery. There was a massive pool of dark, thick-crusted blood on the kitchen floor tiles evidencing her awful death.

“I’ll do it,” said Nate.

“No,” I replied, feeling sick to my soul. “No, Nate. Let me take this one. You’ve taken too many already.”

“Erin…”

I held up a hand. “No, Nate. Not this time. This is how life is now. You’re right, I wasn’t ready before, with Freya.” I released a shaking breath, before inhaling a deep lungful of courage. “But now I am, and I need this.” My voice shrank to almost a whisper then, and what I said next was more for myself than for Nate. “I’ve got this, Nate. I’ve got this.”

I could feel his dark eyes on me, assessing the truth of my statement.

“Look at me,” he said, and I obeyed. He locked his gaze to mine for a few moments, then his own expression turned resolute. “Fuck the noise,” he said. “Use the Glock.”

Then he placed a strong hand on my shoulder, squeezed once in support, and retreated outside.

Whatever he was looking for in my eyes, he must have found it, and stamped his approval on my personal need to get this done. He’s my rock, and honestly, I can’t imagine life without him now. I draw strength just from his presence, and I needed all of his might to get this done.

Alone, I stepped to the small, bloodied door, hearing the little nails scratching at the wood inside. I swallowed a nervous dry lump that felt like broken glass as it went down, drew the Glock, mimicked Nate’s check for a round in the chamber, and twisted the small brass knob.

The little girl tumbled out into the hall as I stepped back, her weight having been pressed against the door when she sensed the living beyond it. She was dressed in a tiny, off-white nightdress, with a faded pink unicorn smiling as it leaped over a rainbow. She was barefoot and covered in filth, with no visible bite or mortal wounds on her little form. My heart almost shattered inside my chest as I realised the little girl must have pissed and shit in that dark little prison, unable to escape even by accident, as there was no knob to turn on the inside of the cupboard door. She had been trapped, alone in the dark, as her murderous parents tried to claw their way in. And all this after hearing the terrified shrieks of her dying mother.

For an unknown length of time, she had been trapped in the darkness, with silent, scratching demons outside her only door. No food, no water, no light, and no hope. I mean, fuck… I can’t even comprehend the level of terror a five-year old would feel in that sightless hell.

She probably faded from dehydration, but not before she’d been forced to lie in a lake of her own filth. The stench emanating from her was just pure… misery.

White eyes stared up at me from the laminate wooden floor, as she climbed to her feet while I backed away. In the picture on the wall, she’d had such pretty hazel eyes that glimmered with the light of innocence and security. All that remained of that bright and happy girl was a white-eyed husk, caked in human waste, with shredded fingertips that reached for me as she stumbled forward.

I lined the pistol with her head and didn’t hesitate.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I fired, but the Glock’s thunder in the confined hallway swallowed my apology.

Sheathing the pistol, I spun on my heel and walked right past Nate with my head in hands,