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

thunders round popping their rounds into zombie skulls, but the heroine never says, “Dude, hey, dude… I gotta drop the kids off at the pool.” That’d be badass having Charlize Theron drop her panties and gruffly wave everyone ahead, nine-mil clasped in teeth and squatting because she’s got to saw a log in half, and all the while the zombies are getting closer. Whoosh. That’d be some tense cinema right there.

Nope, the need to go potty is never in the movies.

I need to go and purge myself and I’m building up the courage by scribbling in this stupid notebook.

Last night was so damn quiet. When you go to sleep at night, there’s usually some ambient noise outside your little bubble. Cars in the distance. Wind in the trees. Teenagers laughing overly loud because they’re pissed up on some cheap booze bought with a false ID. That kind of stuff.

Well, somebody pressed the world’s mute button last night. I couldn’t sleep because it was too quiet. I could hear my own heart beating in my ears. Freaky. You know what’s freakier though? Hearing the squeak of shoes somewhere below you.

There are zeds still in the school, maybe random staff members or students. How they died, I don’t know. But hearing that squeak… squeak… squeak… like some horrific metronome echoing up the stairs as something shuffled somewhere below? Eesh.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Like he was shuffling around in a circle. I’ve been waiting for whoever that zombie is to shamble off before I go out hunting.

In the movies, our intrepid heroes wield their handguns like a boss, headshot here, headshot there, headshots everywhere. But this is England. I can’t very well throw three darts for one-eighty and distract the zombies with a nice cup of tea now, can I?

Aw, I’d fucking love a proper brew right now. Mental note… get a brew. I’m from Liverpool originally. A solid, boiled-in-the-bag English northern girl. How am I supposed to take on the apocalypse without a brew and two sugars? Mind you, there’s no power, so how the fuck will I even boil a kettle? Ray Mears I am not.

So, I’ve got something that resembles a plan. I think. Ha, because we all know how well Alexandra the Great has done so far eh?

But anyway, I’ve got a plan. I need food, I need water, I need a weapon and first and foremost, I need a great big shit. And the stretch goal? One cup of tea. Just one.

So, first off, there are toilets on the bottom floor of this building, right at the base of the stairs. How do I know this? Well, because this shithole was my high school when I was a teenager a decade ago and not much has changed. I know this place, so at least I’ve got that going for me.

Once I’ve dropped the kids off at the pool, it’s a quick run through some double doors into the canteen. In there, there’s got to be water, dried food, and canned stuff. From there, back up to base HQ and stash any fat loot I acquire.

Then I go back to the middle floor, to the end of the corridor that leads to a walkway crossing the inner courtyard, over to the sports hall, then down the stairs where all the art rooms are and…. drum roll please… the fucking woodwork department.

Tools. AKA weapons. Big ass hammers, screwdrivers, stuff. Before the morning is out, I’ll be hammers-in-hand and feeling better about my chances of escape. So, here’s the plan.

Downstairs, take a shit, wipe (front to back, I’m no savage), canteen to get food and water, back upstairs, dump my loot, back to middle floor, across to sports and arts building, downstairs, load up on weapons, back up to my classroom HQ, take the car, go to Mum’s, kill Phil, grab Liz, go to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint and wait for all this to blow over. How’s that for a slice of fried gold?

Like my old stoner mate Rodney, the plan I have is simple.

But unlike Rodney ever did, this plan might just work.

Gotta take a dump first though, I’m fit to shit.

3rd Entry

BATTLE OF THE BOG

Well, it could have been worse.

Hey, I’m not dead, I’ve a backpack full of bottled water, cans of food and soda, chocolate bars, breakfast bars and Rosalind Franklin here even remembered a little dash of cutlery and a can opener. I ate a cold can of beans and sausages followed by some cheap ass cereal bar that was like chewing saliva glazed cardboard sprinkled with shrivelled, sun-baked testicles, but still… that shit was dee-lish when you’re hungry enough to eat a scabby dog.

The food and water gathering? Great.

The drop off back here at Lockey Tower? No problem.

My major problems came in the opening gambit of my Totes Good Plan ™ and then right at the end when I was planning to load for zombie bear.

Oh my life… can you imagine that? Thankfully, England has a distinct lack of bears, so that’s one less potential horror to worry about.

With an empty backpack I disassembled the Great Wall of Lockey from the doorway and slipped out. Things were getting desperate in the sphincter department; I was five millimetres away from touching cloth in my pants, so some caution had to go to the wind. I’m not facing the apocalypse smelling of my own shit. No ma’am. Some things are non-negotiable.

Squeaky must have shuffled off somewhere in the night or morning because I heard nothing, which was great. A quick peep down the central stairwell to the bottom and all looked clear. In fact, from where I was standing, I could see the door to the little girls’ room. It shined with a celestial glow to my eyes, and I swear I heard a chorus of angels raising their voices to heaven in joy. Two floors down was anal salvation and I started bounding down those stairs with all my mad parkour skills to make the