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

legs dangling happily, covered in drying gore, the shotgun on the counter beside me as I sipped from a teacup held in two hands. Particles was sat in Freya’s lap, her hands still red from popping Theo’s eye and brain, as she also sipped at her camomile. Ruined corpses lay scattered all round the kitchen, oceans of blood ran free, with meaty boulders of flesh and brain covering almost every part of the tiled floor.

We must have looked like a right pair of psychos, lounging about and having a tea party in Hell’s Kitchen.

“There was a series of… incidents,” I said in greeting.

Nate looked at us, eyes and jaw wide. “Incidents?”

“In our defence, you left us unsupervised.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“What the actual fuck, Erin?” he puffed. “I was only gone for two hours!”

Particles gave Nate a disparaging look and I sniffed, turning to Freya.

“Is there any sage left?” I said. “I’m sensing some negative energy in the room.”

PART 4

KING SHIT OF TURD MOUNTAIN

16th Entry

REFLECTION

I really wish I’d had the presence of mind to lure those fucking zombies out of the big glass doors and on to the grass. Life would have been far less arduous.

After we’d removed the headless bodies of our spiritual zombies, the kitchen was like some modern art piece from the mind of a depraved serial killer. There was fucking blood everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Dotted throughout the congealing horror was a veritable archipelago of bone and brain, even an eyeball or two, the latter of which I made Nate clean up. Jesus, I’m almost sick at the thought. I couldn’t bear to even look at the dreadful things, all the wiry nerves still attached, the squishy orb just staring at me in eerie accusation. Shudder.

I like to think of myself as pretty hard-ass. Hell, I’d just wiped out a lodge full of yoga zombies single-handed, save that last one when Freya got all Buffy with the knife and saved my butt.

In fact, yeah, I am a hard-ass. I don’t dwell or freeze when shit hits the fan, I act without hesitation. I might act like a massive retard and do something that will make Nate bite chunks from the pickup tyres in pure fury, or potentially inflict me with a life-changing injury, but I still act. Blood, bone, brain, gore; I can handle it all.

But the one thing that really makes my innards twist is any form of eye injury. The cosmic apocalypse joke is on me, right? The eye is the simplest way to the brain in a pinch and I’m dreading the moment I have to plunge a blade, or a screwdriver, into an eyeball. I’ll be screaming at a frequency only dogs can hear when I have to do that shit. Eye injuries are the worst. Just horrifying.

Ommetaphobia aside, it took us the whole day to clean the kitchen of all the horror. Once the corpses were hauled out, and the eyes and large chunks of shredded yogi (terrible idea for a breakfast cereal) were bagged and removed, that just left all the vile little blobs of tenderised slaughter dotting an ocean of blood. Cleaning that up was no fun. At all.

Nate had to go to some of the nearby farms to collect any bleach he could find. Freya and I couldn’t locate a fucking drop of it. What the fuck did these hippies clean with? Piss and vinegar? Dirty bastards.

When he returned with the cleaning supplies, Nate set to the back-breaking task of digging a grave for over fifty bodies. You know, for a pensioner, that guy has some serious endurance. He dug a hole a good six feet deep and only God knows how long and wide, then dragged every single one of those ruined corpses into the hole and piled all the spoil back on top. It was dark by the time he finished patting the last of the soil on all those ragged cadavers and he looked shot to shit when he came into the newly sterilised kitchen.

I hate the smell of bleach. It clings to the nose and throat, so we had to leave the big glass doors open all day to air it. By the time our labour was done, right about the same time as Nate finished up, both Freya and I were equally shattered.

I thought she was weak when I first met her, but hell, I misjudged her. She threw up a few times—like I did—when cleaning up the kitchen, but every time she spat it out, swilled her mouth with water, then got straight back on her knees to scrub at patches of gore. Even after that back breaking labour and multiple vomit stops, still the bitch managed to look like she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue. Honestly, the only thing that could mar that woman’s beauty is being hit in the face with a truck. It’s maddening.

I’m writing this now the following morning, sipping at a green tea in the quiet. Freya and Nate are both still out for the count, and I’ve got a rare bit of time for myself. Now that we’ve got a place we can sort of call home, and a moment of peace for reflection, I feel like I should tell you a bit about myself.

Well, where to start? I remember stating in my early entries how I grew up in the care system, so maybe that’s where I should begin?

My parents were fucking assholes, let’s get that out there straight off the bat. I was taken from them when I was six and barely remember them, but I remember the drugs and the drinking, from both those pieces of shit. I remember my dad beating seven shades of shit out of my mum and then crying apologies, with the stupid bitch soothing him, telling that son of a bitch it would be okay even as her blood dried on his knuckles.

I don’t know who put the social services on to