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

truck’s bed was empty, ready for our loot haul, and all we took were weapons. Nate has attached a leather strip to my shotgun so I can sling it over my shoulder if I need to climb, and he also made me this cool bandolier type thing that goes from shoulder to hip, with tight loops to load up with shotgun cartridges. I now have two in the barrels and a further ten, ready to just slide out and pop in as needed.

Nobody’s ever made me anything before. I don’t mind saying that I was a little touched by it. Also, it gave me great opportunity to rag on Nate about his mad sewing skills. I asked if he could crochet a “Live, Laugh, Love” sign for the bungalow, but I can’t repeat what he said. That block of granite could make Bernard Manning blush with the colour of his language when he puts his mind to it. I was impressed.

Melee weapons for close work were important too. Nate has his Crocodile Dundee knife, and he gave me something called a roofer’s pick hammer. It has a usual flathead hammer one side, but on the other is a vicious looking spike, which is used for putting holes in slate tiles Nate tells me, before the other end is used to bang the nail through that hole. If I’ve got to smush a brain in quick order, that spike will do the job, no doubt.

I felt like a bandido as we rolled out, leaving Particles in the loving care of Freya. She came to the gates with us and rolled the little car to block them off after we’d gone, and we gave her a signal pattern for the horn when we returned so she knew it was safe to let us in.

And off we went.

We rolled into the edge of town about twenty minutes later, the countryside giving way to rows of houses along a road that stretched right across the top of town. About half a mile down, I pointed out to Nate where the shop and pharmacy were. He nodded and pulled the truck up a little short.

“It’s right there,” I said. “Why stop here?”

“Recon,” he replied, reflexively drawing his Glock, checking the slide and chamber. He does that. Everything needs to be locked, loaded, and ready for action before he does anything. It’s like weapon OCD.

Also, apparently, Glocks don’t have a safety. Those fuckers are live and kicking, all the time, and ready to party. Handy, huh?

“Only go loud if you can’t take a walker down in melee,” he said, moving his checks to the shotgun. “Any shot will draw any nearby dead, or living for that matter, and things could go to shit at speed. We need to clear the buildings before we start collecting. No surprises, no injuries. If we’re going to work together, then I need to effectively teach you how to clear rooms and a building in partnership so we’re efficient, but above all, so you don’t shoot me.”

“What about you shooting me?” I protested.

“If I ever shoot you, kid,” he murmured. “It’ll be entirely on purpose.”

I laughed. Funny old bastard.

The shop front was locked, which gave me real hope that the place was largely untouched. Nate had me keep an eye out as he slid a small fabric roll out of one of the large pockets on his combat trousers and revealed bloody lockpicks. I need to learn how to do that and Nate is clearly a pro, as he had that door clicking open in seconds. Must be some Special Forces infiltration skill or something.

You know, I keep banging on about Nate being SAS or some kind of special forces, but that’s just a massive assumption because he’s so fucking competent in these situations and keeps surprising me with elegant new skills. I should probably ask him, but I figure he’ll tell me when he’s ready eventually.

Nah, fuck it. I’m going to ask him. Since when have I respected privacy? I’m a curious little shit and people’s stories interest me.

Nate opened the door but held up a hand, shaking his head as I moved forward a step. He leaned inside and blew a quick whistle through his teeth into the dark confines of the store, then backed up.

Sure as shit, some banging and bumping came from inside the shop and Nate turned to me.

“No mistaking that smell,” he said by way of explanation.

I nodded my understanding. You can always tell if something undead is in there. I’ve said before, it’s not just the rot of a corpse. It’s a real stench-of-hell kind of odour, pure taint and corruption. Knocks you sick.

We backed up, knife and hammer ready respectively, as a heavy-set Asian man came stumbling into the light. He’d come home and locked himself in after being bitten it seemed, as there was a massive chunk of flesh missing from his left forearm. The bite had sealed his doom and he’d locked himself in his store, an undead booby trap waiting to be sprung.

Booby. Snigger.

The good sign was that there was no blood on his lips, which meant he hadn’t bitten anyone else since dying, so he was likely the only zombie in the shop. It wasn’t a big place, just a quick stop to pick up some bits, but for us it was a goldmine if still full to the brim.

Nate nodded to me, indicating he wanted the pick hammer tested. I slung the shotgun diagonally across my shoulder, pulling the tool from my belt, and spinning it so the point was angled forward.

I moved in its eyeline, letting it focus all that hunger and fury in my direction. As it neared, its speed increased, readying for lunge mode. One quick sidestep, one fast arc, and the thing collapsed as the hammer’s pick punched unerringly through the top of the balding man’s pate and into the brain.

“Seems to work just fine,” Nate nodded, his tone suggesting