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

not writing bloody history, I’m writing a tale for the ages, so I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to fuck this off about what we’re going to do, then tell you what happened in a colourful and sense-overwhelming display of bardic magnificence. That’s more my style. Details are so… Nate.

If you’re reading this, Nate, then yes, that was an insult. You big wrinkly scrotum face.

Love yoooooou. LOL.

Who am I kidding? One thing I know for sure, Nate would type on a keyboard with one rigid finger and his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth as he makes his “thinking face”. There’s as much chance of Nate using a computer as Anne Frank having a hankering for the drums.

We’re rolling out. Hope I don’t die. You’ll miss me.

August 1st, 2010

SHOOTY McFUCKFACE

I’m not dead! Nor is Nate! Winning.

It was a close-run thing though. Bancroft really does want us dead and yesterday he nearly got his wish.

Yes, yesterday. I’ve come to discover that morning is my writing time at the moment. Particles making “nom nom” noises as he munches his breakfast, me with a hot cup of coffee, and this little white digital page for me to tap away on, is my way of processing what happened before. Anyway, I’m doing pointless details again. You want to know, dear reader, why we nearly died, don’t you? You don’t give a crap about me having a brew and my dog’s breakfast, do you? No. You want a bard’s tale, so here it comes.

Nate and I weren’t planning on hauling boatloads of loot, and the pickup was now known by Machete and the other cronies, so we decided to take one of the cars here at the lodge. Being super conscious of the environment as they were, there was a bunch of hybrids left behind by the lodge’s guests, so we took one of those. This time I insisted on driving, because if the shit hit the fan and we had to floor it, I had way more experience than Nate at high speed driving. There was some arguing, a lot of threats and finger pointing, and other such tomfoolery, but eventually Nate gave in. I think my “you’re the better shot if we get in some shit” argument swung it. He couldn’t argue against him being a better shot, could he?

The Prius was a nice car. Yes, you’ll notice the correct tense I used there was the past tense. We’ll get to that.

Anyway, it was a nice car, and really quiet. If you eased off enough and went to a crawl, it was purely electric and stalked like a four-wheeled ninja.

The cop shop was in the middle of town, so the risk was high, meaning both of us were sat with clenched arseholes as we cruised the roads. Luckily, I know the place like the back of my hand and knew most of the roads through the estates. It was an eerie journey and the first time I’d coasted through town since the world shat out a razor blade.

This town was always bustling, always active. Cars on the roads, people on the streets, kids on their bikes, chavs hanging round shops like bacteria; the usual everyday humdrum of human existence. Instead, there were lone undead shuffling, or small milling packs, sometimes even the dead pressed against the windows inside their own houses, jaws snapping at the outside world behind their prison of glass.

There must be so many individual horror stories inside those houses, I can’t even begin to imagine some of them. Men and women, young and old, and children. My heart collapses every time I think of kids trapped in bedrooms, a screaming end to their lives as their hungry undead parents try to claw their way in. The people they trusted most in the world, their protectors, now just glassy-eyed monsters wanting to rend and tear.

If I think too long on those imagined stories, my chest feels tight and my eyes start to burn. Just awful, so I’ll move on with the tale.

There didn’t seem to be any major packs gathered anywhere, so I think we got lucky, but getting to the police station meant exposing ourselves a little, as it was on a main road through town, near to the shopping centre. All around are taller buildings, which made Nate twitchy, and with good reason.

As we approached the little turn that would take us to the station car park, a rattle of three bullets raked the arse end of the Prius on my side and I felt the tyre go. One minute everything was fine, the next there was a bang, a metallic thunk, and the shatter of a rear door window as three bullets raked in a line from tyre to window in a snap.

“Out my side!” ordered Nate, flinging his door open and rolling out to the road. “Behind a wheel!”

He rolled to the front wheel as I instinctively rammed the car into park, dived across the car to the passenger door, and as I slid out and moved to crouch behind the rear wheel, he closed the door behind me. I opened up the rear door and pulled out my backpack (a proper one, not Particles’ carry-bag), sliding my double barrel shotgun from the rear seat.

Nate popped his head up and another three bullets raked across the front of the Toyota, punching through the engine.

I was shitting myself. I’d never been under fire from living people before, and let me tell you, it’s no joke. I didn’t know where the bastard was, but he clearly had the advantage on us. I just folded myself as small as I could be behind the wheel, looking to Nate for answers.

He was cool as ice, a thoughtful frown on his face. He reversed his own shotgun and smacked the mirror off the passenger door with the stock, then moved to the very front of the car, lying on his belly,