Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) š
Book online Ā«Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (book recommendations for teens TXT) šĀ». Author Meadows, Carl
I waited for what seemed like an eternity. After having six bullets come downrange at us, the silence was somehow worse. I knew the fucker was somewhere, probably staring down a scope at the car, waiting for either of us to stick our head up. There was nowhere to go that wasnāt open ground.
Eventually, Nate slid back, leaving the mirror in place on the road.
āOn the roof of the court building, off to our right. Heās more at your end.ā
āMarvellous,ā I said happily.
Nate snorted. āYou were right about them not being trained. If this is one of Bancroftās lookouts, heās probably just a better shot than most, but he doesnāt know what heās doing.ā
āIn what way?ā
āHeās using a three-round burst,ā he said. āThe barrel rides up, which is why weāre getting these rising strings of triple shots. He should be on semi, taking precise single shots. No marksman fires anything other than a single bullet. Heās probably figured that out now.ā
āAnd thatās a bad thing, I assume?ā
āIf heās a good shot, but heās not a trained shooter.ā Nate rubbed at his jaw. āJudging by where his two bursts started, heās either just using the base iron sight of the rifle and is shit, or heās got a scope, but hasnāt calibrated it properly, or doesnāt know how. An untrained shooter probably thinks like a video game; that you stick a scope on and thatās your lot. If you donāt spend the time sighting it in properly, the shots will be off.ā
āAnd thatās a good thing, I assume?ā I clicked my tongue. āNate, Iām doing a lot of assuming here. Whatās the play? Are we safe to make a break for it or not?ā
Nate shook his head. āEven a bad shooter can get lucky. Heās not off by much, and us becoming running targets will make it harder, but heās still got an elevated position. Thereās a reason he was put there as a lookout and sniper. It takes patience and the fact that heās not just peppering us means heās at least conscious of conserving ammo. The good thing is heās not firing and displacing, so we know where he is. Do you think you could get up there?ā
āThereās no building I canāt climb in this town,ā I said confidently.
āIām being serious,ā he replied, face solid and stern.
āSo am I, Nate. Iāve climbed every view in this shithole, and what better āfuck youā to authority than climbing a court building? Plus, itās an older building with bits and ledges jutting out everywhere. For someone like me, itās not even a challenge.ā
āBut getting up there without being heard or seen is,ā he said. āAnd once youāre up there, thereās a man with an assault rifle. You canāt climb with the shotgun in case it bangs against anything. Which means youāll have to get close and overpower him.ā He tapped the knife strapped to his leg. āOr youāll have to execute him.ā
That word stopped my bravado for a moment. I had no issue putting the undead to rest. Blowing their heads off with a shotgun hardly gave me pause.
But cutting a throat, or smashing in a skull with a hammer on a living person? Well, that was something entirely different. The walkers are empty vessels, all humanity gone from them, as something dark replaces the human soul to animate the hollow husk of the person. Thereās a detachment in killing them, because they arenāt people, theyāre things. Things that shouldnāt be here, that hunt and kill with savage instinct. It feels more like a mercy, like youāre letting the soul of that person finally go to its rest, if there is such a thing as the soul.
A person though? Even if theyāre a complete fuck-nut and deserve it, could I just sneak up behind that gunman, then with that same cold-blooded detachment, smash a hammer through his skull?
I didnāt know. Iāve never killed a living person before, and there is something intensely personal about doing it in close quarters. Itās not pulling a trigger from distance; itās being close enough to touch them.
But if I didnāt, that bastard might kill us.
āI can do it,ā I said, with far more conviction than I really felt. āBut how are we even going to move? Heāll see?ā
Nate was rummaging in his own backpack. I just assumed all he kept in there were more bullets. Turns out, he carries a Bag of Many Things ā¢. I watched Nate take out a small squirty tin of lighter fluid and a box of matches, followed by a thick roll of bandages. I frowned as he unrolled it, crushing it all into a big white clump. And then, like he had received prophetic visions yesterday, out came one of those homemade smoke bombs.
Experienced spec-ops planning for the win.
Opening the passenger door, he leaned in and pressed down on all the electric windows, exposing the car to the open air.
āWhat the fuck are you doing?ā I whispered.
He didnāt answer. Instead, he lit the fuse on his newspaper-and-duct-tape smoke bomb, then tossed it on to the driverās seat, then started spraying lighter fluid on the unrolled bandages. Nothing happened for a moment, and I wondered if his MacGyver bomb was a dud.
Oh ye of little faith, Lockey.
It took about thirty seconds for it all to really get goingājust a few wisps to begin withābut once it got its groove on, a thick cloud of white smoke started rolling out of the open windows, filling the space around us. Clever old bastard.
āSwap with me,ā he ordered. We shuffled past each other, then Nate opened the fuel cap and began stuffing the flammable bandage into the refilling tube, jamming it up but leaving a long white tail hanging to the road.
āGot everything?ā I nodded. āWhen I light this, run to there.ā He pointed to the low wall of a nearby car park, about four feet in height and thirty feet away.
Both of us began
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