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

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 wasn’t open ground.

Eventually, Nate slid back, leaving the mirror in place on the road.

“On the roof of the court building, off to our right. He’s more at your end.”

“Marvellous,” I said happily.

Nate snorted. “You were right about them not being trained. If this is one of Bancroft’s lookouts, he’s probably just a better shot than most, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“In what way?”

“He’s using a three-round burst,” he said. “The barrel rides up, which is why we’re 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. He’s probably figured that out now.”

“And that’s a bad thing, I assume?”

“If he’s a good shot, but he’s not a trained shooter.” Nate rubbed at his jaw. “Judging by where his two bursts started, he’s either just using the base iron sight of the rifle and is shit, or he’s got a scope, but hasn’t calibrated it properly, or doesn’t know how. An untrained shooter probably thinks like a video game; that you stick a scope on and that’s your lot. If you don’t spend the time sighting it in properly, the shots will be off.”

“And that’s a good thing, I assume?” I clicked my tongue. “Nate, I’m doing a lot of assuming here. What’s the play? Are we safe to make a break for it or not?”

Nate shook his head. “Even a bad shooter can get lucky. He’s not off by much, and us becoming running targets will make it harder, but he’s still got an elevated position. There’s a reason he was put there as a lookout and sniper. It takes patience and the fact that he’s not just peppering us means he’s at least conscious of conserving ammo. The good thing is he’s not firing and displacing, so we know where he is. Do you think you could get up there?”

“There’s no building I can’t climb in this town,” I said confidently.

“I’m being serious,” he replied, face solid and stern.

“So am I, Nate. I’ve climbed every view in this shithole, and what better ‘fuck you’ to authority than climbing a court building? Plus, it’s an older building with bits and ledges jutting out everywhere. For someone like me, it’s not even a challenge.”

“But getting up there without being heard or seen is,” he said. “And once you’re up there, there’s a man with an assault rifle. You can’t climb with the shotgun in case it bangs against anything. Which means you’ll have to get close and overpower him.” He tapped the knife strapped to his leg. “Or you’ll have to execute him.”

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. There’s a detachment in killing them, because they aren’t people, they’re things. Things that shouldn’t be here, that hunt and kill with savage instinct. It feels more like a mercy, like you’re 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 they’re 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 didn’t know. I’ve never killed a living person before, and there is something intensely personal about doing it in close quarters. It’s not pulling a trigger from distance; it’s being close enough to touch them.

But if I didn’t, that bastard might kill us.

“I can do it,” I said, with far more conviction than I really felt. “But how are we even going to move? He’ll see?”

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 ™. 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.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lit the fuse on his newspaper-and-duct-tape smoke bomb, then tossed it on to the driver’s 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 going—just a few wisps to begin with—but 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.

“Swap with me,” 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.

“Got everything?” I nodded. “When I light this, run to there.” He pointed to the low wall of a nearby car park, about four feet in height and thirty feet away.

Both of us began