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

edging away as safe as we dared, the rising smoke now relatively thick and choking, but shit, it worked like a charm. The bell end on the court roof would have a shitty job trying to pick us out cleanly through the thick haze. Once Nate was satisfied there was enough of a screen, he nodded, lit a match, stuffed it into the matchbox, and as the whole thing became a tiny fireball in his hand, he flicked it at the fuel-soaked tail of the bandage.

It lit up and we made a sprint for it. I heard the ricochet of a bullet from the road near to me, which gave me an extra burst of speed, vaulting the low wall way ahead of Nate. Only three or four seconds passed and then…

Boom.

The car went up like a fireball.

Clumping all that bandage up gave a few seconds as the fire shrank it enough for burning embers to fall into the tank, which then ignited all the fuel and the Toyota went bang.

Thick smoke now screened the whole area and Nate appeared beside me.

“Leave the shotgun, only take what you need, and make a wide circle. Wait till I start shooting. He doesn’t know what I’ve got and when he hears me firing back with the shotgun, he’ll naturally put his head down before getting pissed and returning fire at me. As soon as I pull the trigger, you go.”

I nodded, divesting myself of all items except my pick hammer.

“Be careful,” he said. He looked at me for a long moment, as though he might add something else, but then his soldier mask returned, and he gave me a nod. Sucking in three quick breaths, Nate peeped over the wall and pulled the trigger on his shotgun in the court building’s general direction.

And I moved.

I cut into the open-air shopping centre, nearly shitting myself at how many zombies were milling about. No word of a lie, there were hundreds, and the boom of the explosion had all their milky eyes turning towards the source. Even though they were dotted down the wide thoroughfare that ran between the shops, I could see all were now starting to move in the same direction. Some were more advanced than others, drawn by the shooter’s initial shots no doubt.

Fuck.

I had to move fast, because Nate was going to get swarmed by a stream of undead and he couldn’t move until I’d dealt with the sniper. Hitting full sprint, I found myself yelping as I tore past undead in lunge mode, bobbing and weaving through ever narrowing gaps between them. My goal was an alley between two rows of stores that would let me angle a run to the court building outside the sniper’s cone of vision. I just had to trust Nate’s instincts that the shooter didn’t know I was coming for him.

So many times, a finger nearly hooked me, or a bloodied hand swept the air an inch from my limbs. I was flooded with adrenalin, every sense heightened, every bang of my heart like a war drum. When I get super nervous, I end up giggling. I’m probably the worst fucker to have at a funeral, as I’ll probably start laughing for no reason. Not that I’ve ever been to a funeral.

Anyone living, who saw my lone game of British Bulldog against the undead horde, would have thought I’d lost my shit completely. Undead lunged at me, and I skipped aside, or dived under a lunge into a roll, coming up to my feet, laughing and shouting at the undead, taunting them like they gave a shit.

Weird experience.

Needless to say, I didn’t die and finally reached the alley, tearing round the corner and heading in a straight line. No need to look for traffic, so I belted across the four lane carriageway, bounding the central reservation with just a single hand atop it and then I was heading to the court building, ninety degrees to what would be the shooter’s left.

Shots had been traded as I ran, Nate keeping up the illusion of trying to hit the shooter and the cocksucker fired back in bursts again, clearly getting irked by Nate’s return fire. While Nate kept shooting, he was still alive, and I damn well wanted to keep him that way.

Like I said to Nate, the court building is old and has that aged brick look to it like it was built in the early part of the 20th century. They liked stylish buildings back then, instead of the soulless blocks of metal and glass that are all the rage these days. The joy of these old buildings is that there are multiple roofs at differing levels, ledges, handholds and fancy aesthetic designs sticking out everywhere, that makes it very easy to ascend with someone versed in my particular art.

The crack of the rifle increased in volume and frequency as I transferred from hold to hold, and I moved around the building so I’d climb up at the shooter’s rear. I waited for the next shot, my hands holding to the lip of the flat roof he was nestled on, and the moment I heard the crack I hauled myself up.

Shitty piece of luck, my dear reader.

As I pulled up, Shooty McFuckface must have used the last round in his magazine, and he was turned around, reaching to a bag at his side, the clip already detached from the rifle. The gun was a mean looking bitch, two-tone black and tan, and nothing like I’d ever seen up close and personal before. I did notice that it had a proper scope attached to it as well.

There was a horrible moment as we locked eyes and the distance was too short for him to get a new magazine in. As I swore and started to run at him, he dropped the rifle and rolled to his back, reaching for a handgun holstered on his right hip. If that thing got drawn and he pulled the