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

zone now with so many undead streaming down from the shopping centre, so that building was a write-off. Nate had his rifle in an unexpected bonus, and there was one less fucker terrorising any survivors. We had a radio that might give us an inkling into their communications, so the mission was a win, just not in the manner we expected.

Slipping down through the building, we found the car parked out back, loaded up our shit and headed back here, taking a wider circuitous route. Luckily, backup didn’t arrive before we made our escape.

I’m going to have to stop writing there. Just thinking about Nate’s hollow expression, no flicker of emotion or hesitation as he flicked Shooty’s switch, has left me feeling a bit low. I’m not mad at Nate, not anymore. I was on the drive home, fuming in silence, but he’s right.

There’s no negotiation with Jamie Bancroft and his people. Every goon we take out is one less guarding the innocents they hold under their boot. I guess I’m going to have to swallow the bitter pill of our new reality.

We’re now officially at war, and if our two-person insurgency is going to win, then we’re going to have to fight dirty.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

August 4th, 2010

INTEL, AKA “BORING”

Nate’s been listening to that radio for three days. It had a charging dock with it in the bag and he’s become obsessed with it. All part of the intel gathering.

He’s identified some of the major players, and officially despises Jamie Bancroft with a passion. That bad dude has got a serious hard-on for us after Johnny’s death and according to Nate, this is a good thing. It means Bancroft is erratic.

He constantly demands to know if anything has been seen of, “that murdering geriatric,” or, “his little fucking whore.” The former made Nate laugh, while the latter didn’t crack a smile from either of us. I think Nate was offended more than me. I’ve been called worse, but his old school sensibilities didn’t like it at all.

They’re not organised in a sensible fashion. They haven’t changed channels even though their sniper is dead with all his gear gone. Nate’s of the opinion that they’ve become arrogant, being masters of their own post-apocalypse fief. They’ve grossly underestimated this particular geriatric too, not clicking that he’s the real deal. They have no clue that we’re actually coming after them, thinking Johnny and Shooty were just chance encounters that went good for us and bad for them.

It’s boring sitting around, though Nate has begun schooling both Freya and I in good handgun safety and handling. With the gun collected from Johnny’s cold dead hand and the second swept up from Shooty McBrainDead, we’ve got a nine millimetre handgun for each of us now, and with everything that’s going on, Nate is running us through safe handling, grip, drawing, aiming, stance, and cleaning.

I’ve winched back my usual tomfoolery, because this is real shit, and I’d rather shoot a gun than have to get up close with a hammer again. We’ve got a little spare ammo to start firing live rounds for target practice, as Shooty had a box of hundred in that bag of tricks, but Nate wants us drilled in all the basics of safety and good handling before we even squeeze off a round at a target. It gives Freya and I something to do at least that’s productive.

Two against twenty-eight is stupid odds, so we can’t just go and assault the compound, as I’ve taken to calling it. I’m no special forces operator, and Nate can’t do it alone, but oh mama, is this dude a cunning old fox.

Youth, skill, numbers, and firepower are no match for one sneaky old marine trained in treachery it would appear. If you’re sneaking a peek at this Nate, I would like to point out that I remembered to call you a marine. I’ll forget again, but this one is a win.

Before we even think of going near that compound, Nate wants Bancroft chewing the arm of his favourite chair in impotent fury. He wants him reckless, and he wants him weakened.

So, to that end, Nate has devised a plan that we’re rolling out on tomorrow. I’m not going to write it here, because like I said, this isn’t a fucking textbook. It’s no fun telling my stories if you already know what we’re going to do, eh? We need excitement, we need drama, we need comedy, and we need high octane action!

I also need Nate to change his name. Carter is boring and shit. He should be called Nathaniel Flint, then it could be, “Flint and Locke: Action Heroes!”

That’s fucking brilliant. Damn that old bastard and his mundane surname; that’s absolute gold.

He always ruins my fun.

August 6th, 2010

DECLARATION OF WAR

So, yesterday officially underlined my mental sticky note of, “Don’t fuck with Nate,” a few times. I know his cold and practical side is necessary, but when he goes into soldier mode, there’s no flicker of human warmth, with complete laser focus. He has a mission, at the end of which is a target. While on that mission, nothing else matters but that goal, and if you’re in the way, you’re nothing but an obstacle to be cleared.

Nate had hit upon—as he referred to it—“solid gold intel” from listening to their chatter over the past few days. Today, seven guys were rolling out to a local petrol station in three vehicles. One would be driving a little solid tanker, in other words, it had no separate cab and trailer like an eighteen-wheeler would, but was instead like the box truck version of a tanker that home heating oil deliveries are usually done in. It was shorter and entirely a singular vehicle. The other two vehicles would be SUV’s, each with three armed gunmen.

With a full quarter of their hostiles (I’m using the term Nate always uses, makes me feel all military and clever) outside the compound, this was