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

I went to Gut Wound, and by hell, had those two made a mess of him, ripping chunks from his face. I pulled out my Glock and put a round in his head before he started twitching.

Returning to the truck, I opened the passenger door and let the dead man lunge out. There was little of his neck remaining, the driver having ripped open arteries to spray gore all over the cab and himself. I slammed the door shut, put him down with the Glock, then sidled round to the driver’s door and repeated the move, letting the driver lunge out into empty air as I backed away with the door between me and it. As it shambled round the open door, I took aim with the pistol in both hands and scrambled its brain from ten feet away.

Holy shit. I’d taken down six of an eight-man QRF. Now, if they had any kind of training or cool under fire, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be sat here writing this, but they panicked, and I got lucky.

I really wanted to run further up the trail and put the last undead down, as it was starting to languidly rise to its feet, but I couldn’t take any chances edging closer, just in case more reserves came. I didn’t fancy my shooting skills at this kind of range and if I came under multiple volleys of fire, I might end up the one wandering as a slack-jawed corpse.

Instead, I pulled out the keys from the ignition, placed a radio handset on the bonnet of the truck, and used the key to scratch a message into the paintwork.

It gave a channel number, a date, a time, and had a little smiley face with devil horns next to the lot.

Sweeping up as much equipment as I could stuff in my backpack—which wasn’t much, mainly shells, ammo clips, small arms—I left the trail and headed back to my own vehicle, hidden about half a mile down the road in the car park of a country pub.

Nate, it turns out, got the better of them in the end. He put down one of the soldier boys, plus another three—on top of his original three from when I’d spoken to him—before they decided to bug out, the tanker leaving without being filled for the second run, as we had to leave that alone. We just couldn’t risk Mark or his boy and losing the tanker might send Jamie Bancroft into a murderous rage that Mark or Charlie might feel the sharp end of.

Seven confirmed kills, and I bet he didn’t use unwitting zombie allies. Still, by my reckoning, that means they’re in single figures for henchmen, based on Shooty’s admission of numbers to us. Assuming that was true, they’re down to nine.

Flint and Locke (shut up, Nate, I’m keeping it), twenty, Bancroft’s Bellends, zero.

Fuck Rambo. We’re the dog’s bollocks.

Random thought; why is that phrase used for something awesome? Did some guy once see a dog licking its genitals, and wistfully dream of the same ability, thus equating a canine’s testicles with something truly amazing? It’s so weird.

Nate, however, was not so enthusiastic about my recent escapades. He had a small plaster on his head where a ricochet had splinted some stone near him, cutting him just above the eyebrow, but other than that, he just looked knackered.

“What the hell were you thinking, Erin?” Just like a dad, always uses my first name when I’m in trouble. “Taking on eight? You could’ve been killed. What if they’d been better trained, or calm under fire?”

“What if I shove flowers up my arse?” I retorted. “Will that make my farts smell like lavender? Fuck. ‘What’ and ‘if’ can flick my tit, Nate. I didn’t die, I took down six guys and saved you having to deal with an overwhelming force. I know I got lucky, I know I did. But I did, so let’s count our blessings.” I calmed myself down, softening my tone. “Nate, this was meant to be a small hit, but we scored big. There’s thirteen less of them. If Shooty’s number was true, that puts the number at around nine. Jamie Bancroft has a massive lack of manpower now. King Shit of Turd Mountain has been demoted to Baron Pebbledash of Little Turd-on-the-Hill.”

Nate blew out his cheeks and tiredly rubbed at his eyes. He was too exhausted for any further argument. He’s such a machine usually, it’s easy to forget he’s still a guy in his early fifties. Time is the one enemy Papa Reaper can’t beat.

“Look, I left a message scrawled into the truck’s paintwork. Channel three, noon, on the 21st. That’s a couple of days from now. We’ll rest up, he’ll take stock and maybe learn to calm the fuck down, and let’s see how big his swinging dick is now that he’s only got a handful of goons.” I shrugged. “We’ve taken twenty of his guys all told since this started. He’s got to take us seriously now. We’re not playing anymore.”

Nate just nodded, desperate to collapse into sleep.

So that’s where we’re at. It’s the 20th today as I’m writing this. Tomorrow at noon, we’re going to see if Baron Pebbledash is willing to parley. I’ll write then.

I’m a bit too emotionally blasted to process that I killed living people for the first time a couple of days ago. It came so soon after the apartment block that it’s all seemed to blur into a haze. I know I haven’t processed it yet, but I know it’s coming.

I’m not really looking forward to that experience.

August 21st, 2010

KING SHIT AND THE OLD LION

Well, Bancroft tuned in at noon today. We had ourselves a little conversation and our endgame approaches. After this conversation, it truly is shit or bust now.

The three of us sat down, Nate and I with a handset between us, though I agreed to let Nate talk first this time. This was a