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

Charlie. If Bancroft had hurt that kid… shit… I would go feral on him. Nate pointed out, in his maddeningly logical way, that if King Shit had hurt Charlie, he would be on display with the women to knock us off our game. That made me feel marginally better.

Marginally.

Nate had a plan for extreme violence and chaos, but he spotted an open window at the front of the house, musing there was a sniper in there, and one who had a better understanding of how to do the job. Their mode of concealment, being set back from the open window or something like that, showed he had a better understanding of a sniper’s perch than Shooty McFuckface did on the court building roof. I offered the thought we should just go in the back, but Nate wouldn’t have it. He made a fair point to be honest; he knew there was an ex-serviceman still kicking about and surmised the shooter set back from the window would be that man. If Nate was going to breach the house, he didn’t want an ex-soldier hunting him inside a building, especially one who knew the layout.

Enter Lockey’s insane plan, number eighty-three.

I don’t know how I did it, but I convinced Nate to let me have one of his precious two frag grenades. He couldn’t see the shooter to take a shot himself, but I’d managed to work out a route up the house to the window. I could pop a grenade through that window and eliminate their last real trained threat. Nate agreed.

This was a pivotal moment for us, I think. I know I can appear to take everything as a joke, and handling explosives certainly is no jest, so I listened intently to his instruction. Previously I would have had to argue the toss with Nate over any plan of mine that appeared reckless, but all he did was mutter some curse under his breath and then move into his instruction, which went something like, “Hold this little handle down, remove pin, throw, don’t fuck it up and kill yourself.”

First job was taking out two corner cameras. Having purloined some black spray paint from a nearby farm that Nate remembered seeing—he’s got a good memory for a pensioner—I sneaked through the darkened trees.

That, by the way, was a horrendous experience. I half-expected a silent undead to leap out of the darkness any moment, telling myself I was being stupid and I’d hear their stumbling through the undergrowth, but the sky was cloudless and the light of the moon was enough to ensure I could live without a flashlight. I had one anyway, just a little one, in case things got too gloomy.

Nate had told me the blind spots to approach from and all I did was scale the wall underneath one and spray the paint over the lens, then once that one was blinded, did the same on the one at the other corner on the right side of the house as Nate was looking at it. Then it was up, over, back against the house wall and wait.

Two goons exited the house to investigate the cameras, chatting like they were on the way to the pub. No sense of danger at all, despite their boss pulling everyone inside the house after Nate’s menacing promise over the radio.

Then Nate hit them with a one-two from the ridge, killing them both. Shit, that was some scary shooting. He doesn’t have a proper hunting rifle, so it was probably the edge of effective range for the SA80, as he must have been somewhere between three-to-four hundred metres away.

The moment Bert and Ernie were dropped, I was on the roof of the house in less than ten seconds. It’s a fancy mansion, but it has multi-level roofs and fancy architecture everywhere, which made it a breeze to climb. I slithered over the roof as quiet as I could, assuming the shooter would now be scanning the horizon for a sign of Nate after his sniping of Bert and Ernie. Getting my bearings on the appropriate window by peering over the edge, I moved to the window beside it and lowered myself feet first on to the ledge, bracing myself in the deep frame. The curtains were closed on the window behind me, so no need to worry about being seen.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the grenade from my pocket, holding it like Nate had instructed, then I just couldn’t resist. I knew he’d be watching me down the scope, so I turned to face the spot he was watching from, waving at him with grenade still in hand with the stupidest grin I could muster, ripped the pin out with my teeth, leaned away from the safety of my ledge for the best angle, then tossed the live grenade like a boss through the shooter’s window.

Quick aside here. I say, “ripped the pin out with my teeth,” but that’s not exactly true. I yanked and shook my head from side-to-side like a deranged puppy with a chew toy as I tried to work the pin out, and my teeth ached from chewing on metal before I finally managed it. Nate keeps leaving really important shit out. I had grand plans of looking like a bad ass, and instead looked like the clueless lucky amateur I am. Sigh. I bet that old swine was pissing his sides laughing watching me through his scope.

I heard the guy swear and panic in the brief pause before the explosion, then it went off. Bloody hell, those things make a boom. I had to jam myself tighter in the window frame, as the shockwave of the blast rippled out, crisp and intense. One more thing on the “things Nate should have told Lockey about” list. Near shit myself.

Nate was moving then no doubt, but I had a decision to make. Our initial plan was for me to defend the barn conversion thing, where the