Sucking in difficult breaths and moving gingerly, I decided to pull out the Glock and walk back to my little electric transport with gun and flashlight up. There was less need for stealth now, and I wasn’t making any rapid getaways any time soon, so I opted for the, “if anything approaches me now, it’s getting a nine-mil in the face,” approach.
I made it back to the Smart car, roared in pain as I slid into the seat, closed the door, and sat there for a minute or two while I returned my heartbeat to something resembling normality. I didn’t want to hang around too long, but I thumbed the mic on the radio.
“I’m out, back in my vehicle, all is well,” I panted. “I’ll meet you back at the lodge.”
“Copy that,” said Nate. There was a little pause before his voice crackled over the airwaves again. “You’re a fucking lunatic, Erin,” he said. “But at least you’re our lunatic. Thank you.”
I laughed, which caused a fresh blaze of agony in my ribs.
“Everyone,” said Nate, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “We’re coming home.”
A cheer came over the radio, and my pain was forgotten for an instant at the sound. Relief, happiness, celebration. We were whole again. Then Charlie’s voice came through the handset.
“Thanks, Lockey,” he said, the joy in his voice evident. “Love you.”
Oh my God. That was a punch in the feels too much. Right in the heart, kiddo; right in the fucking heart.
“You’re welcome, little dude,” I wheezed, half from pain, half from welling emotion. “Now, make sure that kettle goes on when they get home, as I’m gasping. Because Nate, tonight, I had to fight… uh uh… for my right…”
I left it hanging. I could virtually hear his eye roll from where I was sat, then his voice came across the airwaves, a flat sigh as he finished it.
“To pour tea?”
I both laughed and screamed in pain again. “When I get back, I will request the highest of fives for that, Pooh Bear.”
Nate got a Beastie Boys reference and a dad joke in one fell swoop. I’m telling you, Freya, that guy’s got layers.
Jesus, this was the single longest entry I’ve ever written, I think. I started at 2am, it’s now close to 5am. I’m beat, I’m in pain, I’ve just dropped two Tramadol and I expect to disappear into a pharmaceutical haze shortly, but I’m happy. Everyone came back alive and unhurt (well, apart from my likely cracked rib), we got the truck full of building and construction supplies, and Charlie still has his dad.
The thing I learned yesterday above anything else though, is that these people have faith in me. They put that faith in me without question, and I delivered, and that feels… well… that feels awesome.
The end of the world is fucking awful for the horrors it’s unleashed, but I can’t help feeling that in a selfish way, it’s actually been good for me, in a really fucked up sense. I feel like I’m growing as a person, even in these few short months, and a lot of that is down to the people around me – Nate above all - and this strong sense of community and family we’ve quickly built. Some good has come from this cosmic fuckery at least. I’ll have a think on this weird vendetta the undead seem to have against me, and chat to the others, but not for a day or two. Right now, I need pain relief, and I need to sleep more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life.
I’m signing off, Freya. Time to visit dreamland.
Last night was a big win from a shitty situation, so I’ll leave you with this final statement.
Fuck yeah!
OCTOBER 12th, 2010
RECOVERY
It’s been a few days since I’ve written anything, largely because I’ve spent most of it smacked off my tits on super-strong painkillers. My head hasn’t been able to focus on stringing words together in any form of coherent structure, so I’ve taken a few days just to rest and grin like the drugged-up fool I’ve been.
Thankfully, I’m seeing improvement in my back and breathing. Because of the rapid healing, Maria deduces I was lucky and didn’t crack a rib. It’s more likely that I pulverised the crap out of the muscles there. The area is quite a special mix of black, yellow, and purple bruising, but I’m starting to feel a little more mobility, so I’ve stopped taking the prescription strength stuff and now just chomping anti-inflammatories. The last thing I want is a drug addiction in an apocalypse. I’m not doing anything strenuous on Nurse Williams’ orders, and I’ve done three days of head-fuzz on Tramadol for the excruciating pain, which is enough. Now I just want it to heal so I can get back out there.
For one thing, I need to set Operation Birthday into motion for Charlie. That kid has been through so much, and he’s such a sweetheart even despite all this bullshit, that I am determined to hit the pause button on this apocalypse for just one day. An apocapause, you might say.
The English language is so versatile. You can just take whatever you want, mash it all together, and still make yourself understood.
Mark has set himself to work while it’s dry and started constructing the outhouse to contain the generators. After the builder’s yard, it became painfully obvious that we don’t have anything like a QRF, and that needs to change, so Nate put it out there.
Isaac is determined to do his part, it seems. He’s got the camera system up and working, and now I can switch on this laptop – and there are two others here with the same capability – to look at the feeds surrounding our perimeter. There are even a couple that look left and right up the country road that passes us by, so we can see if anyone or anything approaches. It’s pretty cool actually.
Now that project is complete though, Isaac is finding himself at a loose end and wants to pitch in beyond the gate. As our little incident a few days back highlighted, we really do need everyone to be a shooter should the situation demand it, so Nate has been working with Isaac on all the basics. Biggest surprise of all?
Maria is also learning. Huh, I never expected it from her, so maybe there is something to what Nate said. Maybe a medical professional is just the kind of person who would excel at firearms. Apparently, Nate worked with snipers in the SAS who doubled as highly trained combat medics who could often go on to medical careers with the level of training they received.
With Norah’s home front shotgun skills, this will mean that everybody will be an active shooter, and I can only think that’s a good thing. It’s also pretty shitty that we all need to learn how to kill stuff, but that is the sad reality we live in during these dark times.
Maria, it turns out, is a natural. Nate had to scold Isaac on numerous occasions early on due to bad habits from video games and movies he thought applied to real life. He was very soon corrected and - as Isaac is obviously terrified of incurring Nate’s displeasure - he soon knuckled down to be a model student. He’s a clever guy, and quickly learned that when it comes to combat, Nate knows best.
Alicia has upgraded to the rifle. Nate has given her one of the variants that has semi and burst, like I carry. Pooh Bear himself has switched his scope to one that has semi and full, as he can handle that muzzle ride. Sometimes, dumping out a thirty-round magazine in about three seconds might be needed, and if that situation ever does arise then only Nate has the chops to handle that kind of rate of fire at the minute. I did it once when we hit Bancroft’s house to liberate our new friends and it shocked the shit out of me just how fast the rifle dumps them out. I felt like a cartoon character holding on to a high-pressure hosepipe as it just ran away with me.
That’s been the order of things the past few days. Nate schooling Alicia, Maria, and Isaac, while Mark constructs the outhouse for the generators in preparation of wiring them in ready for winter. Norah looks after us all, and while I’ve been recovering from my injury, Particles has hung out with me and Charlie while we play video games.
I am officially Charlie’s new favourite person, by the way. Since bringing his dad home safe, the kid has become my handsome little shadow. It feels like I’ve inherited a little brother and you know what? I like it. Having someone lo
ok up to me like that will keep me on the straight and narrow, I think. Mark’s done such a great job of raising the kid I feel it’s my duty to continue that, and not make a mess of all his hard work in shaping such a smart, good-hearted boy. I have officially adopted Charlie Reynolds as my honorary kid brother.
It occurs to me that children are the future of our new world, and I can’t help but wonder how many are out there. It’s been four months since our reality shifted and with winter creeping ever closer, I’m concerned for how many survivors will make it through. We’ve seen evidence of fires - in both nearby towns - that consumed numerous houses, and with no widely available central heating, burning natural fuel like wood is the only way any survivors will make it through the winter. I’m worried there are people out there we could potentially help that will fall foul of the cold weather and make fatal mistakes.
I worry a lot these days it seems.
What was it Norah said to me? “Don’t be bound in the chains of things you can’t change.” That was it. Good advice, but hard to follow.
We have space here at the lodge for some more people. We have fuel, warmth, food, fresh water, clothing (from raiding houses), and a major advantage of well-stocked security with an ex-special forces operator as our guardian and tutor. I mean, shit, we’ve probably got it as good as it gets in this bullshit world, I think. Let’s face it, I doubt there are many survivors like Charlie and I at this time, sat here playing Mario Kart while the dead roam and hunt the living.
I think about how good we have it right now, and I am bound in the chains of this thing I can’t change, because I want to change it for others. The thought of a family unit shivering in the cold, terrified of venturing out, and nothing but makeshift melee weapons to take on the undead with if they do… well, that just makes me uncomfortable. There have to be other survivors out there and I desperately want to find and help them.
I think I’ll chat to Nate about that later on. When I’m ready to head out beyond the gate again, I think that’s what I’d like to do. I don’t really know how we go about locating survivors, as anyone with any sense is holed up tight and suspicious as all hell, especially if their only other human contact since the end has been with the likes of Bancroft’s lunatic crew.
I don’t know. Food for thought. All I know is that we have it pretty good, and we should look to share that good fortune with others. There are eight humans and a pug living here. We could conceivably double that. It wouldn’t leave much in terms of personal space, but if we could give even one family safety and shelter, then we should. Every human life saved is a big middle finger to whatever monstrosity planned this uprising. Flipping the finger to assholes is one of my favourite hobbies, even if they are divine cosmic entities.
I’m purposefully not thinking about all the weird zombie bullshit at the moment. I’ll come back to that in a day or two when I’ve considered it all. Right now, I can hear Norah booming out dinner is ready, so I’m going to eat my fill and while away the evening in a highly competitive tournament of Mario Kart with my new little bro.
OCTOBER 14th, 2010
WHY ME?
Feeling much better today, Freya. My back is most definitely on the mend and I’m not scoffing ibuprofen anymore, just dealing with a bit of soreness and lingering stiffness, but my mojo is coming back. I am so happy about that, as I’m a hands-on kind of girl. I don’t like lazing about when everyone else is busy doing stuff.
Nate rolled out heavy today, taking everyone with him, leaving just me, Charlie, Norah, and Particles back at the lodge. I got really antsy and wanted to ride along, but I was scolded by pretty much everyone to take it easy. They weren’t going out on some major loot run and doing house breaching or anything. They decided to take that loader truck from the builder’s yard to a farm a couple of miles away that had a big wood burner in it and bring it back here. Many hands make light work and all that jazz.
It was a good chance for Maria and Isaac just to work on vigilance pulling security, and the building was cleared by me and Nate a while back, so there was little chance of contact. They would likely need extra hands because the stove is a beast and they had to get it out of the farmhouse before the loader crane could even be used. Mark, being the expert planner that he is in all things engineering, made sure that one of the things he loaded up at that builder’s yard was a pallet jack, and a fancy high lift one that rises to a height of around 800mm and could bear just over a ton of weight.
He’s so smart.
Anyway, that’s what they did today. Nobody got any serious injuries – just a few minor bangs and scrapes from the labour – though I did hear tales of some terrible profanity when things got stuck, or some ingenious lubrication that was needed to finally get the beast out of the farmhouse so Mark could grab it with the loader crane. They’ve left it covered on the truck for tonight, as I don’t think anyone could face pissing about with it after their fun times at the other end. Mark brought all the stove piping back as well but has to do some prep work inside before it can be installed, like brickwork for heat reflection and such things. A good day’s work from everyone, but it’s really got me twitchy to get involved again.
Did I mention I hate being idle, Freya?
Hate it.
So, I guess it’s about time I addressed this whole anti-Lockey movement the undead seem to have. I think it’s safe to say now, without any shadow of doubt whatsoever, that the following statement is true.
This apocalypse is not natural.
I know that’s a completely bone-headed statement because the dead have risen to murder the living. This isn’t man-made though, nor is it some rapid mutation of an unknown virus that’s gone pandemic. I’ve said from the start that the hate these things have for you as they lunge, it’s dark and deep-rooted.
However, it’s always been a primal savagery, like the monsters are working from instinct. See or hear living, hunt living, kill living. Once living is dead, stop eating and let the new foot soldier rise to join the undead legion.
That itself is a tactic, and yes, it could be the method a virus or parasite would use to reproduce. Reproduction and survival are the two basest instincts of any organism, and the fact that we can put the undead down with a brain trauma might suggest any parasite causing this is rooted in the brain. Even a parasite is difficult to validate though, as it doesn’t matter how someone dies. Everyone gets up as an undead, no matter the manner of their passing.
But none of the above reasoning stands up with the recent change in behaviour I’ve seen, and it certainly has no explanation when an undead pharmacist, a thousand-strong wall of undead blocking the route through downtown, and another horde in a builder’s yard, all react in a specific manner of focused animosity towards me as an individual.
I know I can be a bit of an arrogant bell end at times, and joke about my awesomeness, but strip that right away. Others have seen it, Nate above all. He’s seen it every time, from that little sortie where we first saw the change in the lady pharmacist, how the downtown unliving wall reacted when I opened my mouth, and the crowd of zombies that largely ignored Nate and the other two on their elevated perch, yet the things swarmed the handset when my voice crackled through it.
I don’t care what anyone might argue in response, that shit is personal. But that leads to one unanswerable question.
Why me?
I can’t help but feel that there is an agency behind the undead somehow, and after your death, Freya, that agency has switched tactic. It’s weird, as though my deep abyss of grief was the catalyst in a change to their behaviour, but I just can’t fathom why. Any agency with any kind of sense would see that Nate is way more of a threat than little old me. That guy is a one-man army, so I would have thought whatever… force… has sparked this uprising would see Nate Carter as more of a menace. Instead, that entity – for want of a better term – has decided to focus on a foul-mouthed woman with a stupid sense of humour that uses sarcasm as her primary method of attack.
Maybe that entity is a bit dumb. Shit, I hope so, as that would make the fightback a little easier.
Is this a permanent change in their behaviour, I wonder? If it is, that means me going beyond the gate would put everyone else at risk. If I’m some kind of zombie flypaper, that means I’d have to stop going out and quite frankly, that would send me insane.
Hmm. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that the builder’s yard incident was some kind of trap for me. The one way to really get under my skin is to go after my friends, as I’ll come in windmilling - all British Kung Fu style with my keys in tiny fists - when it comes to looking out for those I care about.
Essentially, the guiding hand of the undead – if such a thing exists – made an error. It laid the trap well in containing Nate, but by focusing on me when I was there, it actually allowed the others to make their escape. To me, that suggests it’s not a direct puppeteer if you follow my meaning. If ‘it’ was in direct control at that moment, splitting its force would have been a more effective tactic. Send half the mass after me, but hold enough back to contain Nate, Alicia, and Mark on their perch. Instead, the whole horde came for me, thus letting my friends clear the rear stragglers enough to mount up and ride off into the sunset.
That feels more like the horde was assigned some basic instructions to follow. See Lockey, eat Lockey, and that was a mistake, though it doesn’t make things any less personal. Shit, I don’t know. I’m spit balling to you, Freya, and I won’t get any answers. This is all musing and conjecture.
The bottom line is this; when I’m healed fully, the first thing I need to do is go out beyond the gate. We need to actively search for undead and see if they continue to react like this. I need to know if this is a permanent change in the undead modus operandi, or whether this was some kind of inexplicable random occurrence. That’s all I can do for now, as I doubt I’ll ever get any real reason why this suddenly went personal, or why I have any kind of significance at all. There’s absolutely nothing special about me other than my fast feet and even faster mouth, but that doesn’t seem significant enough to warrant an entire apocalyptic vendetta against little old me.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 2 | We Will Rise [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 7
