I can’t tell you how sad that is. She was a quiet woman, smart as all hell, and she died in terrible pain, knowing there was nobody coming to her aid.
The apocalypse sucks, man.
She didn’t die alone though. That little yelp-bark came from under an ornamental bookshelf or dresser or… I don’t know. I don’t know what furniture things are called. Anyway, whenever poor old Patricia spun off the mortal coil, she must have gone chasing after her little doggy, knocked this furniture thing over and trapped said dog in it.
Because the dog was so small, the way the shelving had fallen trapped the animal inside a shelf space. Unbelievable luck. That dog had a tolerance of about eight inches either side or this big heavy bookshelf thing would have pancaked it, and that would have probably upset me more than Patricia’s lonely death. How weird and messed up is that?
Thankfully, Patricia’s spectacular living intelligence didn’t translate to her undead state, so she didn’t have the presence of mind to lift said furniture up to get at the animal trapped beneath. That was one lucky little dawg.
Nate and I lifted the toppled furniture up and found a shivering little pug beneath.
“Is that a dog, or a rodent?” muttered Nate.
“That, my dear Nathaniel, is a pug.”
He couldn’t have been under there more than a day, Nate reckons. Dr Patricia hadn’t been dead all that long. Again, that makes me sad. If only we’d arrived just a little earlier.
Despite no doubt being terrified, trapped under there for up to a day, the pug looked up at me and though pitiful, shivering and scared, somehow, he managed to look outraged.
I fucking love that about pugs. There’s something so very British about their quiet, unspoken indignation. They don’t possess the “small man syndrome” of a terrier or Jack Russell. Those little hilarious bastards act like they’re twenty times their size to compensate for their small stature, barking and screaming a challenge at everything.
Pugs accept their diminutive size and accept they will spend most of their lives being carried around like babies, yet they have this look on their face that mirrors an angry middle-aged man that listens to Radio Four. It’s a really sarcastic outrage, like the face of someone who holds a door for another, only to see them pass through without acknowledgment of the act. The quiet whisper of, “you’re welcome,” lathered in a thick coating of sarcastic outrage, is embodied by a pug’s face at all times. It’s like the world just annoys them and they have to accept being surrounded by absolute morons. I love it.
Anyway, I picked the dog up, feeling him shiver and found a blanket to wrap round him. Once I was sure he was okay, I fumbled on the collar and saw the name.
Particles.
I think I’d have liked Patricia. She was an old science looney who had an outraged pet called Particles. My kind of girl.
“We’re not keeping it,” Nate said.
“No way are we just abandoning him,” I said. “Particles saved my life.”
Again, that look. “What?”
“Had he not yelped when he did, I wouldn’t have had the step back that brought Patricia into your line of fire. She’d have totally blindsided me and ripped me open.”
“If you hadn’t charged in here like a dickhead, you wouldn’t have been in that situation.”
“Ah, but I did act like a dickhead,” I argued.
Admittedly, not my best retort.
“And I’ll probably act like one again before too long.”
I felt like the hole was getting deeper at this point, but I was committed.
“But with Particles here as my lucky charm, I might just make it to the end of this… end of days.”
Nate looked at me for a long moment, silent and thoughtful.
“You know none of that makes sense, right?”
I held Particles up to his face, so the little dog could convey my disgust at the notion of leaving him behind. Pugs have mastered that, too.
“I didn’t choose the pug life, Nate,” I said solemnly, with a completely straight face. “The pug life chose me.”
Here’s where shit gets hilarious.
Nate was having none of it. We took anything we could of use from Patricia’s little cottage—canned goods and the like—but I found a little backpack. I also found a big pair of those seamstress scissors, absolute monsters, and I set to the backpack as inspiration struck me. I got the measurements about right, packed the bottom of the rucksack with a blanket from the dog’s bed I found, then lowered Particles into the bag, zipped it up and out popped the pug’s head from the hole, Kuato style. I thought it was genius.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” was Nate’s opening statement when I walked out with the backpack as a front pack, and Particles staring moodily at Nate, flicking his tongue out to moisten his nose.
“What? He’s only got little legs! Poor little guy will never keep up.”
Nate looked at me for far too long, as still as granite. For a moment, I swear he was considering popping a cap in both our asses, and going on with his own existence, free of loud-mouthed idiots with too much energy and overly judgmental canines.
“For fuck’s sake.” The words hissed out in a low breath. “Get in the car.”
We’d been driving for about half an hour when Particles started to bark. He’d been silent and still for the entire journey, but something really jabbed him in the ass and stirred him, his little head turning to peer at Nate. It was like the dog was shouting at him. Hilarious.
“What’s up with him?”
“He’s house trained,” I mused. “Probably telling us he needs to go potty.”
“Needs to go potty?”
“Yeah, you know. Take a piss, dump, maybe both.”
“No, I know what you mean.” Nate huffed. “It’s just… need to go potty? Did you really need to say it like that? It’s a dog, not a toddler.”
“Well, however I say it Nate, you can stop the car and let Particles here split the atom, or we can have our own faecal big bang in the car.”
I am so persuasive at times. Nate muttered a quiet curse under his breath and pulled over. I slipped out of the SUV and let Particles out so he could go spray some particles on nearby vegetation. Nate got out as well, ever the vigilant super soldier, eyes scanning the surroundings. There was a pickup parked just out of sight of the road in an overgrown layby. While I watched Particles with his weird tiny legs do that hilarious little run-hop thing pugs do, Nate palmed his handgun to his grip and combat walked to the truck to check it out.
When Particles had finished, Nate walked back over and I swear to shit, he was almost smiling.
“That pickup still has the keys in, almost a full tank, and no dead anywhere to be seen.” He sounded positively joyous. “Let’s unload everything out of this into the pickup. It’s more spacious, bigger engine, better ground clearance, a spare tyre and you’ll never believe what else.”
I stroked Particles knowingly, like a Bond villain with his white cat. “Go on.”
“There was actually a hunting shotgun in the back, with two full boxes of shells.”
I gave him a raised eyebrow. A knowing look. Any gun at all in England was as rare as rocking horse shit.
“What?” he demanded, his leathery face creased into a frown.
“Say it.”
I got a genuinely confused look. “Say what?”
“Say thank you to Particles.”
His expression quickly shifted into the ‘leper-shitting-in-your-shoes’ look.
“What?”
“I told you he was lucky,” I said imperiously. “He saved my ass with a well-timed yelp and now he’s got us not only a new vehicle with a full tank, but one with a gun and ammo. This is Cheshire, Nate, not Texas. Of all places Particles needs to curl a turd out, it’s right here, where there’s a shiny new vehicle with fuel and weapons? Come on! Admit it! He’s a lucky mascot!”
This time his expression reflected a man who had just witnessed a mutant
penis grow out of my head while he watched.
“It’s just coincidence,” he huffed eventually.
“Denial, Nate? Really?” I sniffed in a mock haughty fashion. “Just accept that Particles is lucky.”
“Help me transfer all this shit to the pickup,” he growled.
Particles just looked at him.
Outraged.
He still wouldn’t admit my pug was lucky. Even though we were pootling in a giant dick-compensator (and going about twelve miles an hour because of Dame Carter at the wheel) and the proud owners of a new shotgun, Nate refused any further conversation on the subject of Particles being a lucky mascot. It’s just coincidence, he said.
“Well, isn’t it too coincidental to be coincidence?” I argued. “I mean, come on Nate, a fucking gun with ammo in the Cheshire countryside? Unattended, with a truck that has keys in and nearly a full tank? Exactly where we stopped? Come on. Admit it, that’s not just coincidence. That’s providence.”
“What, so now we’re being looked after by a higher power?”
I shrugged. “Dog is God spelled backwards. Just saying.”
Nate swore. I was starting to piss him off. I should have stopped, really I should have. But I did make it rather clear earlier that I have a real issue with impulse control.
“All I’m saying is that there are no coincidences, only the illusion of coincidence.”
“No way you just made that up,” he accused. “You’re not that insightful.”
Cheeky bastard.
“Maybe I’m just too lazy to show you how clever I am.”
He went to reply, stopped, then chuckled. Actually fucking laughed.
“Now that’s probably the smartest thing I’ve heard you say.” He glanced over. “So, who said the other thing?”
I thought about lying, but Nate actually cracking a smile was too good a chance to pass up, so I grinned back.
“V for Vendetta, Alan Moore,” I admitted.
We drove on for a little while longer. While we did, Nate talked me through loading the new shotgun. Despite my earlier dickhead reply about Call of Duty, I had to learn how to shoot. Firearms were too big of an advantage over the undead. That was one thing the Americans have over us in fighting this global shit-show. They have more experience and more bullets to use against the shambling legions of undeath. I had a great resource in Nate, so I’d be a dumb little prick not to use it.
While he drove, he talked me through popping it open—that’s called a “break action” apparently—and sliding the two cartridges into the barrels. This one was a single selective trigger, Nate said, meaning unlike the older model he shredded Patricia with that had two triggers—allowing both barrels to be blasted at the same time—this one alternately fired each barrel. Heh, look at me.
Learning, yo.
So, I loaded up the new shotgun with two shells and it was all ready to fire.
Then Particles started to lose his shit.
“The fuck is up with your dog?” demanded Nate.
I’d let Particles out of his Kuato-bag to sit on the seat with us. Obviously, he seemed outraged by this at the time, but he got on with it. Now though, it was like he was injected with crack, barking and yelping, scampering all over me with his tiny legs.
“No idea,” I answered truthfully. “I’ve been his owner for about two hours. Not exactly his homegirl for life just yet.”
Nate put the brakes on, stopping the pickup just before crossing a junction. Honestly, for a horrible second, I thought he was just going to draw his pistol and put Particles down.
“I can’t drive like this. You need to…”
The words died as a box truck whistled past the front of our pickup at about fifty, just inches away. Had Nate not stopped when he did, that big ass seven-and-a-half-ton beast would have sideswiped us. At that speed, Nate on the right in the driver’s seat would likely have been turned into a splash.
“What the….”
The box truck careened on and smashed with a bone-crunching thunder into an abandoned car parked on one side of the road.
It was an unholy mess of twisted metal, the box truck flipping to its side, the back doors cracking open as it slid to a sparking halt on the asphalt.
“Stay here,” ordered Nate, slipping out the driver’s door and palming the handgun, legs bent as he moved forward with liquid grace, perfectly primed and balanced for battle.
Damn, that always looked so bad ass.
Obviously, I disobeyed a little. I got out my door, laying the shotgun I’d been messing with on the seat. I watched Nate stalk towards the truck that had appeared out of nowhere at speed. I glanced down at Particles, who looked up from the seat expectantly.
“You are one lucky dog,” I said, turning my attention back to Nate, then whispered, “Holy shit.”
Nate had gone still. Out of the back of the box truck, bloody, shambling figures were beginning to emerge. Seriously, what the hell? Who the hell was carting zombies round in a truck? About twenty-five zeds crawled, shambled and fell out of the toppled truck, all their white eyes fixed on Nate.
Like he was shooting at a fairground range, Nate just planted his feet and went to work. Two hands on the pistol, he was steady, sure and somehow made the whole thing look easy. He didn’t rush, or maybe he made it seem like he was taking his time. I don’t know. What I do know is that the air filled with the crack of his Glock, as he started to put the mini horde down, one by one. Every shot was lethal, popping an undead melon with unerring accuracy, the bodies dropping like marionettes that had just had their strings cut. It was an honour and a privilege to see him go to work.
He popped a magazine out the pistol and switched in a new one from his tactical vest in one fluid motion, before resuming firing. Just as his gun barked into life once more, Particles let out an agitated bark of his own. As I turned to see why he was so tetchy, my eyes glanced over the rear-view mirror on the door I leaned on. My heart almost stopped.
There was a zombie only inches away from me.
Fuck, these things are so damn quiet.
Distracted by Nate’s bad-assery as he single-handed took down a mini-horde of undead, one single zombie had slowly shuffled up behind me, not making a single sound as it approached. As I caught sight of it in the mirror, it peeled back its lips revealing nicotine-stained teeth and bright red gums, an expression of hate twisting its chubby features like my very existence was an offence to it.
The guy was fat. A sliver from morbid obesity. There was a lot of weight in it and to top it off, it was wearing a really loud green and orange Hawaiian shirt. It was bad enough a fat guy had crept up on me, but a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt? Shame.
I barely had time to react as the thing lunged at me. God, that lunge is pant-shitting. It really comes at you with predatory speed.
I got my arms up in time to deflect its grasp, sliding my forearm underneath the zombie’s nine chins, across its throat and forming a makeshift brace as it snapped its rotting teeth inches from my face.
It couldn’t bite me yet, but I’m only a wee slip of a girl. I’m five-six and built to be a spider-monkey up drainpipes and jumping rooftops and ledges. I’m a tracer, not a wrestler, and even if I was I’d be a lightweight. This gigantic blob was a super heavyweight and the combination of his gargantuan girth and forward momentum with his lunge drove me back. Ultimately, it drove me down.
I could still hear the crack of Nate’s pistol as he cut down the horde, so no help was coming there. He had no damn clue I was being swallowed up by this giant blob of undead flesh.
What a way to go. If the Blob didn’t tear off my face with his smoker’s teeth, I’d either suffocate on his oozing flesh, or just be crushed under his extreme weight. I had nowhere to go, as the pickup door was behind me and it was all I could do to stop the thing biting me, as my mind fought for some solution to this absolute horror.
The weight was too much though. The pressure caused by his obesity and my balance utterly fucked from its
initial lunge, eventually I buckled and went down, the giant undead atop me and only my forearm rammed under its chin preventing those teeth from tearing chunks out of my beautiful face.
My dear reader, I was going to die. I was sure of it. An ignoble death, borne to the ground by a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt, while Nate was gunning down a horde like a boss on his own. I always thought my death would be a blaze of glory, like missing an impossible leap to a ledge and plummeting to my death to die from concrete poisoning.
Suffocated and chewed to a death by a fat guy wasn’t on my list.
My strength was giving out. Like I said, I’m only a little gal and even if this thing was still human, I’d have struggled. It wasn’t human any more though, it was a feral thing, powered by some dark force I’m sure of it. This wasn’t any virus outbreak like in the movies. This was fuelled by hate, a hate so total and absolute than only the utter destruction of my flesh would sate it. That hate gave it strength beyond the human. It was almost demonic.
I was going to die.
Then there was a sound by my head like a storm cloud tearing itself apart.
And the zombie’s head exploded.
All the pressure vanished as the detonation rattled my skull and royally fucked me in the ear drum. I couldn’t hear for shit and I was absolutely drenched in zombie… goop? Blegh. Just awful.
My head felt like it would crack open, such was the aftershock of the gunshot. Had Nate finally finished and come to my aid, seeing my struggle on the asphalt?
Heaving the headless corpse aside, I looked down at my torso. Fuck me. I was covered in zombie shards. Nasty. Spitting a piece of fat man scalp out of my mouth, I put one filthy hand to my left ear which was still deaf, the right ear muted by a dull whine, and turned to check on Particles.
The shotgun I’d loaded was lying on the seat where I’d left it, the barrels pointing out of the vehicle. A wisp of smoke ghosted from the end of one barrel, evidence of its recent firing.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 6
