Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel]

by Meadows, Carl

  He didn’t say another word after that, finally walking away from a losing battle.

  We didn’t need to talk to this guy, and it was vital we didn’t give anything away regarding the captives, in case he used them against us. The illusion had to remain that this whole situation had devolved entirely from that single chance conflict with his brother. Bancroft couldn’t know of our knowledge regarding his location, his effective manpower, or that there were captives we wanted to help.

  They were the three aces in our hand, and when we showed them, we’d make damn sure he was all-in.

  August 15th, 2010

  TO ZOMBIE, OR NOT TO ZOMBIE, THAT IS THE QUESTION

  Nate thinks we should start stepping it up now, take advantage of Bancroft’s twitchiness and erratic temper, so yesterday we finally went to recon the compound.

  I’ve given it this grandiose name, but in truth it’s just a massive house with an eight-foot high perimeter wall, standing on its own at the end of a country lane. I’m sure it’s bloody marvellous for avoiding wandering hordes of undead; the nearest neighbouring house has to be at least a half mile away. As a tactical position against living, thinking people however, it’s useless. Good for us, not so much for Bancroft.

  There’s a bit of space around the walls, but the land is quite up-and-down and absolutely chock full of trees, so Nate and I managed to not only get close to the house, but we actually had elevation so we could just stare down into the compound with Shooty McFuckface’s binoculars.

  The house is huge, has to be a million quid minimum, which Nate says is a bit of an ass if we have to breach with just two of us, because it’s likely a maze in there. There are a number of outbuildings as well, like an extra guesthouse, as well as what was probably an old barn that’s been converted into some kind of living space, plus a massive triple garage and what looks like some kind of workshop. After a full day’s observation, we’ve pretty much got the layout.

  The big barn thing? I’m going to use this term, and I don’t like it, but it’s accurate. That’s the slave quarters. As it got closer to evening, a string of six women were led out under guard from that barn and into the main house. My stomach twists at the thought, so I’m not going to write what my gut says is going on, but the posture of those poor women told me everything I needed to know, and none of which I liked.

  We think the guesthouse off to the right is where Bancroft’s top men get to live. Their own space, and from his early days on the radio before they got smart to us earwigging, Nate identified three main “captains” that most of the grunts deferred to. That’s a viable target, as is the big white oil tank at the back of the house. We could also see the little tanker Mark was driving parked to one side

  The rest of the grunts appear to live in the main house, so I guess one of the wings has been set up as a kind of barracks, where they live communally. That’s just educated guesswork though. And not from me, from Nate. Shit, I don’t think like that. I’m letting the spec-op guy do the thinking.

  “That house is a problem,” Nate said. “It’s too big and completely unknown. There could be nooks and crannies we know nothing about, multiple exits from rooms that could have us flanked, we could run down a blind alley and get stuck.” He clicked his tongue. “Without a layout, we can’t even think of going in there, especially with only a team of two, one of which is demented.”

  “I resemble that remark,” I replied. “So, what do we do? What’s the first plan of action?”

  “We can’t hit this place yet,” he said. “They’ll lock it down and their numbers are still too high. The only way we could even the balance is to use the undead.”

  I turned my head slowly to Nate, not quite sure what he meant.

  “What do you mean, ‘use the undead?’ Fancy clearing that one up?”

  “Remember that box truck after we first found your rodent?”

  “He’s a dog, Nate, and yes, I do.”

  Nate nodded. “Full of undead. What if we did the same? Caught a bunch of stragglers, loaded up a box truck, reversed that thing through their gates and spilled the dead into their compound. That would even the field.”

  I was horrified. “Absolutely fucking not!” I choked.

  Nate raised an eyebrow. “It’s a good tactic. It would be absolute bedlam in there.”

  “There are innocents in there as well, Nate,” I protested. “They could get killed.”

  “That’s always a risk, but there’s risk in bullets flying as well.”

  “Yes, in a firefight, or a breach, they could get hurt, but they would be accidental, Nate. Shitty, guilt-inducing, impossible to live with, but accidental. The undead are a complete wildfire we’d have no control over. If a stray bullet catches a captive, that’s shitty and heartbreaking, but we have an element of control over what we do to try and minimise that. Once the undead are let go, there’s no calling them back, there’s no directing their attack. It’s just chaos.”

  “We’re outnumbered more than ten-to-one, they’re the defenders, and they know the grounds and the house. We’re at a major disadvantage.”

  “Then we find another way,” I said, refusing to move on this issue. “A smarter way. Shit, there were twenty-nine not so long ago, but there’s twenty-two now after we took down Shooty McFuckface and the six at the petrol station. Let’s take them piecemeal.”

  “Shooty Mc…?” Nate gave me a bewildered look. “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said, waving it away. “Look, if we unleash the undead into that compound and an innocent gets bitten or killed by one, that’s no accident, Nate. We would have done that, and those deaths would be entirely our fault.” I shook my head vigorously. “This is our world, Nate, and they’re the invaders. I’m not willingly giving the undead another legion of followers by our hand. We’re meant to be taking the world back from them, not adding to their army.”

  “That’s not a fight we can win,” murmured Nate.

  “Fuck you, Negative Nancy,” I said, jaw set. “Just because we might not win, doesn’t mean we don’t try to. Just because we might not be able to achieve perfection isn’t a viable excuse for not trying. No, I’m not giving up my humanity by surrendering others to the undead, no matter how much of a shitbag they are. I’m not letting the part of me die that makes being alive worthwhile.”

  Nate was quiet for a time, saying nothing, resuming his observation while I silently seethed beside him. If we assaulted them, yes, killing shots that weren’t to the head raised a zombie that would need dealing with, and yes, those singular undead could draw fire for a time. I accept that. Someone dying from anything other than a brain-destroying wound will stand back up. That’s our new reality. That’s the world we live in now.

  But driving a truck full of undead—already in that monstrous state—through those gates, just to let them run amok?

  Hell no.

  That equates to pushing people off a boat circled by blood-hungry sharks, just because you don’t like them. We have to be better than that.

  “I know undead will rise with every man we take down,” I said finally, the silence becoming unbearable. “But I can’t do what you’re suggesting, Nate. I just can’t.”

  He exhaled in a long breath, like an extended sigh.

  “I know, kid,” he said softly. “We’ll find another way.”

  And just like that, he accepted it and we moved on, saying no more about it.

  You know, Nate confuses me like no person I’ve ever met. He’s so fucking complicated, like there’s two very different versions of him, existing at the same time. On one hand, he’s cold and practical, unflinching as undead lunge and bullets fly, never getting stressed, always ice cool. Sometimes, like with his zombie truck plan, he can seem downright heartless.

  Then there’s the other side of him, the one desperately trying to get out. Under that stone exterior beats the heart of a good and honest man, one who has been forced to make hard choices and will continue to make hard choices, even though
it might cause him pain. I’ve seen those flashes of warmth, of compassion, in just the little things. He might rage and flail his arms in frustration at me, but he knows I can take it, and let’s face facts, I usually deserve it.

  Freya needs handling differently, and at times he’s painfully gentle with her, even in the tone of voice he uses in her presence. When Freya’s around, Nate radiates this presence that just makes you feel safe.

  God, he’s a pain in my arse, but I’m damned if I don’t love that grumpy old shit.

  “Piecemeal, you said, huh,” said Nate after a while, dragging me from my wild and random thoughts. Have you ever noticed how the word ‘bed’ actually looks like a bed?

  Mind. Blown.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “They have to come out. Let’s make every journey out seem like a really hard decision to make. Remember, Mark said they did the fuel run every two weeks? We’re coming up on that.”

  Nate nodded. “I’m thinking the same. We can’t let them know we have their home location though, so no doing it in the vicinity. It’ll be harder now as they’ll plan everything offline, and their radio chatter will just be updates, using words like ‘target’ and referring to timelines. They’ll want to keep details dark so we can’t set up ahead of them.”

  “They also won’t want to go far,” I offered. “They’ll want reinforcements able to get there quickly. Next time they won’t take any bait. They’ll hold position and wait for backup.”

  Nate’s mouthed quirked a brief smile. “You’re thinking like a soldier, kid.” It was almost something like pride. I got a bit of a kick out of it. “QRF we call it; quick reaction force.”

  “QRF, got it.” I nodded. “Here’s where we have an advantage then. I know this little town like the back of my hand, so I can narrow the list of potential targets they’ll likely consider. There’s no way they’ll go back to the same one.”

  “I think they will.”

  I frowned at that. “They know, that we know, that’s where they fill up. Why would they go back there?”

  “Geographically, it’s still the closest to them,” said Nate. “Their QRF can be there in ten minutes max, judging by the last response. However, last time they were comfortable, and would likely have had to quickly assemble a QRF. Shave two or three minutes off for headless chicken mode, and they could have a QRF here in, say, seven minutes. Anywhere else is going to be longer, right?”

  I nodded. “It’d be an extra five minutes minimum to the next nearest station.”

  “There you go then,” nodded Nate. “Every minute counts and right now, they’re on the back foot. This time, they’ll roll out with a slightly larger force, because they’re paranoid, and their QRF will be ready to go at a moment’s notice. So, we need to watch both locations. I’m going to spend tomorrow scouting the area for perches and set some up that I can fire from and displace to. When we go live, you’ll be in this spot, watching what goes on here, letting me know when the QRF leave and in what strength.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  Nate placed the binoculars back to his face and stared back at the compound.

  “Kill as many as I can,” he breathed.

  I love the guy, but man, am I fucking glad I’m on his team.

  August 19th, 2010

  DOOR NUMBER NINE

  Nate is a fucking one-man army. I keep saying it, but I’m glad I play for Team Carter. I would not want this wily, deadly old bastard on the opposite side of the field to me. I’m so lucky he found me, not just because he rescued me from that creepy old farmer’s rape dungeon, but because I doubt I’d have gotten this far without him. I’m forever learning new skills and modes of thinking required to survive in these rotten times, and that training really came in handy. Special Operator Locke, at your service. Oh, what a tale to tell.

  I have officially entered the Badass Hall of Fame.

  If Bancroft was hot with rage before, he’ll be an inferno now. Yesterday did not play out well for him. At all.

  Mark’s intel of every two weeks was absolutely spot on. Yesterday they rolled out in force, and just like Nate guessed, they went back to the same familiar spot. In the two days leading up to that though, Nate and I had been hard at work.

  I know the area and I walked Nate around it, listening for what he wanted and needed, and showing him a few different places, as well as routes he could take between those sites. We did some serious work too, clearing a few buildings of undead, which gave me valuable room clearance time, as well as live firing of the SA80 and the Glock I now carried. All the while, Nate teaches, patient as hell, giving me a verbal swat when my focus wobbles, and getting me back on track.

  He’s a brilliant teacher, phrasing things in a manner that makes it easy to understand, rather than barraging me with military-lingo all the time. He teaches me that as well, so I can understand him in a pinch should he instinctively switch to that language in a hot situation.

  So, why clear buildings?

  Well, some of them are long lines of terrace houses, small independent shops, that kind of stuff. They all have joining walls and we took a sledgehammer to some of them, making holes between the buildings so Nate could displace to another location without stepping outside.

  We removed some fence panels so he could then escape out back without having to struggle over obstacles, ending up out the back of a block of flats. Not massive, only three floors with four flats on each—so twelve in total—but it was the tallest building in sight of the petrol station and Nate wanted to use it. Of course, that meant having to go into that apartment block and clear it of undead. Nate couldn’t very well settle himself into a sniper perch, only to be blindsided by the dead.

  Every single one of those flats had undead in them, and every single one of them was a horror story that’s going to haunt me till the end of my days. Remember how I wondered at the awful stories behind all those closed doors as we passed them by?

  They’re worse than I could ever have imagined.

  The ground floor residents were similar stories. The lower apartments were all populated by the elderly and they just broke my heart. Not because they were now the walking dead, but because of the terrible circumstances that led to their end.

  I always saw commercials on TV about how loneliness for the elderly, going for weeks at a time with no social contact, was a rising problem. The evidence of that isolation was heart wrenching.

  One old lady we found was naked and sliding around on her belly in the bathroom, the door closed when we got to it. One leg wouldn’t work and after Nate put her to permanent rest, even his hard exterior took a wobble. The poor woman must have slipped coming out of the shower and busted her hip, hence why the undead version of her couldn’t rise from its belly. Nobody came to check on her, nobody wondered why they hadn’t heard from her in a while, and this poor old lady had died a long, suffering death, in terrible pain. Cold and alone.

  The fact she was taking a shower suggested the water was still running, which means she might have even died in the days before the world was cursed with the plague of undeath.

  Nobody came for her. Nobody.

  Fucking hell, that’s so damn sad, it hurts.

  The whole bottom floor was a collection of old, lonely, isolated individuals. All of them widows or widowers, as there were black and white pictures of weddings, and later colour ones. Some of them had kids judging from the pictures, grandkids as well, so where were they? I have to hope—in some twisted way—it was because they couldn’t come, because they were already dead, victims of the undead pestilence choking the world.

  Because if I think, for one minute, that they chose not to come, to leave their elderly parent to their fate and write them off as a loss, I think any faith in humanity I still have will die.

  Shit, just writing this stuff depresses me. I’m just a happy-go-lucky person, and sadness—real sadness, not just, “a bit mopey,” sadness, I’m talking real tragedy—cuts me deeper than I ever knew. Nate could sense it
, could see the desolation in my heart change my whole demeanour, and that big old teddy bear side of him reared itself again.

  “I can do the rest, kid,” he said, his gravelled voice impossibly tender. “Don’t put yourself through it.”

  But I shook my head. This is our world that they took from us. Every person was a story, so many of them forgotten or never heard, but I somehow felt it was my duty to see it all. To feel it all. I was still human in an inhuman world, and just like I said to Nate, I couldn’t let any of this kill the part of me that made being alive worthwhile. Life isn’t one great bouncy castle to jump around on. Life is also hard, it’s bitter, it’s maddening, and it’s tragic.

  We don’t just get to enjoy the good times. That’s the grand cosmic irony of life, I think. For you to ever truly know the value of happiness, first you have to know sadness. To appreciate the quiet, first you have to endure the noise. To value the presence of those you love, first you have to feel the emptiness their absence leaves in its wake. Everything in life has a cost, just as death is the final price for your time on this earth.

  So, I shook my head at Nate.

  “No, Nate,” I said, struggling with the knot of emotion twisting my insides. “I have to do this. I have to.” The words weren’t for him, even though I spoke them aloud. They were for me, telling my traitorous heart it had to hold the line.

  He just nodded, as if he understood. He doesn’t push, not when he knows it’s something I simply have to do. I’m rarely serious, so when my mood takes a turn as dark as this one did, Nate lets me deal with it my way.

  Amazing how much someone can do for you, how much they can understand what you need, by actually doing nothing except be there. Knowing he was by my side, that he had my back no matter what, was enough.