It’s far easier to kill an undead. They just go down silently. They don’t scream for their mothers or beg for help from their so-called friends. They don’t weep and plead and wail.
This was quickly turning into carnage. When shit hits the fan with undead, it goes from zero to sixty in “holy shit.” In their panic to get away from, and deal with, the undead, I was briefly forgotten. The two in the cab were dead… well… undead. The Man with No Kidney had clearly savaged another, I’d scrambled the guts of another man.
Three of them were left, and they broke for it.
I’m not proud of what I did next, but it was the only way. Our job was to thin the herd and as they thundered up that bumpy road in terror, I took aim at one man’s back, breathed in and out, and at the end of the exhale, squeezed the trigger.
A bullet cut through his back. Where it hit, I was certain it was a death blow, doubtless suffering some spectacular ballistic trauma to a lung.
I took pot shots at the other two, but they went high or wide. I’m not good at distance shooting yet. Lots more practice needed, I think.
The savaged man had no relief, utterly murdered by the zombie with no kidney, and the two of them fell on the man I’d gutted with a bullet. Honestly, it was probably a mercy. I always read that gut wounds can be agonising and slow. I’d rather put down a zombie than a screaming man begging for help, or mercy.
It went very quiet, save for the echo of Nate’s distant gun battle and the wet grinding of flesh between undead teeth.
Rising from my little hidey hole, I took steady aim as I combat-walked towards the truck. The two roamers turned towards me, but I had plenty of space and time to take aim and pop their melons. Then 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 proper conversation, not one for me to go “full Lockey,” on Bancroft.
The radio crackled into life, bang on noon.
“I’m here.”
That was it. No threats, no heat in his voice. Just a hollow statement.
“As are we,” replied Nate.
“You’re the old soldier, huh? Keep that mouthy bitch off the line this time, so the adults can talk.”
I wrapped my hand around Nate’s just to press the talk button and spat out a quick sentence before he pulled it away from me.
“I’m still here, you rampant spunk-trumpet.”
Impulse control issues, remember?
Nate shook his head and I settled back down.
“I think we can both agree, Mr Bancroft” said Nate, staring daggers at me. “This situation can’t go on.”
“On that we do agree,” answered King Shit. “And there should be restitution on your part.”
&n
bsp; Well, Nate did not like that at all.
“Elaborate,” was all he said. Such economy of words at times.
“This all started when you murdered my brother,” said Bancroft. “Then you murdered another of my men and stole from me. Then you murdered more of my people at the petrol station, with cold-hearted entrapment and ambush. Then you attack us again on two fronts; while we’re trying to resupply to keep the lights on, and then you came to my home and committed murder on my property. Nate, is it? Well, Nate, it seems to me that all the killing has been done on your side of the fence. As an extra, you’ve now killed two of my kin, as my brother Connor was killed when you hit our fuel run. You know he served in Iraq? He’d only been back three months before all this went down. Survived the Taliban but killed by an old veteran. It’s a cruel world.” His voice hardened over the airwaves, sounding like he was speaking with a clenched jaw. “But it’s made more cruel by Connor being killed by one of his own.”
Nate absorbed all this in silence, and if the death of a fellow soldier at his hand pained him, he gave nothing away. He let Bancroft sit in silence for a good thirty seconds, staring into space. Then he clicked the mic.
“First up, I gave your ape brother a chance to walk away,” said Nate, dispassionate. “He chose to draw, and I defended myself. Let’s not gloss over the threats he made to my friend, which were less than tasteful.”
Nate left that with Bancroft for a second, but kept his hand clamped over the talk button. The airwaves were his right now.
“Second up, your man on the court building opened fire on a vehicle we were travelling in, with intent to kill. It was unlikely he knew it was us, as it was not at the scene where your brother’s friends were present. So, unless your man went rogue, he was under your orders to take no chances, and take any unknowns down. That is not the act of a reasonable leader if that’s the case, but a despot. If he was rogue, then we were within our rights to defend ourselves. It became very clear to Erin and I, from listening to your radio chatter and your obvious thirst for blood that your actions displayed, that we had to take the initiative against you.”
“By killing innocent men?”
Nate shocked even me then, as he laughed down the mic.
“Innocent?” Nate looked genuinely amused by Bancroft’s hard-faced claim of his men being innocent. “Your dogs follow your orders, for whatever scraps you choose to feed them. A man always has a choice, Mr. Bancroft, and your men chose to terrorise innocent people, hoard resources, and kill on command.”
“You mean like soldiers?” said Bancroft in a lofty tone.
“I see what you’re trying, but I’m not biting. Our leaders had to be held accountable for their choices, but I’m not going to debate philosophy with a man who keeps slaves, forcing women to be items of property that get used and abused at a whim. Don’t try and pat your pockets of morality, Mr. Bancroft, for they are empty, and your accusations are little more than blanks in your gun of superiority. They make a loud bang, but they can’t hurt me.”
I don’t know how he did it, but somehow Nate made saying “Mr. Bancroft” thoroughly disrespectful, like he was using the formal address in an ironic way. Nate’s got some skills, yo.
There was silence for a time, the three of us waiting patiently. Well, Nate and Freya waited patiently. Patience isn’t one of my virtues, so I was as jumpy as a one-legged cat trying to piss on a frozen lake. I really hated this guy. He was rotten at the core.
It was a good couple of minutes before the handset crackled into life again. It sounded like Bancroft was outside from the ambient noise around him.
“Make a lot of noise, do I?”
There was a challenge to Bancroft’s tone. That cold voice was back, the one that spoke when the demon in him awakened, and I couldn’t help but feel a chill of foreboding.
“Open it,” he said to someone, leaving the mic open. Immediately, there were sounds of panic. “Those two.”
The three of us shared horrified glances. Freya’s hand went to her mouth, my fists bunched and teeth ground against each other, whilst Nate’s jaw tightened.
“Seeing as how you killed so many of my people, I guess we won’t need as many whores to keep their dicks wet at night, eh?” The screaming intensified, unintelligible pleading coming through the handset, before a single gunshot made Freya and I blanch. Nate took a long breath, his eyes closing for a second. When they re-opened, they were hooded and dark.
I flinched again at the second shot.
“You took two of my brothers, I’ve taken two of your precious slaves,” he hissed. “And you know what, I think I might just take a few more. After all, I’m a little behind your body count.”
“A man’s choices define him, Mr. Bancroft,” breathed Nate, his voice so soft. Despite the heat of the summer day, I shivered. “Today, you’ve made yours. Now I’ll make mine.”
“And what choice is that, Nate?” he spat in response, draping the old warhorse’s name in scorn.
Nate paused only a moment, but that brief silence was heavy with dark promise. Then he clicked the mic, pressing the handset to his mouth.
“Board up your windows, lock all your doors, load every weapon you own, then hide in the basement, Mr. Bancroft,” he whispered, cold and hard like a tombstone. “Because I’m coming for you.”
And switched the radio off.
August 22nd, 2010
MISSION PREP
I’ve never seen Nate so driven. He spent the rest of yesterday and most of today preparing. Cleaning weapons, setting up our loadout, going through a basic plan.
Tonight, we’re going after Bancroft.
Yep, you read that right. Tonight.
In the dark.
I’m pretty fearless all told, but everything has been done in daylight thus far. The thought of moving in the dark scares the shit right out of my arse, and not because the dark bothers me. What bothers me is how silent the undead are. In the gloom, we won’t see shit until one of those hungry bastards is atop us.
Nate reckons we’ll be fine, because the zombies can’t move stealthily, so any that come near us will crackle and rustle through the trees, but I’m not so convinced. I don’t like this one bit.
There are two primary goals to the mission; Bancroft’s death, and securing the captives, if he hasn’t already executed them. Neither of us have seen Machete’s crew in the hits we’ve done, which is a good thing. That suggests Bancroft is down to the dregs of his force, with probably only one or two solid fighters left. Judging by how panicky the QRF force got when I hit them and the undead stood up, what he’s got left are a bunch of street thugs that will have guns shoved in their hands, and probably won’t be able to hit a barn door from ten feet away. Still, even broken clocks are right twice a day; one lucky shot, intended or not, can still flick our switch.
As usual, Nate has a plan for this. Panic is everything, so he uses this term called “violence of action.” It’s all out speed, strength, surprise, and overwhelming aggression to dominate an enemy. It’s fast, loud, and fucking mean, designed to incite panic. We know the outdoors layout, so we can plan for that.
I say “we.”
Nate pulled out his ace-in-the-hole. I didn’t even bloody know about this.
Son of a bitch has a set of NVG’s. You know, night vision goggles? The ones you see in movies where everything is green? He’s only got one set and when I asked him about them, he just shrugged, saying he was always prepared for something.
I swear, if Nate is an end-of-the-world prepper, I’m going to kick him in the balls.
We’re leaving in about an hour and this old bastard looks ready to take on the Taliban himself. He’s all in black—which in fairness is his Sunday best anyway—with a black beanie and those NVG’s on his head. His tactical vest and combat trousers are loaded up with magazines and clips for the SA80 and Glock. He’s painted his face black, he’s got these fancy gloves that give him unerring grip—Nomex or something like that—his vicious miniature swo
rd he calls a “knife,” and a look on his face that scares the crap out of me.
And his final piece de resistance?
Son of a bitch has two frag grenades, and two flashbangs.
What the actual fuck?
Hell, I’m only going as backup. Nate says he’s doing the compound alone and honestly, the way he looks, I’m letting him. I like to think of myself as a bad-ass, but I don’t know what I’m doing in there, and will likely get myself killed, or worse, get him killed. I don’t have his equipment, his training, or experience, so I’m accepting “sidekick” status just this once.
I’ve got two jobs with my athleticism and sneakiness.
First, I sneak down to where all those external cameras are on the four corners, and I spray them with black paint. Graffiti for the win. We don’t know what they’ve got internally, so there are probably some around the house, but when he kicks off, I go over the wall and get to that converted barn where the women are being kept and secure them, protecting them against all comers.
I asked for a grenade in case shit got real.
Nate answered with his expression.
No grenade for Lockey tonight. Boo.
Nate’s first targets will make things go boom. Chaos, panic, mayhem. Then when he gets in the house, he’ll aim for the power, switch it off, go all NVG, then hunt Bancroft down like the Predator in his own house.
Scary stuff.
I’m trembling with anticipation, so I’m going to sign off and get my head in the game.
Wish us luck, dear reader, for tonight, we aim to topple Turd Mountain.
Lockey out.
A PARTICULAR SET OF SKILLS
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 21
