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

by Meadows, Carl

  Taking one knee for a second, he listened intently. His mouth quirked a brief smile as he heard the hum of generators beyond a door at the back of the kitchen. It was locked and this time he did not bother with the picks, instead just aiming a ferocious stamp at the door. It smashed open and he descended into a thunderous basement, where four large generators were wired into the main phase of the house supply. They might be useful in the future, so he simply switched them all off, plunging the house into darkness.

  Smoothly dropping the NVG’s into place, the pitch darkness was suddenly banished by a green filter over his vision as he swept up the stairs and back into the house.

  He had no idea of the layout, so was forced to go room to room, moving swiftly and quietly, rifle up and ready, using his power over the darkness to his advantage.

  A flicker of light ahead warned Nate of someone’s approach with a small flashlight. Stepping into a shadowed alcove, he waited in silence, hearing the shaking breath of a man as he nervously edged down the darkened hallways. The light bobbed closer as the unwitting man almost panted with fear in the gloom of the night. In comparison, Nate’s heart was slow and steady, his breath controlled and even, the rifle slung round to his back as he silently slipped his knife from its sheath.

  As the flashlight came into sight in a trembling hand, Nate waited a heartbeat longer until he could see the man’s weapon. Stepping from the shadows, his left hand immediately took charge of the man’s weapon hand at the wrist and pushed it away, the knife in his right hand punching up beneath the sternum to ravage the heart. The man died without a sound, Nate disengaging the MAC-11 from his lifeless fingers and lowering the body quietly to the expensive parquet floor. He stabbed the corpse through the eye to ensure he stayed a lifeless corpse, then wiped the blade on the man’s clothing and re-sheathed it.

  Checking the man’s radio for the channel, Nate changed the one strapped to his arm, an earpiece plugged into it, and accessed the enemy communications.

  “Dave, you near the kitchen yet?” Nate quickened his step. Not Bancroft, but the voice was familiar. It was one of his captains identified when first monitoring their overeager and unimpeded radio chatter. Brodie, though whether that was a first or last name, he had no idea.

  The chatter got panicked as Dave failed to respond, until finally Brodie demanded everyone switch to the alternate channel. The radio went silent and Nate continued sweeping through the ground floor, listening at each door for signs of life. He heard movement upstairs but then as he placed an ear to a door, he heard the blurred hum of radio chatter. Slowly, he moved to the side of the door and knelt, reaching out a single hand to pull the handle, gently opening the door.

  A young man, mid-to-late twenties, a wall of blank screens in front of him, stared at a handset on the desk, listening intently to its chatter.

  Nate sidled in, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Don’t move.”

  Isaac nearly died of fright. The words were spoken softly, but in a tone that would accept nothing but absolute compliance. He wanted to put his hands up to show he was unarmed, but he was too terrified in case the voice shot him for moving.

  “Name?”

  “I-I-Issac,” he managed to choke out. “I’m not one of them!” He kept his voice a whisper.

  “Prove that?”

  “You’re Nate, right?” It had to be. Everyone else in this damn house was loud, brash and full of themselves. The voice behind him was soft, but controlled, in perfect balance. “I’m the guy that’s been moving the cameras for you and your friend! I want out of here, man; it’s fucking awful.”

  “Voice down.” Isaac immediately clamped his lips shut. “How many hostiles left, Isaac?”

  “Nine sounded off when Bancroft checked in last, before he left me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just after the explosion upstairs.”

  He was silent for a moment. “That means eight left.”

  The statement was so matter-of-fact, Isaac shivered. A man had already died on top of the two he’d executed from distance, but they were just numbers.

  “Plus Bancroft,” he whispered, overcompensating.

  “Where is he?”

  “Top floor, library,” answered Isaac. “One way in and out, no access via roof or window. All of those he’s keeping captive are in there as well.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, one of them a kid.”

  “Are all his guys with him?”

  Isaac nodded. “And his bitch wife. You’ll spot her a mile off, dolled up to the eyes like she’s going to Beverly Hills for a shopping spree. More makeup than a big top full of clowns.”

  Nate gave a low chuckle, which Isaac took as a good sign he was not about to die any time soon.

  “Alright, son, you can relax,” he said, his voice softening.

  Isaac blew out a relieved breath and swivelled his chair. He could not see anything except for a silhouette in the gloom, but the man radiated presence, even standing in the shadows.

  “What’s the alternate channel?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Nate moved in the darkness, going quiet for a time. When he spoke again, it was soft, but it still made Isaac jump.

  “I need your help, Isaac, if we’re going to save your friends.”

  “Tell me what to do,” he said instantly.

  “Good lad,” approved the warrior in the shadows. “I need you to draw some of his men away to cull the pack, so get on the blower, whispering that you’re in hiding in this room, and you can hear me moving outside the door. Sound scared.”

  “That’s not hard,” muttered Isaac. “I think I’ve already shat myself twice in the past three minutes.”

  Another amused snort. “Where’s the library?”

  “Out of here to the right, head in a straight line and you’ll get to the main hall. You’ll see the main stairs. Up those you turn left and keep heading down the hallway, then it does a ninety-degree right angle down a blind corner. About thirty feet at the end of that hall is the library door. Fair warning, I think he’s got at least one or two guys on the landing above the stairs and will probably have one round the corner you have to turn in cover. At least there was before you sent the place dark.”

  He sensed Nate regarding him and coughed a little nervously.

  “There are cameras inside as well in main corridors,” he explained. “I thought you might want to know where his guys were.”

  “That’s good work, Isaac,” said Nate, sounding genuinely impressed. The praise gave Isaac a little flush of happiness. “Quick thinking and appreciated. Okay, do your thing, then hunker down here. I’ll come get you when it’s clear.”

  Isaac nodded.

  “Give me a count of ten to get set, then earn yourself an Oscar.”

  Isaac grinned despite his nerves. He liked the old man. He scared the techie shitless of course, but he still liked him.

  Without ever being anything but a thick shadow to his eyes, the old warrior slipped out of the room and Isaac was left alone.

  As he hit ten, he gave the performance of his young life.

  Nate positioned himself at the corner, a grim statue painted black, listening with a smile as Isaac jabbered down the radio in his earpiece. It was a virtuoso performance, convincing Bancroft of Nate’s menace to Isaac’s safety. Assurance of incoming support was confirmed, and the veteran waited patiently for them to arrive.

  Running feet echoed down the hallway and the first soft glimmer of flashlights bounced from the wall opposite Nate.

  “Keep an eye out,” one man hissed, then knocked at the door. “Isaac? I’m coming…”

  His sentence never finished as Nate whipped out low on one knee, squeezing two rapid shots. The first hit the speaker in the ribs, folding him sideways as the bullet ripped through his organs, the second hitting the other man in the spine, killing him instantly. Not wanting any undead to surprise him with their reanimation, Nate advanced in a combat walk,
squeezing off two more rounds, cracking the skulls of the dead men.

  His element of surprise was gone now, but two more men were down. Six to go.

  His intention initially had been to move fast and loud, to confuse and confound with explosive aggression, maybe even blowing the oil tank at the side of the house, or the small tanker truck. Ever versatile to changing dynamics, the brainless complacency of the two men investigating the cameras, Erin’s unorthodox removal of the sniper, and the unexpected bonus of Isaac’s assistance in infiltrating the house, had allowed him to be more surgical.

  If Isaac’s intel was right, there was just Bancroft and six more goons left, and untrained henchmen at that. With their numbers savagely culled, their panic would only increase. He knew, without doubt, he could execute and pick off the remaining stragglers, but his major difficulty now was ensuring the safety of the hostages.

  A tiny nail of concern scratched at the back of his mind, wondering just where Erin was. As soon as she had neutralised the shooter on the top floor, he had moved and by the time he reached the house, she was nowhere to be found. He had not heard any other shots…

  An explosion of gunfire rattled from above, a screaming hail of bullets being spat from a sub-machine gun with the scattered whine of ricochets blended in.

  Nate accelerated, following Isaac’s instructions, closing on the rattling of rapid fire. As he reached the foot of the stairs, he peered up, his vision clear in the darkness thanks to the NVG’s. One man was facing down the hallway to the right using a doorway for cover, the flash of the SMG’s muzzle a bright sparkle in the green filter of his vision. Lifting his rifle, Nate aimed and fired in a single smooth motion, the bullet obliterating the man’s hip and he collapsed with a throat-tearing scream. A quick second round ended his agony, cracking through the crown of his skull.

  Nate ducked as another man appeared at the top of the stairs, spraying a wild field of fire in his general direction. Chips of white-painted wood rained on him as the bullets shredded the handrail and polished steps, but the man could not see where Nate was, having made himself small against the side of the staircase.

  The volley ended and Nate was about to rise and return fire when the thundering blast of an SA80 on full auto filled the space of the landing above, numerous rounds sending powdered plaster and stone into the air as they struck the whitewashed wall.

  The gunman vanished from sight, having been threaded by numerous rounds.

  “Fuck yeah!” came a familiar whoop of victory, followed by the expected volley of insults. “Off is the general direction in which you should fuck! And the crowd… goes… wild!” Then followed a hissing impression of applause, followed by a singular low chant of, “Loc-key! Loc-key! Loc-key!”

  It was neither the time, nor the place, yet still it made Nate’s mouth twitch in amusement.

  The smile was wiped by another hail of rapid-fire bullets from a sub-machine gun blasting down the opposite end of the hallway, inciting a yelped, “Fuck a duck!” from Erin as she dived for cover. Nate stalked up the centre of the stairs, waiting for the storm of bullets to abate. As the man ducked back behind cover to ram in a new clip, Nate peeled round the corner and went to one knee, his rifle aimed downrange as he waited.

  The man leaned round the corner, about to unleash another bullet-storm, but Nate calmly squeezed the trigger. The bullet blasted the man’s bicep, tearing through muscle and smashing the bone of his arm, half-severing the limb. His wail was almost inhuman as a splash of crimson spattered the white wall behind him and then Nate was moving.

  “My arm!” screamed the man. “My fucking arm!” His wails were high-pitched and chaotic, eyes only for the savaged meat attached to his shoulder. “Fucking help me, you cunts!” he roared.

  Nate slowed his walk as he heard two men hissing at the screamer to shut the fuck up, recognising one of those voices as Brodie. On reflex, Nate unclipped one of the pockets of his tactical vest and withdrew one of the flashbangs. As he reached the end of the passage, he pulled the pin and—without looking round the corner—hurled the flashbang down the corridor towards two men kneeling with sub-machine guns of their own. He heard the chattering panic of the armed thugs as the projectile skidded towards them, profanity colouring the air as Nate’s fingers pressed into his ears.

  The explosion in the narrow width of the hallway was ferocious, as a hundred and seventy decibels of thunder addled the men’s brains, combined with a seven million candela flash of light, completely overwhelming their senses.

  With the two men unable to see or think, Nate moved around the corner, rifle up, and quickly punched a round through both men with a rapid one-two. He whirled and put a bullet in the head of the screaming man so as not to leave a reanimating undead in his wake.

  “I want one of those,” said Erin cheerfully as she appeared behind him.

  “According to Isaac, there’s only Bancroft and one more left, plus his wife,” said Nate. “Six captives behind the door at the bottom of this hall.”

  “Isaac?”

  Nate quickly filled in the details of their unexpected ally.

  “Nice. That boy deserves a beer.”

  Nate nodded. “Now we’ve got an issue though,” he cautioned. “If Bancroft gets desperate, or gives up, he might just start executing people out of spite. We’ve no idea where they are in the room, he’s probably got a human shield, so if we breach fast, he might just start killing.”

  “What about that last flashbang?”

  Nate shook his head. “There’s a kid in there. Trust me, these things royally fucking scramble you. Plus, if you’re too close when they go off, they can inflict severe burns. Too much risk with more innocents than hostiles in the room.”

  “So, what then?”

  Nate lifted his rifle, cracking another two rounds into the heads of the reanimating henchmen outside the door. “We’ll have to talk.”

  Erin snorted. “Well, this should be a hoot.”

  Bancroft gripped Charlie’s shoulder with his left hand, the .357’s barrel placed against the back of the boy’s skull at a downward angle. The boom in the hall outside had been phenomenal, then three quick shots, followed by another two, signalled the end of his meagre defences.

  One old retired soldier and a smart-mouthed little bitch had ripped his kingdom apart. Bancroft had survived the end of the world, gathered all his forces in one place, and was the master of everything his gaze fell upon. Everything had been just fine until Johnny stumbled across this Lockey woman and her sugar-daddy. Since that accursed day, everything had spiralled out of control, and Jamie Bancroft was a man entirely used to control. Having it taken from him had him acting like a spoiled child, with wild fits of rage at the incompetency of his men, blaming everyone except himself.

  Johnny and Connor were both dead, and his last remaining sibling was a couple of months from his eighteenth birthday. Caleb was pale, even in the gloom of the lightless room. Flashlights were all they had to pierce the dark and under their sickly yellow glare, Caleb’s face was wan with barely disguised terror.

  His wife, Chantelle, just looked incensed rather than afraid. She had gotten used to the good life, had not been a fan of the dead rising to take over the world, but as they started to carve out their own little kingdom, she had settled into the role of a tyrant queen with aplomb.

  Now, two complete unknowns had decimated them over the course of a month. It was unfathomable and his narcissistic mind forged the illusion of him as the victim of this tale.

  “Evening, Mr. Bancroft,” said a voice outside the door.

  In a fit of pique, Bancroft raised the .357 and fired at the door, blasting a massive hole in the wood. Charlie started to cry, trying to crumple away from the monstrous thunder of the handgun, but Bancroft hauled him back up.

  “Fuck you, old man!” he spat. “You come in here and I’ll blow this kid’s head off!”

  “Nowhere to go, Bancroft,” said Nate. “All your men are dead. It’s just you, so you let the
kid and the others go, and I’ll let you walk out of here. You have my word.”

  Bancroft barked a bitter laugh. “Your word? Oh, well that’s fine then!” he said, the words dripping with scorn.

  “What are your other options, Mr. Bancroft? There’s no way out of that room and the lives of those people in there are the only thing keeping you alive. My goodwill is all you have left.”

  “I could ruin your fucking day and paint my walls with this kid’s brains.”

  “And if you do that, I will come in there like the devil himself, that I can promise you.”

  The words were without heat, just a statement of cold fact, and Bancroft swallowed a dry lump of fear. He could not show the unease he felt, not with all the hostages looking at him. He had to be in control. Had to be.

  “I’ll make you a deal, old man,” said Bancroft. “Me, my wife, and my brother walk out of here, and we’ll keep the kid as collateral. Once we’re in a vehicle, I’ll let the kid go.”

  “Mr. Bancroft, let me be clear,” said Nate, an edge creeping into his voice. “The young boy is staying in that room. I’m not letting you walk him anywhere. You haven’t earned my trust as yet. Your little display outside the gate doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Jamie, let’s just go,” said Caleb in a shaking voice. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Caleb,” ordered Jamie. “Whose fucking side are you on?”

  “We’ve already lost Johnny and Connor.” Caleb and Connor had always been close, and the youngest of the four had always idolised his hero soldier brother. Connor’s death had hit the boy hard.

  “That mother fucker out there killed Connor,” hissed Bancroft. “And you want to trust him?”

  “Soldiers die in war,” said Nate from beyond the door. “Every death has been regrettable, but you turned a Taliban-fighting hero into a criminal and a killer. All the deaths are on your head, Bancroft. All you had to do was leave us be.”