by Carl Meadows
Freya, you cannot sustain melee combat with the undead in any kind of number. You just can’t, but some of these idiots had watched too many zompoc movies. Human muscles and lungs get tired, brains are flooded with adrenaline, decision making is impaired, and weapons get lodged in skulls. There are so many things that can go against you in the midst of all that chaos. Added to this, most of these madmen weren’t exactly prime physical specimens with a solid fitness regime.
The undead, however, are tireless, relentless, and possess a singular purpose.
Kill everyone.
Other roving groups of bastards seemed to be using this new lawless existence to exact personal vendettas, kicking in doors of houses to beat someone to death who may have pissed them off at some point, or other vile acts, as the terrified screams of women only served to highlight.
Based on what I saw on that estate that first dreadful afternoon, if this is some kind of divine judgment, then quite frankly we fucking deserve it. Base, animal instincts were at the fore and we clearly failed our first test, as humanity resorted to selfish acts, brutality, and the sating of darker urges that would usually be hidden away from normal sight. With no threat of punishment from the cops, public order disintegrated in a frenzy of violence and horror.
It was at that point I realised that wherever I might run to, I would likely see more of the same. I couldn’t stay near people while the collapse was in full force, so I needed to get somewhere that people would be running from and not towards. That’s when my old high school came to mind.
If it wasn’t already empty, the school likely would be soon as it was near the end of their day. The main building on campus was three floors tall, it had a canteen that might have some food in (even if there were only some vending machines) and it might have a usable vehicle or two abandoned there I could use when shit calmed down. Honestly, I just needed to get somewhere I could just sit for a moment and think. Everything was just noise.
It was half a mile to the school from where I was, but it was an urban run. Violence was erupting all over the estate, so I’d have to be vigilant, smart, and fast. I knew the place pretty well, so I kept to the smallest paths and back alleys. Council estates, if you know them well, have little paths linking the various clustered rows of housing, allowing you to stay clear of the main thoroughfare for large stretches. I kept to those as much as I could, despite not being the fastest route to my ultimate destination. The last thing I needed was a bunch of armed wankers spotting a lone woman and thinking her an easy victim, as they toured the estate in their ten-year old Renault Clio with flashy rims and large-bore exhaust in an attempt to make the crappy little hatchback sound like an American muscle car.
I was just about to hit the last leg of my odyssey. Halfway down one of these narrow alleys, three guys in hoodies, baseball caps, and knock-off tracksuits turned into the alley at the far end, stopping as they laid eyes on me. They were somewhere between eighteen and twenty-years old max, skinny in their ballooning oversized hoodies, with hardly enough facial hair to make even an attempt at a single beard between all three of them.
I didn’t want to go back, as the only other route from here was gambling on main thoroughfares. My only realistic way was through them if I hoped to find some kind of shelter before it started going dark. The longer I was out in all this madness, the higher the chance of getting killed.
The creepy little boys looked me up and down like I was a hunk of meat on the spike in a kebab shop, licking their lips in greasy anticipation. They didn’t say anything initially, but they shared that unspoken hungry look between them, nodding to each other that yes, they did think what the others were thinking. They were all taller than me, and no doubt had come to the unanimous unspoken conclusion that this little dark-haired girl, just five and a half feet tall, would be an easy takedown. In their arrogance, they thought they didn’t need the hammers and screwdrivers they carried for weapons, so they were held low and unready as they advanced in a line towards me, licking scabby lips in anticipation of what was to come. I mean, three young men against one helpless little girl. It would be a nice little distraction for them, eh?
Oh, Icarus, fly not too near the sun my child, lest thy waxy wings should melt.
In other words, “You’re about to get a kicking, bell end.”
Contrary to the world of stories in books and movies, fights are not long and protracted, with blows being traded back and forth, and heroic second winds allowing the good guy to rise from the jaws of almost certain defeat. When you’re in a fight for your life, there’s only one thing that matters, and that’s winning. Hit fast, fight dirty, and end it quick.
Not expecting little old me to have more than ten years of mixed martial arts under my belt, I waited for them to get up close, affecting the look of paralysing terror that they expected to see from a woman. It made them feel strong, in control, and relaxed. As they got within around six feet of me, my expression changed as I full on roared at them with all my fury and exploded into motion.
That brief second of hesitation as I screamed at them, freezing them in surprise, was all I needed. I smashed my right fist into the central thug’s Adam’s apple as it makes an inviting and sensitive target, and if you get throat-punched, you aren’t doing shit afterwards. Also, if you know how to punch properly, you can royally shit on their day. Punch through the target, not at them.
The guy stumbled back a few steps before collapsing to his knees, hands clawing at his neck as he desperately tried to breathe. Without pause, while the other two stood shocked by the explosive attack, I used their slack-jawed bewilderment to hit them both simultaneously. I put my hands on the chest of the guy on the right, shoving him into the wall with all my might to keep him off balance, while smashing my left heel down on to the other guy’s toes, crunching the fragile digits to dust. His yelp hit a pitch only nearby dogs would hear and that was the end of his afternoon. Hell, think of the pain when you stub your little toe, or stand on a Lego brick in bare feet. I’d just smashed down with all my strength and weight into a small point containing little flesh and tiny bird bones, protected only by the thin material of a dirty knock-off Nike trainer. It was like smashing his flimsy little digits with a bone jackhammer, and none of those little piggies were going to market after that.
These guys were thugs, not real fighters with any form of training, and the overwhelming violence of action (one of Nate’s favourite sayings) I imposed on them hadn’t even let them gather their less-than-average wits in those opening couple of seconds. One guy was on his knees trying to suck oxygen into a smashed throat, another was down howling at a high frequency while holding his toe dust, while the third was pushed into a wall and off balance.
As an abject lesson and punishment for their intended crime, I hit the last guy spread against the wall with a sweeping upward arc of my right foot between his legs like a Steven Gerrard thunderbolt, kicking his balls hard enough that I half-expected to see three Adam’s apples appear in his throat.
He went down without a sound. Men make a special kind of face when their balls are smacked with that kind of force. Their lungs empty of air so there’s no sound, and their face gets twisted in a mangled expression of disbelief and horror, as though someone has just surprise rammed a barbed dildo into their rectum using a mallet. It’s the kind of face that suggests they’d rather be dead than feel that special kind of pain.
I know this for a fact because this was not my first scrotum kick. I have multiple points of data gathered through the years to prove my hypothesis. Science, yo.
The three thugs were down in as many seconds. Leaving the three little pigs to choke, squeal, and silently pray for death respectively, I left them to their shared misery. Stepping over their choking, crying forms, I picked up the pace and hit full sprint.
I finally made it to a fence that ran along the back of the school, hopped it, and made my way towards the nearest entrance. There were still a lot of students milling in the car park, probably ha
ving been told by parents to wait until they were collected, but I could see that some bad shit had already gone down in the school. Some kids were carrying injuries, some had blood on them that wasn’t theirs, accompanied by the blasted stares of those trying to make sense of horrors they had witnessed.
“Oh shit, what if some of those injuries they’re carrying are bites,” was my immediate thought. I did not want to be anywhere near these teenagers if they started dying and reanimating. There were no zombies in the car park yet, but I emphasise the word “yet.”
Nobody really took any notice of me as I wandered past them towards the language and mathematics building. I’m quite youthful looking and small in stature, so at a glance I probably looked like a Sixth Form student, especially as I had a backpack strapped to me. I drew a few stares when it looked like I intended to enter the school, as every other student and teacher remaining were outside milling at the fire assembly point in the car park, waiting for parents to collect them, or hoping emergency services would arrive. They never would.
Well, most of the teachers were outside. As I headed towards the doors, a combined look of warning and bewilderment from an older man near the entrance made me spin on my heel and find my way to the rear of that particular block. Spying an open window on the top floor right next to a solid metal pipe bolted to the brick, I had a quick glance left and right, then pipe-climbed to the top floor, leaned over, grabbed the edge of the window, transferred to the thin ledge, and shimmied my way into the classroom I would call home for a few days.
I watched the horror unfold as Mrs. Thomson-Smythe careened through the gates and set off the shitstorm in the car park as she tragically mowed down her own kid and a few others. Some other kids succumbed to bites as I suspected they would, who then turned and attacked their classmates, and just like that, the apocalypse was in full flow at the school.
I started writing two days after that, so I know now that I started writing on June 25th. Why did I start to write? My head was royally up my arse after day one, and with only my own company, I was going a little mental. I had nobody to talk to, nobody to call for help, and the only people left in the school were zombified.
I figured that maybe if I started writing shit down, it would help me to try and bring some order back to my thinking, so I acquired some school notebooks from another classroom on my floor with some pens, and started what would become this, my chronicle of Lockey versus the Apocalypse.
I look back now and have to let out a grim laugh. I was out of my fucking mind in those early days. I can be hyperactive, a fact I think you’re familiar with now, Freya. But shit, reading back those first entries from when I was still at the school, putting my crazy nervous energy into trying to make it some kind of hilarious Shaun of the Dead escapade, I can look back now with clear vision and see just how messed up I was.
It wasn’t until Nate came on the scene that I started to level out. As my journal continues, I’m still there with my usual hilarity (shut up, I AM hilarious) but there is a level of clear-headed calm that begins to seep in, as I take in just what a fucked up world we live in now.
In more ways than one, Nate has saved me. It wasn’t just his initial appearance rescuing me from the deprivations of that would-be rapist farmer, it’s the clarity and calm he’s brought to my mental wellbeing that’s had the greatest impact.
Huh. Most people go to church to find their saviour. Me? I just go and chat to the grumpy old marine in his rocking chair in the next room.
Love that guy.
Whew. That was an epic tale of action, suspense, and apocalyptic philosophy, but I’m glad it’s done. I think that was the last piece of notable Lockey history I needed to record. Having this injury - and thus having bugger all to do - has allowed me the time and space to get it down.
As of tomorrow, however, I am back on the roster. Nate and I are going to do our test run beyond the gate to see how the undead are reacting to me, and to set Operation Birthday into motion. Time’s ticking on that clock as the 27th gets ever closer.
I won’t lie, I’m a bit nervous after all the undead tomfoolery (I said I was bringing that word back) of recent weeks. But I’m excited at the same time. I hate sitting on my arse and tomorrow, my lovely Freya, Lockey versus the Apocalypse is back on.
Bring it.
OCTOBER 18th, 2010
THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS
I am pleased to announce that Nate and I are not dead.
Yesterday was my first journey beyond the gate since pulling Nate’s ass out the fire and wrecking my back muscle, and it felt awesome to be gearing up with him again. Equipment and weapons checking, Norah confirming we’d eaten and taken a pee before leaving, Maria ramming fistfuls of vitamin supplements in our mouths, and vehicle checks. Operation Birthday was officially underway.
So, a little bit of a reveal as to my plans. Downtown in that shopping centre - where I played chicken with a zombie horde after blowing up our Prius - there is a small party shop. Balloons, fancy dress costumes, party poppers, candles, banners, the whole nine yards. It was an easy way to get everything we needed in one hit, so we could spruce up the lodge with a party feel and add a little splash of vibrant colour to an otherwise dark and dreary existence.
The shopping centre is basically one long central pedestrian walkway, with shops, banks, cafes, restaurants, pubs, and so forth lining each side of it. We didn’t have to go anywhere near where that pant-shitting legion of undead were located across the main carriageway, as there is a service road that runs off behind the far side along a river, which meant we could pull the pickup behind the party shop and go in the back door. We’d be a long way from where the wall of undead were, as they were located about four fifths up the length of the town centre, and we’d be right down the bottom in the very first fifth. There was a good half a mile between us and them (if they were still there as we weren’t pushing our luck that far to go and check) and they’d have to navigate into the shopping centre through some alleyways from their location. Even then, they’d have to come all the way down the hill, then squeeze through a tiny alley wide enough for just two people to get round the back where we were. Exceedingly long description shortened… we were good, and the wall of the dead wasn’t an issue.
We took a long, circuitous route anyway. The service road is mostly used by delivery vehicles, and we eventually pulled up behind the little back door of the small independent shop. And it really was small. Once you go in, the left to right wall is twenty feet at most. You know the type of stores I mean, Freya; small cosy shops that would feel claustrophobic if you had more than six people in at any one time.
The back door was intact. Unsurprising really, as we didn’t expect anyone looting on the day the world died to be bothered with a small store that had balloons and fancy dress. Such things are not considered essential survival supplies, unless your plan is to add a little colour to the dead world by hunting zombies dressed as a giant gun-toting banana.
We fell into our rhythm and cleared the area first, making sure there were no shamblers sneaking up on us. They were not, and so while I stood sentry with my eyes facing out, Nate grabbed a halligan from the back of the pickup and used it to crack the door open. Thankfully, no hell stench came wafting from the store’s interior, but Nate did his whistle test anyway and waited. With no response, we switched to pistol and flashlight, then entered the store. I am happy to report that it was free of any undead incursion.
This was my show, so once we’d cleared the building, Nate dropped out of the door again to pull security while I went party shopping. I kept nipping out to throw stuff in the rear of the pickup and Nate didn’t really take any notice of the shit I was piling in there. He’s too professional, which is what I was counting on. I wanted to keep my cards close to my chest until we were away from the store and he didn’t have the chance to veto me.
I spent a good two hours in there, because there were racks and racks of fancy dress costumes; cheap shit ones for purchase
made in China that could likely be bought from eBay for a fiver, and some high-quality ones that were rentals. That was where my attention was.
I was extremely happy with my selection of fancy-dress attire for our little apocalypse family. Yes, Freya… all our little family. All. Of. Them.
Mu-ha-ha-haaaaaa.
I got balloons, some little cans of helium to blow them up, sparkling birthday banners to hang up (plus some blu-tac to stick them up with), and I also grabbed a handful of birthday cards so everyone could write one out, making sure I got a massive one that would stand out from the rest that Mark could give his birthday boy.
It’s a simple thing, I know, but it feels bigger. We can’t do this all the time, but with everything Charlie has been through, it just feels right. He’s had to – and will continue to have to – grow up much quicker. He won’t go to high school, he won’t get nervous before asking a girl to prom, and he won’t experience college or university to make the happy memories that most of us are blessed with. He’s never really going to enjoy just being a kid. In a couple of years, should we live that long, he’ll be twelve and it won’t surprise me at all if he’s walking round carrying a small calibre revolver on his hip, or pot-shotting undead with a small rifle. He’s the first of a new generation where his ‘firsts’ will be the first life he saved, the first wound he took, the first zombie he killed, and the first bullet he fired.
Shit, what a depressing thought that is. Before all this shit went down, if you told a twelve-year old boy he’d be carrying a live firearm to kill zombies, they’d probably high-five and air punch thinking it was the coolest shit in the world. The reality of it is far more distressing.
