Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 2 | We Will Rise [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel]

by Meadows, Carl

  “Mmm hmm,” intoned the man. “You look like you’re pulling sentry, standing here as you are. Anyone else inside?”

  Dean’s heart sank.

  “Just a kid, and we’re picking up supplies.”

  “Where’s the kid then?”

  “No offence, mate, but with four armed guys rolling up in an armoured Humvee and pointing a rifle my way, I’m inclined to tell her to stay where she is.”

  “Her, eh?”

  The way he mused aloud twisted a tight knot of fear in Dean’s belly.

  “Well, I guess we are being a mite unfriendly, what with you being so open and honest.” He lifted his arm to the rifleman on the vehicle and gestured for the man to lower the weapon. The barrel dropped and the man moved from behind the sight, but it was still ready.

  “I appreciate the gesture. The name’s Dean Williams.”

  “Tucker,” the man said. He gestured to the three men in turn, finishing at the rifleman. “These are Lloyd, Simmons, and Tipps.”

  “You seem to be pretty well equipped, Mr. Tucker. And organised. Are you part of a survivor community?”

  The four men laughed as though Dean had made a witty observation.

  “You could say that, Officer Dean.”

  The address sounded like mockery. Dean sensed things were going to turn no matter what, and it was all just a question of when. He affected a more relaxed pose, as though merely readjusting his feet, but slowly inched back towards the pharmacy door.

  “Oh? I haven’t come across any other survivors. Heard a big gun battle a couple of months back, so I tried to stay out of town until necessary.” He kept inching back in almost imperceptible increments.

  “You did?” Tucker was intrigued by that knowledge, which worryingly suggested that his group had not been part of that battle. “Interesting. Where are you and your girl holding up? Are there any more of you? She should come out so we can say hello.” Lloyd and Simmons chuckled at that.

  “No disrespect, Tucker, but we’ve only just met, and I’m not really willing to give away a safe location to a bunch of armed strangers. We can certainly talk about opening up an alliance though for trade.”

  This time it was Tucker who laughed.

  “Trade? Officer Dean, we don’t need to trade with you.”

  He tapped a white band of cloth wrapped around his left bicep. For the first time, Dean noticed all four men had the same band. Tucker turned his arm so Dean could see the insignia. Embroidered into the white cloth was the image of a black sun rising over the horizon.

  “We are the future, Officer Dean,” said Tucker, his voice taking on a strange tone. Gone was the casual arrogance, replaced with something like reverence. “The Dark Resurrection has finally come, just as the First Disciple prophesied, and we are his Children of the Resurrection. We are the chosen to reclaim this world and gather the remnants of humanity, so we may rebuild a new and better existence. We are ready, and we will rise!”

  “We are ready, and we will rise,” repeated the three men.

  There were few things more dangerous in the world than zealots. Dean had thought he was readying to defend himself against opportunists, or possible gun nuts who fancied themselves as feudal lords over a new territory.

  But this? Zealotry was something he was totally unprepared for.

  “So, as you can imagine Officer Dean, we have no need to trade.” Tucker’s voice had lost its zeal, once more returning to the smug arrogance of their early interaction. “We are well supplied, armed, and number in the hundreds. I think you and your young friend should return with us to join our restoration.”

  It was not a suggestion, and Dean had no choice but to act.

  He moved, sharp and sudden, while the four men were still overconfident and relaxed, turning and diving through the pharmacy doorway.

  “Behind the counter!” he roared at the three youngsters, just as Tucker’s shout of outrage signalled a barrage of gunfire that shattered the glass front of the store. The four of them cowered behind the pharmacy counter as the boom of the shotgun and rattle of the MP5 ripped through the shelving, exploding packs of diapers in a puff of fibres and shattering bottles of cough medicine. The thin back wall was shredded into clouds of plaster dust, perforated by buckshot and the stream of rapid fire from the submachine gun.

  Zain and Alex curled up small behind the counter, hands clamped over their ears, terrified tears on their cheeks as they leaked from tightly closed eyes, as the small pharmacy was torn apart in a thunderous barrage.

  “Officer Dean,” shouted Tucker as the assault fell silent, “do not make this more difficult. You are outmatched, despite your pretty hardware. I will give you five minutes to consider your position. If all inside do not come out with hands raised after those five minutes have passed, you will give me no other option but to assault.” He sighed theatrically. “We are not the enemy, Officer Dean. Our goal is to unite the remnants of humanity under the First Disciple’s benevolent rule. If you had seen the miracle we have, you would not be so quick to judge us.”

  “And what miracle would that be?” hollered Dean in response, stalling for time.

  “The First Disciple can command the dead,” said Tucker. “The home he has provided for us, that which he has named Ascension, is a haven of life where the dead may not roam.”

  That gave Dean pause as he tried to wrap his mind around Tucker’s declaration. Command the dead? What in the Lord’s name was that supposed to mean?

  “Those who do not choose to join the Children of the Resurrection are the enemy of humanity’s restoration. If you do not surrender and come of your own volition, Officer Dean, then you will leave me no choice. If you will not obey us in life, then you will do so in death. Your five minutes begin now.”

  “What are we going to do?” whispered Sarah.

  Dean turned to look at the three frightened faces staring at him, hoping for salvation, their trust and faith in him absolute. It broke his heart.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Your five minutes are up, Officer Dean,” called Tucker. “I would have your answer now.”

  “I’m coming out!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! Just me first, okay?”

  “Agreed.”

  There was no other solution Dean could find. Fighting them alone was out of the question, as they would likely breach from the rear of the building while pinning him at the front. He could not fight them alone and refused to risk the lives of the three youngsters. Needing time to figure out a solution, the only way to gain that time safely was by complying.

  Taking a deep breath, he moved into sight, holding the rifle above him, one hand on the barrel, and the other on the stock. Tucker nodded in satisfaction as he appeared and seemed a man of his word. The shotgun, SMG, and rifle all remained pointed his way, but no order to fire was given.

  “Walk round your vehicle, hands still up, and get on your knees.”

  Tucker’s confidence was so high, he had not bothered to draw his own massive revolver. Hands on hips, a tiny smirk haunting the corner of his mouth, he watched as Dean slowly made his way round his bullet-shredded SUV into full view and lower himself to his knees.

  “Good man. Sensible. Now, very slowly, lower the rifle to the ground.” Dean obeyed. “Again, nice and slow, take one hand and draw the pistol with two fingers and throw that with the rifle.”

  Dean moved his hand slowly towards the Glock, keeping his eyes on Tucker.

  Simmons suddenly crumpled as he was threaded by three rounds, a burst from an unseen rifle ripping up his chest, neck, and head, as the MP5 went spinning from his hand. Half a second later, Tipps’ face vanished as a high velocity round smashed into the bridge of his nose, the rifle falling from nerveless fingers as he lay still. His lifeless corpse then slipped from sight into the Humvee.

  At the initial three-round burst, Lloyd’s shotgun spun around looking for the unseen assailant, shocked at the sudden assault as his two companions were executed. Wi
th Tucker unprepared, no guns trained on him, and his hand only inches from drawing the Glock, Dean snapped the weapon out of the holster and double-tapped Lloyd in the chest and head. The first round hit the Kevlar vest, punching the air from his body, but the second hit him just below the left eye and he collapsed.

  Tucker whirled back to Dean, his hand moving to draw the revolver, but a second three-round burst from Dean’s unseen saviour ripped him from hip to chest up his right flank. The police officer reacted from his kneeling position with another two rounds into the zealot leader, finishing the work his saviour had started.

  In barely three seconds, Dean was saved.

  His eyes followed the trajectory of the bullets to his left, the Glock still ready. Two people emerged from different locations about forty feet apart to join each other. One was a tall, broad man, who had the confident walk of a warrior born, smooth and balanced, with a rifle slung across his chest. A smaller, dark-haired woman emerged from a position closer to Dean, though he could not make out any features without his glasses on. She was no soldier, as she almost skipped and danced towards the taller man, handing off her rifle to him.

  Then she turned towards Dean, running to him at pace, a look of purest joy lighting up her familiar features.

  “Dear God,” he breathed as her face came into focus. Sheathing the Glock in shaking disbelief, he choked, “Erin?”

  “Dean!” she cried, waving like a lunatic, bouncing, skipping, and pirouetting, even as she ran. “Deano!”

  “Erin?” he stumbled again. “Erin!”

  It was her!

  She thundered the last few paces and he opened his arms wide, the speed and excitement of her leaping embrace nearly knocking him off his feet. Laughing, he folded his arms around her, tears of pure delight and relief streaming down his cheeks.

  “Erin, by God,” he half sobbed. “You’re alive! Thank the Lord.”

  “You big stupid ball of pant-shitting dumbfuckery,” she laughed through sobs of her own, still not letting go of her crushing hug. “We thought you were dead.”

  Her words resonated deep within him and he pulled her away, setting her down and gripping her shoulders. He drank in the face he remembered, brimming with light and life, but her words awakened an urgency in him.

  “We?”

  Erin nodded, her brown eyes racing over every feature, hardly believing he was in front of her, before she remembered herself and slapped her forehead.

  “Shit, yes. We, Dean.” Her smile widened if that was even possible. “Dean, Maria is with us! She’s alive and with us. She’s okay!”

  Dean dropped to his knees with a relief so overwhelming it sucked every shred of strength from his limbs. Maria and Erin were alive, and together. He offered a prayer of thanks for watching over those most precious to him, even as he choked out a sob.

  “Thank the Lord!”

  “You still banging on about that magic space fairy?” laughed Erin, as excitable as a five-year old on Christmas morning. “Never mind the Lord above, Dean. If you want to thank anyone for me and Maria still kicking, thank this guy.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder at the older man as he approached. “Dean Williams, meet Nate Carter. If it weren’t for this grumpy old Pooh Bear, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Dean climbed to his feet and offered his hand, which the man took and nodded.

  “Good to meet you, Dean,” he said in a voice like a low rumble of thunder. “Erin’s told me a lot about you.”

  He was a little older than the police officer, maybe early fifties, but he had the look of a man to walk the mountains with. As the two men clasped hands and Dean thanked him repeatedly, he saw the way the old warrior glanced at Erin as she bounced around in happy circles on the balls of her feet, and his smile only widened. It was the same way Dean looked at her, the same way he smiled at her boundless energy, and Dean knew without doubt that Nate Carter was a good man that genuinely cared for Erin.

  Sarah, Alex, and Zain nervously edged out of the ruined pharmacy, drawn by the happy din.

  “Is that your goddaughter, Sarah?” asked Erin, as she caught sight of the three youths.

  “It is.”

  “Aw shit, Maria’s gonna explode!” Erin’s smile was almost painful for its width. “Well, isn’t this just a great fucking day!”

  Nate had already moved to the bodies of the four men, examining them.

  “Do you know who they were?” he asked.

  “Never seen them until today,” answered Dean, one arm around Erin, the other pulling Sarah to him. Alex and Zain were staring at Nate with the awe only young boys could have for a real warrior. “But we should have a talk about them, as I think they’re going to be a problem for everyone.”

  Nate just nodded and moved his exploration to the Humvee.

  “All that can wait for now,” said Erin with a wave. “Dean, Maria is about two minutes down the road,” she said, pointing back in the direction they had come from. “We’re down at the army surplus store. Come on.”

  “Hold your horses, Erin,” said Nate. “Let’s finish what your friends here started, gather up the weapons, and I’m not going anywhere without this up armoured Humvee.”

  Erin laughed and turned to Dean, shaking her head, and rolling her eyes dramatically.

  “Boys do love their toys, eh?”

  Dean smiled in response and for the first time since the world collapsed around them, something sparked deep within him. It was bright and warm, filling his soul as he watched Erin perform another happy pirouette.

  Hope.

  NOVEMBER 3rd, 2010

  REUNITED

  Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

  Dean is alive! Alive and well! We found him and holy crap, I don’t think our timing could have been more perfect as he was teeth deep in shit when we stumbled across him.

  Was it coincidence? I remember teasing Nate about Particles’ supernatural lucky status and quoting V for Vendetta with the line of, “There is no coincidence, only the illusion of coincidence.” I have to wonder if there’s some truth to it now though. With all the weirdness surrounding the undead getting temporarily frisky for yours truly, it’s made me think a lot about the force that caused the undead to rise. There’s more out there than we know or can ever understand with our tiny little mortal minds, but the timing of us finding Dean, just when he needed us?

  I don’t know. That’s the simple truth. I have, however, decided to award a name to this celestial or supernatural force that’s making the dead get all psycho on humanity. I can’t keep calling it “this force” or “that bastard” so, for the purposes of referring easily to this cosmic fucktard in my future writings, I am giving the celestial bell end an identity that is easily remembered, that captures the essence of this dark force tormenting us.

  Captain Evil.

  Not my best work, I’ll grant you, but it’s easy to write, solidifies the dickhead easily in my mind, and clearly identifies what I will be referring to in the future. Also, it’s whimsical, therefore my own personal rebellion and middle finger to it. I could call it the Lord of the Undead, or the Dark Spirit, or some other dramatic name, but that would make it sound like it was cool.

  So, fuck you, Captain Evil. I’m getting all whimsical up in your business.

  I’m so happy right now, as my poetic opening to this entry can attest to. We went out heavy to the army surplus store, leaving just Mark, Norah, and Charlie under the protection of Particles at the lodge. There was little issue taking the same service road even though the surplus store was further along it. We smashed the back door in (snigger), before clearing it nice and easy. No problem.

  Nate and I took first shift on sentry duty outside while Maria, Isaac, and Alicia were like worker ants, in and out with stuff and loading up the van. We intended to rotate out every half hour or so, letting everybody take a turn at security and sharing the burden of manual labour, but just as it got towards the end of our half hour, there was an absolute storm
of gunfire that erupted nearby. And when I say nearby, I mean it was freaking loud from where we were. There was the distinct boom of a shotgun, and a staccato blast from a submachine gun, with the shattering of glass and all kinds of din.

  “What kind of idiot is making that level of noise?” huffed Nate. “They’ll draw in every undead for miles with that racket. Come on,” he gestured to me. “The rest of you, gear up and wait here.”

  It only took us a minute to jog up the road to where we could hear voices. No further barrage of gunfire had followed the initial explosion of noise, but even the men talking weren’t trying to be quiet. It sounded like they were even sharing a joke. Bloody lunatics.

  We edged down an alley to the corner of a building, allowing us to peer round to find four men all facing a ruined little pharmacy. One man was popping out the top of an actual Humvee.

  “That’s an up armoured vehicle,” said Nate, peering down his scope. “The man up top has a .22 bolt-action rifle – looks like a Ruger 77/22 - the two on the ground have an MP5 and a Mossberg 500, and what passes for their leader just has a .357 Magnum at his hip.”

  And Nate’s specialist subject on Mastermind is?

  Nerd.

  “I don’t like the look of them,” I offered. “Why the hell are four guys with that kind of weaponry driving round in an armoured vehicle, and shooting the shit out of a pharmacy?”

  “Well, obviously there’s someone in there,” answered Nate deadpan. “There’s a Range Rover parked right outside. It’s shot to shit now, mind.” He clicked his tongue. “I think you’re right though. These assholes are going for serious overkill, and they all seem to be wearing some kind of insignia on an armband. They don’t sit right with me.”

  “So, what shall we do?”

  “Well, for all we know, the person or people inside could have killed one of theirs, or stolen, it’s too hard to say. It looks like they’re waiting for them to surrender rather than assault.”