He gave me this quizzical look and it’s one I’ve gotten used to over the years. I can almost see the words in a thought bubble above their head like a comic strip.
“Does this girl really talk like this all the time?”
Yes. Yes, I do. I broke the mould. I made my own mould. It’s a bit wonky and has a stupid grin scratched into it, but this is me.
“Nate,” he said, gripping my hand eventually. I smiled, trying not to weep as his mighty gorilla-grip nearly shattered the dainty little bones of my hand.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, hiding the flex of my crushed hand as I spoke.
“Saw the car at the gate, parked like it was in a rush.”
Fuck you buddy, I’m great at parking.
“Put my hand on it and felt it was still warm, saw the backpack inside and figured someone must be here.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d check it out.” He curled his lip. “Wasn’t expecting to find… this.” He swept his arm round Old McDonald’s rape barn.
I glanced down at the dead man. Shit, Nate was a good shot. Clean between the eyes, no reanimation for you. I tipped my imaginary forelock to my grizzled saviour.
And that, dear reader, is how I met Nathaniel Carter, ex-SAS (I think), all round bad-ass and the man without a smile. I’ll make this straight-faced fucker laugh if it kills me. Though, he might kill me first. But hey, life is for living eh?
I don’t know when I’ll write again, as I’m at the end of this notebook. I can’t really just pop down to Office Outlet and get myself a new one, so for now, I must bid you farewell.
It’s been emotional. Stay safe. And watch your ass, literally, and I will leave you with this inspiring motivational thought.
When life closes one door, another door opens. So shut the fucking door, there are zombies you dick. Hide, run, stay away from doors.
I hope we meet again, dear reader.
Toodles, Lockey.
PART 2
THE PUG LIFE
8th Entry
PARTICLES
Today I found a new notebook to start scribbling my thoughts in. I think this is my… eighth?... entry now, after all the weird school and farm shit went down. So, hello again, my fine imaginary reader that has not read my journal because I’m still writing it.
It’s weird that writing helps me figure out all this jumble of crazy bouncing round in my head all the time. The world shat itself a couple of weeks ago now, and after I escaped the school I got trapped in, only to get trussed up and almost anally invaded by a freaky Cheshire farmer, then saved by Clint Eastwood’s long lost English cousin (aka Nate Carter), it’s good to be writing again. I’m especially pleased though, because I have big news!
I found a dog.
His name is Particles and he’s my lucky charm.
Yeah. Particles. How frickin’ cool is that name? What makes it better is that he’s a pug, so he’s this tiny little grey ball of awesome that looks perpetually outraged by the apocalypse. I carry him in a little backpack I wear frontwards, with a hole cut in it for his head to stick out. Honestly, I look like fucking Kuato out of Total Recall, only my belly-face is a permanently outraged pug staring balefully at the world. Judging it.
I love him.
Nate hates my Kuato-bag, as I’ve dubbed it. I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t like Particles despite all the good he’s done. Probably because he keeps saying, “That’s not even a dog, it’s an accessory.”
Bah. The man has no soul. He’ll see. Particles is lucky, and I’m going to tell you why he’s lucky and how we found him.
Going back to Nate for a minute, I can forgive the big, grumpy bear. He’s a fifty-something ex-SAS badass (I think) with a jaw that can chew bricks and that rarest of all rare animals in this not-so-Great Britain; he has guns and knows how to use them. He’s seen some shit in his time, no doubt, and I’ll forever love ol’ Gunny Highway for saving my ass (literally) from Old McRapey on his farm, but how he can hate little old Particles with his particular brand of cute outrage, I’ll never know. War has taken a piece of his soul he needs returning, so my mission in life is to make him love Particles. Love him and squeeze him and call him his own. You watch me. I can be really annoying when I put my mind to it. I’m going to irritate Nate into loving Particles.
Not a sentence I expected to write today.
So how did we come by Particles? Funny story. Well, actually not funny for Particles’ previous owner.
So, after Nate popped Old McRapey between the eyes with his pistol and saved me from hell, we raided that farmhouse for supplies and hung round there for a few days. Eventually, Nate turned to me.
“We can’t stay here, Erin,” he said, in that throaty growl that makes him super-manly.
“Lockey,” I replied for the fifty-seventh time, flicking my long dark hair dramatically like I was in a shampoo commercial. “My friends call me Lockey. Everyone calls me Lockey.”
Nate has this way. He lifts his left eyebrow about half an inch, managing to convey—in that tiniest of gestures—the displeasure and contempt of someone who has just watched a leper take a shit in one of their favourite shoes.
He still doesn’t do outrage as well as Particles though. Pugs have that shit nailed. Indignation is another forte of the pug. If I’d had Particles at this point, I’d have held him up to Nate’s face, so they could have a stare-down. Nate can’t lick his own nose though, so I reckon Particles would win every time.
“We’re no farmers and there’s little enough food here. Plus, it’s miles from anywhere. We need to stay on the move.”
“We huh?” I said. “So, we’re like Starsky and Hutch now? Like Cagney and Lacey? Butch and Sundance?” I smiled sweetly at him. “Are we a power couple, Nate?”
He shook his head, pug-like in his expression. “Are you taking this shit seriously?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Ha. That stumped him.
“Erin, the world is over,” he said, all grave and serious and baritone, purposefully ignoring my preferred handle for the umpteenth time. “The dead are rising to eat the living. Society has crumbled. There’s no government, there’s no support. No one is coming. The world is dead. And you’re not taking it seriously?”
“Fuck no,” I snorted. “The world is shit and miserable, Nate. It’s taken everything away from us, so the one thing I’m giving the apocalypse back is my ability to drop my pants and wink my brown eye at it in a grand cosmic ‘fuck you.’ No point living if you’re just gonna mope about. Be more Tigger, and tell Eeyore to cheer the fuck up, that’s what I say.”
Nate looked at me like I’d just boned his dad in front of him. We’ve not known each other long, but he looks at me like that a lot. Most people do. Usually when I say words.
Anyway, we decided (and by ‘we’ I mean ‘Nate’) to load up the SUV I’d swiped on my escape from the school with what supplies we could, then head out and keep on the move. Maybe look for a survivor community if any had started to form. I mean, it’s early days yet and people in this country are notoriously selfish assholes at times, and the world only died and shat its pants a couple of weeks ago, so there’s some way to go yet before anything coherent starts to form I reckon.
But then again, this is my first apocalypse, so what do I really know? I’m an apocavirgin, so to speak, so I don’t know how much this is really gonna hurt.
Damn, sometimes I should really stop writing. But I’m using a pen. I can’t delete. So, you’re getting the unfiltered Lockey brainwaves I’m afraid, my imaginary reader. You’re welcome.
Only a day passed before my life changed for the better. We started hitting up some of the country houses for supplies in the local area, mainly diesel for the SUV. Nate has a real hard-on about fuel supplies and being mobile, and always insists on driving.
And he drives so slow!
It’s like Driving Miss Daisy with that old fart behind the wheel. Not a soul on the roads and he’s driving like a pensioner on his way to Sunday church after three hi
ts on a super-skunk bong.
I asked to drive once, he let me, then after a half hour of Hurricane Nate blowing in my face as he raged at me for my speed and late braking, a load of old man stereotypical whine about women drivers, threats of shooting out my knees, and general “I fucking hate you Erin” in various forms, I relented and swapped with him. Usually he’s all calm and stoic, showing his contempt with an eyebrow, or a tightening of the jaw. Enough to let you know you’re edging close to the line. My driving, it would seem, was his rage-trigger. And oh mama, that rage is scary.
For the record, I only swapped because he’s got a gun. And that he could probably snap me in two like a twig without one. I’m a fast little ninja with skills of my own, but Nate has “that look.” I read a really great description in a fantasy book by David Gemmell that really sums it up.
“The look of eagles.”
That’s a bad ass statement that just tells you anyone with this look is a stone-cold killer, backed by experience and will not be fucked with. I can hold my own with anyone in fisticuffs I reckon. I’ve never really thought “I can’t take you” when I’ve been involved in a fight, and I had a few growing up in the care system. I learned to fight fast and dirty, because if you didn’t fight back twice as hard, you’d always be prey. When you’re a girl, you have to be twice as hard so you can rip the dicks off guys who think you’re easy meat to satisfy their boner. So, I learned to fight and never show fear, to blast in headlong and whirl my arms, keys in fists, windmilling in classic British Kung Fu style. I’ve never been afraid to take anyone on in a scrap.
Except Nate. I’m just glad this guy is on my team, because I swear to God, he’s the first guy I’ve ever met that genuinely scares me. If he lost his shit, like really lost his shit, I bet he’s fucking terrifying. You don’t get in the SAS unless you’re a quadruple-hard motherfucker.
Pretty sure the bastard drove extra slow after we swapped back though, just to mess with me.
I do go off on tangents. Okay Lockey, focus.
Particles. Yes.
So, we rolled up to this secluded farmhouse, but this one didn’t seem like a working farm. It had a pretty garden, more like a cottage to be honest. It had this weird little Nissan Micra parked on a gravel driveway as well, bright yellow. God awful thing, but it suggested the owner was still home. Not that anyone being home bothered Nate, as he stopped the vehicle at the end of the path, slid out the door and drew the shotgun he’d taken from Old McRapey’s farm.
“Can you shoot?” he asked, his voice low.
“Like a boss,” I replied with supreme confidence. Probably too confident, as he cocked that fucking eyebrow at me again. “I’m a stone-cold killer on Call of Duty,” I added, making the finger guns and firing them off with a whispered “pew pew.”
Nate didn’t let me have a gun.
I followed in Nate’s wake, at least able to match his light feet with my parkour skills. Balance and grace, I’m not afraid to admit, are two things I can actually boast about. I think I surprised Nate, because he looked back to find me in his wake, not blundering around like a drunk bitch fighting with her bra before bed. There was no eyebrow raise, judging me. I call that a win.
Nate has this freaky way of moving, his combat walk. His knees are bent, hips solid, gun up, always in balance. The barrel of that shotgun didn’t quiver once as he stalked up the path. Scary shit. I was shitting sideways bricks in his wake, but he was calm as hell, breathing slow and even, not a twitch in any muscle. Stone cold. Ice instead of marrow in them bones.
Though, in fairness, what did we have to fear from the inhabitant of a cottage surrounded by flowers, who drove a bright yellow Nissan Micra? I was pretty confident a Taliban warlord wasn’t hiding out in the Cheshire countryside, driving a car the colour of a daffodil.
Everything was quiet. Deathly quiet. Nate signalled for me to open the little red gate that led up the path to the front door, and I did so. Now wasn’t the time for me and my smart mouth. Do what the big scary soldier tells you, Lockey.
As we ghosted up the path and reached the door, that’s when we both heard the bumping and scraping from inside the cottage. The curtains were drawn on the front window, so we couldn’t see into the little house. Then I heard the high-pitched yelp.
People can go fuck themselves most of the time. In my experience, most people are assholes given half the chance. I don’t trust easily.
But dogs? Man, I love dogs. They are pure, unconditional, excitable love. They’re like an animal version of me, but without the bad bits. They’re role models for how society should be. Dogs are the only things on this shit-sucking earth that will love you more than it loves itself. You know what I really love about them? You can start celebrating and they’ll join right in, wagging their tails and lolling their tongues, when they have no fucking clue what the context is. Dogs are great because they’re just always ready to party. So when I heard that little scared bark-yelp, I started moving.
Now, I know a weakness of mine is impulse control. And no, I’m not doing anything to mitigate that, dear reader, because I am who I am. However, on this occasion, I accept that I made the very grave error of ploughing past Mr Spec-Ops and opening the cottage door, barrelling in and realising all too late that the place smelled like death had taken a shit in there.
I stopped, eyes streaming from the choking cloud of horror assaulting my senses. Then I heard that little muted yelp-bark again and turned to my left.
And promptly squealed at the pitch of a six-year old girl.
Just three feet away was a dishevelled old zombie woman. I say old, but she was probably about Nate’s age in life. Fifty or so. Still, I’m only twenty-six, so that’s two of my lifetimes. Old as time.
She had a little blue cardigan, spectacles on a chain hanging round her neck and hair like Albert Einstein after he’d been electrocuted. Seriously, in that brief snapshot moment, all I could see was this explosion of mangled grey hair, like she’d been banged doggy-style while her head was rammed in a bramble bush. Just all over the place and wild as hell.
She wasn’t moving too fast, slower than a normal shambler, and it was easy to see why. Her right ankle was clearly broken as hell and moving about on it had only made things worse. The foot had all but torn off and sat at a horrible right angle, and she was off-balance as she hobble-dragged herself around. A spur of bone from the shattered ankle was used to rest her weight on, like some messed up pirate peg-leg and—lord above—it was gross. There were bloody smears all over the once shiny oak parquet flooring, and grooves cut by the bone shard, where she’d dragged herself about and slowly torn that foot almost clean off. It made a jarring scrape on the wood as she moved, sending shivers through me like a rusty nail being dragged down my spine.
Agh. Just horrible.
Despite her off-centre gait though, as she neared, the milky-eyed old dear’s lips peeled back, her arms coming up like claws, ready to pounce like some undead predator.
That’s the weird thing, right? Our zombies don’t shuffle about, arms up, moaning and groaning for brains like they do in all the movies. They are silent as a ninja fart and way more deadly, and they smell worse to boot. They’re blank as a mannequin until they’re three feet from you, then their lips peel back, dead expression twisting to this rictus of soul-deep hate for you and they fucking lunge that last gap, ready to make your entrails your extrails.
I’m quick on my feet. But something had me frozen and in that moment, I saw my death. Death that looked like some sweet old lady living in a cottage, who drove a yellow Nissan Micra. The yelp had given me just enough time for a single step back as I squealed, arms up to futilely defend against the grim reaper’s grandma as she lunged for me, but that one step back meant she had to step into the hallway and into Nate’s cone of fire.
Can I just give special mention to—as my first real experience of it—a shotgun going off in a little confined space like that cottage?
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
It
was like a god damn army of thunders tearing the air around me. Ho-ly shit.
The world got really loud, then really wet, as I was hit by some of the spray from Nate unleashing both barrels of the shotgun simultaneously. The little old lady’s upper quarter just vapourised in front of me, head and chest just gone, shredded beyond recognition. I think I got some old lady juice in my mouth. Nasty.
I think I was screaming. My throat’s vibrations told me I was, but I couldn’t hear for shit. There was just a dull whistle from the detonated bomb of the shotgun’s blast in the hallway. I was pretty certain I was gonna need to find a new pair of underpants from somewhere, though old lady knickers were off the list. I don’t have much self-respect, but I have to draw the line somewhere.
Dropping the shotgun, Nate smoothly drew the handgun at his hip and stalked the hallway, completely ignoring me until he’d swept the rest of the building for any other undead. Then his hand gripped my shoulder and gave me a shake, bringing me back to my senses.
“Are you hurt?” he said, his voice sounding both distant and underwater. Jesus, guns are loud. “Are you okay?”
“Well,” I shouted, like an Englishman pointing at fish and chips on the menu in a Spanish hotel. “I’m so damn happy, I might need to sit on my hands to keep myself from clapping! You?”
Again, that “you’ve just boned my dad“ look.
Hey, at least I’m consistent.
Well, it turned out that Long John Grandma was named Patricia Fox and—I shit you not—she was a god damn quantum physicist.
Now, I don’t know what a quantum physicist actually is, or what they do, but I do know that it’s all science and shit, and she had books in her house that I struggled to even read the title of, never mind the content. Her picture was on the back of some of them, so she even wrote about quantum silly string theory, or whatever it is. Anyway, she was a scientist, she lived on her own and from what Nate deducted from Sherlocking the place, it looked like she’d taken a fall, broken her ankle and either died from infection, or overdone the pain medication just to end it all.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 5