A person though? Even if they’re a complete fuck-nut and deserve it, could I just sneak up behind that gunman, then with that same cold-blooded detachment, smash a hammer through his skull?
I didn’t know. I’ve never killed a living person before, and there is something intensely personal about doing it in close quarters. It’s not pulling a trigger from distance; it’s being close enough to touch them.
But if I didn’t, that bastard might kill us.
“I can do it,” I said, with far more conviction than I really felt. “But how are we even going to move? He’ll see?”
Nate was rummaging in his own backpack. I just assumed all he kept in there were more bullets. Turns out, he carries a Bag of Many Things ™. I watched Nate take out a small squirty tin of lighter fluid and a box of matches, followed by a thick roll of bandages. I frowned as he unrolled it, crushing it all into a big white clump. And then, like he had received prophetic visions yesterday, out came one of those homemade smoke bombs.
Experienced spec-ops planning for the win.
Opening the passenger door, he leaned in and pressed down on all the electric windows, exposing the car to the open air.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lit the fuse on his newspaper-and-duct-tape smoke bomb, then tossed it on to the driver’s seat, then started spraying lighter fluid on the unrolled bandages. Nothing happened for a moment, and I wondered if his MacGyver bomb was a dud.
Oh ye of little faith, Lockey.
It took about thirty seconds for it all to really get going—just a few wisps to begin with—but once it got its groove on, a thick cloud of white smoke started rolling out of the open windows, filling the space around us. Clever old bastard.
“Swap with me,” he ordered. We shuffled past each other, then Nate opened the fuel cap and began stuffing the flammable bandage into the refilling tube, jamming it up but leaving a long white tail hanging to the road.
“Got everything?” I nodded. “When I light this, run to there.” He pointed to the low wall of a nearby car park, about four feet in height and thirty feet away.
Both of us began edging away as safe as we dared, the rising smoke now relatively thick and choking, but shit, it worked like a charm. The bell end on the court roof would have a shitty job trying to pick us out cleanly through the thick haze. Once Nate was satisfied there was enough of a screen, he nodded, lit a match, stuffed it into the matchbox, and as the whole thing became a tiny fireball in his hand, he flicked it at the fuel-soaked tail of the bandage.
It lit up and we made a sprint for it. I heard the ricochet of a bullet from the road near to me, which gave me an extra burst of speed, vaulting the low wall way ahead of Nate. Only three or four seconds passed and then…
Boom.
The car went up like a fireball.
Clumping all that bandage up gave a few seconds as the fire shrank it enough for burning embers to fall into the tank, which then ignited all the fuel and the Toyota went bang.
Thick smoke now screened the whole area and Nate appeared beside me.
“Leave the shotgun, only take what you need, and make a wide circle. Wait till I start shooting. He doesn’t know what I’ve got and when he hears me firing back with the shotgun, he’ll naturally put his head down before getting pissed and returning fire at me. As soon as I pull the trigger, you go.”
I nodded, divesting myself of all items except my pick hammer.
“Be careful,” he said. He looked at me for a long moment, as though he might add something else, but then his soldier mask returned, and he gave me a nod. Sucking in three quick breaths, Nate peeped over the wall and pulled the trigger on his shotgun in the court building’s general direction.
And I moved.
I cut into the open-air shopping centre, nearly shitting myself at how many zombies were milling about. No word of a lie, there were hundreds, and the boom of the explosion had all their milky eyes turning towards the source. Even though they were dotted down the wide thoroughfare that ran between the shops, I could see all were now starting to move in the same direction. Some were more advanced than others, drawn by the shooter’s initial shots no doubt.
Fuck.
I had to move fast, because Nate was going to get swarmed by a stream of undead and he couldn’t move until I’d dealt with the sniper. Hitting full sprint, I found myself yelping as I tore past undead in lunge mode, bobbing and weaving through ever narrowing gaps between them. My goal was an alley between two rows of stores that would let me angle a run to the court building outside the sniper’s cone of vision. I just had to trust Nate’s instincts that the shooter didn’t know I was coming for him.
So many times, a finger nearly hooked me, or a bloodied hand swept the air an inch from my limbs. I was flooded with adrenalin, every sense heightened, every bang of my heart like a war drum. When I get super nervous, I end up giggling. I’m probably the worst fucker to have at a funeral, as I’ll probably start laughing for no reason. Not that I’ve ever been to a funeral.
Anyone living, who saw my lone game of British Bulldog against the undead horde, would have thought I’d lost my shit completely. Undead lunged at me, and I skipped aside, or dived under a lunge into a roll, coming up to my feet, laughing and shouting at the undead, taunting them like they gave a shit.
Weird experience.
Needless to say, I didn’t die and finally reached the alley, tearing round the corner and heading in a straight line. No need to look for traffic, so I belted across the four lane carriageway, bounding the central reservation with just a single hand atop it and then I was heading to the court building, ninety degrees to what would be the shooter’s left.
Shots had been traded as I ran, Nate keeping up the illusion of trying to hit the shooter and the cocksucker fired back in bursts again, clearly getting irked by Nate’s return fire. While Nate kept shooting, he was still alive, and I damn well wanted to keep him that way.
Like I said to Nate, the court building is old and has that aged brick look to it like it was built in the early part of the 20th century. They liked stylish buildings back then, instead of the soulless blocks of metal and glass that are all the rage these days. The joy of these old buildings is that there are multiple roofs at differing levels, ledges, handholds and fancy aesthetic designs sticking out everywhere, that makes it very easy to ascend with someone versed in my particular art.
The crack of the rifle increased in volume and frequency as I transferred from hold to hold, and I moved around the building so I’d climb up at the shooter’s rear. I waited for the next shot, my hands holding to the lip of the flat roof he was nestled on, and the moment I heard the crack I hauled myself up.
Shitty piece of luck, my dear reader.
As I pulled up, Shooty McFuckface must have used the last round in his magazine, and he was turned around, reaching to a bag at his side, the clip already detached from the rifle. The gun was a mean looking bitch, two-tone black and tan, and nothing like I’d ever seen up close and personal before. I did notice that it had a proper scope attached to it as well.
There was a horrible moment as we locked eyes and the distance was too short for him to get a new magazine in. As I swore and started to run at him, he dropped the rifle and rolled to his back, reaching for a handgun holstered on his right hip. If that thing got drawn and he pulled the trigger with me running at him just fifteen feet away, I was a dead woman. Out of pure instinct, I swept the pick hammer back and launched it at him.
I’ve always hated the phrase “you throw like a girl,” like we’re inherently worse at it at a genetic level. Well, I fucked that old idiom up with my throw, as I sent it cartwheeling through the air like a thrown Viking axe to smack the ugly bastard right in the chest.
The shock of it gave me the moment I needed to close the gap and I swung my right foot like Steven fucking Gerrard, landing an absolute thunderbolt square under Shooty’s jaw. There was no fight left hi
m in after that as one eye went north, the other south, blood welling in his mouth from some broken teeth, and his head lolling about like he’d just done a syringe full of heroin.
I took the pistol from his hip, slid the rifle and bag away from his hands with my foot (they always do that in the movies), flicked the safety off and pointed the pistol right at him. Never shot a pistol in my life, but from this range, it was point the nasty end at the nasty man and pull the trigger.
“Don’t move, fucknugget,” I said. Giving him the once over, he was quite a heavy-set dude. There was no way this fucker had climbed to this roof like I had, so I glanced round and found a skylight hatch.
I waved Nate over, shouting at him and pointing at the slowly emerging army of undead pouring between buildings. I needed Nate to come to us, because I couldn’t climb first or second and keep control of the shooter.
After he finally found his way up to us through the building, Shooty had come to his senses a bit more. He was sat up, still a bit dazed and not a little pissed that he’d been bested by little old me. When Nate hauled himself up through the hatch, however, his demeanour changed immediately.
Nate has that effect on people.
Nate chatted to him quietly while rifling through the contents of his bag. There were some basics in there like food and bottled water, but Nate looked like a kid at Christmas when he saw how much rifle ammo was in there. There were five magazines, the first of which was now empty after I’d caught Shooty mid-switch, which apparently are 30 rounds each. There were also two more boxes of 5.56, each containing fifty rounds. This guy was loaded for war, and this intrigued Nate.
“This is an SA80. An A2.” He looked at the captive. “This is military grade, used on the ground by British troops. Where the fuck did you get it?”
It turns out, now and again, Jamie Bancroft has a contact that makes a handful of these disappear. Now, this is good, because it means he doesn’t have a compound full of guys carrying assault rifles as they’re a limited number, but it’s also bad, because he does have some assault rifles, and considering how much Shooty was carrying, they’re not short of ammo either.
Shooty was very talkative, giving Nate a whole bucket full of juicy information. The Bancrofts are holed up in the family home, which is actually a big mansion outside the other edge of town. It’s gated, with its water supply like ours (though they have petrol generators running power, not solar), a big ass wall, a total of twenty-eight men under his command, and about sixteen captives, twelve of which are women. There are cameras operating around the grounds as well, as apparently one of the indentured servants is a mega-nerd with computers and electronics.
All in all, Nate looked extremely satisfied with everything the goon spilled, eventually holding the radio up he found in the bag.
“How often do they check in with you?”
“Twice a day,” mumbled the thug through his broken teeth.
“But you called and let them know you had us pinned, so backup is en route.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Shooty’s glum expression confirmed the truth of it.
“Vehicle?” asked Nate, dangling a set of keys in front of him.
“Out back. Black Astra.”
Nate nodded. “Time to go, Erin.”
I nodded and started gathering up my backpack and gun that Nate had brought over. I stopped as Nate drew his Glock.
“Wait, Nate what are you…?”
My sentence never finished. No hesitation at all, Nate lifted the handgun and cracked a round through the sniper’s head.
“What the fuck, Nate?” I squealed at him.
He shrugged. “You want to save those captives? Well, I’m not sending even one man back to bolster their numbers or give them even a shred of intel on us.”
“That was cold-blooded murder!”
“That, Erin, was a tactical decision,” he said calmly. “I don’t like it, but sometimes the right choice is the hardest one to live with. You started this, remember? You want to fly in and save all these captives, and I applaud you for it. But this is the reality, Erin. We kill them, or they kill us. Or are you suddenly forgetting this man was placed here to watch the main road? We were in a vehicle unconnected to us, and this fucker just started shooting at it. We could have been anyone, even that single mum and her five-year old you used as an example.”
That shut me up. I fucking hate it when he’s right. I’ll fight and kill to defend myself and those I care about, but I’m not sure I’m happy with executions. I don’t think I ever should be, and that’s the key I guess. Nate took no pleasure in it, but it scares the shit out of me how he did it without even blinking. Blam. Lights out. End of story.
He was right, but man, I was fucking pissed at him for springing it on me like that.
The undead were milling about so we cut our losses. The police station was a hot zone now with so many undead streaming down from the shopping centre, so that building was a write-off. Nate had his rifle in an unexpected bonus, and there was one less fucker terrorising any survivors. We had a radio that might give us an inkling into their communications, so the mission was a win, just not in the manner we expected.
Slipping down through the building, we found the car parked out back, loaded up our shit and headed back here, taking a wider circuitous route. Luckily, backup didn’t arrive before we made our escape.
I’m going to have to stop writing there. Just thinking about Nate’s hollow expression, no flicker of emotion or hesitation as he flicked Shooty’s switch, has left me feeling a bit low. I’m not mad at Nate, not anymore. I was on the drive home, fuming in silence, but he’s right.
There’s no negotiation with Jamie Bancroft and his people. Every goon we take out is one less guarding the innocents they hold under their boot. I guess I’m going to have to swallow the bitter pill of our new reality.
We’re now officially at war, and if our two-person insurgency is going to win, then we’re going to have to fight dirty.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.
August 4th, 2010
INTEL, AKA “BORING”
Nate’s been listening to that radio for three days. It had a charging dock with it in the bag and he’s become obsessed with it. All part of the intel gathering.
He’s identified some of the major players, and officially despises Jamie Bancroft with a passion. That bad dude has got a serious hard-on for us after Johnny’s death and according to Nate, this is a good thing. It means Bancroft is erratic.
He constantly demands to know if anything has been seen of, “that murdering geriatric,” or, “his little fucking whore.” The former made Nate laugh, while the latter didn’t crack a smile from either of us. I think Nate was offended more than me. I’ve been called worse, but his old school sensibilities didn’t like it at all.
They’re not organised in a sensible fashion. They haven’t changed channels even though their sniper is dead with all his gear gone. Nate’s of the opinion that they’ve become arrogant, being masters of their own post-apocalypse fief. They’ve grossly underestimated this particular geriatric too, not clicking that he’s the real deal. They have no clue that we’re actually coming after them, thinking Johnny and Shooty were just chance encounters that went good for us and bad for them.
It’s boring sitting around, though Nate has begun schooling both Freya and I in good handgun safety and handling. With the gun collected from Johnny’s cold dead hand and the second swept up from Shooty McBrainDead, we’ve got a nine millimetre handgun for each of us now, and with everything that’s going on, Nate is running us through safe handling, grip, drawing, aiming, stance, and cleaning.
I’ve winched back my usual tomfoolery, because this is real shit, and I’d rather shoot a gun than have to get up close with a hammer again. We’ve got a little spare ammo to start firing live rounds for target practice, as Shooty had a box of hundred in that bag of tricks, but Nate wants us drilled in all the basics of safety and good handling bef
ore we even squeeze off a round at a target. It gives Freya and I something to do at least that’s productive.
Two against twenty-eight is stupid odds, so we can’t just go and assault the compound, as I’ve taken to calling it. I’m no special forces operator, and Nate can’t do it alone, but oh mama, is this dude a cunning old fox.
Youth, skill, numbers, and firepower are no match for one sneaky old marine trained in treachery it would appear. If you’re sneaking a peek at this Nate, I would like to point out that I remembered to call you a marine. I’ll forget again, but this one is a win.
Before we even think of going near that compound, Nate wants Bancroft chewing the arm of his favourite chair in impotent fury. He wants him reckless, and he wants him weakened.
So, to that end, Nate has devised a plan that we’re rolling out on tomorrow. I’m not going to write it here, because like I said, this isn’t a fucking textbook. It’s no fun telling my stories if you already know what we’re going to do, eh? We need excitement, we need drama, we need comedy, and we need high octane action!
I also need Nate to change his name. Carter is boring and shit. He should be called Nathaniel Flint, then it could be, “Flint and Locke: Action Heroes!”
That’s fucking brilliant. Damn that old bastard and his mundane surname; that’s absolute gold.
He always ruins my fun.
August 6th, 2010
DECLARATION OF WAR
So, yesterday officially underlined my mental sticky note of, “Don’t fuck with Nate,” a few times. I know his cold and practical side is necessary, but when he goes into soldier mode, there’s no flicker of human warmth, with complete laser focus. He has a mission, at the end of which is a target. While on that mission, nothing else matters but that goal, and if you’re in the way, you’re nothing but an obstacle to be cleared.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 17