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

by Meadows, Carl

  Nate had hit upon—as he referred to it—“solid gold intel” from listening to their chatter over the past few days. Today, seven guys were rolling out to a local petrol station in three vehicles. One would be driving a little solid tanker, in other words, it had no separate cab and trailer like an eighteen-wheeler would, but was instead like the box truck version of a tanker that home heating oil deliveries are usually done in. It was shorter and entirely a singular vehicle. The other two vehicles would be SUV’s, each with three armed gunmen.

  With a full quarter of their hostiles (I’m using the term Nate always uses, makes me feel all military and clever) outside the compound, this was an opportunity to deal them a severe blow, not just to their numbers, but also their resources. Clearly, fuel was all important to running their generators and by hitting that essential supply run, Bancroft would go mental. Active denial of resources, Nate calls it. He’s so wordy.

  Nate also warned that as soon as we did this, Bancroft would know he was in a two-way battle, not just a hunt for the beautiful princess and her loyal sidekick.

  I am not the sidekick, so shut it. This is my story.

  This had to go down smooth and for once, he was going to let me drive my way. The key to this whole plan was being able to draw at least one of those vehicles away and as they had the hots for us, if I was dangled as bait, they wouldn’t be able to resist.

  I took the black Astra we used to get home from our last outing, realising it was a GTi with a bit of grunt to it. I dropped Nate off about a mile from the petrol station, in the opposite direction they would approach, and let him get set in his ambush spot. He was tooled up in his tactical vest, loaded with full magazines for his shiny new toy which he had spent an hour sighting in properly. It wasn’t a plaything anymore; it was locked, loaded and fully calibrated, in the hands of someone who knew how to use it.

  Properly.

  He knelt down at the corner of a building and gave me the nod.

  I headed off towards the petrol station and as I approached, I could see the two SUV’s parked across the entrance and exit, the small tanker parked within. They’d have to manually crank the fuel in and had already been there a half hour. We let them get settled in like it was a normal, boring fuel run that they had to pull sentry on, then… enter Lockey.

  I approached at a steady pace, waiting until they caught sight of me. One man leaned out and clearly recognised the car, saw it was Princess Peach sitting behind the wheel of this particular Mario Kart, and up went the alarm. I stopped, cementing the illusion that I’d just noticed them as they flooded to the two SUV’s en masse, then whacked it in reverse to pull a swift three-point turn.

  I could have easily done a handbrake one-eighty, but I had to give them the impression I was just a helpless little girl who couldn’t drive for shit.

  Both SUV’s followed, so I assumed they’d have left at least one or two sentries with the tanker. I let them gain a little ground as I headed towards Nate’s hidey hole, then dropped it down a gear and went full Bandit as my own personal Smokeys put their pedals to the metal.

  As I approached Nate at high speed, I gave him two honks to signify how many vehicles were on my ass and as I passed Nate, I slammed on the brakes, yanked up the manual handbrake and did that full one-eighty to take in the show.

  As the lead vehicle approached Nate’s position, the air shattered with the staccato rattle of the SA80. The windscreen was obliterated as a burst of high velocity rounds raked across it, shredding the two men riding within. With the driver suffering from a severe case of lead poisoning, the SUV spun out of control, careening away to crunch into the front of a small terraced house with an almighty grind of twisting metal.

  The second driver instinctively slammed the brakes as he watched the first vehicle swerve off the road and as it screeched to a halt, Nate rose to his feet in that smooth combat walk and stalked in their direction. In perfect balance, the rifle unmoving, he switched to semi and with four quick trigger pulls, double-tapped both driver and passenger through their windscreen.

  Just like that, it was done.

  Nate moved in, rifle fixed firmly on the second vehicle, confirming the kills. Both men were dead and then he switched to the wreck of the first vehicle, one more shot sounding as he put a dying man down.

  Four men dead in seconds.

  Swiftly, Nate took the weapons and any spare ammo from both vehicles, using his knife to stop any of the dead men suddenly reanimating and chewing bits off him, and took two more of their radios. He moved the second vehicle to the side of the road, threw all the new and exciting loot on the back seat of the Astra, then jumped in the passenger seat and nodded.

  Phase two.

  I gunned it back towards the petrol station, stopping as we got closer to let Nate slide out while there was still cover and then waited, watching the digital clock on the dash. Five minutes he said. Wait five minutes, then engage phase two.

  I’m not going to lie, this shit was exciting. I tried not to think too hard about the cold method of execution Nate employed, but we were on the side of right. These fuckers were keeping slaves for their own twisted ends, so I kept telling myself the end justified the means.

  Amazing what stories we tell ourselves, isn’t it? We’re always the hero of our own story.

  Philosophy aside, I waited the five minutes, then began rolling down the road at a less than leisurely pace. I rounded the bend about a hundred metres from the station to find the other two sentries out in the road, waiting for their non-responsive buddies. The radio sat on the dash was going mental, asking what the hell was going on, that reinforcements were on the way and to hold tight.

  Ten minutes they said. That was five minutes ago.

  As I rolled into view, I slowed. The two remaining sentries had rifles, both pointing my way. They didn’t have scopes, so I reckoned I was good, but the two mooks never triggered a single shot. Two rapid cracks came from somewhere else and the two men aiming down the long road towards me crumpled.

  Nate stalked from a side alley, having made his way down the back of the buildings, only to emerge in a concealed position. They weren’t expecting it and man, he made them pay. His arm went up and I accelerated to his position, hammering to a stop.

  I scooped up their weapons and ammo, throwing them to the back seat, before joining Nate. He had his rifle trained on the tanker driver, who had dropped to his knees and was begging for his life.

  “Nate,” I said, letting him know I was approaching from behind. He was so in-the-zone I didn’t want to startle him in any way. “Nate, put it down. He’s unarmed and he doesn’t look like one of them.”

  “I’m not!” agreed the driver fiercely. “I’m just an engineer! Please, they’ve got my son!”

  The guy was late thirties, maybe a little older. I couldn’t really tell, and I think he looked a little older because of the thinning hair on his head. What I could tell was that he seemed to be as equally relieved as he was terrified.

  I put a hand on Nate’s arm, gently pushing it down until the barrel pointed at the ground.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Mark,” he stammered. “Mark Reynolds.”

  “Hi Mark, I’m Erin, but my friends call me Lockey. This is Nate.” His eyes flicked to the iron golem next to me. “You say Bancroft has your son?”

  He nodded. “If I don’t keep the maintenance up around his estate, he says he’ll hurt him.” Pretty sure I heard Nate growl at that. “Electrics, plumbing, the heating, all that. He says it’s my job to keep the lights on and if they ever go off, Charlie will be the one that pays.”

  “We can’t destroy the fuel, Nate,” I said.

  “This is a vital resource,” he argued.

  “Nate, Mark and his son will be hurt if this tanker doesn’t go back.” Mark nodded vigorously, eyes pleading.

  Nate huffed, thought for a second, then stalked to Mark and thwacked him across the cheek with the butt of his rifle.

  �
��What the fuck?” I exclaimed as poor Mark hit the deck, hand to his face and dazed.

  “If he’s unmarked, he’ll be seen as a conspirator.” He turned to the floored engineer. “Sorry about that, mate,” he said. “We’ve got to run, so you make sure you tell them that we’d just started to question you when we heard their reinforcements arriving, and you’re only alive because Bancroft’s men arrived in time. He’ll be pissed that his men are dead, but you’ll still come back with the tanker of fuel and the lights will stay on.”

  Mark nodded, hand still held against his split cheek, blood seeping through his fingers.

  “Tell them our names,” I said, kneeling down. “Tell them you heard him call me Lockey, and I call him Nate. Describe us exactly how we look, and it will keep you alive. When we started questioning you, we were asking how many they were, where they were, but you never got a chance to answer because backup arrived, and we fled. Can you do that?”

  Poor Mark still looked dazed and confused, reeling from Nate’s strike, so I shook him.

  “Mark, get it together. Did you get all that?”

  “Yes.” He pulled himself together a little. “Yes, I did,” he repeated with more conviction.

  “One last question. How often do you do these fuel runs?”

  “Roughly every two weeks.”

  I nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. “Thanks Mark. Don’t tell them we know that, and you stay safe.”

  “Erin, we’ve got to go, I can hear vehicles coming.”

  I lifted an arm to acknowledge his statement, then flinched as Nate cracked off two quick shots. Spinning, I saw two crumpled undead that had wandered into our area, drawn by the noise. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Can’t very well let our new friend get eaten now, can we?”

  So, six of their remaining twenty-eight hostiles down, and a plethora (that is such a good word) of new weapons and ammo. We’re actually getting pretty fat on 5.56 for these rifles—as we acquired two more weapons from the last two sentries—and 9mm for the handguns, as each of the six carried. We’re in a much better position for a firefight if it comes to it. Now, Freya and I just need proper training and firing time with them. Well, Freya is happy to learn handgun for defence, but she’s shied away from the rifle for the moment.

  Not me though. Nuh uh. I’ve seen what those bad boys can do, and they are a great fucking equaliser. If they’re only sending two of their six fuel sentries with SA80’s, that means their stocks are very limited on them, so us nabbing three from them will send Bancroft into a spin. After all, supply chains are a bit behind given the slight problem of an apocalypse.

  So, if I can get operational with an assault rifle, that makes me far more useful.

  All in all, yesterday was a good day for us.

  We declared war and won the first battle.

  I just hope Mark and Charlie are okay.

  August 13th, 2010

  THREE ACES

  I haven’t written for a while, about a week judging by the last date. You know why? Because I don’t write unless there’s something interesting to tell you. We’re not playing Zombie Sims here, you don’t want to know about every meal, piss, or conversation we have. Day-to-day is boring shit, so here’s a brief summary before I get to the thing I actually want to relay.

  We’ve had live firing time with the handgun, and Nate has been showing me how to handle the SA80. I feel like such a bad ass, then remember I’m handling a weapon that can kill living people, and sort my shit out. I can now safely use the holy trinity of handgun, shotgun and assault rifle. Yeah, I’m no Dirty Harriet, but Nate says I’ve got a good eye and steady aim, and if I concentrate, I can become a decent shooter.

  Smug mode… engaged.

  Freya, not so much. She flinches as she’s pulling the trigger. She can use a handgun in a pinch and knows how to safely handle one, but this girl will never work out in the field. That’s okay. To be honest, she’d probably be a distraction for me as I’d worry about her constantly. She’s not cut out for this life and as resilient as she’s shown herself to be, she can take down zombies, but put her in the stress of being under fire and I think she’d crumble. Probably because she’s normal. Normal people don’t take to this stuff. They’ve got too much good sense.

  Bancroft finally figured out to change the channel, but these things aren’t top dollar communications and with a bit of patient searching, you can find the band again. However, they’re obviously now keeping radio traffic to a minimum.

  That changed last night.

  We were sitting in the kitchen enjoying a post-meal coffee together, when the radio sat next to Nate blazed into life.

  “Are you out there?” crackled a voice. It had to be Bancroft. Even his fucking voice sounded mean. “I’ll hang on for one minute more, then I’ll move up a channel.”

  Nate reached for the radio, but as he operates in a different temporal phase to the rest of humanity and takes his sweet time, I snatched it up.

  “I can hear you,” I said, overly jolly. Nate looked at me murderously. I grinned at him as I clicked the mic again and said in my best faux Texan accent, “Breaker one-nine, Rubber Duck, this is Sassy Kat, come back now.”

  Honestly, I nearly pissed my pants laughing at Nate’s look of pure horror.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Clearly, Mr. Bancroft was not amused.

  “This is Sassy Kat with her toes on the bumper, Rubber Duck. What’s your twenty?”

  Oh my god, I was already having too much fun.

  “Are you the little bitch Lockey?”

  “I told you, Rubber Duck, this is Sassy Kat. You sound like a Billy Big Rigger with some bubble trouble. You okay there, Rubber Duck? Your rig greasy side up?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he roared down the radio. “Shut the fuck up, I’m talking to you! Do you know who I am?”

  “That’s a big negative, Rubber Duck. Say, you okay, Ducky? You forgotten?”

  The signal went all weird for a minute, with a bunch of static, then went dead. I’m pretty sure in amongst that I heard an apoplectic rage as the mic was pressed for a second. I think I might have made him smash a radio in anger.

  This was going well.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” said Nate.

  “You said he needs to get wild and erratic, and it seems like that legendary Bancroft temper runs true in the eldest as well. This guy isn’t used to people fucking with him, and you should know by now Nate, there is nobody on this earth that can be more annoying than me, especially when I try.”

  Nate stayed silent for a few seconds as he considered that.

  “Valid point,” he conceded.

  I pulled the laptop in front of me. When we first went through it, we found all kinds of weird music downloaded on it. I found the track I wanted, prepped it, then waited.

  The radio blared into life again, as we knew it would. Clearly Bancroft had found another handset.

  “Listen to me, you little bitch. Are you still there?”

  I promptly pressed play, stuck the handset next to the laptop’s speaker, and pressed down the talk button. Jamie Bancroft, local criminal kingpin and hard-man, was forced to listen to a good two minutes of soothing whale song over the airwaves, as I refused to release the mic. I heard nothing of his raging at the other end, but I knew it was happening. It’s my gift.

  Freya was in hysterics, while Particles sat on the counter in front of her, staring at the laptop speaking whale with confused outrage. Even Nate’s granite face cracked into a smile.

  When I thought the time was right, I paused the whale song and put on my best “children’s television presenter,” voice as I spoke into the handset.

  “There, boys and girls,” I cooed. “Don’t we feel all relaxed and calmer now?”

  Silence. He was catching on. The angrier he got, the more I fucked with him. The airwaves stayed silent for a couple of minutes.

  “You killed my brother, and six more of my men,” he sa
id finally. Flat. Calm. Detached. “That needs to be addressed.”

  “Your brother implied I was going to be brought back to wherever it is you are, and then used as a whore, mate. We had a bit of a Han and Greedo situation, but your boy definitely moved to shoot. He was given fair warning and had his chance to walk away.”

  “He was my brother.”

  “He was a fucking caveman, and you know it,” I retorted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be sending him out foraging with the Suicide Chavs. All those guns, Jamie, and you send your brother out with chavs armed with hammers and machetes? You know there’s an apocalypse, right?”

  “He was my brother.” His voice was tight, straining at the chains of explosive fury.

  “We’ve established that. And like I said, he could have walked away, but didn’t. If your brother was bacon, he’d be too fucking dumb to sizzle.”

  “Be that as it may, things have got… tangled. We should meet to discuss a way forward out of this.”

  I kept the mic open as I barked a derogatory laugh over the airwaves.

  “Nate! Nate! Did you hear that? He wants us to meet him?” I laughed again. “Fucking hell, grab your dumbrella, it’s raining fucking stupid out there today.”

  “When I get my hands on you, I won’t kill you, little whore,” he hissed. Man, this fucker was pure evil when the mask was stripped back. It wasn’t an act; if anything, the act was his everyday psychosis. When he got really mad, he got cold. “I’ll make sure every one of my guys takes a turn at you. Twice.”

  “Cool story, bro,” I laughed. “Can we jump to the chapter where you shut the fuck up now? My dog needs a piss.”

  Particles cocked his head, gracing me with an expression that said, “Don’t fucking bring me into this, human.”

  Silence. I knew he was breaking shit, losing his mind to rage, though this time he managed to keep the mic closed. Bancroft was used to being in control, and you just can’t reason with me if my sole purpose, at that moment, is to annoy the living shit out of you. Arguing with me in that state of mind is like playing chess with a pigeon. Doesn’t matter what you do or how good you are, I will shit all over that board and strut round like the champion of the world.