We Will Rise: An Adrian's Undead Diary Novel (Lockey vs the Apocalypse Book 2) by Carl Meadows (best historical biographies txt) 📕

Nate nodded. “Not the time to be thinking on it right now, Erin,” he advised. “Get your head back in the game.”

While I was still trying to get my wits about me and return my heart rate to some semblance of normality, a new voice caused both of us to turn.

“Keys, old man.”

There were three of them; two men and one woman. They were probably about my age, but their ragged appearance made them look older. All three were dirty, emaciated, cursed with rotting mouths, and flaccid, waxen skin covered in sores. Their appointed leader had a hood pulled up and my eyes were drawn to the handgun he pointed in our direction. The two behind him, nervous and twitching, both wielded melee weapons. The second guy held a butcher’s cleaver, no doubt taken from the small butcher in the row of shops. The woman had a baseball bat, though she looked like she was shitting bricks, eyes darting from the gunman to Nate. My eyes were drawn to her bared arms, covered in the telltale tracks of heroin needles.

They had to be Twitchy’s accomplices. I can only assume they had taken residence, or already lived in one of the flats above the row of shops. Our arrival had triggered them into venturing out, seeking an opportunity.

Nate looked them up and down and - I shit you not - just sighed, like having an unstable smackhead with a twitchy trigger finger was little more than another minor inconvenience adding to an already shitty day.

“Son, I’m in no mood for this,” he said, turning full on to face them. He rested one hand lightly on the Glock at his hip, which made Hoodie wave the gun in a threatening manner. The clench in my jaw was aching, and my whole body coiled into a wincing grimace, expecting the report of gunshot any second. Nate, however, didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Don’t you fucking dare, old man!” ordered the gunman. “You draw that gun and I’ll cap your ass!”

“Cap my…?” Nate snorted and shook his head. “Too many movies, sonny,” he said derisively. “Let me tell you how this is going to go. Recently, I’ve lost someone dear to me, and today I’ve had my fill of death putting these two down.” He gestured vaguely behind him to the two lifeless corpses. “I’ve no taste for putting any of the living down today, even though you three smackheads barely qualify as alive. Still, I’m going to give you a pass, despite you filthy junkies probably being responsible for that lady’s death. I’m tired, and my friend and I just want to pick up some supplies, load up our truck, and head back to our people, so consider this your lucky day. Now, off you fuck.”

The three of them stared incredulously at Nate, and I joined them, my mouth hanging open catching flies as he stared back at them, bored by the whole situation. Hoodie recovered himself first.

“Maybe you missed the piece pointing your way?”

Nate sighed theatrically. “Maybe you missed the word ‘replica’ written on the side of your toy gun, which the morning sun is lighting up for all to see thanks to that stupid sideways grip.”

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, and it was only made worse by the look of stark, naked terror that replaced the nervous bravado the three of them had been trying to project. I was nearly choking in a fit of giggles at the stupidity of the whole situation as Nate calmly drew his own weapon.

“This, however, is a very real Glock 17, which will fire 7.5 grams of solid lead at a speed of around twelve hundred feet per second, causing all kinds of merry hell when that ballistic trauma scrambles your insides. I’ve been firing live rounds since before any of you were even twitches in your daddy’s balls, so I’ll give you this one last chance.”

Then Nate turned it up to eleven, giving them his best tombstone voice.

“Drop your toys and fuck off.”

Replica gun, meat cleaver, and bat clattered to the concrete, and the three junkies fled at full sprint, not even daring to glance back.

“Bell ends,” muttered Nate, sheathing his Glock.

The back door of the convenience store was broken in, the junkies clearly using it as their own personal pantry, so we pulled the pickup round back and loaded up with all kinds of edible goodies, bottled water, and essential consumable supplies (a world without toilet paper genuinely scares me) that would do well for our winter stores. They were definitely residing in one of the flats, judging by the fucking rancid pile of garbage and human waste outside one of them. Absolutely vile, especially as their insides must have twisted up not getting their regular heroin fix. Honestly, I’m amazed they weren’t all dead from overdosing on the prescription stuff they took. We could have got the gear out of that flat if there was any left, but there was no way I was walking into that particularly fetid corner of the apocalypse. Three junkies, no personal hygiene, for three months in one little single bedroom flat, while they’re mostly in withdrawal? That tiny abode would look and smell like Hell’s arsehole, so that was a big fucking nope from me, and the motion was seconded by Nate.

The encounter with the three junkies and Nate’s, “shoo fly, don’t bother me,” approach to them had cheered me considerably, but on the way back to the lodge in the comfort of the pickup’s cab, my thoughts turned back to the dead eyes of that pharmacist as her head snapped round in my direction.

And the dark purpose contained within those sightless orbs.

OCTOBER 6th, 2010

THE WALL

Shit is getting really freaky, Freya. It’s like losing you was a catalyst that sparked off some bad juju.

I was still all wigged out by Dr Death’s laser focus and purposeful stomp through the pharmacy, but the best way to