We Will Rise: An Adrian's Undead Diary Novel (Lockey vs the Apocalypse Book 2) Read online

  With the rain having cleared out for more than a day, Nate decided that a run out beyond the gate would do us good. It was just the two of us, old school style, and I was glad of it. There’s a comfortable familiarity when it’s just me and Nate, and as much as Mark and Alicia need time in the field, I was glad that this day was just ours. With it just being the two of us, I didn’t have to worry about putting on a mask for the others, and it was a chance to find our old rhythm again without any distraction. After all, this was the first sortie out of the lodge I’d had since that dark day a couple of weeks back.

  Start simple again, we said. We’ll just hit a small out-of-the-way convenience store, quick to clear, with potential for fat loot, and that’s what we did. There’s a little village about three or four miles from where we are, so we decided to go somewhere new. We’re lucky in that there’s so many places like this around us, out in the greenery of this northern county, that have such small stores.

  There are two main towns in easy range from our country lodge. One has a population of around ten thousand, and the larger one around twenty thousand. Each town is about three or four miles from where we are in opposite directions, but scattered through the countryside are numerous singular farms, clusters of rural housing, and tiny country villages with populations in the low hundreds, which is why we’re probably able to survive as we are. Shit, I can’t even imagine living somewhere like Manchester or Liverpool, which are both around thirty miles from our location. Even our main county towns of Warrington, and the city of Chester, would be bad enough, as their populations run into six figures. I guess I should count my blessings, if there are any to be found in this end-of-the-world bullshit.

  Anyway, heading to one of those nearby villages, this little row of shops is on what passes for a main road through the place, just before a pub on a crossroads that leads to a main road out.

  They run in a row of five shops in a single terrace, with single bedroom flats above each of them. There’s a small local butcher, a tiny pharmacy, a hair salon, a coffee shop café, and the afore mentioned convenience store. There are houses all along the road before arriving at the small row of shops as well, most of which were bare of cars in their driveways.

  As a quick side note, I always come back to this question; where the fuck did all these people go? What location did they have in mind when they threw shit in their cars and headed for the proverbial hills? I mean, we’re pretty rural anyway as England goes, so what did they think were the better options? The Welsh countryside isn’t a long drive, as Chester is right on the border of North Wales, but the roads to get there would be chaos if they headed on to the motorways. Main highways are just a big fat no. Lots of traffic, plus apocalypse panic, equals bad.

  Ha, like I can talk. I went straight for the local bloody high school, and we all know what a genius decision that particular brand of fuckery got me into.

  You know, one day, when I feel like it and it’s a slow day, I’ll write about “that” particular day, and the strange, detached experience it was. Escaping from my apartment building, the sights I saw as everything fell apart, and the fraught-with-peril run for the school are things I haven’t talked about. I probably should.

  I’ve never actually written about it because my opening to these journals was a hyperactive, maddened stream of words as I tried to make sense of my new reality and survive high school for the second time. I’ve established that particular day was definitely June 23rd after… well… after Nate straight up told me what day it all went to shit. He’s all about the deets, Freya.

  Back to my near-death experience.

  The convenience store was locked up tight as we pulled into the small layby in front of the shop row, the steel shutter rolled down and sealed by a heavy padlock. Unsurprisingly, the space in front of the shops was devoid of any vehicles. A quick visual scan didn’t reveal any shambling undead in our immediate vicinity, so we slipped out of the pickup and did a sweep of the immediate area to be sure, and we were good to go.

  The pharmacy had already been looted quite heavily. We peered in through the glass front to see shelves swept clean at the back where all the prescription medicines were located. We could also see a figure idly shuffling in the rear, and there was zero doubt that the unfortunate woman was anything but dead. Her head lolled to one side at an unnatural angle, the clear sign of a broken neck. There didn’t seem to be any other wounds from the rear, but the dark crust of aged blood stood out on the once-bright white shoulder of her pharmacist’s coat.

  “There’s at least one in there,” I said quietly to Nate. He just nodded. “I’ll open the door and give her a whistle, and you brain her when she comes out.”

  Nodding again, Nate took his halligan in both hands and once his grip was firm, he gave the signal he was ready. Pushing open the door and suppressing a gag at the rancid stench, I grabbed a pack of baby wipes from a nearby shelf and rammed it under the door to jam it open, gave a low whistle to get the thing’s attention, then stepped back to await her bumbling shuffle out of the shop.

  She did not bumble. She did not shuffle.

  I couldn’t help but gape in frightened confusion as the zombie unerringly worked her way around from the back of the counter through the gap. It was almost like she was using a rope to guide her, with just a few bumps into the counter as she worked her way along until eventually reaching the gap. I’d expected a much longer wait as she aimlessly tried to walk through the obstacle – as these things are invariably dumb as shit - or thought I might have to go into the building and try and bait her out from behind the counter.

  Instead, her head snapped round, milky eyes locking to me like a targeting system, and her lips peeled back in that silent snarl of hatred that I usually only see in that heart-stopping moment before these evil bastards make their final lunge for you.

  Nate noticed it too. I glanced at him, my mouth and eyes wide, to find a more inquisitive expression of concern etched into his weathered features. We shared a brief look of, “What the fuck?” before our attention returned to the undead steering herself around all obstacles with minimum delay, filled with a purpose and urgency we’d never encountered before.

  That’s when I noticed the second undead emerge just behind her, initially hidden from sight by my restricted view of the interior. The second one was massively out of place and truth be told, looked like your quintessential smackhead. Thin as a rake, dirty clothing too big for their withered frame, a mouth of rancid teeth and rotting gums, and a stench that was more than just the alien corruption of the undead. There was a sickness to the creature’s stench that pervaded the area around it, a miasma of filth and decay carried through from a life spent craving their next hit of poison to be flushed through their weakening veins, forgoing anything resembling personal hygiene. It was a cloying and fetid odour that infected the senses.

  The pharmacist’s gore-coated mouth matched the bloody chunks missing from the smackhead’s calf, forearm, and neck, and it didn’t take much analysis of the evidence to figure out what happened there. When the world was going to shit, the twitching addict, free from the fears of law enforcement, went to fill his boots with the good stuff. The only wound the pharmacist had was the broken neck, so I reckon she must have tried to fend off the dirty druggie, was pushed into a fall and caught herself on the counter in some way, snapping her neck. Instant death.

  Meanwhile, her killer started sweeping the shelves clean, probably with accomplices, considering how much stuff was actually missing. Too focused on their treasure trove of prescription drugs, they didn’t click to the fact of just how fast the dead turn. The first they would have known of it was when Dr. Death took a bite out of Twitchy McFilth’s calf, then climbed up him, or dragged him down, chewing on his arm and finally his neck. Exit accomplices in a panic, leaving plus two zombies into the world, stuck in a tiny village pharmacy as a new undead partnership. Waiting.

  Back to the situation at hand, Dr. Death and Twitchy both moved with ch
illing purpose through the wreckage of the pharmacy’s interior, soundless roars of hatred behind snapping teeth. They moved differently. Not faster per se, but smoother. Meaner. You might even say… focused? They were both locked on to me like they had laser sights and the way they looked at me, with those sightless eyes coated in that sickly film, caught my breath for a moment and I instinctively took a backwards step. I just wanted to be away from them.

  Nate, calm as ever, waited for the pharmacist to step out into the open then dropped her in one smooth arc, the halligan’s spike biting deep into her temple and cutting her strings. She went from silent predator to lifeless husk in the blink of an eye. Not even trying to wrestle with the halligan, Nate released his grip, drew that mini-sword from his hip and let Twitchy lunge as he exited the store, stepping aside and letting the undead addict topple over the woman he had no doubt murdered. As soon as the smackhead smashed teeth first into the concrete – a sound that I will never get used to – Nate had one knee between its shoulder blades, pressing it to the ground as he pulled back its greasy mop of lank hair and smashed the knife through its eye. Emotionless, efficient, and so very Nate.

  “You saw that, right?” I asked him, fighting for breath.

  “Aye,” answered Nate, wiping the blade on the corpse, then standing to wrangle the halligan out of the pharmacist’s skull.

  I’ll not lie, it shook me. A lot. I’ve gotten somewhat used to the lunge as they draw near, but holy shit; this thing was on it from the get-go. That thing wanted me dead. Somehow, the creature made it feel personal, and that scares me, however stupid a thought it might be.

  “What the fuck was that Nate?” I asked, even though I knew he didn’t have the answer. “Both of them moved like they had… like they had a fucking mission.”

  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 shrug off shit like that is to jump right back in. Today we decided to go out on a run to survey new petrol stations. Nate and Mark had done a run to fill up the baby tanker when I’d been sequestering myself in my room after your funeral. I hadn’t even known that until a couple of days back; Nate told me that little factoid on our two-person jaunt to the smackhead-conquered convenience store.

  It was the nearest station to our little country abode, so we decided to scout out our next potential source of fuel, as we’re likely to be chugging through it come the winter. We can’t rely on just the solar power to run that place for all of us and keep it warm, so until we can figure out some wood burners, Mark can wire in the generators taken from Castle B
ancroftstein so we can all still have hot showers and Charlie can play Mario Kart through the dark and miserable winter months. Power is vital, and we need to make sure we have it, so our best bet is fuel generators. I don’t know about the ins and outs of the power they generate, but those four taken from Bancroft’s house have got the horsepower to keep us warm through the winter on top of the solar power storage according to Mark. Ultimately though, those generators need to be juiced.

  So, Nate and I decided to take Alicia along with us for some scouting experience, as Mark is currently in the process of doing some MacGyver shit to the lodge and building a soundproofed little outhouse for those generators.

  I’m amazed how much shit that guy knows and can do. He’s been digging out the foundations for it and filling them with concrete today, and he’ll be doing some anti-vibration stuff on the floor when it’s all set. All the base materials were at Bancroft’s place for all the early part, but he still needs bricks to build this outhouse, so that’ll be next on the agenda. We’ll have to hit a builder’s yard and get a proper vehicle to do that, and Mark knows of such a place that’s on the outskirts of town, where we can pick up those supplies that’s unlikely to be surrounded by hordes of the undead. Got to love this small-town living thing; there are back roads to just about anywhere if you know the area.

  That aside, we have to make sure we’ve got a steady income of fuel for the winter, so we can keep the lights on and top up the solar energy the lodge would soak up, so off the three of us went in our trusty pickup. Alicia was being trusted for the first time and was now carrying a pistol at her hip, and a shotgun acquired from Bancroft’s illegal armoury that has a pump action and can fit six shells in the breach (UK legal shotguns can only have a capacity for three). She wasn’t ready for the assault rifle, but she’d practiced with a shotgun and Nate says she’s become quite proficient with it, even attached to it. He says it’s like a magic item that she draws strength from when it’s in her hand.