We Will Rise: An Adrian's Undead Diary Novel (Lockey vs the Apocalypse Book 2) by Carl Meadows (have you read this book .TXT) 📗

a thing exists – made an error. It laid the trap well in containing Nate, but by focusing on me when I was there, it actually allowed the others to make their escape. To me, that suggests it’s not a direct puppeteer if you follow my meaning. If ‘it’ was in direct control at that moment, splitting its force would have been a more effective tactic. Send half the mass after me, but hold enough back to contain Nate, Alicia, and Mark on their perch. Instead, the whole horde came for me, thus letting my friends clear the rear stragglers enough to mount up and ride off into the sunset.

That feels more like the horde was assigned some basic instructions to follow. See Lockey, eat Lockey, and that was a mistake, though it doesn’t make things any less personal. Shit, I don’t know. I’m spit balling to you, Freya, and I won’t get any answers. This is all musing and conjecture.

The bottom line is this; when I’m healed fully, the first thing I need to do is go out beyond the gate. We need to actively search for undead and see if they continue to react like this. I need to know if this is a permanent change in the undead modus operandi, or whether this was some kind of inexplicable random occurrence. That’s all I can do for now, as I doubt I’ll ever get any real reason why this suddenly went personal, or why I have any kind of significance at all. There’s absolutely nothing special about me other than my fast feet and even faster mouth, but that doesn’t seem significant enough to warrant an entire apocalyptic vendetta against little old me.

I reckon in another couple of days I’ll be fully healed, then I can do this little experiment of my own. I want to set Operation Birthday into motion, and there is some risk in it, considering where we have to go, but I need that risk to fully test the undead reaction.

You’ll notice, Freya, that I am being deliberately vague about the details of Operation Birthday. Where’s the fun if it’s not a surprise, even to you, wherever you may be?

Okay, I’ve done my musing on this weird shit. I’ll take a break. I think next time, as I’m still healing, I’ll finally lay out how I ended up at my old high school on the day the world shat razor blades in its pants. I think that should be recorded in here as it was that day, after all.

Wherever you are right now, Freya, I hope it’s bright, peaceful, and smells of summer flowers. I miss you, so does Particles, and Nate misses you more than he lets on. I think he kind of adopted us both as foster-daughters in that little time where it was just the three of us and our little puggy dude. Maria and Norah are amazing, but they’re like mother and grandmother figures to me. Alicia, understandably, is all laser focus in becoming a Valkyrie and lacks a bit of warmth, so she’s not really the girly type.

I miss having my girly BFF to hang with. There’s a big Freya-shaped hole in my life that I can’t seem to fill.

Shit, Nate was right. Grief does creep up on you when you least expect it. My lip’s getting all quivery and there’s a familiar tightness in my throat again, so I’m going to save this here, grab my emotional support pug, and go cry in my room for half an hour.

Miss you.

OCTOBER 15th, 2010

THE DAY THE WORLD SHIT THE BED

It’s that time, I feel. My back is almost better and I’m likely to start getting super busy again all too soon. So, before things get wild again Freya, I present to you the day the world shit the bed, and how I ended up at my old high school, where I first started scribbling this journal in shitty school notebooks.

This is a two-fold story, in that it also contains a little personal history. I’ve recorded that I went to university and got myself a creative writing degree, thus preparing my bardic magnificence for these apocalyptic tales, but such a diploma is treated with more than a little scorn by prospective employers.

I never knew what I wanted to do with my life. Do you know, I actually considered taking a shot at being a stand-up comedian? Let’s face it, I am hilarious.

Yes, I am! No, you shut up!

Twenty-one years old, fresh out of university with a half-assed degree, I was not a particularly desirable employee. I didn’t have any employable skills, seeing as brutal and sarcastic honesty is not considered a core competency for many vocations. Who knew?

I ended up in the first of many dead-end jobs, with no prospects, and endless days of monotonous routine. Data entry clerk, office junior, admin clerk, receptionist; jobs that just didn’t suit me. I’m sure they were fine for many people, but I need more mental stimulation. I get bored easily, and if I don’t love what I do, then I hate what I do, it’s that simple. Working was a necessary evil required by society so I could pay my way.

I also hated nine-to-five, never more so than summertime, when I’d sit in a stuffy office, wearing a smart blouse, grey skirt, black tights, and comfortable shoes, looking like a clone of every other person in the building as I stared out at the blazing sunshine. I wanted to be out in that weather in a park, or on an abandoned site where I could run free and get the parkour buzz from testing myself. I am not a high heels kind of girl, unless it was on a night out. My preferred uniform consists of running shoes, loose athletic or cargo pants, vest top, and hoodie.

By the way, the hoodie is the most underrated of all clothing items. Not quite warm enough to go bare-armed while jumping ledges