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

people were hanging out their windows demanding to know what was occurring, then getting angry at the paramedics because they were too busy to answer any queries.

Well, being the hero of the common people that I am, I let those assholes know exactly what I thought of their dick-like antics, told them all to leave the medics the fuck alone, and then laughed as all the bell ends turned their ire towards me. I will have a verbal slap fight with anyone, at any time of the day. I get a kick out of it, because… well… I’m really good at it. Other people will lose their shit way faster than I will. Poking idiots with a proverbial stick is just one more thing I can’t put on my CV for prospective employers. It’s very frustrating.

It appeared the paramedic had lost too much blood, because he soon expired, despite his mate’s efforts. Obviously, now I know a bite is fatal in itself, so there was nothing that poor woman could have done to save her friend.

She sat there for a moment, head bowed and openly crying at her friend’s demise, which shut the gawking residents up. As we all watched on, wondering how this particular situation had arisen, the dead paramedic twitched and the woman sucked in a surprised breath, immediately resuming her medical treatment.

Fatal mistake.

Even as the man twitched, someone in a window below shouted out a warning.

“No!” he cried. “It’s on the news!”

I thought that was a weird thing to say at the time. Her face was so close to her reanimating colleague, and she had no time to react as his eyes snapped open. His arms encircled her, crushing her down towards his waiting jaws. Her screams soon died as her undead friend gnawed his way through her neck, gouts of blood erupting from the awful wounds, panic exploding in every window as they quickly slammed shut.

I stared down in mute horror, watching as the newly raised undead ceased the wet grind through his colleague’s throat, releasing her before climbing awkwardly to its feet. Seconds later, the woman gave that violent twitch, and within a minute, we went from two live paramedics to a pair of undead monsters now hungry for flesh.

I knew what I was seeing. I’m a big pop culture fan, love a good horror movie or book, and it took me a minute for my brain to accept that what I had just seen was indeed a zombie rising from the dead. Closing the window, I remembered the neighbour’s attempt at caution and sat on my couch, switching on the TV.

I watched for a good twenty minutes, flicking over every channel, seeing the same thing over and over again. Pictures and video from across the globe, the haunted, disbelieving stares of news anchors trying to deal with this live situation, their minds clearly on their own loved ones. One newsreader, during a live broadcast, just stopped talking, shook her head and declared, “I’m done.” Just walked off in the middle of it.

That’s when I really knew shit was real, despite what I’d just witnessed outside. There was something more jarring about that news anchor, a consummate professional I’d seen on TV for more than ten years, just up sticks and fuck off during the most momentous global news event in human history. Her exit was like a slap to my face, but what I did next was really weird and detached.

I went and took a shower, as normal, like any other day.

I know, weird right? I think this is where the start of my hyperactivity began. Looking back at my very first entries, it reads like I was on drugs. After watching that news anchor just clear out mid-broadcast, a shower seemed like the only sensible thing to do. How long would the water be available? When would I get clean again?

There were two fucking zombies outside the front door of my building, and I was taking a shower and washing my hair like I was getting ready for a normal day.

There was bedlam erupting in the building below me. Lots of shouting and swearing, screaming and panic, and I was luxuriating in the shower like I was in a shampoo commercial, lathering my hair, then calmly running a comb through it after conditioning.

I came back into my little living space, one towel around my body, the other around my head, and sat on the couch staring at the TV some more while I ate a breakfast of granola and yoghurt. It was close to midday by this time. Finishing my breakfast, I dropped the bowl and spoon in the sink and put the kettle on for a brew, turning the TV off.

That’s when I noticed how quiet the building had gone.

Getting myself dressed, I didn’t bother with the hair dryer, instead combing my locks back into a tight ponytail. Looking back with clearer vision, I think I was in some kind of daze, my brain in hyperdrive, as I absently loaded some snacks and bottled water into a backpack and – weirdly – a comb. A few spare hair bobbles, box of tampons, other random shit, and then thought to check my phone. Just as I turned the screen on to look, I saw I had about fifteen missed calls from Maria, noticed the power said one percent, then the bastard little thing powered down for the last time.

Almost seconds later, the power went off in the building, so any chance of pumping charge into the device was gone. I tossed the phone and charger in my backpack anyway, and don’t ask me why as I have no idea. Throwing in a few spare bits of clothing, I then zipped it up, strapped it to my back, and ventured out my front door.

Well, I didn’t get far. Remember, this wasn’t a large building. On each floor, there’s just a small entry door from the stairwell then you’re faced with