Lockey vs. the Apocalypse by Meadows, Carl (7 ebook reader TXT) 📗

Without pause, while the other two stood shocked by the explosive attack, I used their slack-jawed bewilderment to hit them both simultaneously. I put my hands on the chest of the guy on the right, shoving him into the wall with all my might to keep him off balance, while smashing my left heel down on to the other guy’s toes, crunching the fragile digits to dust. His yelp hit a pitch only nearby dogs would hear and that was the end of his afternoon. Hell, think of the pain when you stub your little toe, or stand on a Lego brick in bare feet. I’d just smashed down with all my strength and weight into a small point containing little flesh and tiny bird bones, protected only by the thin material of a dirty knock-off Nike trainer. It was like smashing his flimsy little digits with a bone jackhammer, and none of those little piggies were going to market after that.

These guys were thugs, not real fighters with any form of training, and the overwhelming violence of action (one of Nate’s favourite sayings) I imposed on them hadn’t even let them gather their less-than-average wits in those opening couple of seconds. One guy was on his knees trying to suck oxygen into a smashed throat, another was down howling at a high frequency while holding his toe dust, while the third was pushed into a wall and off balance.

As an abject lesson and punishment for their intended crime, I hit the last guy spread against the wall with a sweeping upward arc of my right foot between his legs like a Steven Gerrard thunderbolt, kicking his balls hard enough that I half-expected to see three Adam’s apples appear in his throat.

He went down without a sound. Men make a special kind of face when their balls are smacked with that kind of force. Their lungs empty of air so there’s no sound, and their face gets twisted in a mangled expression of disbelief and horror, as though someone has just surprise rammed a barbed dildo into their rectum using a mallet. It’s the kind of face that suggests they’d rather be dead than feel that special kind of pain.

I know this for a fact because this was not my first scrotum kick. I have multiple points of data gathered through the years to prove my hypothesis. Science, yo.

The three thugs were down in as many seconds. Leaving the three little pigs to choke, squeal, and silently pray for death respectively, I left them to their shared misery. Stepping over their choking, crying forms, I picked up the pace and hit full sprint.

I finally made it to a fence that ran along the back of the school, hopped it, and made my way towards the nearest entrance. There were still a lot of students milling in the car park, probably having been told by parents to wait until they were collected, but I could see that some bad shit had already gone down in the school. Some kids were carrying injuries, some had blood on them that wasn’t theirs, accompanied by the blasted stares of those trying to make sense of horrors they had witnessed.

“Oh shit, what if some of those injuries they’re carrying are bites,” was my immediate thought. I did not want to be anywhere near these teenagers if they started dying and reanimating. There were no zombies in the car park yet, but I emphasise the word “yet.”

Nobody really took any notice of me as I wandered past them towards the language and mathematics building. I’m quite youthful looking and small in stature, so at a glance I probably looked like a Sixth Form student, especially as I had a backpack strapped to me. I drew a few stares when it looked like I intended to enter the school, as every other student and teacher remaining were outside milling at the fire assembly point in the car park, waiting for parents to collect them, or hoping emergency services would arrive. They never would.

Well, most of the teachers were outside. As I headed towards the doors, a combined look of warning and bewilderment from an older man near the entrance made me spin on my heel and find my way to the rear of that particular block. Spying an open window on the top floor right next to a solid metal pipe bolted to the brick, I had a quick glance left and right, then pipe-climbed to the top floor, leaned over, grabbed the edge of the window, transferred to the thin ledge, and shimmied my way into the classroom I would call home for a few days.

I watched the horror unfold as Mrs. Thomson-Smythe careened through the gates and set off the shitstorm in the car park as she tragically mowed down her own kid and a few others. Some other kids succumbed to bites as I suspected they would, who then turned and attacked their classmates, and just like that, the apocalypse was in full flow at the school.

I started writing two days after that, so I know now that I started writing on June 25th. Why did I start to write? My head was royally up my arse after day one, and with only my own company, I was going a little mental. I had nobody to talk to, nobody to call for help, and the only people left in the school were zombified.

I figured that maybe if I started writing shit down, it would help me to try and bring some order back to my thinking, so I acquired some school notebooks from another classroom on my floor with some pens, and started what would become this, my chronicle of Lockey versus the Apocalypse.

I look back now and have to let out a grim laugh. I was out of my fucking mind in those early days. I can be hyperactive, a fact I think you’re familiar with now, Freya. But