Lockey vs. the Apocalypse by Meadows, Carl (love novels in english .TXT) 📗

Armed with my mighty club of doom, I stepped out of the stall and instinctively took a step back to give myself swing room. As I did, I got a good look at Squeaky for the first time.

The guy was in his mid-forties. He was the kind of guy that boredom would look like if it was moulded into a person. You know the ones I mean? The type of person who is SO boring, you feel like they’ve poisoned you?

He was all beige and tan, with a woolly sweater vest over a pastel coloured shirt, two-for-a-tenner men’s grey trousers, and a “I still let my mum cut my hair” style atop his head that was carefully side-parted with enough product that an open flame might make him do a pretty fair impression of Ghost Rider. And those shiny, squeaky shoes that no man who ever wanted to get laid would even consider wearing. I don’t know what you call them, as I’m not down with virgin-chic, but you can probably work out how uncool and shite they were from my artfully descriptive depiction of his general appearance.

They were shit. Let’s leave it there. If you were to have a conversation with this guy when he was alive, I imagine you’d have been as bored as a midget in a theme park.

He’d obviously died from the three vicious bite marks on his arms and by the size of those bites, they looked student sized. He probably bored them to death, and they unleashed their undead vengeance on him the only way they could.

I’d given myself the room I needed and gave the toilet lid a couple of practice swings to get the arc right. Overbalancing and falling on my face would be a bad move, so I made sure I got myself planted and ready for his lightning assault.

Squeak. Shuffle. Squeak. Shuffle.

Zombies are slow, and they aren’t intellectuals filled with witty conversation or the ribald tales of a horny sailor, but fuck ME… I was getting bored waiting for him. But then, at the last moment, something changed. Lips drew back, fingers curled to claws and his expression changed into pure, unadulterated hate. It was a stark and sudden shift and I swear my heart nearly seized. He went from a vaguely comical undead to terrifying supernatural force in the time it took to fart out my fear.

I swung that thing right to left in a sudden panic, catching him clean on the side of the head and knocking him the fuck down.

It obviously didn’t kill him with one blow, but once he was down, then I started to pound. Letting out a feral yell—stealth could blow itself, I was shitting it and just wanted this done—I brought the heavy edge of the lid down on to the side of his head while he was flat on the floor and was rewarded with an audible crack. Still wasn’t dead, so I did it again. And again. And again.

I wailed on his head like that scene in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, where Vinnie Jones’ character is slamming that guy’s head in the car door for threatening his kid. Full on scream, roar, fuck you, die mother fucker.

For a moment, I completely lost myself in an equal blend of fury and terror. By the time I got my senses back and looked down at my handiwork, Squeaky would squeak no more. There was nothing left of his head but a mangled pulp of red, white, and grey.

Awful. I dropped the lid and stepped back into the empty stall I had emerged from and threw my guts up for a good thirty seconds until I had nothing left in me. I flushed, sat on the seat, and took a minute to get my shit together.

My hand hurts. Dear reader, let me tell you, writing for so long with a pen is hard. I’m gonna take a break and carry on the tale shortly. Thinking about splashing that head has made me feel sick again.

4th Entry

VICE, VICE BABY

When I’d finally got my shit together, I stepped over the human wreckage and bobbed my head out into the corridor. I mean, shit, I’d been screaming in terror like a child molester thrown into prison gen-pop while I was pancaking Squeaky’s head, and I was half expecting a scene from Thriller in the hallway as the army of darkness came shuffling towards me. All was well, however. No sign of any further threats, so I slipped out and headed straight for the school canteen.

I expected to find it full of zeds, but amazingly, there was not a damned soul anywhere. After the Battle of the Bog, I was all slaughtered out and just wanted to fill my backpack with snacks and get back upstairs, so that’s exactly what I started doing. I threw all kinds of snacky goodness in the bag, took plenty of bottled water and generally started feeling better about myself. And then, fate smiled upon me.

As I was filling up my backpack with fat loot, my eyes were drawn to a socket on the wall and there—winking at me—was a little red light.

Power.

Frowning, I flicked the light switch and lo and behold the lights came on. I stepped out into the hall and flicked the lights out there, but there was nothing.

Okay, so I’m no electrician, but it said to me that the kitchen and canteen were on a different circuit, maybe their own circuit with a backup generator for the fridges and freezers, but who knows? In fact, who fucking cares? I fortified all the doors, so I had an early warning system, switched all the electric hobs on, got some pans, raided the fridges and lo and behold, Lockey had herself a fry up.

Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash brown, beans, toast, butter… homygod. And then the coup de fucking grace. I switched on the