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

“And what choice is that, Nate?” he spat in response, draping the old warhorse’s name in scorn.

Nate paused only a moment, but that brief silence was heavy with dark promise. Then he clicked the mic, pressing the handset to his mouth.

“Board up your windows, lock all your doors, load every weapon you own, then hide in the basement, Mr. Bancroft,” he whispered, cold and hard like a tombstone. “Because I’m coming for you.”

And switched the radio off.

August 22nd, 2010

MISSION PREP

I’ve never seen Nate so driven. He spent the rest of yesterday and most of today preparing. Cleaning weapons, setting up our loadout, going through a basic plan.

Tonight, we’re going after Bancroft.

Yep, you read that right. Tonight.

In the dark.

I’m pretty fearless all told, but everything has been done in daylight thus far. The thought of moving in the dark scares the shit right out of my arse, and not because the dark bothers me. What bothers me is how silent the undead are. In the gloom, we won’t see shit until one of those hungry bastards is atop us.

Nate reckons we’ll be fine, because the zombies can’t move stealthily, so any that come near us will crackle and rustle through the trees, but I’m not so convinced. I don’t like this one bit.

There are two primary goals to the mission; Bancroft’s death, and securing the captives, if he hasn’t already executed them. Neither of us have seen Machete’s crew in the hits we’ve done, which is a good thing. That suggests Bancroft is down to the dregs of his force, with probably only one or two solid fighters left. Judging by how panicky the QRF force got when I hit them and the undead stood up, what he’s got left are a bunch of street thugs that will have guns shoved in their hands, and probably won’t be able to hit a barn door from ten feet away. Still, even broken clocks are right twice a day; one lucky shot, intended or not, can still flick our switch.

As usual, Nate has a plan for this. Panic is everything, so he uses this term called “violence of action.” It’s all out speed, strength, surprise, and overwhelming aggression to dominate an enemy. It’s fast, loud, and fucking mean, designed to incite panic. We know the outdoors layout, so we can plan for that.

I say “we.”

Nate pulled out his ace-in-the-hole. I didn’t even bloody know about this.

Son of a bitch has a set of NVG’s. You know, night vision goggles? The ones you see in movies where everything is green? He’s only got one set and when I asked him about them, he just shrugged, saying he was always prepared for something.

I swear, if Nate is an end-of-the-world prepper, I’m going to kick him in the balls.

We’re leaving in about an hour and this old bastard looks ready to take on the Taliban himself. He’s all in black—which in fairness is his Sunday best anyway—with a black beanie and those NVG’s on his head. His tactical vest and combat trousers are loaded up with magazines and clips for the SA80 and Glock. He’s painted his face black, he’s got these fancy gloves that give him unerring grip—Nomex or something like that—his vicious miniature sword he calls a “knife,” and a look on his face that scares the crap out of me.

And his final piece de resistance?

Son of a bitch has two frag grenades, and two flashbangs.

What the actual fuck?

Hell, I’m only going as backup. Nate says he’s doing the compound alone and honestly, the way he looks, I’m letting him. I like to think of myself as a bad-ass, but I don’t know what I’m doing in there, and will likely get myself killed, or worse, get him killed. I don’t have his equipment, his training, or experience, so I’m accepting “sidekick” status just this once.

I’ve got two jobs with my athleticism and sneakiness.

First, I sneak down to where all those external cameras are on the four corners, and I spray them with black paint. Graffiti for the win. We don’t know what they’ve got internally, so there are probably some around the house, but when he kicks off, I go over the wall and get to that converted barn where the women are being kept and secure them, protecting them against all comers.

I asked for a grenade in case shit got real.

Nate answered with his expression.

No grenade for Lockey tonight. Boo.

Nate’s first targets will make things go boom. Chaos, panic, mayhem. Then when he gets in the house, he’ll aim for the power, switch it off, go all NVG, then hunt Bancroft down like the Predator in his own house.

Scary stuff.

I’m trembling with anticipation, so I’m going to sign off and get my head in the game.

Wish us luck, dear reader, for tonight, we aim to topple Turd Mountain.

Lockey out.

A PARTICULAR SET OF SKILLS

Nate clicked his tongue in irritation and tightened his jaw. Lying on his belly, shrouded by the night, he lowered the optics and sighed, handing them off to Erin beside him. She lifted them to her eyes, sucking in a sharp breath as she took in the sight.

“Fucking cunt,” she hissed through her teeth.

Ten corpses were sat against the wall, five on each side of the front gate, all women. Each had been executed with a single round to the head, their lifeless bodies posed like grisly trophies on display.

“This is my fault,” murmured Erin, pulling the binoculars away and dipping her head in grief.

“We share the burden, Erin,” he said softly.

Nate glanced at the young woman, seeing the pain etched in the lines of her jaw. She was confounding at times with her emotional outbursts, popular culture references that went over his head, and her near reckless lack of fear, but she had a good heart. She was unlike anyone he had ever met, and though at times he wanted to throttle her, everything she said and did