Are you caught up with the first six entries in the new Adrian’s Undead Diary series, Lockey vs the Apocalypse?
If you aren’t, here are some links to get started:
Parts One and Two: https://www.thechrisphilbrook.com/2020/09/12/no-more-heroes-entry-one-and-two/
Parts Three and Four: https://www.thechrisphilbrook.com/2020/09/17/no-more-heroes-entries-3-4/
Parts Five and Six: https://www.thechrisphilbrook.com/2020/09/24/no-more-heroes-entries-5-6/
Which brings us here:
Part Six, School’s Out, Bitches, and Part Seven, Old MacDonald had a Hard On.
Note: subject matter on these gets pretty dark. Remember; this is a horror story too.
6TH ENTRY
SCHOOL’S OUT BITCHES
Hey there, friend! Look, it’s me! I’m not dead.
My plan worked like a charm. I know, I know, you expected everything to go to shit, as did I, but nope. Nailed it. Everything went swimmingly on the escape, so obviously something was bound to go to shit later on and it did. Big time.
But first, let me catch you up. It’s about 9pm now and it’s been a shitstorm of a day, but I made my escape from the school about 7am this morning. Here’s my account of my crazy day. I’m writing this from a nice quiet farmhouse about four miles outside of town, with a new friend downstairs. I’ll get to him shortly, but first, let’s cover the Great Escape.
So, morning came and with a loaded backpack, I decided to go up to the roof and get a better panorama of the shitstorm below me so I could plan my route to the SUV. It took me no time at all to get out the window and spider-monkey up to the roof. However, I nearly fell off and died on the fucking spot as I was hauling myself up to the flat roof of the classroom building.
Halfway up as I was just about to swing my legs up, a shadow loomed over me and I looked up to see an undead six feet away, shambling towards me, lips already starting to peel back in that flash of lunging rage I knew was coming.
Jesus fucking Christ, my heart nearly stopped. The kid was about fifteen, shambling about on the roof above me these past few days, just feet away while I slept. The fact that I had no damn clue creeps me out like you wouldn’t believe. These things are so fucking quiet.
Now, at this point, I was in something of an awkward position. I couldn’t go backwards because… well… backwards was a thirty-foot drop to concrete and I didn’t have time to get myself back into a climb-down position. I had horrible visions of the little shit dropping to its dead knees and taking a bite out of my fingers, so my only option was to power forward.
Flicking myself up, I sprung past the teenage dirtbag, feeling its filthy claws sweep at me and miss me by the width of a gnat’s pubic hair, but then I was up on my feet, turned, and ran back, leaping at it with both feet.
Boom. Both feet, centre mass, and that fucker shot away like he’d just been snapped back by a bungee cord, right over the edge. I popped my head over the roof just as the undead teen died from a severe case of concrete poisoning, which caused the rotten bastard to burst like a bag of vegetable soup.
Wow, check me out, Hemingway. Check out my awesome simile. I’m a literary genius.
Like a bag of vegetable soup?
Facepalm.
Sometimes I think I should just stop saying words.
Anyway, retarded descriptions aside, I put that quick fright behind me and surveyed the realm. The burst zombie splashing on to the concrete drew the attention of some nearby zeds and they came shuffling in my direction, but as they weren’t exactly gymnasts, I was okay up on my perch.
There were three cars close together on the right side of the car park and if I could get their alarms going, they’d draw everything away from my escape vehicle, while I made a circuitous route back across the roof of the school buildings, preventing me having to work my way through the shambling mass. Then it would be drop down, scamper to the murder wagon, get in the car, grab Mum, kill Phil…. yeah, you get the picture.
So that’s exactly what I did. I worked my way round the back of the building, set those bitches off (I’m not gonna write all the technical ins and outs, because it’s boring, so let’s just accept my awesome) and off they went. Wee-ooh, wee-ooh, wee-ooh. And like a siren’s song to horny sailors, the mass began to move.
Up to the roof again, began my scamper (with far more vigilance this time) and I watched with a fat grin as the mass pulled away from my target vehicle like iron filings to a magnet. It was glorious. Now I really was feeling like a strategos after all my initial fuck ups.
This was going brilliant. As I watched the SUV clear of all zombie presence, I’m not gonna lie, I felt like a champ. I could do this planning shit. It wasn’t that hard. Now all I had to do was get in the car, grab Mum, kill Phil…
I need to leave that joke alone. I’m tugging a dead horse there. Wait, that’s not it. Flogging a dead horse, that’s right.
Shit, that changes the saying in all kinds of weird ways.
Flush with my newfound confidence at my awesome skills of strategy, I shimmied down to ground level and prepared to head to the car. Not gonna lie, I had a bit of a swagger.
Of course, that overconfidence results in anal penetration by a corroded metal sex-toy, doesn’t it? That sloppiness I was talking about earlier? That one that gets you painfully butt-pumped by spikey things with no lubrication for maximum friction? Yep, didn’t follow my own advice.
I dropped down and landed about eight feet away from three zombies. They weren’t in school uniforms; all three of them were dressed in tracksuits, with baseball caps on and hoods pulled up over. Teenager zombie chavs.
Sigh. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.
Honestly, at first glance I couldn’t tell if they were alive or not. I mean, teenage chavs are complete dicks anyway with ‘uh’ as their common response to any question posed at them. Even giving them a sniff didn’t help determine their life status, as the little bastards usually have a weird cocktail smell anyway, like Lynx Africa, weed, Red Stripe and a week’s worth of groin-sweat, all mixed together in one malodorous Eau de Twat. Honestly, that’s not much different from the walking dead.
The only reason I could tell instantly that they were actually dead was their silence. They weren’t shouting “yeah bro”, “fuckin’ tell yer, lad” and “do you fuckin’ know who I am, brah?”… though I swear the grotty little fucks were still trying to roll their faux gangster pimp limps even in death.
Even so, they were damn close, and their ass-scratching hands began reaching for me as I touched down, lips drawing back to reveal teeth that had never seen the inside of a dental surgery. I had to go through them to get to my goal, so I took five quick steps back (and I’m not ashamed to say I squeaked like a little bitch when I first saw them, such was my surprise and their proximity), pulled out the crowbar, dropped my backpack to the ground so my balance wasn’t affected, and I did this United Kingdom a great service.
Chavs are a curse on our once great and noble land. They’re like the human version of wasps. They all look the same, they’re all really aggressive and won’t just fuck off and leave you alone and – to a one – they are all little fucking cunts, and I don’t often drop the C-bomb.
Braining those three little shits – who probably spent their days in life doing nothing but seeing how much of a twat they could be – was no great labour. The other zeds I killed were for survival and generally scared the shit out of me, but this unholy trio of smelly little shits were like a bit of catharsis. I felt absolutely nothing other than grim satisfaction smashing the hooked pointy end of my crowbar into their brainpans. You don’t need a full description; suffice to say, Lockey three, Chavs zero. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bad-ass bitch with a crowbar.
After wiping the crowbar clean, I did a ninja run over to the SUV, checked the back seat first (always check the back seat like Columbus advised), and laughed aloud as the keys were indeed still in the car. I laughed louder still when I turned that key and it thrummed into life first time, so I closed the door, saw it had a three quarter full tank – hell yeah – then popped it in reverse, connected the seatbelt (Zombie survival rule #4, buckle up) and I was out and gone.
I expected chaos and mayhem everywhere, but the truth was the roads were mostly clear. There were a number of accidents here and there, and scattered packs or lone zombies, but I think when the world shat itself a few days back, everyone just simply upped and fucked off before things got too bad. I avoided main roads anyway and trundled away into rural Cheshire in search of a new home.
Took me about an hour of crawling around back roads to find a likely place. Big farmhouse with fields all around (so good lines of sight) and it looked empty. There didn’t seem to be any signs of life, but I thought it best to sneak in on foot and check it out, rather than drive right up in my thunder-truck and give my position away. So, leaving the backpack in the car and locking it, and taking my trusty chav-slayer and a small claw hammer for weapon comfort, I decided to ghost in on foot.
And that, my dear reader, is when it
all went to fucking shit.
7TH ENTRY
OLD MCDONALD HAD A HARD ON
I think I’m pretty stealthy.
I’m quick, light-footed, and a bit paranoid because everything in the world is trying to kill me. Generally, I’m quite perceptive when I actually bother to concentrate, but concentration is a bit of an issue for me, as you have no doubt discovered from my collection of spectacular near misses along my little journey thus far and my inane spilling of random thoughts. Well, this time, I royally fucked it and almost got fucked. Literally.
I sneaked up slowly to the farmhouse, keeping low, but as I said, the reason I chose the place was because I’d be able to see zombies coming from a way off because there was clearance around the house. Well, that same pro turned out to be an equally large con when I was the one doing the sneaking. I was sure the place was empty, because no crazed old farmer came out waving a shotgun at me or trying to blast me from existence, so it seemed like a win. Unfortunately, it just meant that the rampant thunder-cunt who lived there was watching me like a predator as I approached and – knowing his own property far better than little old me – he waited like a trapdoor spider for me to wander into his kill zone. Honestly, it would have been a mercy if he’d just shot me. PTSD is gonna get me soon enough, so let me explain why.
There was a big barn-like structure attached to the side of the farmhouse, so I thought I’d have a peep in there first, but as soon as I pushed open the door and leaned my head in to check for undead… blam. Everything went dark. No warning, no shout, nothing. Just a smack to the side of the head that knocked me the fuck out.
And then this is when shit got really dark.
I woke up, feeling sick as fuck, and tried to move.
That was when I realised I couldn’t.
I was still in the barn I’d been in the process of sneaking into, judging by the open space I could sense around me, aged wooden wall four feet from my face, and the straw-scattered earth beneath me. I was locked into this weird contraption that was a bit like – I shit you not – medieval stocks. My head and wrists were firmly clamped, but weirdly there was a right-angled frame built on to it, so my body was supported. However, when I came fully to my senses, I realised I was bent over at a right angle, my ankles also clamped with my feet flat on the ground and legs pulled slightly apart… and then I felt the air on my skin.
I was clamped into stocks, ass sticking out, and my trousers had been removed. With this realisation, my senses instantly sharpened from fuzzy headache to hyper-awareness. I started thrashing, desperate to get out.
“Here now,” said a raspy voice to my left. “That’ll do you no good.”
I stopped cold and twisted my head to see the voice’s owner. I nearly popped out a log of shit at the sight.
Sitting in an old chair, butt-fucking naked, was some old guy. He was late fifties I reckon, with a dirty white beard that was yellowed by nicotine round his lips, pasty white fish-skin, a middle-aged paunch flowing around his waist like ooze and an explosion of wild grey pubic hair not three feet from my face.
Jesus fucking Christ, what a sight to wake up to.
It was horrifying. Worse, he was sat there in his birthday suit stroking himself. Leisurely working his shrivelled dick into a wrinkly spear with a look of contentment on his red face, like he’d just had a steak and a blowjob, in that order.
“What the fuck man?” was all I could hiss, tearing my eyes away from the horror of him slowly wanking himself. Death seemed like a pleasant choice at that moment.
He tsk’d. Like I was some naughty kid who’d just said a bad word.
“You have a filthy mouth,” he observed.
“No fucking shit,” I snapped back. “See how fucking calm you stay when you’re strapped to a rape-rack with Old McDonald about to go ‘ee-aye-ee-aye-aargh’ on your ass. Let me out of here you freak.”
“Out?” he breathed. Sweet Jesus, he had a voice that was so calm and detached, it was chilling. “Out? Oh no, not yet. First, you have to be a good girl.”
I cannot articulate how fucking scared I was at this point. This creepy old naked guy was going to raid my ass like an anal pirate at his leisure, and there was sweet fuck all I could do about it. I was helpless. Utterly, absolutely, completely, totally helpless. And alone.
After the past few days, after nearly dying in a toilet, having an old teacher try and eat me, and assaulted by three undead chavs, this was a real cosmic, “Fuck you, Lockey!”
I really didn’t want my end to be as a chained-up rape-doll for Old McDonald. A shotgun blast to the face would have been a mercy.
I had no way out. I couldn’t move a fucking inch in his custom Rape-a-tron 3000, and he knew it. He was enjoying himself, savouring the moment, like a cat playing with its prey trapped and injured, maximising enjoyment from the kill.
“Well,” he breathed finally, his withered cock now worked to attention. Jesus, that sight alone will give me nightmares, with his low-hanging old man balls swinging below him. When he sat on the toilet, he’d have to hoist those fuckers up so they didn’t get wet in the bowl.
God, I need to stop describing his cock and balls, it sounds like I’m obsessed. But when they’re used as tools of fear and menace against you, they’re the kind of things that stick in your memory.
Rapey Santa got out of his dirty chair and then, in full fucking view of me, he scooped something out of a pot and started smearing it all over his dick, making sure I could see.
“Goose fat” he rasped, his voice like a rusty blade. “It’ll make things more comfortable for us both.”
Then he gave a deep throaty laugh like the sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
I am not ashamed to admit I started to fucking cry and plead. I removed all pretence at being a bad-ass then and straight up begged for him to desist, but those pleas fell on deaf ears. He disappeared from my sight and moved round behind me and let me tell you, that terror is worse than seeing him work his dick into a frenzy in front of you.
Now I couldn’t see shit, I had no method of escape, I was utterly fucked and about to be violated by a creepy Cheshire farmer. It didn’t matter that I wanted no part of it and to be honest, I think that was part of the thrill for him.
No matter how I thrashed, I couldn’t move. I was at his mercy and I almost threw up in terror as I felt his callused hands slip over my hips like coarse sandpaper, hearing his breathing shallow as his excitement intensified. Fucking hell, I feel sick just writing this shit. Thank fuck for what – or more precisely, who – came next.
I’ve never been one for prayer. I don’t believe in magic space fairies in the sky, but at that moment, I swore I would become a nun if something, someone, somewhere, just did somethingto stop Old McDonald with his grunt-grunt here and his grunt-grunt there. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the inevitable, tears streaming down my face.
“What the fuck?” came a gravelled voice.
It was a different voice to Old McRapey. It was harder, meaner, stronger. No cock smeared in goose fat invaded me and for that I was eternally grateful.
“This is private property,” said my captor. I heard him moving away, then the other voice spoke again.
If Farmer Rapey had been in my ass at that point, I’d have probably broke his cock in two. When the new guy spoke again, I swear on my ass virginity (which had remained intact), it was the most chilling fucking sound I ever heard, with just the barest hint of a Yorkshire accent. My whole body tightened as fear locked every muscle.
“One step closer to that shotgun, friend, and you’re a dead man.”
Nothing fancy. No flowery language. No flair.
Just a simple, cold promise of what came next. There was a finality to it, hard, and yet somehow regretful he was being forced down this path.
I believed him with every fibre of my being. That was a voice that knew the future and was saddened by what was to come. It was regret, but willing to see it through to the bitter end, no matter the pain.
It went quiet, like there was a stand-off, the two men staring at each other at an impasse. Then Old McRapey must have gone for his gun, but the gunshot that sounded wasn’t the tearing thunder of a shotgun. It was the crack of a semi-automatic handgun, and you don’t find many of them in England.
My ears were ringing, but I suddenly felt all the pressure at my ankles release, then a bit of fiddling and the stocks popped open and I sprang up and turned.
The newcomer also looked in his fifties, but unlike my intended rapist who was all flab and filth, this guy looked like he was cut from aged granite. He was physically fit with narrowed eyes, close cut hair and jaw like a brick. He gave a flick with his head, indicating where my pants had been discarded and I nodded, feeling much better once I was fully clothed again. New guy kept the gun in his hand, though, even though it was held loose. Loose, but ready.
Fair enough, he had no reason to trust me. At least he had the decency to turn his back while I clothed myself. I like the guy; old school values even though the world has gone to shit. I bet that’s fucking rare in these weird times.
“Not my best of days,” I said, trying to crack the tension. “Cheers mate, you literally saved my ass.”
I swear to fucking God, I was certain there was a flash of a smirk at one corner of his mouth, but his face remained pretty even. He did, however, seem to relax and slid the handgun into a holster at his hip.
“Lockey,” I said, thrusting out my hand. “Name’s Erin Locke, but my friends call me Lockey, and as you just stopped an unwanted invasion, you definitely fall into the friend category.”
He gave me this quizzical look and it’s one I’ve gotten used to over the years. I can almost see the words in a thought bubble above their head like a comic strip.
“Does this girl really talk like this all the time?”
Yes. Yes, I do. I broke the mould. I made my own mould. It’s a bit wonky and has a stupid grin scratched into it, but this is me.
“Nate,” he said, gripping my hand eventually. I smiled, trying not to weep as his mighty gorilla-grip nearly shattered the dainty little bones of my hand.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, hiding the flex of my crushed hand as I spoke.
“Saw the car at the gate, parked like it was in a rush.”
Fuck you buddy, I’m great at parking.
“Put my hand on it and felt it was still warm, saw the backpack inside and figured someone must be here.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d check it out.” He curled his lip. “Wasn’t expecting to find… this.” He swept his arm round Old McDonald’s rape barn.
I glanced down at the dead man. Shit, Nate was a good shot. Clean between the eyes, no reanimation for you. I tipped my imaginary forelock to my grizzled saviour.
And that, dear reader, is how I met Nathaniel Carter, ex-SAS (I think), all round bad-ass and the man without a smile. I’ll make this straight-faced fucker laugh if it kills me. Though, he might kill me first. But hey, life is for living eh?
I don’t know when I’ll write again, as I’m at the end of this notebook. I can’t really just pop down to Office Outlet and get myself a new one, so for now, I must bid you farewell.
It’s been emotional. Stay safe. And watch your ass, literally, and I will leave you with this inspiring motivational thought.
When life closes one door, another door opens. So shut the fucking door, there are zombies you dick. Hide, run, stay away from doors.
I hope we meet again, dear reader.
Toodles, Lockey.
No More Heroes, written by Carl Meadows and edited by me, releases on Kindle and in print on October 27th, and the Audiobook version drops in December, narrated by Danielle Cohen.
You can pre-order the Kindle version here: https://amzn.to/3l5yr6l