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

the rucksack with a blanket from the dog’s bed I found, then lowered Particles into the bag, zipped it up and out popped the pug’s head from the hole, Kuato style. I thought it was genius.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” was Nate’s opening statement when I walked out with the backpack as a front pack, and Particles staring moodily at Nate, flicking his tongue out to moisten his nose.

“What? He’s only got little legs! Poor little guy will never keep up.”

Nate looked at me for far too long, as still as granite. For a moment, I swear he was considering popping a cap in both our asses, and going on with his own existence, free of loud-mouthed idiots with too much energy and overly judgmental canines.

“For fuck’s sake.” The words hissed out in a low breath. “Get in the car.”

We’d been driving for about half an hour when Particles started to bark. He’d been silent and still for the entire journey, but something really jabbed him in the ass and stirred him, his little head turning to peer at Nate. It was like the dog was shouting at him. Hilarious.

“What’s up with him?”

“He’s house trained,” I mused. “Probably telling us he needs to go potty.”

“Needs to go potty?”

“Yeah, you know. Take a piss, dump, maybe both.”

“No, I know what you mean.” Nate huffed. “It’s just… need to go potty? Did you really need to say it like that? It’s a dog, not a toddler.”

“Well, however I say it Nate, you can stop the car and let Particles here split the atom, or we can have our own faecal big bang in the car.”

I am so persuasive at times. Nate muttered a quiet curse under his breath and pulled over. I slipped out of the SUV and let Particles out so he could go spray some particles on nearby vegetation. Nate got out as well, ever the vigilant super soldier, eyes scanning the surroundings. There was a pickup parked just out of sight of the road in an overgrown layby. While I watched Particles with his weird tiny legs do that hilarious little run-hop thing pugs do, Nate palmed his handgun to his grip and combat walked to the truck to check it out.

When Particles had finished, Nate walked back over and I swear to shit, he was almost smiling.

“That pickup still has the keys in, almost a full tank, and no dead anywhere to be seen.” He sounded positively joyous. “Let’s unload everything out of this into the pickup. It’s more spacious, bigger engine, better ground clearance, a spare tyre and you’ll never believe what else.”

I stroked Particles knowingly, like a Bond villain with his white cat. “Go on.”

“There was actually a hunting shotgun in the back, with two full boxes of shells.”

I gave him a raised eyebrow. A knowing look. Any gun at all in England was as rare as rocking horse shit.

“What?” he demanded, his leathery face creased into a frown.

“Say it.”

I got a genuinely confused look. “Say what?”

“Say thank you to Particles.”

His expression quickly shifted into the ‘leper-shitting-in-your-shoes’ look.

“What?”

“I told you he was lucky,” I said imperiously. “He saved my ass with a well-timed yelp and now he’s got us not only a new vehicle with a full tank, but one with a gun and ammo. This is Cheshire, Nate, not Texas. Of all places Particles needs to curl a turd out, it’s right here, where there’s a shiny new vehicle with fuel and weapons? Come on! Admit it! He’s a lucky mascot!”

This time his expression reflected a man who had just witnessed a mutant penis grow out of my head while he watched.

“It’s just coincidence,” he huffed eventually.

“Denial, Nate? Really?” I sniffed in a mock haughty fashion. “Just accept that Particles is lucky.”

“Help me transfer all this shit to the pickup,” he growled.

Particles just looked at him.

Outraged.

He still wouldn’t admit my pug was lucky. Even though we were pootling in a giant dick-compensator (and going about twelve miles an hour because of Dame Carter at the wheel) and the proud owners of a new shotgun, Nate refused any further conversation on the subject of Particles being a lucky mascot. It’s just coincidence, he said.

“Well, isn’t it too coincidental to be coincidence?” I argued. “I mean, come on Nate, a fucking gun with ammo in the Cheshire countryside? Unattended, with a truck that has keys in and nearly a full tank? Exactly where we stopped? Come on. Admit it, that’s not just coincidence. That’s providence.”

“What, so now we’re being looked after by a higher power?”

I shrugged. “Dog is God spelled backwards. Just saying.”

Nate swore. I was starting to piss him off. I should have stopped, really I should have. But I did make it rather clear earlier that I have a real issue with impulse control.

“All I’m saying is that there are no coincidences, only the illusion of coincidence.”

“No way you just made that up,” he accused. “You’re not that insightful.”

Cheeky bastard.

“Maybe I’m just too lazy to show you how clever I am.”

He went to reply, stopped, then chuckled. Actually fucking laughed.

“Now that’s probably the smartest thing I’ve heard you say.” He glanced over. “So, who said the other thing?”

I thought about lying, but Nate actually cracking a smile was too good a chance to pass up, so I grinned back.

“V for Vendetta, Alan Moore,” I admitted.

We drove on for a little while longer. While we did, Nate talked me through loading the new shotgun. Despite my earlier dickhead reply about Call of Duty, I had to learn how to shoot. Firearms were too big of an advantage over the undead. That was one thing the Americans have over us in fighting this global shit-show. They have more experience and more bullets to use against the shambling legions of undeath. I had a great resource in Nate, so I’d be a dumb little prick not to use it.

While he drove, he talked me through popping it open—that’s called a “break action” apparently—and sliding the