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

building fires, to road traffic accidents, and even rioting and looting as panic started to take hold in the county’s larger towns. Cheshire Constabulary was responsible for over a million people in the north west of England, but they were ill equipped and criminally under resourced to deal with anything of the apparently apocalyptic scale of mayhem and widespread violence. The Conservative government had been ravaging the police force with cuts for years, but even at the height of their strength, this level of destruction and terror could never have been planned for. This was the disintegration of social order on a colossal scale in a spectacularly short amount of time.

Their county, with its vast stretches of countryside, and small towns and villages, was sleepy to many of their neighbouring shires, especially in direct comparison to the nearby metropolitan forces of Manchester and Merseyside. In the larger population centres of Chester and Warrington within Cheshire, the reports were—quite simply—apocalyptic, according to the phone conversation that Dean had just had with his old friend.

“We don’t know what this is, Dean,” said John. The line sounded unstable, as his voice flashed in and out of the conversation, though not seriously enough to make understanding difficult. “Honestly, we just don’t know, but what we do know, is that it’s everywhere.”

Dean blinked rapidly for a second before responding. “Everywhere, as in all over the county, or the country?”

“Everywhere, Dean. Africa, Asia, mainland Europe, the US. Everywhere.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he replied, still trying to process the staggering scale of what the Deputy Chief Constable was intimating.

“No, Dean, it doesn’t,” he agreed. “Everyone is locking down, all the luminaries being whisked away to safe locations, military response gearing up.” His tone lowered. “Dean, I know this goes against everything you believe in, but you need to walk away, get Maria, and get somewhere safe, but I need to ask something of you.”

Dean rubbed at his eyes. He’d already been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and his exhausted mind was struggling to process John’s barrage of horror.

“Walk away? What do you mean, walk away?”

“Dean, we’ve lost. The country is lost, it’s collapsing as we speak. I don’t know what’s going on, but listen to me, and listen very carefully.”

“Okay,” he answered warily.

“Dean, the dead are coming back to life. No, before you interrupt me, just listen, okay? Anyone dead is standing back up and killing any living person in their vicinity. A bite from one of the dead is a death sentence, so if anyone who comes near you has been bitten, you either get the hell away from them, or you kill them, and from the latest information I have, these dead things can only be put down for good by destroying the brain.”

“John,” snorted Dean. “Are you actually trying to tell me this is a zombie apocalypse?”

“Yes.”

The single word was so solid, so certain, that Dean’s attempt at casual humour died on his lips. John Walsh was not a man given to rumour, or overstatement. He was a man of solid facts, provided by reliable sources, before he even said a single word on a subject. He was rational, intelligent, logical, and stoic, with a dry sense of humour, but one without whimsy. His simple affirmation of Dean’s half-joking question almost stopped the sergeant’s heart in his chest.

“Dean,” said John, “you’re an experienced SFO, so I’m telling you now, you go to the locker, you load up with everything you can put your hands on, you get Maria, and you find somewhere safe, away from major population density.”

The “locker” was the slang term for the armoury, where the HQ’s array of firearms and operational equipment was stored.

“You’re shitting me?”

“No, Dean, I’m most definitely not.” He heard John suck in a hard breath before speaking again. “But I need to ask you a favour, and it’s a big one.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know if I can get out of Chester, Dean,” he said gravely, the phone connection wavering again for a heartbeat. “You think it’s bad over your way, but here, it’s beyond the pale. The road system for this city has never been big enough for the amount of traffic that passes through it, and reports are that it’s utter chaos out there. Every major route in and out is gridlocked, jammed in tight, from accidents that nobody is responding to, and panicked drivers only exacerbating the mess. The A55 and M56 are a mess, so even if I managed to find a way out through the chaos and violence in the city itself, I don’t know if I can get to you.”

Dean heard the catch in his voice, the smallest quiver as he swallowed a thick lump. That hint of rising emotion stopped the sergeant cold.

“What are you saying, John?”

“I’m saying I can’t get to Sarah, but I’m hoping you can.”

John’s daughter, Sarah, was seventeen and enrolled in Crenshaw private school, about eleven miles from Dean’s location. His wife, Andrea, had died four years earlier after a sudden and shocking brain aneurysm, taking all of them by horrified surprise.

Sarah utilised the school’s boarding facilities during term time, as around half the students did, because of John’s busy career, and the two had a strained relationship because of their extended absence from each other, but Dean and Maria had always been in the girl’s life. John had asked them to be godparents when she was born, and they took that role in Sarah’s life seriously. As far as Dean and Maria were concerned, Sarah was family.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it out,” continued John. The resignation Dean heard in his friend’s voice told him that John believed there was no chance, let alone a slim one. Things must be bad. Really bad. That realisation cut into Dean’s heart like a knife of ice.

“What if I send the EC135 to you, to come get you?”

“No, Dean,” replied John in a tone of iron. “Just send everyone home. Send them back to their families. I’m