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

Let us begin.

First, we have Hope and Jericho.

God this hurts me even writing these names. Be brave, Lockey. Soldier on. You can do this shit. Deep breath.

So, Hope and Jericho are mid-thirties, no kids (I hope, seeing as how they flounced off to the country for a month), both have high-powered careers from what I can gather that will mean sweet fuck all in the zombie-conquered world. They’re both in finance or something. Absolutely cock all use anymore, basically.

These two actually make me pretty sad. I’m a self-confessed people-watcher. I find people fascinating, about what drives them, why they do shit, all that jazz. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people I think, and these two are desperately clinging on to something that isn’t there anymore. They’re both pretending they’ve come here to reconnect; I mean, come on. She chose the name Hope, for fuck’s sake. Jericho… the crumbling of a wall somehow? Who knows? Maybe I’m reading too much into the names. Either way, these two don’t have the love for each other anymore. They’re hanging on till the end of this retreat and then divorce was on the cards for sure.

I mean, they were clinging to each other right through mine and Nate’s “The Way the World has Changed” PowerPoint presentation, but that’s just from familiarity I reckon. Sad.

On the flip side to the deeply tragic Hope and Jericho, we have Ariel and Pax.

Oh sweet Jesus, I don’t know if I can keep introducing people with these names. It just gets worse.

Ariel and Pax are younger versions of Grace and Theo. Mid-twenties, clearly both from wealthy families as they have no fucking clue how the real world actually works, and they are wholly invested in the “awakened and spiritual existence” they’ve chosen. These mother fuckers will devour any piece of spiritual bullshit on Facebook or YouTube, no doubt. Lick it all up like Particles hits my biscuit crumbs.

Let’s put it this way, when they introduced themselves, Ariel—and don’t get me wrong, this woman is full on radiantly beautiful with no make-up, absolutely glowing so much I’m insanely jealous of her skin—the first thing this soft-headed dipshit said to me was this.

“He’s my buffalo, and I’m his little wolf.”

And then she put her head on his muscular shoulder, blatantly on show through his yoga vest top, and gave a little “aren’t I so lucky?” smile.

I nearly did a full-blown exorcist on her, right there, projecting a stream of hot bile right into their faces. Mother of all fucking gods, I wanted to punch her in the tit for being such a fairy brain. Pax was a damn good looking guy, took real good care of himself, but when you’ve got all the time in the world to pump iron in the gym and spend a month at a spiritual retreat, any bozo could get that shredded. He’s just as head-over-heels for his spaced out honeybunny as she was for him, too. It was sweet and vomit-inducing at the same time.

Still, while I liked to look at him, because he did look good, he had this vacuous look in his eyes. I swear if I shouted in his ear, I’d hear a fucking echo.

These two won’t last one minute alone in the apocalypse. The best this poor pair of dipshits can hope for is a quick death and that zombies chowing down on their pretty corpses will give someone else the chance at life.

The third couple are a pair of women, Faith and Skye. Now, these two names are less painful to write, because they sound like normal names, and these two hot mamas are invested in the spiritual life, because it’s also their business. Apparently, they do yoga classes, and reiki, and crystal butt-plugs, or whatever else these people do. They run a pretty successful business all told—or did at least before Hurricane Shitstorm hit the world—and they seem to have their heads screwed on tighter than the Little Mermaid and her buffalo at least. They’re very much in love, but it’s more of an adult love than the childish teenage infatuation of Ariel and Pax. (Apparently ‘Pax’ is latin for ‘peaceful’. Sheesh.)

So now we arrive at the two singles remaining. Freya (oh, let me sit down at the shock that someone chose the Norse goddess of fertility as their spiritual handle) is straight up, drop dead gorgeous. I mean, everyone here is pretty, except for the Fanged Testicle, but Freya is the type of woman that even straight women stop and gawk at. She’s absolutely stunning.

From what I gather, she’s recently gone through a divorce with some football star, so she’s obviously got money from a settlement because he played for a Premier League team of some form, hence why she can fuck off to a retreat for eight grand for a whole month. She doesn’t live in the real world though. She’s enjoyed a life of privilege for so long that the world being flipped arse-up is going to royally fuck up her shit. This poor woman just can’t survive and she’s as fragile as a cracked china plate; one more knock and she’s going to shatter into little pieces. I’m actually pretty concerned about her mental state.

The last of the gang is Zion.

Sigh.

Now, to look at, this boy is darn pretty. Skin to die for, sculpted like a young Adonis, has these green eyes like polished emeralds. Mouth-wateringly good looking.

Con. He has a top knot. Of course he does. Blond hair that shines like sunlight reflecting on gold, but its piled atop his head like some furry yellow potato, signifying his dishonourable entry to the Twatty Hall of Fame.

Honestly, this guy will think just having a mother makes him a feminist, and he bangs on about respecting and empowering women all the time, like it makes him some kind of hero, when in truth equality comes from… well… treating all people equally. It’s