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

Mama, I was in hot liquid heaven. I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair—which was like sex after so long—and when I finally emerged, I was me again. I felt like a million dollars.

I did the neighbourly thing and scrubbed the shower clean because it looked like a scene from Psycho in there by the time I’d finished, then sat at the kitchen island with a hot cup of strawberry tea that Freya kindly made for me, and sighed in contentment.

I like Freya. I misjudged her. She’s actually pretty tough and reacting well, some of which is down to Particles helping keep her calm, I think. Good doggy.

Also, she’s my size and gave me a set of her clothes to keep me going, so I could bury or burn the others, as they are officially dead to me. Having clean underwear, a clean sports bra to keep things stationery on the move—turns out Freya and I are boob-buddies and virtually the same size—and a nice loose-fitting tracksuit and hoody is amazing. She’s my new girly BFF. Also, I was very pleased to discover that Freya is her actual name and she didn’t change it to a twatty spiritual handle for the retreat. She just used her name. I like her even more now; she didn’t buy totally into the bullshit. From what I can gather, she was just a bit lost in life, had no identity of her own because she was arm candy of a famous sportsman and that’s all she was seen as. A pretty trophy wife.

In truth, for all her anxiety, I think she’s actually pretty tough. She’s certainly got more fire in her belly than Top Knot, who’s probably wondering how he can possibly get his next dose of moisturising skincare products in a dead world.

Now, I felt like a million dollars, but I had the blasted stares of the traumatised all around me. People who burn sage for positivity, think shiny rocks can sort out their problems, and spend a month doing yoga are not prepared for the apocalypse and all its grim realities. Top Knot’s bravado was well and truly in the wind. For all his rippling muscle from countless hours in the gym, the only real muscle that was getting a workout now was his sphincter. He looked like he was flitting between the choice of crying in a corner, or just plain shitting his pants.

The two lesbian businesswomen seem to be holding up the best like I said, leaning on each other for comfort and strength, but they seemed to be more practical in switching their attitude. They had a, “I don’t like this, but this is the world now,” look on their face. Tough chicks. I like them.

Ariel, Pax, Grace and Theo are not doing well. The four most “spiritual” people here, the ones who really swallow this holistic mess instead of spitting, are the most off-centre. Their life is clearly great when they can just forget about negativity because they don’t really have any, but when the shit hits the fan, they just stand there dumbly as that fan flings said shit all over them.

Ariel’s a mess, her pretty boyfriend is doing the best to comfort her, but his eyes are constantly wet with tears. Grace is a nervous wreck trying to keep herself busy around the place so she doesn’t have to think, while Theo just looks… haunted. Like, seriously. Testicle face looks like he’s just returned from the Vietnam War and seen some traumatic shit. Nate says he’s seen that look in the service and we need to keep an eye on the Toothy Bollock.

Hope looks lost. She’s not even seeking comfort from her husband but distancing herself from him. I feel for her. She was clearly already in the middle of dark days, being forced to accept her marriage was over and going through the motions. She was probably planning on how to start her new life as a single woman in her mid-to-late thirties, which was upsetting enough. Now, that chance of a new life is gone. She’s stuck here, with him and a bunch of strangers, in a world ruled by the dead.

For his part, Jericho is a bit like Theo; a man who spent his days doing hedge funds and stocks or whatever… well, his skillset is utterly redundant. He’s having trouble accepting it. Lots of “this can’t be happening” under his breath.

Denial. Classic first stage of grief. Now I just have to keep a beady eye out for anger, because any conflict in here is quickly going to escalate with such raw emotions.

Nate looked the happiest I’ve ever seen him when he got out of the shower. Of course, being ex-military, he had spare clothing, not that you could tell. Nate is the man in black; black t-shirt, black combat trousers, black boots, black hair, eyes so brown they can seem black.

He’s like the Grim Reaper’s unfriendly, kind of threatening dad.

Still, his mood was greatly improved after we’d done all the work, piled up the bodies ready for burial, brought the pickup in with all our scavenged goodies, and reclosed the gate. As extra reinforcement, one of the cars was edged behind the gate and parked there, just in case we had another horde incursion. The gates couldn’t swing in now without the vehicle being moved.

“What now?” I asked.

“Rest for today,” said Nate. “Eat, drink, sleep. First thing tomorrow I’ll go back to that farmhouse a couple of miles back and pick up the tools I saw there, and we’ll get those bodies buried. I’ll head out at first light.”

“Need me to come along?”

Nate shook his head. “No,” he answered in a low voice. “Keep an eye on this lot. Some of them are on the verge of breaking. They might need a harsh word or two to snap them out of a spiral.”

“Or a slap?”

Nate nodded. “Or a slap.”

“Isn’t it nice when we hate the same things?”

Nate chuckled.