Lockey vs. the Apocalypse by Meadows, Carl (7 ebook reader TXT) 📗

on a different road, but there was no guarantee the issues on that route were any less than the one facing him. It was best to approach on foot.

Dean had emptied his vehicle of all weapons, locking them in a room in the admissions building and handing the key to Graham for safekeeping during his absence. Everyone had been given strict warnings to stay away from the room. Firearms and explosives were no joke.

All Dean had brought with him was the G36C in hand and the Glock sheathed at his hip, with two spare magazines for both rifle and handgun. A light Kevlar vest was strapped to his chest rather than the heavier plate carrier he would wear for an SFO operation. He needed mobility and he was not used to going distances in the heavier IOTV. Providing no gun-wielding living came near him, which should be unlikely, it was superfluous anyway.

He attached a suppressor to the G36C’s barrel and had it primed to semi. Against any undead that ranged too close, he wanted noise at a minimum and single shots should be all he needed.

Inhaling a few deep breaths for courage, he made a quick sign of the cross on his body, whispered a silent prayer, and then locked the SUV. It was time to get his wife.

Signs of survivors were still around on the second day of the fall. Hurried individuals or small clusters of people darted in the distance, steering clear of each other out of fear, and the journey was a harrowing ordeal of undead to wade through. All the traffic accidents, and fights among the panicked living resulting in lethal injury - either by accident or design - had left clusters of undead roaming the streets. By the time he had gone half a mile, he was already switching out an empty magazine on the rifle and reloading. He could not afford to gun down every monster he laid eyes on, instead concentrating his efforts solely on the heavier clusters directly in his path, or ones that might impede his return journey if he did not deal with them now.

Hopefully, that return journey would be smoother, as the suppressed snap of the discharging rifle was far less intrusive than its usual echoing crack, and there were still other noises to distract and draw the undead. The eerie silence that would blanket the town over the coming weeks had not yet descended; panic and chaos were still very much in full flow.

Any path cleared now would make the return leg with Maria less taxing, so it was better to expend the rifle while he possessed the advantage of suppressed fire. On the way back, he would happily make a din with the Glock if it meant he and his wife could get to the SUV quickly and in one piece.

It was a relief when he finally turned on to his road and sprinted down the street, pausing only to crack a few shots at bloodied undead in his way. Drawing out his keys as he reached the door, he swept inside and closed it behind him, moving the rifle to his hip and drawing the Glock. Praying he would not have to put down a reanimated version of his wife, he sucked in a breath and called out Maria’s name.

Silence.

The earplugs were out so he could hear any little sound in the house, but there was nothing. No scrape of foot or bump of furniture, no relieved return of his call as Maria responded. There was only stillness.

He moved through the house, clearing the building one room at a time until finally he moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Taking out an unopened carton of orange juice, he twisted the cap and slaked his thirst, wondering where she had gone. There was no sign of a struggle in the house, which meant she had left of her own volition, probably to render aid to someone. It was her way, and one of the many reasons he loved her.

Dean’s eye was drawn to the mantlepiece where a photograph stood in pride of place. It was their wedding photo, taken twenty years earlier, both beaming with joy on their happiest of all days.

Placing the carton of juice aside, he dismantled the frame and took the photo out, kissing it and folding it once before sliding it into a pocket on his vest, all while fighting the burn of tears in his eyes.

Where had she gone?

He waited in the stillness of their home for almost four hours, whispering prayers for her to walk through the door, but they went unanswered. Heartbroken, Dean knew she was not coming home. With no idea where to begin a search and no means of contacting her, he resigned himself to the futility of waiting any longer.

Grabbing a large camping rucksack from the attic, he filled it with whatever food and medicine he could feasibly carry from the house, plus a few personal mementos, including the small leather-bound bible his father had given to him on his eighteenth birthday.

Strapping the rucksack tightly to his back and testing the weight, Dean moved the rifle back into position and left his home for the last time. He closed the door behind him but did not bother to lock it. If it could offer shelter to some survivor in the future, then at least some good would come of their empty home.

“Maria?” he called out to the empty street, hearing the crack in his voice. It was a futile hope, he knew; the slimmest of chances she might be with an elderly neighbour in need. That was her way, and who she was. It was why he loved her.

Only the echo of his voice answered in the quiet street.

“Maria?” he called out once more, a little louder. Still no response, save for the sight of a solitary undead man shuffling into view out of a driveway, drawn to Dean’s despairing cry.

Whispering a final prayer for