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

He dropped the husband, turned the rifle to the woman, and squeezed off a second round that cut her strings.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it, even though I was praying to whatever force would listen to not have that child’s head emerge from the wound. I could still see the rippling of the undead flesh on the woman’s belly. Putting her down hadn’t affected the horror within, and if that tiny head emerged from the bloody wound in her stomach, I think my mind would have broken.

With one arm, Nate gently pushed me back.

“Back in the hall, kid,” he said softly. He’d lowered the rifle, his right hand slowly drawing the Glock from his hip. “I’ll take care of this.”

I obeyed, but my eyes were still on him as he moved further into the room. I couldn’t see the woman’s motionless body anymore, but I watched Nate intently. The pistol was in his hand, pointed down towards her corpse, and I knew where he was aiming. I could just see part of him, and once his aim was true, he turned his head away.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

No gunshot has ever jarred me like that one did. The very marrow of my bones felt like it had been washed out by ice water. Every part of me went cold, every tiny muscle spasmed in a shiver of revulsion. It wasn’t just a shot I heard; it was one I felt reverberate in every part of me.

Nate stepped out of the apartment and gently closed the door behind him.

I looked at him and for the first time in my life, I saw the glisten of barely held tears in his eyes. This thundering block of granite, a man that made Rambo look like a whiny little bitch, had been cut to the core by what he’d seen, and the sight of his distress cracked me.

He sensed it the moment our eyes met. His rifle was slung down to his side and the Glock was returned to his hip, and he just opened his arms. I smashed into him, wrapping my arms round his waist as I cried out all the grief for what we had seen, and what had been lost behind door number nine.

I’ve got to take a break. Bringing all that up again, reliving it all, writing it down; it’s left me hollow. It needed to be recorded, because if we ever win this war and we look back, anyone who ever reads this has to know what we lost. Has to know why we had to fight.

This isn’t just a world overrun by the dead. It’s a world of a billion stories, with so many of them ending in tragedy, or loneliness, or mind-bending horror.

When you live in the graveyard, you can’t weep for everyone, but that young couple, with their pictures of happiness and a future before them, deserved somebody’s tears.

I gave them mine.

August 20th, 2010

THE DOG’S BOLLOCKS

I took the rest of the day to sort my head out, and while I don’t really feel better—as I don’t think I ever will again after seeing that—I’m together enough to get back to recounting our black op against Bancroft. This is largely thanks to Freya’s boundless compassion and fussing over us both yesterday. I had a hot beverage in my hand every time I thought about making one, and Freya walked round the perimeter of the lodge’s ground with me, our arms linked, just being there. It was too nice a day, sunny and warm, and I needed light and air to banish the choking darkness of my thoughts.

Love that girl.

Particles is also a fucking champ. Little dude fussed over me like a complete mentalist. He knew I was off and was determined to make me laugh with his short-legged antics and intense desire to lick my face until he’d banished my misery.

Love that little guy.

So, yes, back to the op.

We spent a couple of days sorting out Nate’s numerous perches and escape routes for when he had to displace, then decided to get on with the op. We got lucky, largely because of Mark’s good intel of two-week fuel runs, and I was lying in our observation post when I saw a small convoy start to assemble.

Four cars, each with three armed thugs, and Mark driving the little baby tanker. Two cars in front, two at the back. Now was the real test of whether Nate’s theory of them going for the same station was correct.

I relayed this information to Nate over the radio. I knew they weren’t on our channel, because I could see the passenger in the lead car talking into his handset, so I felt safe in just relaying it all without the need for code.

“Eyes up, Nate. They’re assembling, channel is safe, I can see them using comms.”

I felt so professional.

“Copy. Totals?”

“Convoy, two vehicles in front of tanker, two at rear, three men in each and the tanker driver. Twelve hostiles.”

“Loadout?”

“Couldn’t see all, but minimum four rifles. All carrying at the hip.”

“Copy that.”

“Hey Nate, wanna hear a joke?”

“This isn’t the time,” he chided.

“Oh cheer up, buttercup,” I said with a mock huff, trying to sound all offended. “It’s a good one.”

There was a momentary pause. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he said finally, his tone suggesting he was already regretting it.

“A Roman soldier walks into a bar, holds up two fingers and says, ‘Five beers please!’”

Nate clicked the talk button in readiness to bollock me, but as the punchline dropped, he let go of the button. He wasn’t quick enough though, and I just caught a brief snapshot of his throaty laughter across the radio. When he finally did click the mic again, I could hear the smile in his tone.

“Business now, Erin,” he said, but my work was done. Shit, we both just needed a giggle after the gloom of the previous days, and