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

the disjointed souls that had slipped into the cracks of society would find their own theories and answers. He had fed them all manner of conspiracy theories to highlight the pervasive corruption throughout society, spoon feeding their confirmation bias, and anyone could spend hours looking at the horrors that humanity inflicted upon itself and the earth to draw conclusions from where “the Fall” would inevitably originate from. It was often the topic of discussion among his followers and he let them debate their theories amongst themselves, retaining the stance of a perfect politician and never committed. Instead, Maddock merely offered words of praise and recognition for their freedom of thought and fascinating ideas. He had only predicted the resurrection itself, not the agency that would bring about its genesis. They should have been debating it still as he absconded with Hargrave’s fortune.

But the dead rising? Like some twisted version of a horror movie? Who could have predicted that?

“Prophet?”

Maddock recovered his poise and affected an air of false confidence as he turned his gaze to Oliver.

“Gather all our brothers and sisters,” he commanded in his most imperious tone. “I would address them all within the hour but for the moment, leave me alone to collect my thoughts.” He forced a smile to his lips and placed his hand on Oliver’s forearm in a reassuring grip, more to steady himself than for the younger man’s benefit. “Go now. Our time is finally here, my brother.”

Oliver was radiant as he nodded, moving to pick up the laptop, but Maddock stayed his hand.

“Leave it,” he ordered. “I would look upon the Resurrection a while longer.”

Oliver bobbed his head. “Of course.”

As the young man left, he was still smiling as he closed the door, leaving the newly crowned Prophet of the Resurrection alone.

As the door clicked shut, Maddock’s eyes drank in the unfolding apocalypse on the device. Sucking in a deep breath, he exhaled a single word.

“Fuck.”

Exhausted by maintaining his façade for that first day, Maddock collapsed on his bed, waving away the two young women desperate to please him. With his exalted status now confirmed, they were sexually ravenous, eager for his divine touch. He had neither the strength nor the will for sex, no matter how their lithe bodies might stir him.

What he needed was a plan.

He had never accounted for being an actual leader through a genuine apocalypse. John Maddock was not cut out to be a true prophet and divine icon to five hundred people through a real apocalypse. His goal had been a long con, with the only aim to steal Oliver’s fortune and live a luxurious life of hedonistic comfort. The future of the people he intended to abandon had never been his concern.

Now, everything had changed. There was no escape to a sun-drenched tropical getaway, with lazy days spent by his private pool, being waited on hand and foot as a lauded socialite, renowned for hosting all the best parties. He wanted adulation, but not the type he had to work for. Responsibility was not a game he desired to play.

Right now, sleep was all he needed. In the coming days, he would have little time to himself. He would have to craft some new aspect to his false religion, some great pretence to maintain his illusion, and try to figure out if there was any way he could escape this twisted nightmare of his own making.

Lady Luck had baited her hook, and like a fool he had taken the bite. He should have known better, thinking he had the perfect plan. What a grand cosmic joke his life was.

Exhaustion finally claimed him. Without even kicking off his shoes, Maddock collapsed into the oblivion of sleep.

It was cold. So very cold.

This was not the cold of winter though, a mere absence of warmth that could be banished with the blaze of fire. It was a bleak darkness that seeped through every pore, icing the blood, as though frost was gathering on the very marrow of his bones.

It was a dream, he knew. He was lucid, aware that his body was sleeping off the numbing exhaustion the end times had wrought upon him. There was no chaos here though, unlike the jumble of clashing thoughts and emotions raging in his mind during his waking hours. It was just dark, cold, and endlessly empty.

He was alone.

“John Maddock.”

The voice in the dark was a challenge for his mortal senses to experience. It didn’t lap into his eardrums as a gentle wave of sound but reverberated in every molecule of his being. A sickening whisper of pure malice invading every part of him, finally manifesting in his mind as something his mortal reality could comprehend.

Sibilant, with a demonic rasp clinging to the malevolent hiss, the inhuman whisper sounded in his mind like the moist crunch of footsteps in wet gravel. Paralysed with a terror that threatened to snap his sanity, he was unable to even shiver as the voice’s dark caress slid down the nerves of his spine.

“You have sinned, John Maddock,” it breathed. “You have led these people with empty promises, made yourself into a false prophet and idol, and your only true intention was betrayal.”

Maddock desperately wanted to beg for forgiveness, but he remained motionless, petrified by the demonic presence violating every fibre of his mortal body and soul.

“Humanity is judged from this day, John Maddock. Judged because of those like yourself, who live only for their own comfort, their own needs, at the cost of their fellow man. Today, John Maddock, your dead have awakened, and they will judge you all.”

Tears rolled from his eyes, freezing solid in the biting cold that clawed at his dream-flesh. There was nothing to see, just an empty blackness in which he floated, devoid of sensation save for the crippling dread and the frozen tears upon his cheek.

“Lies, greed, hatred, deceit, betrayal, cruelty, murder,” continued the malice. “This is all your kind know, so the