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

I sat at a table with my awesome full English breakfast, a god damn cup of tea and felt like the Queen of the Apocalypse. Pity there was no TV in the canteen. My morning would have been complete watching Jeremy Kyle torture people on TV in spectacularly titled episodes such as, “My boyfriend thinks I cheated with another man through a letterbox!”, “Where was my boyfriend when he said he was behind the chicken shop?” and my personal favourite, “Leave your fiancé, he had sex with me in a graveyard!”

Good times. Shit, if all this bullshit exploded while Jeremy was filming, I’ve got visions of a new episode…. “My wife made my brother a zombie but not me; is she cheating on me?”

When I think of Jeremy Kyle, it comes to mind that the apocalypse might have done us one favour at least. What a twat.

After finishing breakfast—my god, it was sweet, sweet heaven—I felt better than I had since the world shat out a razor blade. Lockey versus the Apocalypse was on. Bitch is back in the game. I shot back upstairs, emptied my bag of all loot into my temporary home, ready to receive tools and weapons aplenty, and off I popped to the middle floor.

The walkway that crossed the inner courtyard of the school campus was an experience. You go through a set of double doors into a little covered glass bridge about twenty feet long that transfers you from a classroom building over to the sports hall, one floor above ground level. I have to say, I was a little surprised to see that the inner courtyard had about thirty zeds staggering around aimlessly, some teachers, some parents, some uniformed kids in their dark blazers. All were bloody as fuck. I don’t know what happened, but I was surprised to find so many in the courtyard between buildings. I thought everyone had done their level best to get the fuck out when all this shit started. Kids waiting for parents that never came, maybe? Shrug.

Freaked me out though when I was pattering along the bridge. They clearly heard or sensed me. Thirty sets of dirty, glassy eyes snapped up and looked right at me, then they all started shuffling my way, lips peeling back with hate as though I was responsible for their current undead stasis. Ass squeak moment. I wasn’t hanging around for them to gather beneath me, so I picked up my pace and popped through the second set of doors at the end and then switched to ninja mode.

There is something about an empty school that really freaks me out. I remember playing a cracked version of Silent Hill on the original PlayStation, and because it was a copy, for some reason, there was no colour. The whole game was black and white and man, it made for “creepy level: expert”. Silent Hill one and two are just pant-shitters of games. I think my fear of empty schools comes from those games. I expected a nightmare to appear around the corner at any moment.

Just the bang of a settling radiator, the rattle of a pipe, creak of a floorboard popping back into shape… they’re all amplified and threaten to pop a nugget straight out your back door in fright, every time you hear one.

Honestly, if my life continues in this manner, my sphincter will have a fucking six-pack in a week’s time.

My entire existence is one of paranoid hyper-vigilance because—let me tell you—sloppiness gets you surprise dry-fucked in the ass by a rusty metal dildo. Things would not end well. Remember how quiet these things are? Constant head on a swivel.

Getting a handle on my breathing took some effort, with all those freaky stares of hunger from a moment ago still on my mind. I sucked in some (allegedly) calming breaths and started to Mission Impossible through the first-floor entry hall, making my way to the steps that led down. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, it was great. Confidence began to return as I ghosted down the awful terracotta colour steps where the woodwork room was. I put my hand on the door, creaking it open and just as it literally started to creak open, I heard a sound, a footstep of metal on tile.

A memory bubbled up from deep, like a wet fart in the bath breaking the surface, deep and ominous, when you’re not sure if you’ve followed through and you might be now sitting in a bath you’ve sharted in.

When I was in high school, the woodwork teacher (they called it CDT then… craft, design and technology) was Mr Emerson. He was in his late forties, a small rotund little man with a grey widow’s peak and a surly facial expression that was as sour as a bulldog sucking piss from a nettle. I never understood why he went into teaching as he fucking hated teenagers. I mean, with a passion, and oh mama, he was not afraid to let us know. He was like a drill sergeant with his obvious disdain for his students. Allow me to divulge some of his most memorable sayings.

“I don’t have the energy to even pretend to like you today.”

“Life is full of disappointments. I’ve just added you to mine.”

“Sometimes I listen to what you’re saying, and I can’t help but wonder who tied your shoelaces for you this morning.”

“Oh, you don’t like being called stupid? I’m sorry, I thought you were already aware.”

He was a right little splash of sunshine was Emmy. Everywhere he walked, he left a trail of rainbows sprinkled with the glitter he farted. Wanker.

So why do I bring up my memories of my old woodwork teacher?

Well, Emmy’s most bizarre trait was his choice of footwear. He was proper old school and the safety shoes he used to wear were something of a joke to everyone he taught. No modern safety footwear for Emmy, oh no. I shit you not my fearless