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

closed eyes, her fingers flickering on the keys of their own accord. She didn’t need her eyes and knew every note by heart, like her mum’s hands had been guiding them. She played for herself, for her lost parents, and it touched the deepest part of her when she did so.

When her hands finally moved to her lap and the last echoing note faded, she wept in earnest, the gates to her grief finally cracking wide. It was the first time she had played such a deeply personal piece of music since the world collapsed around us, and it pierced through the last line of her emotional defence. She was strong, enduring, and inspiring, to have adapted to this new world, but she had never truly grieved.

I moved to the seat next to her, put my arm around her, and held her until the tears ran dry.

The power of music, Freya. It can take you away from the world for a while, but it can also heal. Sometimes, when words will fail, music can speak louder to the human soul than anything I know. It says what you can’t express in words, despite my poor attempt in this journal entry. It brings peace and can make you whole.

Sarah has a powerful gift to share, never more so in this dark and broken world. I feel privileged that she allowed me to share that moment with her, and in her own grief and sorrow, that she managed to give me such a gift.

I feel… good, Freya. For the first time in a long time, I feel genuinely at peace, and even if it’s for just this one night, it’s a gift I will treasure.

DECEMBER 1st, 2010

EVERYTHING IS WHAT?

All my good feeling disappeared in a shiver today. I checked in on Eli and Theodore to see how they were settling in.

Eli invited me in for a brew, and I found Theodore sitting at the small table, surrounded by art supplies raided from the school. Eli says it keeps him calm.

I said hello to Theodore, and he looked up, showing something like… excitement for the first time. I’ve said he’s not very expressive, but he did this little bounce thing with his upper body, like he was someone who desperately wanted to tell a secret but knew he shouldn’t.

Eli obviously noted the change. “I hope everything is well, Theodore.”

Here’s another idiosyncrasy of his personal condition I’ve learned. If you ask Theodore a direct question, he won’t answer it. You have to word everything open ended like Eli did. It’s really fucking hard to do.

“She’s here,” Theodore responded in an emotionless voice. “It starts tonight. Not for her, no. Not for her, but it does start.”

“What thing?” I asked. See, it’s hard.

“I’d like to hear about what’s starting, Theodore,” said Eli.

He’s way better at it. I have to think so hard about turning a question into an open-ended statement that invites further information. Then he did something that made even Eli suck a breath with shock.

Theodore turned to me and looked me dead in the eye. And he doesn’t do that with anyone except Eli. He’ll look to your side, at your feet, at your chest (not in a weird way), or above your head. But Theodore responded to Eli’s statement by looking me right in the eyes and then said this.

“It’s all three. Everything is three. Tonight is the first dreaming. But not you, no, not you. You have to be last.”

He then seemed to just fade away, back to his blank stares and drawing on his art paper. He didn’t offer any more words until I was leaving.

Eli apologised and we had a quiet chat in the kitchen over a brew, but it weirded me out a little, so once the coffee was done, I felt the need to be away.

Just as I was leaving, Theodore held up a drawing he’d done in black ink without looking up.

“For you.”

“Aw, thanks Theodore,” I said with a forced smile. I was still a bit unnerved by his cryptic outburst, but I took the picture, said my goodbyes, and scooted back to Norah’s house where I was crashing.

Freya, I’m a little freaked out.

The drawing is of me, and let me just say, it is absolutely incredible. It looked like a photograph made from black lines. Honestly, the detailed accuracy was mind blowing. Savant doesn’t begin to cover it.

What’s really weird about it, however, is what I’m carrying in the picture. Eli told me that Theodore draws from memory. He doesn’t have emotive or abstract expression like other artists do. He is detail focused and draws still pictures from his perfect recall memory. He doesn’t make anything up. He’s not creative in his art, being more like a photographer that develops his negatives with ink by hand.

I expected to be carrying a gun, or a backpack, or something that I have actually carried at some point.

Instead, in my hand, holding it high, was a flaming torch. And I don’t mean a flashlight that’s on fire. I mean an old-school torch like you see in medieval times, sitting on a sconce on the wall, or like what the Statue of Liberty holds aloft.

Add to that, what the hell is the “first dreaming” and “everything is three?”

Freya, I am freaked out to hell by this. I keep staring at the picture and shivering.

I really wish Nate were here. I haven’t seen him for a week, but just having him around would likely calm me down.

I hope he’s okay.

HOME

“You’re up,” said Nate, gently nudging Alicia from her slumber.

A week of sleeping in the isolated farmhouse was taking its toll on both of them. Nate had more experience and had endured far worse in a long active career, but he was in his fifties now. Sleeping in the cold and taking a shift at night sentry duty were days he had hoped were long behind him.

Alicia had no such experience or training. She was