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

“Reloading,” I heard Nate say, as I kept a steady rhythm of fire downrange, and as Nate’s rifle roared into life again, I clicked on empty.

“Reloading,” I hollered, following his example. Always keep talking to your fire team, Nate says. You’re a team, not a collection of individuals. When one reloads, the others lay down fire, but you can’t do that effectively if there’s no communication.

We’ve worked in tandem a few times, but this was the first time I felt all of Nate’s teachings mesh together, in a live situation. But more than this, it was the first time I felt we were really a team, working in perfect unison, with constant communication. It was a fucking horrifying situation as the undead oozed into the store and there was no way we could take them all before they closed the gap, but still, it felt like we were really partners for the first time, rather than the hardened soldier and his plucky recruit. It felt damn good.

“Isaac?” I hollered back as I heard him pant behind me as he sprinted back to the trolley for the umpteenth time. “Talk to us! They’re getting closer!”

“Have some patience!” he squealed. “I’m fucking things up as fast as I can!”

Both Nate and I snorted at that. The line itself was funny enough, but somehow the despairing high-pitched shriek it was delivered with made it hilarious. Anyone who subconsciously cracks a joke in the middle of a panicked situation is alright by me.

My ears were ringing by this point. I’m pretty sure I’ll have hearing loss in some form during this apocalypse. Gunfire is fucking loud anyway, but consistent gunfire indoors is like your eardrums being battered by sound. It’s physically painful and I was half-expecting to feel blood run out of my ears. Agonising.

“Last one!” wheezed Isaac. Clearly, not an athlete. A few runs back and forth through the store’s rear from cart to truck had him blowing out his arse. Tut tut. Cardio mother fucker.

“Go,” ordered Nate. “You drive, get the truck running, I’ll follow.”

If that wasn’t a symbol of Nate’s inherent trust in me now, I don’t know what is. He fucking hates my driving because I do it fast, he says. Personally, I think he’s just a control freak who hates having someone else in control of the metal death machine he’s riding in. But giving me the okay to drive when leaving a combat situation? That was real trust, right there. He had enough faith in me to do what was right and get us all out alive.

“Moving!” I called, so he knew I was leaving, and he slotted across as I went past him, taking slow steps backwards as he fired on the ever-closing tide of undead.

I pushed Isaac along from behind as he was flagging, berating him to get a move on, until we emerged out into the light. Isaac dropped the last of the boxes into the truck’s rear, almost falling against the vehicle as the last of his breath exploded out of his lungs.

Just as I stepped out into the light, the crack of Nate’s rifle echoing behind me, I screamed at Isaac to move. In his constant rush back and forth, his mind clouded by panic, he hadn’t seen the single undead that had managed to potter around the edge of the building. It had been shuffling towards him for God knows how long, and it was only eight feet away, its lips already drawing back into its death snarl, silent and hate-filled, filthy claws already reaching out, ready to rend and tear.

There was no time for the rifle, slung behind me as I’d been urging Isaac on. Instinct took over and I reached for the Glock at my hip, palmed it smoothly into my hand, raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. All in one clean motion.

Bang.

Bullet to the head, one dead zombie that collapsed at our feet.

Shit, I couldn’t do that in one clean motion again if I tried. And I did try, later on back at the lodge. I tried to repeat the move and got the gun stuck in my holster, dropped it, threw it, fumbled like a dickhead with it. Out of fifty attempts, I probably managed it clean only three times.

But in that moment, when it had to be done, I must have appeared like Dirty Harriet to Isaac as I stood there, barrel smoking, one hand on his shoulder still from dragging him aside.

I gifted him with a smile of swaggering satisfaction and holstered the weapon.

“Do you feel lucky, punk?” I winked, feeling like a stone-cold bad ass. “Now, pretty please, with sugar on top, get in the fucking truck.”

Mutely, he nodded, running round the other side to climb in, while I jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, dropping it into first gear and holding the clutch as I waited for Nate, left hand ready on the handbrake.

Nate edged out of the doorway, still firing down the narrow hall rapidly filling with undead, as they squeezed into the space and oozed forward in one bloated, hungry mass.

Not bothering with running round the vehicle, Nate simply jumped into the back of the truck and banged on the side.

“Take us home, Erin,” he ordered. “We’re done here today.”

We made it home without any further issue, but we’re going to have to find a new source of gardening supplies. That retail park is officially out of bounds, because as we drove past it on the way home from the main road, a swarm of undead were shuffling out of the B&Q as well. That’s a big ass hardware store, so there could be a shit load of undead in there for all we know. It’s officially off limits from here on in.

I do know of a few garden centres in the local area that we could probably access on back