“Fuck no,” I snorted. “The world is shit and miserable, Nate. It’s taken everything away from us, so the one thing I’m giving the apocalypse back is my ability to drop my pants and wink my brown eye at it in a grand cosmic ‘fuck you.’ No point living if you’re just gonna mope about. Be more Tigger, and tell Eeyore to cheer the fuck up, that’s what I say.”
Nate looked at me like I’d just boned his dad in front of him. We’ve not known each other long, but he looks at me like that a lot. Most people do. Usually when I say words.
Anyway, we decided (and by ‘we’ I mean ‘Nate’) to load up the SUV I’d swiped on my escape from the school with what supplies we could, then head out and keep on the move. Maybe look for a survivor community if any had started to form. I mean, it’s early days yet and people in this country are notoriously selfish assholes at times, and the world only died and shat its pants a couple of weeks ago, so there’s some way to go yet before anything coherent starts to form I reckon.
But then again, this is my first apocalypse, so what do I really know? I’m an apocavirgin, so to speak, so I don’t know how much this is really gonna hurt.
Damn, sometimes I should really stop writing. But I’m using a pen. I can’t delete. So, you’re getting the unfiltered Lockey brainwaves I’m afraid, my imaginary reader. You’re welcome.
Only a day passed before my life changed for the better. We started hitting up some of the country houses for supplies in the local area, mainly diesel for the SUV. Nate has a real hard-on about fuel supplies and being mobile, and always insists on driving.
And he drives so slow!
It’s like Driving Miss Daisy with that old fart behind the wheel. Not a soul on the roads and he’s driving like a pensioner on his way to Sunday church after three hits on a super-skunk bong.
I asked to drive once, he let me, then after a half hour of Hurricane Nate blowing in my face as he raged at me for my speed and late braking, a load of old man stereotypical whine about women drivers, threats of shooting out my knees, and general “I fucking hate you Erin” in various forms, I relented and swapped with him. Usually he’s all calm and stoic, showing his contempt with an eyebrow, or a tightening of the jaw. Enough to let you know you’re edging close to the line. My driving, it would seem, was his rage-trigger. And oh mama, that rage is scary.
For the record, I only swapped because he’s got a gun. And that he could probably snap me in two like a twig without one. I’m a fast little ninja with skills of my own, but Nate has “that look.” I read a really great description in a fantasy book by David Gemmell that really sums it up.
“The look of eagles.”
That’s a bad ass statement that just tells you anyone with this look is a stone-cold killer, backed by experience and will not be fucked with. I can hold my own with anyone in fisticuffs I reckon. I’ve never really thought “I can’t take you” when I’ve been involved in a fight, and I had a few growing up in the care system. I learned to fight fast and dirty, because if you didn’t fight back twice as hard, you’d always be prey. When you’re a girl, you have to be twice as hard so you can rip the dicks off guys who think you’re easy meat to satisfy their boner. So, I learned to fight and never show fear, to blast in headlong and whirl my arms, keys in fists, windmilling in classic British Kung Fu style. I’ve never been afraid to take anyone on in a scrap.
Except Nate. I’m just glad this guy is on my team, because I swear to God, he’s the first guy I’ve ever met that genuinely scares me. If he lost his shit, like really lost his shit, I bet he’s fucking terrifying. You don’t get in the SAS unless you’re a quadruple-hard motherfucker.
Pretty sure the bastard drove extra slow after we swapped back though, just to mess with me.
I do go off on tangents. Okay Lockey, focus.
Particles. Yes.
So, we rolled up to this secluded farmhouse, but this one didn’t seem like a working farm. It had a pretty garden, more like a cottage to be honest. It had this weird little Nissan Micra parked on a gravel driveway as well, bright yellow. God awful thing, but it suggested the owner was still home. Not that anyone being home bothered Nate, as he stopped the vehicle at the end of the path, slid out the door and drew the shotgun he’d taken from Old McRapey’s farm.
“Can you shoot?” he asked, his voice low.
“Like a boss,” I replied with supreme confidence. Probably too confident, as he cocked that fucking eyebrow at me again. “I’m a stone-cold killer on Call of Duty,” I added, making the finger guns and firing them off with a whispered “pew pew.”
Nate didn’t let me have a gun.
I followed in Nate’s wake, at least able to match his light feet with my parkour skills. Balance and grace, I’m not afraid to admit, are two things I can actually boast about. I think I surprised Nate, because he looked back to find me in his wake, not blundering around like a drunk bitch fighting with her bra before bed. There was no eyebrow raise, judging me. I call that a win.
Nate has this freaky way of moving, his combat walk. His knees are bent,
