Chapter 1
Your girlfriend tells you that there are a million eyes in the sky right now, watching and waiting, but you don’t care. They can’t see you or her.
At the end of the world, everything is free. You feel like a teenager again when you “borrow” handfuls of jewelry from fashion boutiques and smearing shitty drugstore makeup on your girlfriend. There seems to be no one in London, except for you, Georgie, the Admiral, your service dog, Barbie, and whatever lies in that tower. You live your days in opulence eating what Georgie swears is beans & toast (it never taste right no matter how you season it, but you both decided not to take your chances on perishables), and lazing about in your underwear.
On an unknown date, in an unknown month, in an unknown year, you, Georgie, the Admiral, and Barbie lay on a bright green couch Georgie took from Aram Store, cherishing the breeze. The temperature is also unknown, but it is unbelievably stuffy, and even though there’s the apocalypse the wind still blows, and you appreciate it.
What you don’t appreciate is that the wind stills, it is suffocating, the Admiral bristles, Barbie is restless, Georgie gasps, your eyes are itchy, and you can hear bagpipes in a distance.
“Can it see you?” you ask. It’s hardly likely that Georgie’s situation will change. She hardly sleeps, and she recently got a manila folder from an “Oliver Banks”. He made a copy for you in braille. You don’t want to know what it says; luckily if you were tempted to read it, you never had the patience to learn how to read braille.
“No. But I can them” Georgie responds. It's obvious she out of it.
“Fuck.”
“I’m gonna see if I can call them over.”
That leads to you and Georgie yelling at two London pedestrians in the apocalypse from you and your girlfriend’s apartment. You haven’t prayed in years but hopefully, whatever is out there is Jon and Martin. You miss them.
“One minute, babe” Georgie yelps. She presses a wet kiss from to your head and the door slams.
Angel lets out a bark that you like to imagine is chastising at Georgie’s loudness. While you wait for your love to come back you do your old choir exercises, practicing your breathing and posturing making Mrs. Davies proud, wherever she is. On exercise seven, Georgie slams the door again, Angel barks, and the Admiral hops out of your arms.
“Um, h-hello”, Jon starts.
“Hi.” You finish.