Dating in the Apocalypse: Sarah: "The One"

By Christopher John Chater

You think your dating life is tough; Tom Collins is looking for the love of his life in the middle of an apocalypse! If he can overcome murderous clans, a slave-based economy, and a meddlesome mother who designs deadly dresses for women, he might just find “the one.”

A novelette.
Approx. 18,000 words
Book one in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher John Chater
• Release date: Jul 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996596336

Christopher John Chater

Christopher John Chater is the author of the novels The Traveler's Companion, Omegasphere, and Aquarius Rising, as well as the award winning short story "Progenitor." He was born in Burbank, California, but he's lived all over, the East Coast, the West Coast, and the South. After working in several industries, a production assistant in the film industry, a song plugger in the music industry, and a bartender and server in the hospitality industry, he started his own publishing company, Chater Publishing, in November of 2011. He now lives in Southern California and works full-time as a publisher and writer.www.christopherjohnchater.com

Book preview

DATING

IN THE

APOCALYPSE

Book 1

Christopher John Chater

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Other Books by Christopher John Chater

Copyright

A pandemic wiped out 75% of the world’s population. Many fled the cities. Others stayed.

Dating in the apocalypse wasn’t easy.

Sarah:

The One

Chapter 1

A pretty girl bolted down an alley to hide from marauders. She was the first woman I’d seen in a week. I performed some last second preening, fingers through the hair, slapped my cheeks for some color, and then I got up from the café table on the sidewalk and fastened the middle button to my blue linen blazer. As I strutted across the street—ignoring the car flipped over and burning, about to explode any second—I was singularly focused on one thing: my introduction to this attractive young lady.

My approach was obviously off, because when I came up behind her, she spun around pointing a punch knife at me. Her other hand was holding the looped handle of a shopping bag. Breathless, she said, Come near me and I’ll cut your balls off.

Okay, she was a little guarded. I’d seen it a million times. Poor girl probably hadn’t had a day of fun during this entire apocalypse.

My name’s Tom Collins—yes, just like the drink, but hopefully I’m not so tart. May I ask your name?

Fuck off, she snapped back, scowling at me. The punch knife was held firmly in her hand, the blade extending out through her clinched fist like a raised middle finger. The weapon’s sheath, hanging from her neck by a cord, had been blinged-out to look like an Egyptian ankh, masking its deadly capability.

There are lots of marauders around here, but I can assure you, I’m not one of them.

No offense, Tom, but if you don’t get the fuck away from me, I’m going to slit your throat.

Message received. I sighed. Shame. I would’ve liked to have seen you in that dress. Is it the blue one?

How’d you know I bought—found a dress?

From the bag. If it’s the blue off-the-shoulder number, with your skin, you’ll look amazing in it.

You’ve been following me!

No, I’ve been enjoying the day at my table across the street. Why don’t you come and join me? I’ve got a bottle of sparkling water with ice.

Her eyes brightened. You have ice?

I do. And slices of lime.

She eyed me incredulously and asked, Who are you trying to kid? You insane or something?

I shrugged. "You’re the one who bought—excuse me, found a dress in the middle of an apocalypse. Don’t get me wrong, I think it was a great thing to do. Why let this whole ‘End of Days’ thing get you down? Just because the state of the world is . . . in flux doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, right?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, showing confusion and annoyance, certainly not the indicator of interest I was looking for. So hard to get a read on a girl these days. Dilated pupils could be fear rather than arousal. Licking her lips could just mean they were dry. Sustained eye contact was more than likely a fight-or-flight response, not come-hither. Damn apocalypse was ruining my day game.

Your choice, but I’m just across the street on Park Avenue if you change your mind. I turned and left.

On the way back to my sidewalk table, I spotted Bob. He was coming out of our apartment building dressed in his apocalyptic best and carrying a fire extinguisher. Looking the way he did, he was sure to scare off the girl. Any more leather and he’d be a football: leather pants, which had to be causing some chafing based on his stiff, wannabe gangsta gait, matching leather jacket with a squirrel head dangling from the zipper (were Central Park squirrels considered scary these days?), and leather ten-inch boots with metal cleats that scraped and screeched when he walked, like nails on a chalk board. He’d become the poster child for Apocalypse Chic. It was like he’d gone to the Mad Max aisle at Target. Unfortunately, the hairdo threw off the ensemble. One side of his head was shaved to the skull, while the other side was a full three inches of dyed cherry red. If anything he looked more 1980s goth than Road Warrior, and looking like Robert Smith from The Cure didn’t really give him the desired badass factor.

In these uncertain times one could hardly blame Bob for trying to toughen up his look. He was stick-figure skinny, maybe 130 pounds under all that leather, was an inch or two shorter than average, and he had the face of a fourteen-year-old boy despite being in his late twenties. His attempt at growing a mustache had yielded him just a bit more than peach fuzz. It was like he’d started puberty but never finished it.

I sat down at the wrought iron table, picked up the magazine I’d been in the middle of reading, and said into it, Hey, Bob. How’s it hanging?

Bob bolted past me, sighing, shaking his head at me. Dude, are you just gonna sit there? He held up the fire extinguisher like an exclamation point.

It’s the apocalypse, Bob, something’s always on fire. I took a sip of sparkling water, a lime wheel fixed to the rim, the ice cubes clanking against the glass.

He turned to me,