Emily stood in the road, a hammer in hand and a display of dead zombies surrounding her. It had been close to an hour since she gave Barry the slip, sneaking out of his newsagents to find the man that killed Jonathon, but she hadn’t made it very far. Consumed by hate she was struggling to find focus. Unable to decide on a direction to take she had instead stayed still, slaying any zombie that had attacked.
Then she heard a voice in the distance and her mind became clear.
“Like I said Ace, Phil Collins, although a massive tool, is responsible for reinventing Genesis and making their sound more accessible. Land of Confusion, Invisible Touch, Domino, Mama… all classic tracks lar and completely blow the socks off any of the bollocks you hear today. When Collins moved to lead vocals it took them to another level and far removed them from their experimental days with Peter Gabriel. Now Peter Gabriel is a different kind of lunatic all together. He went from wearing massive fuck off animal heads in the 70’s to whacking himself with a virtual sledgehammer in the 80s. Steam, Sledgehammer and the beautiful Don’t Give up with Kate Bush are all time classics kid. Now Kate Bush, she is on a different planet all together. I mean, what the fuck is Babooshka all about?”
“You’re so stuck in the past Dave. There has been plenty of decent music released since the 80s. You should broaden your horizons. Spread your musical wings and appreciate something a little more modern.”
“More modern my arse! I suppose you’d have me listening to Pharrell Williams or some other modern day shite. Well you can jog on if you think I’m listening to him. What is it he sings? Clap along if you feel like a home without a roof? I have two problems with that line. One, homes can’t feel as they are non-living things and two, even if they could feel I doubt they’d be happy without a roof kid. They’d be fucking furious! What’s with his name anyway? Pharrell? It sounds like a nasty skin rash! No chance ace, you can keep your modern music. I would rather shit in my own hands and clap than listen to that rubbish!”
With her father, uncle and 80s Dave making their way back to Barry’s, her destination had been chosen for her. The only route she could take without being caught was to turn left towards Runcorn Hill.
A former sandstone quarry, Runcorn Hill was once sourced to produce stone used to build Liverpool Cathedral and New York Harbour. It was now a park and nature reserve, used mostly by dog walkers and nature lovers. It was also Emily’s route to pursue Jonathon’s killer.
Hastily she ran into the heavily wooded grounds; choosing to leave the designated pathway and move through the harsh terrain to shorten her journey. She clambered upwards, pushing through the twisted undergrowth and gnarled branches. In little time she found herself in an opening atop Runcorn Hill, looking down on to Weston Road and her uncle’s house. She hadn’t meant to, Emily never wanted to see it again but her position had also given her a clear view of the lamppost where Jonathon had been brutally torn apart by zombies. Only he was gone and all that remained was the bodies of the two deaders that attacked him.
Looking down to the lamppost she allowed herself a glimmer of hope that Jonathon was somehow still alive and had managed to drag himself away from the road. Even though she knew deep down that was impossible, now that the thought had entered her head she had to check it out and so she began her descent, down through more of the thick, winter ravaged overgrowth, towards a dirt path where she was faced with three zombies, devouring the remains of a large man.
Smelling fresh meat the hungry zombies lifted their gaunt, blood soaked faces out of the man’s enormous carcass and turned to face Emily who rather than wait for the rotters to come to her, was purposefully marching forward. She had somewhere she needed to be and she wasn’t about to let three shufflers slow her down.
She swung the hammer into the forehead of the nearest shuffler killing it instantly. Blood, brain and cracked bone sprayed through the air as the zombie fell heavily to the floor with Emily’s hammer wedged into the side of its head. Placing her foot on the zombie’s chest she yanked the hammer free and swung the weapon again and then again, inflicting the same injuries to the others before running from the path and turning onto the road. There she found several other zombies sporadically shuffling towards her. As she approached, one by one they fell to her hammer. Nothing was going to get in her way.
She reached the lamppost where Jonathon was murdered and scanned the area. He was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a large pool of blood crystallised by the cold winter weather. Shiny droplets of plasma leading away from the lamppost presented a trail for her to follow. A trail which she soon realised was taking her to her uncle’s house.
She nervously walked down the steep steps and stood outside the front door, looking upon her family home. She had no memory of her grandparents or the first years of her life when she lived there before her dad bought the house she grew up in. But she knew that it was a happy home, full of love and great memories. Now it was nothing but blackened bricks and mortar. A burnt out shell that barely resembled the beautiful house it once was.
She pushed open the front door and stepped inside. There, directly in front of her she found Jonathon, lying peacefully in the burnt out hallway. Scraped into the ash and dirt next to him were the words ‘R.I.P. Skinny Jeans’.
Emily broke down and wept. Tears flowed freely as she lifted Jonathon’s head to her chest and held him in a loving embrace. She stayed like that for some time, cradling him close, not wanting to let him go. Then she remembered her promise to make the man responsible pay and with a heavy heart she lay him back down, kissing him gently on his forehead.
Wiping tears from her eyes she opened the back door and entered the garden. There she saw the dismantled mountain of dead zombies and the dug up opened container. She smiled. Emily had known all about her uncle’s zombie apocalypse stash. He had made sure she knew the exact location of every apocalypse stockpile in his garden.
“Now remember Emily love. If it’s robots then dig by the back door, alien’s over by the thorn bush, zombies in the middle, natural disasters such as earthquakes, floods and tornados the left of the shed, talking gorillas by the right of the shed, Reptile people that have lived underground for thousands of years over in the far left corner, killer clowns over there, giant man eating wasps over here and bloodsucking vampires right at the back.”
“I love you Uncle Butty!” she smiled.
Picking up a shovel she clambered over the scattered zombies to reach the far end of the garden. There she began to dig. She only had to unearth the top layer of soil to know she was in the right place. The strong smell of garlic was a giveaway. Soon she had reached a large container with the words “Vampire Apocalypse’ scrawled across the top.
Inside the container she found a top layer of large rotting garlic bulbs. Lifting her jacket to cover her mouth and nose, she removed the decaying bulbs as quickly as she could, revealing a layer of ready-made jarred minced garlic. Then below that there was garlic powder, garlic sausage and garlic bread and below those she found a large box containing over fifty bottles of holy water, complete with a letter of authenticity from the ‘Israeli River Jordan Water Blessing Company’.
“You can buy anything online these days,” she said to herself.
Finally, after removing the layers of rotting garlic products and almost certainly fake holy water Emily found what she was looking for.
Stakes.
Butty had made and stashed a large arsenal of small hand held wooden stakes, complete with an over the shoulder open topped bag, similar to an archer’s quiver. Emily filled the quiver with as many stakes as possible and placed it over her shoulder. Then she heard the approaching rumble of motorbikes accompanied by cheering and yelling.
Through a small gap in the garden fence she peered through, looking to the street outside.
Four motorbikes approached. The bike leading dragged a man along the road, tied by rope, his clothes were torn and skin badly grazed due to friction from him skimming along the rough tarmac.
Behind the motorbikes, a woman drove a large coach.
“Ok that should do it!” the man leading yelled, bringing his vehicle to a halt.
The leader dismounted his bike and removed his helmet to reveal a bald head covered in tattoos of flames. His companions followed his lead and parked their vehicles to surround the man tied to the rope.
“Please, I can’t take any more. I’ll do it, I’ll do whatever you want me to just please don’t drag me along anymore,” the man cried.
The leader nodded towards the woman driving the coach. She was tall and dressed head to toe in biker’s leathers, sporting a shaved head also covered in tattoos. She threw the coach keys to her leader.
“We want you to drive the coach, that’s all. Nothing more and nothing less. Oh apart from that it will be on fire and full of zombies. Hahaha! Let’s start herding the undead guys!” the man howled with laughter before removing a large bag from a canopy secured to the back of his motorbike.
“You remember your wife?” he snarled, unzipping the bag and spilling out the chopped up body parts of a woman.
The man tied to the rope vomited heavily and began wailing in despair. The bikers laughed hysterically.
“Billy, open up the back of the coach and the rest of you grab some body parts. This here is zombie chum and we’re going to lure us some dead fuckers into the back of the coach. Hey Johno! You got the petrol canister?” the leader asked.
“Right here Paul!” came the reply.
“Come on then let’s get a move on. Deano, start taking bets on how far the coach gets before it crashes. Winner gets beak or pills courtesy of our former employer wherever the bastard may be. Fucking dead with any luck!” the leader jeered.
Emily sat quietly with her back against the fence, listening to the groans of the undead and the laughter from the bikers as zombies were lured onto the coach. She knew that she needed to stay completely still so not to attract attention from the sadistic survivors or the zombies. It was harrowing and the wailing from the man made to watch his slaughtered wife be used as zombie bait chilled her.
After what felt like the longest time, the motorbikes began to rumble and the coach revved its engine. Finally they were gone and Emily could make her move.
“Three days into a zombie apocalypse and this town has turned into a Mad Max movie. Welcome to the friggin’ Thunderdome!” she said, running from the garden.
Emily bounded up the steep stone steps at the front of the house. With hate in her heart she ran in the direction the blue transit van had taken the night previously. All the while thinking about what she was going to do to the man that murdered Jonathon and the ways in which she was going to inflict pain measurable to the grief she was feeling. And she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
All she had to do was find him.
Journal Entry 12
“Are we ever going to be able to move fifty yards without encountering zombies or lunatics? Check out this pair of hungry hippos!” Dave shouted from the Volvo Estate.
We had only been in Weston Point for two minutes and already we were at a standstill. Two cars had ploughed into each other blocking the road ahead. Both driver doors were open and the bodies of the owners lay shredded and torn in the road. Two obese zombies knelt over them, greedily sucking down their remains.
“Dave and I will take care of these two, you keep the engine running. They are big, clumsy and pre-occupied with the road kill they’re eating. A swift blow from behind with this cricket bat and Dave’s battle paddle should do it. Once they’re down we should be able to push forward and nudge our way through those cars with ease. Even Dave’s knackered old Volvo shouldn’t have an issue,” I told Butty who was smiling at me proudly.
“Fuck off!” I said, leaving the vehicle.
I knew why he was smiling. For years Butty had been grooming me and Emily for a zombie apocalypse. Just when it looked like I was a lost cause I surprise both him and myself by assessing a situation the same way he would and furthermore, the thought of killing the undead, for the first time, hadn’t made me want to puke my guts up. But now I was filled with a different kind of dread. Dread that I might be slowly turning into my brother!
“Give me a hand Dave,” I said approaching the Volvo.
“My pleasure kidda, just let me grab me paddle and I’ll be with you quicker than a fart in a yoga class,” he replied.
We approached the two grossly obese zombies. My god they were disgusting. It was like watching a pair of shaved grizzly bears bent over with their arses in the air.
“Which one do you want ace? The one with the builders arse big enough to park a bike or the one that inspired Sir Mix a-Lot to write Baby Got Back?” Dave so eloquently described.
I didn’t reply but instead dashed forward and battered the head of the zombie with the builders arse into a bloodied mush. Dave was taken aback by my assertiveness and followed suit, drilling the battle paddle through the head of Baby Got Back.
When yanking the paddle from the zombie’s head, the force Dave applied flopped the obese shuffler onto its back, revealing the deader’s enormous stomach to have ruptured open. Man it was revolting. This zombie had literally eaten until it had burst. Then I heard a horrific gargling nose, like a bird choking to death. It was Dave’s stomach rumbling. I looked at him in disbelief.
“What? I’m fucking starving lar. I’ve not eaten since last night and smokes, although delicious, are no substitute for a decent meal. Just looking at the size of this woman is making me think of all the food she must have eaten to get that big. I mean come on John, look at that exploded stomach and tell me it doesn’t make you fancy a curry? Or even better, a massive blancmange or trifle. It looks a bit like a trifle actually. Sure the custard has curdled a bit but I’d still give it a go. Yep, a big delicious trifle all nicely presented inside a huge fleshy bowl. I could just dip me paddle in lar and have a taste!” he drooled.
“Dave you are a sick man, have I ever told you that?” I squirmed, scrunching my face in disgust.
“Definitely more than once Ace but it will take a lot more than a massive zombie with a busted open belly to put me off my grub. Come on let’s get out of here before I actually convince myself her stomach is a pudding and I get stuck in. I’ve got a tin of your brother’s spam in the car. If I concentrate hard enough whilst eating it I can maybe imagine it’s a cheese burger or a mixed grill,” he envisaged, rubbing his belly.
“You can imagine it’s a five star Michelin meal prepared by Gordon Ramsey for all I care. I can’t think about food till we’ve found Emily. Butty and I will push through these cars with the Land Rover. You tuck into your spam or whatever you imagine it to be then follow behind,” I instructed, walking back to the vehicle.
“OK chief. Do you know you sounded just like your nutty brother then?” Dave smiled.
“Fuck Off!” was my reply.
Dave pulled the Volvo to the side and Butty drove the Land Rover forward, pushing through the two car barricade with ease.
The vehicles slowly parted to reveal a man standing defensively in the road, staring at us whilst nervously clutching a knife. He was surrounded by bodies and was wearing a Poundland uniform. Also in the road ahead, beyond the man in the road, were pockets of zombie activity. Small gatherings of the undead formed crowds at various points along the street. Something had their attention.
“Don’t even think about getting out of the car John. We’re just going to drive around him, don’t even make eye contact. If he comes for us, then we take him out. The quicker we get away from him and those zombies up ahead the better.” Butty said firmly.
Slowly we moved around the man with Dave following behind us. I did as Butty had asked and made no eye contact but I could feel him watching us, ready to defend himself if need be. Within seconds we had driven passed, ready to continue our search for Emily when the man suddenly called out.
“Wait!” he yelled.
We heard Dave bring the Volvo to a halt. Butty was not amus
ed. Against his better judgement he stopped the vehicle then slammed his fists into the stirring wheel, shaking his head in disapproval.
“That retro chain smoking smart arse is going to be the death of us! This isn’t a good idea John, we don’t need anyone else tagging along. He’s only going to slow us down and with zombies close by that’s the last thing we need,” he groaned.
“I think Dave has already decided we do need someone else and I think he’s right. That could quite easily be one of us needing help,” I replied opening the passenger door, “Shout if you see any zombies coming.”
“We don’t know the first thing about him, he could be a complete nut job?” Butty replied with concern.
Well if the situation wasn’t so god damn depressing I would have pissed myself laughing. My brother, winner of Runcorn’s Craziest resident award for twenty years running was concerned about nut jobs!
“Well then he’ll fit right in won’t he?” I quipped, slamming the car door.
Dave and I approached the man cautiously and for a short while we all stood in silence. His complexion was so pale he was practically white and he was shaking and jittered nervously. Whoever this guy was it was obvious he had been through a traumatic experience. It was difficult to know what to say to him and just when I thought we’d be stood in silence for eternity, Dave approached the man, lit two cigarettes and offered one to him which was gratefully accepted.
“So what the fuck happened here then?” Dave asked, as sensitive as always!
“They killed them, all of them,” the man quivered.
“Zombies?” I asked.
“No, not zombies. People. We had been hiding out in the Shopping City, in Poundland where I work. Me, Tin Tin and Neil. But we decided to leave to come here, to Neil’s house so he could be with his family. It was meant to be safe here but we should never have left, we should never have left Poundland!” he cried, quickly turning hysterical.
The Death in a Northern Town Trilogy (Books 1-3): Welcome To Dead Town Page 33
