Freaked me out though when I was pattering along the bridge. They clearly heard or sensed me. Thirty sets of dirty, glassy eyes snapped up and looked right at me, then they all started shuffling my way, lips peeling back with hate as though I was responsible for their current undead stasis. Ass squeak moment. I wasn’t hanging around for them to gather beneath me, so I picked up my pace and popped through the second set of doors at the end and then switched to ninja mode.
There is something about an empty school that really freaks me out. I remember playing a cracked version of Silent Hill on the original PlayStation, and because it was a copy, for some reason, there was no colour. The whole game was black and white and man, it made for “creepy level: expert”. Silent Hill one and two are just pant-shitters of games. I think my fear of empty schools comes from those games. I expected a nightmare to appear around the corner at any moment.
Just the bang of a settling radiator, the rattle of a pipe, creak of a floorboard popping back into shape… they’re all amplified and threaten to pop a nugget straight out your back door in fright, every time you hear one.
Honestly, if my life continues in this manner, my sphincter will have a fucking six-pack in a week’s time.
My entire existence is one of paranoid hyper-vigilance because—let me tell you—sloppiness gets you surprise dry-fucked in the ass by a rusty metal dildo. Things would not end well. Remember how quiet these things are? Constant head on a swivel.
Getting a handle on my breathing took some effort, with all those freaky stares of hunger from a moment ago still on my mind. I sucked in some (allegedly) calming breaths and started to Mission Impossible through the first-floor entry hall, making my way to the steps that led down. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, it was great. Confidence began to return as I ghosted down the awful terracotta colour steps where the woodwork room was. I put my hand on the door, creaking it open and just as it literally started to creak open, I heard a sound, a footstep of metal on tile.
A memory bubbled up from deep, like a wet fart in the bath breaking the surface, deep and ominous, when you’re not sure if you’ve followed through and you might be now sitting in a bath you’ve sharted in.
When I was in high school, the woodwork teacher (they called it CDT then… craft, design and technology) was Mr Emerson. He was in his late forties, a small rotund little man with a grey widow’s peak and a surly facial expression that was as sour as a bulldog sucking piss from a nettle. I never understood why he went into teaching as he fucking hated teenagers. I mean, with a passion, and oh mama, he was not afraid to let us know. He was like a drill sergeant with his obvious disdain for his students. Allow me to divulge some of his most memorable sayings.
“I don’t have the energy to even pretend to like you today.”
“Life is full of disappointments. I’ve just added you to mine.”
“Sometimes I listen to what you’re saying, and I can’t help but wonder who tied your shoelaces for you this morning.”
“Oh, you don’t like being called stupid? I’m sorry, I thought you were already aware.”
He was a right little splash of sunshine was Emmy. Everywhere he walked, he left a trail of rainbows sprinkled with the glitter he farted. Wanker.
So why do I bring up my memories of my old woodwork teacher?
Well, Emmy’s most bizarre trait was his choice of footwear. He was proper old school and the safety shoes he used to wear were something of a joke to everyone he taught. No modern safety footwear for Emmy, oh no. I shit you not my fearless reader, this guy used to wear these things that looked like solid wooden clogs with hammered metal on the bottom, so they made this really distinct sound on the hard tile floor of the wood shop. Metal on ceramic tiles. Clickety click, clickety clack. Pretty sure he made them himself.
As I creaked open the door… clickety clack. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that zombie Emerson was shuffling round the wood shop. That certainty was confirmed by the death stench that wafted through the door crack as I heard the undead Riverdance. Zombies fucking stink, man. Once the human dies they piss and shit themselves as everything relaxes. It’s gross as all hell, but they have this… this… aura. Their smell isn’t just natural odour; it’s like some brimstone kind of shit. I don’t know what brimstone smells like, but it’s always associated with evil. That’s what they smell like. Pure, absolute corruption. Hard to articulate.
When the apocalypse wasn’t a reality, every kid would dream of getting the chance to brain an asshole teacher without fear of reprisal, but when the end of the world is real, and that asshole teacher can equally just kill and eat you, well… that’s a whole different set of rules. Plus, as I had discovered earlier, smashing the brains out of someone—dead or alive—is no fucking joke. It’s brutal, it’s messy, it’s sickening. This isn’t Shaun of the Dead where hilarity ensues. Putting someone down up close and personal is gross as all hell. I imagine our friends across the pond have things a bit easier, as there’s probably a certain amount of detachment popping the melon of a zed with a nine-mil from thirty feet away. We don’t have a gun culture though, so the report of a gunshot is super rare. Having to do the job nose-to-nose with something that smells like a rotting colon, with full on head splash in your face? Nope. Fucking awful. Everything about it is shit.
So here I was, about to have a gladiatorial battle to the death with a short, fat wanker that would no doubt be even surlier in undeath than he was in life. Marvellous.
Well, me creaking that door meant that little flash of sound was like an airhorn to Emmy. He scuttled and bobbed over like a fat shrivelled skeksis towards the door and I could hear him coming in his clickety clackety way. The door opened inwards so I waited and waited for him to weave and stumble his way round the workbenches until he was heading towards the door and—as he got up close—I full on kicked that door like Bruce Lee, right into his kisser.
There was a satisfying crunch and crack and he went arse over tit, bounced off a workbench and collapsed flat on his face. Well, I say flat. As I said, he was a rotund fellow, so he bobbed, rolled and flailed on his big belly as he tried to climb to his feet again. It would probably have been hilarious had I not been so desperate to get past him and find a weapon. After kerb-stomping Skeletor the other night and remembering how rank it felt to do that—feeling a skull splinter under your boot as you stamp repeatedly on it—I had no desire to do it again. All I wanted for Christmas right then was something big, blunt and traumatic, so I could end this shit-show with a single blow.
Of course, with my luck, I couldn’t see a single tool to hand and Zombie Riverdance didn’t take long to wobble to his clacky feet, all while my head was on a swivel looking for something I could brain him with.
So, it was time to get creative. There are some big ass vices in that room and one of them had wide gaping jaws fully opened, a real industrial width. A quick estimation of Emmy’s melon and the gap between the jaws…
Remember my parkour nimbleness? Mr Emerson couldn’t get near me as he shuffled and bumped his way around, while I jumped up and over the benches. Every time he got near though, that same silent snarl appeared I keep seeing on every one of these things when they’re just a pounce away. No growl, hiss or even gurgle. Just a twisted expression of hate as it screamed in silence at me and accelerated like it had just been given a shot of zombie adrenalin. Gives me shivers every time.
Once in position, I slid across a bench to strike from the rear, planted my foot full in his back and pushed him face first towards the vice. He didn’t go flush in. Nope, first I had to gag back vomit as I heard him go teeth-first into one of the vice’s jaws.
Blurgh. That sound.
I remember a kid I used to know when I was ten named Timmy. We used to crack golf balls off the top of a hill across a big stretch of earthy wasteland, seeing how far we could hit them, and obviously the boys couldn’t get beat by a girl, so they were super competitive. We only had one club, passing this iron between us as we took turn
s. Timmy had taken his turn but hadn’t moved far back away from this other kid we used to hang with, Nick.
Nick brought the club back, swung, smacked the ball clean and the club continued to sweep up. Timmy was too close.
There was a weird sound like a mix of metallic chink and dull thunk with a shuddering ceramic splinter as that club’s iron head met Timmy’s front teeth.
I’ll never forget that sound. Never.
It was brought to stark life once again as Emerson took an involuntary bite of the metal vice at speed.
The crack and shatter of teeth against solid metal, dear reader, is hard to describe. I’m no prizewinning writer to capture the sound in words, but I felt that shit shudder through my fucking soul. My eye is twitching just writing about the memory.
Swallowing the bile, I followed up while I still had the advantage. Shifting Emmy to the side while he was still face down, I pushed his bulbous face between the jaws, then held him there, helpless, while I whirled that industrial sized bar for all my worth; righty-tighty mother fucker. Finally, the jaws had fully clamped his temples and he couldn’t move. Panting by now, I clambered off him, and set to work with all my tiny strength on that bar.
Jesus, what a way to go. I mean, I know I was being creative, and I write about how awesome I am, but slowly crushing a human skull in a big ass vice is fucking nasty. Creaking, cracking, tension, straining and then suddenly…
Pop. Crunch. Fracture.
The tension is gone as the skull’s structure collapses. Then it’s a free roll into Squish Town.
I stood back after crushing Mr Emerson’s skull and brain in the bloody mess of the vice, surveyed my handiwork with a nod, put my hands on my hips in satisfaction like a champ, then promptly puked my guts up again, right next to his dangling corpse.
Lovely.
Tallahassee had to be proud right? That had to be a contender for Zombie Kill of the Week? Vice, vice baby.
I’m pretty sure I could hear the sound of my heart breaking as my full English breakfast splashed around my feet, though. Bye bye baby, it was nice to have known you for even a little while. Sob.
After I’d purged, I had more time to find the tools I had been denied. Finding a locked cupboard and my Sherlock-esque skills deducing the tools were in there, I returned to the Fat Controller, wondering how he’d died, as he didn’t have any bites or injuries I could see. Maybe his heart just gave out. I mean… shit… he wasn’t exactly training for a triathlon, was he?
Anyway, Emmy had keys in his pocket, and I returned to the locked cupboard, trying key after key that looked like it might fit.
By the way, who does that in an apocalypse? Locking away potential defensive weapons? Pretty sure that wanker wanted all the teenagers to get eaten and prevented them from acquiring any defensive capabilities. Wouldn’t surprise me. Seriously, that guy hated everyone.
Now, however, I have returned to Lockey Tower. I have hammers, screwdrivers, and a god damn crowbar which is my new favourite toy. It’s heavy and curly and pointy and all kinds of comforting to have in hand now.
Bottom line, I have food, water, tools / weapons, have secured the stairs so possess a relatively safe classroom to reside in while I figure shit out and I’m not dead. Now I just need to figure out a solid escape plan and get on the road and out of this shithole town and into the country before I get swarmed and eaten. Yay.
Best bit of the day though?
I got me a fucking brew.
Fuck yeah.
5th Entry
NOW WHAT?
So, what to do now? I can’t survive on Snickers and beans for the rest of my days, and I sure as shit can’t live in this classroom. Hell, I can’t stay in this crappy ass town either. The sensible thing would be for me to head out to one of the little country areas that surround it.
That’s the advantage of being in this little slice of northern English gold. There’s a whole lot of greenery and pretty villages and farms nearby, so I guess the smart thing to do is get away from the press of undead and hole up somewhere the zombies won’t be gathering in numbers.
Trouble is, I’m an urban lass. I don’t know shit about farming or surviving on my own without modern convenience. If I want to eat, I go to the store and buy shit, and long term that won’t cut the mustard. To be honest, the thought of heading down to Tesco doesn’t exactly fill me with excitement… I bet the supermarkets have been scavenged by now. That would have likely happened on day one as people loaded their cars and got the fuck out of town.
As people are generally shitty to each other, I’m pretty sure all kinds of awful shit went down there as frightened people went to war with each other over cans of soup in supermarket aisles. People are generally wankers in car parks, and I bet the hole in my ass they got jammed up and fights broke out, complete deadlock with people unable to get in and out, fists flying and so on. In such a massive press, it would take only one person to get killed in a fight and it would have been zombie ground zero, spreading like wildfire, and as I’ve stated, no firearms to stem the tide of growing undead.
Panic makes people do stupid shit (like not checking the bathroom for zombies when they’re busting for a dump) and people are generally stupid as a rule anyway in my experience. I mean, for fuck’s sake, get an inch of snow on the roads in England and people lose their minds, grinding the country to a halt. A zombie apocalypse? Ha. There’ll be mental and emotional breakdowns on an epic scale. We as a nation are not equipped to manage the social collapse, because most are selfish assholes. I wonder how the spiritual people are doing with their positive thinking and crystal energies?
But that’s me just musing. It doesn’t change my current situation. Problem number one… I need to find a Lockey HQ that’s away from the centre of all this bullshit. Thankfully, the nearest city is around 20 miles away, and man… I bet the likes of Manchester, Chester and Liverpool are fuuuuuuucked. Complete traffic gridlock, people fucking everywhere losing their minds. No direction. No clue. Panic, mayhem, murder.
So, to be able to get out of town, I need a vehicle and my eyes keep getting drawn to the too-big-for-this-town SUV blocking the exit. The keys must be still in the ignition as I doubt Mrs Thomson-Smythe had the presence of mind to pull them out when she jumped out of the car after running over her own kid. She switched the engine off and I can see from here that the driver door is still open, so that’s the best option. There are other cars in the school car park, but they’re likely cars of people shuffling round as undead with their keys still in their pockets, so I could be fucking about all day trying to find them.
No… the murder wagon it is. It’s big, it made short work of an entire crew of teenagers as the silly bitch came tear-arsing into the school, it’s high off the ground and it’s got keys in, as well as being a barrier to getting any other car out of here. So yeah, it will have to be the SUV. There is one slight hindrance to my plan though… the battalion of acne-faced undead meandering around it.
I need to draw the army of darkness away from the vehicle, and to do that I need noise. Lots of noise. All the fucking noise. But how?
AH HA!
Of course. Those other cars will come in useful after all. I’ll set their alarms off. They’ll be shuffling over to the source of that noise in as much time as it takes as a nerd to start crying when the internet goes down. Man, I bet so many nerds just topped themselves the moment they realised the internet was gone for good. They’d have been like lemmings throwing themselves from the nearest high point.
I’m not really sure about a destination though. I mean, yeah, I’ve got a plan to draw the dead away from my intended escape vehicle so I can leap in, reverse out and get out of town, but where the hell am I going? There’s no use me breaking for it unless I have a clear idea of where I’m going. I’ve no idea how much fuel is in the vehicle, and a big bastard like that will drink it fast... faster than a bunch of nineteen year old girls on a Saturday night in Cardiff can consume vodka-red bulls in happy hour.
/> And that is fast, dear reader. I have experience. There are photos.
Now, I have one slight problem in going for a quiet farmhouse that is making me nervous. So no, there isn’t a plethora (I love that word) of guns in Britannia. People aren’t carrying handguns and every home doesn’t have one.
However, farmers are likely to have a licensed shotgun for use on their lands, for shooting game and so forth. And I really don’t fancy rocking up to a nice quiet farm looking for succour from the apocalypse, only to roll up and get shredded by a shotgun. That would really piss on my chips.
Shit, this is like a rock and a hard place. I need somewhere away from it all, but those places are likely already getting locked down by their owners who now have free licence to shoot anyone they deem a trespasser, without fear of any legal reprisal. Still, the alternate is dying a slow death in a classroom and shitting in a pencil case.
Honestly, I’d rather get shot in the face.
Okay. I have a plan. It’s shit, but it’s better than nothing. If I get the murder wagon and head out the back roads at the top of town, then head out even more along the quiet Cheshire back roads and find a nice empty house all on its own that doesn’t seem to have anyone at home, I’m golden. I’ll make the new plan from there.
First thing first.
School’s out for summer.
6th Entry
SCHOOL’S OUT BITCHES
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 3
