by Ian Woodhead
“You know him don’t you.”
They both nodded.
“I thought he was dead.” muttered Kevin.
Ernest heard the venom dripping off the boy’s tongue and suddenly it all clicked into place. Darren had been their other companion, no bloody wonder that cowardly little shit had been able to stay alive for so long; his son had been helping them out.
“And you two left him to die?”
Stephanie tried to put her hand on his shoulders, he took one step back and lifted the bat. “Don’t you dare touch me,” he growled.
Ernest saw Marsham move closer to the girl, she yelped when he whipped the pistol out of her hand, suddenly Ernest found himself gripped in a crushing bear-hug.
“Lose the emotion feller.” said Klinski.
He moaned aloud when a single shot echoed through the tunnel. Klinski let him go and grabbed Kevin’s shotgun.
“I haven’t finished with you two, said Ernest.
Marsham grabbed his arm and pulled him around. “Settle it later, you heard Klinski, lose the emotion or I’ll drop you myself.”
Ernest glared at the two kids as he passed them; he wasn’t going to forget this.
Epilogue
Dennis poked his finger into the huge blister on the side of his ribs; the yellow blood that spurted out reminded him of jam dropped in custard. It was strange how it didn’t hurt when he popped it. There was another one a bit further down his body but he couldn’t reach that one, at least not yet. It would take another hour of manoeuvring before he could puncture that one as well.
He gazed at the bars in the metal drain a few feet above his head, Dennis wasn’t sure just how long it would take before he had enough strength to attempt the climb, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t like he had anything else planned.
The pain, oh he remembered the pain alright, thankfully, only the memory remained, thanks to his wife of course. It had taken him quite awhile to drag his broken body over to Ethel; Dennis was dying, in fact, a distant part of him was rather surprised that he hadn’t passed on already. He found enough strength to push his index finger into her eye socket; the dried orb offered little resistance. He scooped out a little of the stinking material and pushed it into the stab wound.
He fell head-first into the storm drain seconds before those soldiers arrived with their flame throwers. Some of the inflammable material found its way down the drain but he was too far gone to feel the stuff burning into his flesh.
It was getting light up there now. Dennis grinned; it wouldn’t be long before he was strong enough to emerge. He finally found out why the walking dead hunted down the competitors. Dennis had become one and understood why they feared them.
The End...
For NOW
The next book in this series is called Walking with Zombies and is now available from Amazon.
Walking with Zombies
A Foreword by
Dave Jeffery
Let's get one thing straight: I love zombies. The myth, the literature, the movies, the comic books, you name it I have at some point digested it like some lumbering undead horde chows down on a hapless survivor caught in a cul-de-sac.
Given this admission, some may say that it was perhaps inevitable that I should stumble across the novel The Unwashed Dead by Ian Woodhead, given its rising popularity amongst hardcore zombie fans. In truth, I knew the work of its author before this particular book came to my attention. My first introduction came with the release of Spore, a genuinely creepy gross-fest of a short story released as a free sample on Smashwords. This tale has gone on to have over ten thousand downloads on Amazon Kindle alone. Other works followed; each demonstrating Woodhead's genuine gift for leaving the reader's psyche unsettled for days afterwards. I read The Unwashed Dead three times in two months, the tale enriching my experience with each outing. The gritty commentary of life and un-death on a Northern Council Estate has remained a favourite ever since. But what raises The Unwashed Dead above that of its peers? It’s a simple matter of heart. The book had it in abundance; an unbridled passion that I saw in many of the fans of the genre - me, especially. We shouldn't like any of Woodhead's characters; they are coarse and self serving, riddled with dysfunction and vanity. Yet like them we do, care for them, hope that all ends well for them though we know, deep down, they will meet an end as brutal as their upbringing.
Want literature that's going to stimulate the cerebellum and win Nobel Peace Prizes?
Read Steinbeck. Want work that has been through the commercial mixer and hit the belt bland and bloated? Then don't knock on the door of Mr. Woodhead's crypt. But if you want pathos wrapped in greased rags or the kind of biting social commentary harking back to Romero at his best, then come on in and take a seat and settle down with this, the sequel: Walking With Zombies.
But expect blood, lots of it. And if you're like me and many others, you'll love every single drop.
Dave Jeffery
Author of Necropolis Rising
Walking with Zombies
By: Ian Woodhead
Chapter One
Talbot Field decided that his wife would be waking up tomorrow morning in a great deal of pain. He crushed the empty cardboard tube with his beefy hand then launched it at the bathroom door.
“What have I told you about this?” he muttered through gritted teeth, “No more warnings, Christine. This time I really am going to mess up your pretty little face.”
It did occur to him that if he’d have just pulled the light cord upon entering the bathroom, he’d have seen straight away that his bone idle wife hadn’t replaced the toilet paper.
Talbot blindly felt along the tiled shelf to make doubly sure that he hadn’t missed the new toilet roll in his previous search. He then kicked his feet around the lino. The only item of interest he found were a pair of his wife’s underwear. Talbot picked them up and took a tentative sniff. They were clean, well nearly clean. These were the ones he’d bought her last week. The soft silky material gave it away. It wasn’t often he bought her presents. It wasn’t often that he actually liked her, but he saw them in the shop window and knew that he just had to see her wearing them.
Christine hated the colour red. He knew that as the assistant wrapped them, complete with a stupid bow around the package. That didn’t matter though because Talbot wanted to see her filling them, she’d wear them or face the consequences.
He’d forgotten all about them. She certainly hadn’t worn them for his pleasure. Talbot turned them over and gave them another sniff, this time the subtle odour of cream cleaner wafted into his nostrils. Oh, the defiant bitch, she’d been using them to clean the fucking bathroom.
“You are so going to pay for this,” he muttered.
He took a deep breath, imagining the look of her shit eating grin fall from her face when he presented the evidence. Talbot then had an epiphany.
“A shit eating grin may be the best lesson.”
Talbot chuckled to himself. He liked the idea. He decided not to punch the bitch after all; he’d make her eat these knickers instead, after he’d wiped his arse on them first. The punishment would fit the crime.
It was about time he showed her where her place was again, even after twelve years of marriage. The stupid cow still had the occasional lapse. He shook his head. Some people never learn.
He used the underwear to clean himself, and then carefully folded it up before placing the package next to his feet. Talbot was a little disappointed that he would have to wait for a few hours before he could play his little game. She wasn’t home from work yet, not that being a waitress in some swanky restaurant was a proper job mind, but it was the best she could do with only having limited intelligence.
Talbot was due to go out in a few minutes too. He had an appointment with a certain young man who had fallen behind on the re-payments for his lovely car. He smiled; knowing that at least one person tonight would be kissing his fists.
He pulled up his trousers and hid the package at the bottom of the bat
hroom bin.
He doubted that she’d empty it between the time she arrived home and the time he got back himself. The dirty, lazy bitch never cleaned the house properly anymore.
His balls tightened and he felt the beginnings of an erection at the thought of doing some serious face reshaping on the cocky little bastard who thought that he could piss in the face of Talbot’s employer. Speaking of which, he pulled the light cord, so he could read the time on his watch, he didn’t want to be late.
Talbot laughed aloud when he saw the full roll of toilet paper; it had fallen in the sink.
Christine hadn’t been as slack as he initially thought. He turned the handle and padded into the hallway. He still intended to stuff those knickers into her mouth as punishment for using them as a cleaning rag. The bitch needed to learn respect. That underwear had cost him the price of three pints.
Before he went down the stairs, he paused at his eldest son’s bedroom door. He’d caught Brendan smoking, earlier this evening. The stupid boy thought that he wouldn’t be able to smell the smoke if he leaned out of the window. The lad was a moron, just like his mother. He often wondered if the boy was actually his.
Just as he had promised, he’d forced the lad into the dog cage. Talbot put his ear to the door, there was no sound coming from the other side which was a little odd, Brendan hated the cage. The last time Talbot had put him in there, he had howled for nearly twenty minutes. He couldn’t hear anything, not even quiet sobbing.
His internal warning system kicked into action. Something was wrong. He grabbed the handle and pushed open the door then flicked the switch. The naked bulb fitting bathed the room in harsh white light. He saw his first born son on all fours still in the cage just under the window. Talbot immediately noticed the other, smaller cage lying in front on
Brendan.
“What the fucking hell have you done?” he shouted.
The occupant of the smaller cage was in Brendan’s left hand. His son slowly looked at his father, an emotion that Talbot hadn’t felt for many years made an unwelcome appearance, it was fear. The only thing he saw in his son’s eyes was his own reflection.
The terror that he was so used to seeing had gone. The boy dropped the bloodied remains of his pet hamster and opened his mouth. Talbot turned away, unable to look at those blood stained teeth, his son began to moan and pawed at the cage door.
The key to the padlock was in his top pocket and for the moment it would stay there too. Talbot closed the bedroom door and hurried downstairs, he hadn’t a clue what had happened to Brendan, nor did he really care. The boy had obviously taken something, it looked to Talbot that smoking was only the start of it. He was just glad he’d caught it when he had; if the little bastard was taking drugs then being locked in a cage was the best thing for him.
Fuck knows where the boy’s mind was, probably orbiting the next planet in the solar system, whichever one that was. He grabbed a red marker pen off the window sill at the foot of the stairs and left Christine a short note on the whiteboard that he’d fastened to the wall next to the coat hooks. He ordered the bitch not to disturb Brendan. Talbot knew that she’d leave that door well alone, especially after the last time.
Three weeks ago, he’d left a note of a similar nature before he left for work, but before he did, he sellotaped a single hair across the door and the frame. It didn’t surprise him to find that the hair had been snapped in half upon his return. It did surprise his wife when he confronted her with the evidence. He’ll never forget that stupid look upon her dozy face just before he used her back and chest as a punch bag. Talbot felt his loins stirring again. He opened the front door and stepped out into the cool night air, after he destroyed the lad’s face, he may have to pay a visit to his boss’s place on the other side of town, the Stockholm Club. He always felt the urge to fuck someone after he’d fucked someone up.
That barmaid, the one with the tiny tits had given him the hint that she needed a big man to look after her the last time he’d visited the place. Talbot walked down his garden path and stopped at his car door. She'll do nicely. Talbot liked his girls young.
Chapter Two
Marlene Jeffrey gave the front tyre a hard kick. It didn’t help her situation in any way but the sporadic burst of violence made her feel a little better, at least for a couple of seconds. This was so unfair, what the hell was wrong with the damn thing, she’d only had the car for a couple of months. This wasn’t supposed happen to new cars.
Maybe she should just count her blessings and thank the good lord that her pride and joy hadn’t chosen to stop whilst she was in the middle of that rough housing estate.
Marlene used the Breakspear Estate as a short cut on her way to work. She’d never
encountered any trouble in there and despite the rumours, the place had always seemed quiet enough but still, Marlene knew that she shouldn’t take risks. Cutting through Breakspear cut thirty minutes off her journey though and saved her a fortune in petrol.
She bent down and tapped on the glass, Marlene’s passenger looked at her with hopeful eyes as if somehow her getting out of the car and gazing in confusion at all the incomprehensible components under the bonnet would somehow magically make the car go again.
Thomas Maryland had only just started working at the Stockholm club, this would be his third night, and Marlene had serious doubts whether he’d still be there this time next week, which was a real shame as she really liked the lad. All the floor staff got on with Thomas, his personable manner and his no nonsense approach to getting the job done was a breath of fresh air, something rare in kids nowadays. It was the chaos he brought with him to every shift that would be his undoing.
Marlene had never considered herself to be all that superstitious, but her opinion didn’t really matter, she wasn’t the one who’d employed him. Their boss, Bernard
Crowley was the total opposite; she had seen the man cross himself after Thomas had walked past him. Since he had started, they have had two stabbings, several windows broken, a small fire, and a break in and last night, the cooker in the kitchen blew up. All the incidents happened whilst Thomas was working.
Marlene opened the passenger door and ushered the lad out. She already knew that Mr. Crowley had looked into the new boy’s work history and found that trouble followed Thomas around like a shadow.
“Are we walking then, Marlene?”
“Looks that way,” she replied. “I’m buggered if I know what’s up with the motor. No
Worries though, we’re not that far from the club.”
The car worked fine until he got into it. She pushed that dangerous thought to the back of her mind, collected her bag and locked the car. There was nothing wrong with the lad; it was just a bunch of coincidences.
She looked around the high street; her car should be safe here, there were plenty of street lights and the main road was usually busy although for some strange reason, tonight was different.
“What time is it?
Marlene glanced at her watch, “It’s just gone seven. Don’t worry, we won’t be late.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” he replied, “I just wondered that’s all.”
She sneaked a glance at the lad, while he was busy watching a man stumble out of a chip shop further along the street, he was rather tall for his age, she already knew that he’d just turned eighteen. Thomas also had the right build to match his height. With those soft facial features, shoulder length, dirty blonde hair and easy going manner, he ought to have a mile long queue of girls demanding his attention.
He told Marlene earlier on that he was still single. She briefly wondered if he was gay.
“Thank you, for the lift by the way.”
“You’ve already thanked me twice. Like I said the last time, don’t worry about it.”
She turned away but could still see his eyes giving her own body the once over, Mr.
Crowley preferred his waitresses and female bar staff to wear low cut tops. There was probably some law agai
nst that but Marlene didn’t really mind. Thomas was certainly getting an eyeful. She mentally shook her head; the lad wasn’t gay, probably just very shy.
She was single herself at the moment, her last boyfriend had dumped her in favour of a newer, younger model. That had really hurt, Marlene was only twenty nine, it’s not like she was ready for the scrapheap or anything, and even so, and she wouldn’t consider dating the handsome young man beside her. The lad’s mum was probably only a couple of years older than her. It was such a shame though; he did have a nice body.
“You’re the only person at work who’s actually nice to me, Marlene.”
She abruptly stopped and gazed at the lad in astonishment. Where the hell did that come from? “Don’t talk wet,” she replied. “Of course the other’s like you, why wouldn’t they? I know for a fact that Dominic thinks you’re a smashing lad.”
Thomas sighed, “I’ve seen that oh so familiar look appearing in their eyes, especially last night when that oven exploded. Their attitude has altered since I started work at the club.” He shrugged. “It’s happened so many times now, I could write the bloody script.”
“They were only accidents Thomas. Nobody blames you.”
He started to nod; she didn’t think he heard her.
“They all say that, at least they do at the beginning, until other stuff goes wrong and then one by one they all start to look at me. I’m a Jonah you see, bad things happen to people when I’m around, never to me though, I’ve noticed that, never to me.”
