by Ricky Fleet
“What is it?” Debbie asked when she felt him shudder at the bizarre, macabre thought.
“Nothing, just giving myself the willies,” he replied.
“The only person you should be giving the willy to is me,” she teased and grabbed his crotch.
Heavy footfalls bounced from the walls as Winston returned. “We are all clear, none of the others saw me. Fuck me, it’s a bit dark in here, Deb, can I hold your hand?”
“Get lost,” she muttered.
“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he chuckled.
“What do you think about spending the night in that?” Mike pointed at the lone aircraft.
“It’s either that or the abandoned control tower,” Winston shrugged.
The door stood open, inviting them to step inside. When it was in service, the craft would have ferried businessmen and celebrities to various functions, ensuring a swift and private journey. Now only a faint smell of mildew permeated the air as Mike leaned inside and called out again. Nothing stirred, not even insects so he climbed aboard and the smell worsened.
“Eww, I can’t stay in here!” Debbie complained, pinching her nostrils.
“It’s safer than the alternative. Here,” Winston held out a tiny metal jar.
“Do my lips look chapped, you imbecile?” Debbie scowled.
“That isn’t the purpose, my obnoxious beauty. Smear some under your nose and it will mask the smell,” he said, before liberally rubbing the shiny mixture on his own stubbly upper lip.
“Oh,” was all she could muster. Her attention was taken by the luxurious looking seats that the torch beam illuminated.
“This would have been a high end model by the look of it,” Mike nodded appreciatively. The interior was untouched apart from some cigarette ends and empty beer bottles which had been left behind. Whoever had slept in here previously was long gone, and probably dead.
“What do you think?” Winston asked, indicating the rubbish.
“The leftovers in the bottle are moldy, I don’t think we will be getting any living visitors,” Mike said, “And even if we do, I have this.” He pulled the gun out.
“It will be warmer than the building without windows,” Winston added and Debbie was convinced. Taking the lip balm, she dug a sizeable blob of the moisturizer out and put her finger up each nostril, twisting the digit to spread it out.
“No, not up…” Winston tried to stop her.
“Huh?” she asked, finger still buried to the first knuckle.
“Never mind.”
“Do the doors shut?” Mike asked.
“Let’s try,” Winston said and pulled on the rope which had preceded the more modern mechanical closing devices. It rose without protest and latched as if it was brand new, a testament to the quality of the engineering.
“At least we are completely safe now, thanks, Winston,” said Debbie and he nearly choked with surprise.
“She’s tired,” Mike explained. “Her mouth seems to run dry at the same time as her batteries.”
“Fuck you!” she yawned and the men smiled.
“I will take the cockpit so that you can be alone in here, ok?” Winston offered.
Debbie was thinking of a clever response about him taking the cock, but her eyes were grainy and she was dead on her feet so she merely waved dismissively.
“Let’s get some food inside us first,” Mike offered, seating himself, “And you have got to tell us how the fuck you made it to the convent.”
They settled into the soft leather seats and removed their meal of choice. Debbie was happy with the chocolate and savored each square as it met her moist tongue. Mike and Winston opted for the high energy ration packs, one with stew and the other with spicy noodles.
“Eight hundred calories per serving,” Winston tutted, patting his belly.
“I have a feeling we will be using up each and every one of those when we fight our way to the prison tomorrow,” said Mike between cold mouthfuls.
“Do you think the prison will have kept them out?” Winston asked.
“I know it!” Mike declared. “And if Craig hasn’t already taken it for himself, he sure as hell will when I get there.”
“Won’t everyone inside be working together to survive?” Winston said naïvely.
“Things have changed, mate,” Mike growled in the shadows. “The world is ours for the taking.”
“Don’t worry, you picked the right side,” Debbie said cheerfully, a mixture of comfort and endorphins from the melting candy.
They both missed the look of uncertainty that played on his features. “Anyway, you want to know how I made it to the warm and welcoming arms of the nuns? It’s an epic tale, no less wondrous than Frodo and Samwise in The Lord of the Rings as they battle to reach Mordor and the fires of Mount Doom.”
“Are you going to get on with it or talk us to death?” Debbie yawned again.
“My thespian genius is wasted on you common wastrels,” Winston tried to sound hurt, “It went like this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Winston watched the seconds ticking down until first break, click by agonizingly slow click. Why was it that when you craved something time seemed to slow down? His stomach was grumbling and only a bacon and egg baguette would silence the ravenous organ.
“Soon, my pretty,” he whispered downward.
“Did you just call me pretty?” asked Vanessa Porter with a look of disgust.
“What? No I was just thinking aloud,” he mumbled back, looking at the desk and blushing.
“Did you wish to add something to the discussion, Winston?” asked their teacher.
“No, Miss. Morescu.”
“Well perhaps you should spend more time listening than talking to Miss Porter, then you would have something constructive to say,” she replied sternly.
“Sorry, miss.” He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
The lesson continued for two more minutes, but he didn’t hear a word of the information. The others in the class were shooting him sly glances of ridicule and sniggering to each other. Maybe it would be best to go and hide in the library until his next period, that way the topic of conversation could have moved to other things.
“Ok, everybody remember the first homework task is due in no later than next Monday,” Miss. Morescu called out, trying to be heard over the clatter of tables and chairs.
“Fat cunt,” mocked one of Vanessa’s friends.
“Thanks,” Winston replied.
“As if she would ever be attracted to someone that looked like you,” sneered another as they filed past.
“She’s below my usual standard if I’m honest,” he fired back.
“Yeah right,” laughed Vanessa, “Your standard starts and ends with your own hand.”
“That’s quite enough of that, girls!” cautioned Miss. Morescu as the girls left the room.
Winston packed his textbooks and notepad before carefully placing his chair back under the table. Scarcely able to look his teacher in the eyes he tried to scurry out as fast as possible.
“Winston, if they are giving you a hard time you only need to let me know. We take bullying seriously in the college,” she said with genuine concern.
“It’s fine. They just need to get to know me and they will see I’m a stud,” he replied, pushing through into the corridor.
Students dodged and jostled to get through the cramped space and Winston waited for a gap to join the flow of people. The corridor was awash with garish murals from the art department; a hideous mishmash of colors posing as ‘art’. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate a good painting, but from overheard conversations, most of the members of the course were doing it for an easy ride. His father had shown him many different landscape paintings from legends such as Turner and Constable and the intricate brush strokes seemed to sing. The abstract splatter paintings by Pollock and other artists just looked like an angry toddler got into the paint pot. On a few occasions, his father had invited him
along to try painting and they had set the easels up in the middle of nowhere to ensure tranquility for the task. After an hour or two Winston would get bored and fidget, which only served to disturb the older man’s concentration. After three attempts, all ending with a heated argument he was never offered again and the alienation grew insurmountable between he and his parents.
“Thanks a lot, dad,” Winston mumbled, reaching the cross section of corridor which would take him left to the library, or onward to glorious sustenance.
“Out of the way, wide load,” shouted an acne ridden youth who barged him to the side, much to the amusement of his group of friends.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, you better be sorry, gut,” he hissed, poking Winston in the belly.
“I can lose weight, but you will always have a face like roadkill,” Winston argued back.
The tension was rising and the students could sense something was in the offing. They gathered ‘round, eager for the promised blood. Acne turned and his infected cheeks quivered with anger.
“What did you say, blubber belly?” he growled, standing so close that Winston could smell the noxious cigarette breath and body odor.
“Have you never heard of deodorant and mints?” Winston said, trying to avoid the vile fragrances.
The crowd laughed and the bully punched him in the cheek, a flailing blow without training or power. Instead of crying in pain as expected, Winston grabbed him and in one fluid motion, twisted and slammed his skinny body into the wall. Skull met brickwork with a dull thud and the crowd cheered.
“Get off me, you faggot,” shouted acne and he threw more punches but they were weak from pain and embarrassment.
Winston pulled him away and body slammed him again, ending the assault. The bully was crying and reaching to feel the tender lump on the back of his head. Most of the crowd dispersed when it became apparent the violent altercation was over, losing interest at the lack of blood.
“You come near me again and I will pop your fucking head.” Winston glared at the youth, before letting him go and walking away.
“You’re going to get stabbed, bruv,” called another skinny white kid, trying to sound like a London gangster as he helped his injured friend.
“You live in Sussex, stop making out you’re a Cockney hard case,” Winston shouted back.
Without even realizing, he found himself in the canteen, surrounded by smells and sounds that calmed his racing heart. The clatter of cutlery on china plates was a soothing din and he joined the queue with a smile. A seed of fear was planted by the threat of bodily harm, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. The reputation of the small group of thugs was well known so he made the decision to sneak out after eating and miss the next lesson, just in case.
“Hi, Winston,” said Marjorie, a cheerful canteen chef, “The usual?”
“Yes please. Can I get a couple of extra rashers of bacon?”
“Of course. Are you ok? Your cheek is really red,” she asked, placing the crispy meat between the cut bread.
“Yeah, I was blocking fists with my face,” he replied.
“Winston!” Marjorie scolded, “You are too smart to be getting in trouble.”
“I didn’t start it,” he protested, taking the paper wrapped baguette.
“Well I’m glad to hear that,” she smiled, “Hope you enjoy it.”
“You know I will.” He winked and looked for a quiet table.
Before he could settle into the chair the sounds of shouting carried through the open double doors that led to the main entrance. Teachers and students alike bundled towards the disruption, the former to stop whatever was happening and the latter to get as much footage as possible on their camera phones.
“Fight, fight, fight!” came the chanting.
Winston wasn’t normally interested in the juvenile antics of the masses but after his earlier battle he wanted to make sure no one got really hurt. Where the teachers had to abide by a no touch rule, he could intervene and separate the combatants. Carefully stowing the breakfast treat in his bag he was only just standing when the chants turned to screams and the doors burst inward with the flood of fleeing youngsters.
“They’re fucking eating people!” screamed one girl who went flying over the top of a table in her haste. Running to her aid, Winston helped her up.
“What are you talking about?” he shouted to be heard.
“I don’t know, zombies or something!” she screeched and pulled loose, running out through the opposite side of the canteen.
As he neared the doors, the uninjured members of the college stopped and were replaced by torn and bloodied figures who stumbled through, clutching at their wounds. Shock was evident on their blank faces, as if their mind had closed down after seeing the nature of their assailants. Winston had been dubious of the fanciful claims of the girl, but the deep bite marks and missing flesh left little doubt.
“All of you, head towards the nurse’s station,” he tried to usher them past even as the first collapsed to the floor.
“I need my fingers to write,” explained one of the students languidly as he held his damaged hand towards Winston, “How can I do my work now?”
“Dear God,” Winston exclaimed as he looked at the spurting stumps. “Wrap this around it to slow the blood.”
He offered a wad of napkins, but the vacant expression didn’t change and the paper fluttered to the ground unclaimed. The student turned and walked away, unable to maintain focus on anything as the infection spread.
“All I wanted was a bacon fucking sandwich!” Winston yelled, fear taking hold.
The clear glass of the swing doors was smeared with red and he had to pick a small patch that was unsullied. In the reception area it was a slaughter house, with spilled blood coating every wall. Droplets fell from the ceiling, splashing into the growing pools of claret. The fallen staff and students were in varying stages of consumption and the horrors that kneeled by the dead were greedily forcing warm flesh into rotten mouths.
“I must be dreaming,” Winston whispered.
Nothing could explain how the feeding monsters could be moving, most were riddled with maggots and worms. Their grey, sloughing flesh was wet with the moisture of death and the recent activity had left it hanging in dripping chunks. The first of the victims started to stir and the other zombies left them alone, sensing the undead kinship. Moaning from behind startled Winston and he turned slowly, dreading confirmation of what he knew was going to be waiting. The injured students had died and now turned their eyes toward him from the cold ground. Their new state of un-life was his saving grace and he dodged expertly as they started to stand up on unsteady legs.
“Winston, what is happening?” Marjorie asked, peering from the kitchen.
“Get out of here.” He pulled her from the hiding place and guided her to the exit.
The image of the rack of knives on the counter was a temptation he couldn’t ignore. Looking back, the undead were gaining confidence and pushed through the furniture to reach the next meal. With a speed borne of fear and necessity, he darted into the kitchen, took the two biggest knives, and ran as fast as he was able from the canteen. The corridors had quickly become a scene of pandemonium, with the living and the dead fighting in an unequal battle. Single members of the faculty or lone students were set upon by growing numbers of the bloodied hordes. Feeling a pit of despair and guilt, he moved as quietly as possible around the feeding frenzy.
“Hey you, help us!” called Acne from a classroom. He and his small gang were trying to keep the zombies at bay but it was hopeless. The wannabe gangster was stabbing at their chests, wrongly assuming they could be stopped with a damaged heart.
“Get them in the head,” he ordered and the boy took the advice.
“It’s not working!” he screeched. Fear was causing him to stab wildly and he was inflicting grievous wounds on their faces, but no fatal blows.
“Shit!” Winston looked at the empty hallway, the inviting dayli
ght and freedom.
“Don’t leave us,” begged Acne, “I’m sorry about earlier.”
His innate goodness won and he charged into the room, using his bulk to send the dead flying. Tossing one of the kitchen knives to his nemesis, he put a heavy boot on the back of the zombie’s neck and stabbed into the brain.
“Like that!”
They worked as a team and killed the remaining cadavers, but the screams from the college building left no doubt the battle was far from over. Acne nursed his arm, blood dripping from a bite wound that had been sustained in the melee.
“Thanks for coming back, we would be dead if it wasn’t for you. I’m James,” Acne nodded in gratitude.
“Winston,” he replied with a look of regret. He knew what the bite meant.
“We have to get out of here,” James said.
“Follow me, the corridor doesn’t have any zombies.” Winston led the group out and came to a stop, despair threatening to rob him of the last remnants of strength.
“I thought you said it was clear?” wailed one of the members as more arrivals stumbled up the previously empty hallway, cutting them off completely from escape.
“We need to get to the main entrance,” James declared until Winston held him back.
“It’s full of those things,” Winston explained as the horde moved in for the kill, “We have to go up!”
“The library? You must be fucking joking, I’m not getting stuck up there,” shouted one of the gang and he bolted towards the reception.
“I need to get my sister before she gets hurt,” said another who followed in a blur of tracksuit.
“Maybe they will make it, should we try too?” James asked slowly, eyes rolling like a drunk.
“I’m not risking it, you didn’t see what I saw,” Winston said and moved up the wide staircase as fast as he could. An incline with his figure was difficult and he was huffing before he reached the top.
“What’s wrong with him?” whined the last member of the group.
Looking around, James had sat down on the stairs, exhaustion from the infected bite finally defeating him. The zombies converged and bit into his face, making Winston gag as the pus burst from his pimpled cheek between the eager teeth. Death was so near that he didn’t even struggle against the gnashing mob and Winston took advantage of the horrific distraction to pull the last boy through the doors of the library.
