by Andy Remic
News clip: END.
~ * ~
The Penthouse Suite atop The City Waldorf Astoria was perfect. The best of the best. 10 STAR+. It took more than a zombie massacre on a planetary scale to slow down these lucrative money-making hoteliers!
The lights were dimmed. Champagne v3.7 chilled in a TitaniumVI bucket. Rose petals (syntheticjreal to a grade of 7!) lay scattered across plush floral bed covers and the thick Helk-fur carpet. Music played, a harmony by the famous Quad-Gal composer, Muzo the Third.
Even the air smelled fresh. A miracle of filtration, as outside fires still raged from the zombie rampage.
The QGM Briefing was scheduled for 0700 hours, led by a drugged-up but nevertheless switched-on hover-wheelchair incarcerated Stein-hauer. He informed the remaining veterans of Combat K that they had a job to do. And they were leaving The City in 12 hours rimwards out of The Cluster.
By 0810 hours Keenan was driving round in a commandeered buggy looking for a Holy Man and a ring. By 1120, Franco had a suit, Mel a dress, and by 1300 hours they were at the marble_cast Church of the Blessed Walrus, itching in starched fabrics, pew-seated guests staring in ill-disguised horror as Mel strode up the aisle, all eight feet of mutation, talons cracking the stone flags, Olga her lemon-scented bridesmaid. Mel’s white dress still looked like a meringue.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” muttered Keenan, Best Man in starched monkey-suit, from the corner of his mouth.
“Of course!”
“But she’s an eight-foot zombie, mate.”
“Hey, I am a man of my word! I am an honourable fellow!”
“OK pal. It’s your future.”
The following few hours were a blur of romance, of cars and confetti, of Champagne v3.7 and heartily shook hands. Everybody patted Franco on the back and wished him the best. And that he’d survive.
“Didn’t she look lovely in that dress!”
“A movie princess!”
“More beautiful than any catwalk model!”
Pippa caught the bouquet.
Now, as The City descended towards night in a frenzy of rebuilding, clean-up operations, and an effort to return some semblance of normality to a rampant warzone, so the Penthouse Suite’s door was kicked open and Franco made one damn valiant effort to carry his huge and bulging, growling, pus-stinking, heavily-muscled bride across the marital threshold.
He managed one, staggered, half-sandaled slap, then dumped Mel unceremoniously on the carpet. “That’ll have to do, chipmunk. My back’s giving me hell!”
“Ranco! Ow Omantic!”
“Yeah yeah, I know.”
Mel ran to the bed, claws tearing carpet, and reclined amidst petals, talons curling seductively around a glass of chilled Champers. She patted the covers beside her. Franco paled.
“OK.” He sighed. “Love, you’ve been waiting for this for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Es.” Melanie made a crackling puckering kissing sound.
Franco stuck out his lower jaw, rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and switching off the light, climbed onto the bed. “Let’s get it done, then,” he said.