The PM rubbed a contemplative hand across his chin. Maybe the rogue Scottish barber with the incredible haircutting superpower was sage after all.
House of Commons, London, England
It was a meeting that was so Top Secret that only the Prime Minister and the Defence Secretary were in attendance. It was the meeting that would change the course of history.
The Prime Minister was open-mouthed. The Defence Secretary, sucking the PM into his nefarious plot to take over the world, was trying to keep the look of smug superiority off his face, which was more or less impossible given his background.
'Let me make this absolutely clear to myself,' said the Prime Minister. 'You want to create an army of zombies and put them in British uniforms?'
'We prefer to call them the living dead, Prime Minister. The term zombies is so pejorative. Indeed, I believe it's enshrined in the European Bill of Human Rights, Section 14, Subsection 12, Paragraph 203d, that any member of the living dead referred to as being a “zombie”, “zombified” or any other equally disparaging term, will be entitled to take the matter—'
'Yes, yes,' snapped the PM. 'Army of the living dead. Go on.'
'It's an incredibly exciting plan, Prime Minister,' said the Defence Secretary, drawing the PM into his enthusiasm. 'Our scientists have perfected the living dead gene and the mutation which allows us to control the actions of the infected specimens. We send the living dead into battle, then every time they bite an opposing soldier they infect him and turn him into one of our soldiers. By this means we take over the world, and in the process cut our defence budget by £36billion.'
'Question,' said the PM. 'What do we do with the current military personnel?'
'We use some of the money saved on the defence budget to set up magnificent new construction projects in the UK, using all the wonderful skills of our service men and women. Those jobs created will lead to more jobs and the economy will boom. Music, the arts, transport, health, they'll all benefit.'
'The point I would make is this,' said the PM. 'Where will we get the actual army of the living dead?'
This was an area that hadn't been covered by the mad scientists.
'All over,' said the Defence Secretary, hiding the fact that he was now winging it. 'Poor people that no one will miss. Defeated enemy insurgents. Displaced illegal immigrants. X-Factor contestants eliminated in the early rounds. The unwashed and the unloved. Perhaps we can even tempt certain sections of society with the possibility of a job for life that offers the chance to eat human flesh...'
There was a knock at the door. Both men turned sharply. The door opened and the PM's chief advisor, Logan, stuck his head into the room.
'Gentlemen,' he said boldly, 'there's been a murder...'
Hyde Park, London, England
The forces of darkness were gathering, that was all Barney Thomson knew; and that was without him yet being aware of the army of the living dead which was already being assembled at a secure and Top Secret facility in the heart of Oxfordshire. The media, politics and the police were in flux, and there were going to be too many unhappy people for no one to get hurt.
And now, inevitably given his arrival, there had been a murder.
He was no more depressed being in London than he had been in Millport three days earlier. More and more often it felt like his days were numbered. He'd had enough. Enough death. Enough wandering. Enough searching for answers. He wasn't even looking for those answers anymore, he just wanted to be free.
He was sitting on a park bench looking out over the Serpentine. A mild afternoon, although now under a cover of white cloud. He thought he'd spotted him earlier, the old guy he'd first seen standing on a distant tee on Millport golf course. In amongst the crowds of any given day in London. It felt like he was being stalked, as if this unknown, anonymous figure was controlling events, but when he tried to think about it, to focus on what might be happening, a strange feeling of discomfort took him and his thoughts would drift away.
Now, away to his left he could see another figure approaching. A man he recognised. A man whose company he was forced to keep far more often than either of them would have liked.
The man approached slowly, looking as depressed as Barney, and then sat down beside him.
'You look bloody freezing,' he said.
'DCI Frankenstein,' said Barney. 'And you say that I'm the biblical plague.'
He heard the rustle of paper and then the sound of Frankenstein biting into a Parma ham, pesto and sun-dried tomato sandwich.
'This came cut in half,' said Frankenstein. 'You want a bit?'
He held the half sandwich towards Barney, who paused for a second and then took it.
'Thanks,' he said. 'Doesn't mean I'm going to get involved in any of your weird shit.'
Frankenstein laughed. 'You're kidding me! My weird shit? You, my friend, are the King of Weird Shit.'
Barney smiled, took a bite out of the sandwich and then gestured with it in Frankenstein's direction to indicate its quality.
'Tasty,' said Barney. 'Tell me it ain't Subway.'
Frankenstein nodded. 'It's Subway. Yep, all that tastiness is salt and additives.'
Nevertheless, Barney continued to eat the sandwich.
'How are you treating Sgt Monk?' asked Frankenstein.
'Seems to be surviving,' said Barney.
Frankenstein noticed the small smile that came to Barney's face at the mention of her name.
'I still remember the day, sitting in the car, when she told me she'd fallen in love with you,' said Frankenstein, shaking his head.
'She said that?'
'I got the fuck out of Dodge and went to get coffee. I reasoned that if I stayed out long enough she'd have forgotten about you by the time I got back.'
'And by the time you got back she'd moved to Scotland.'
'Pretty much.'
They ate on in silence; or, at least, the silence of a park in central London, with hundreds of people abroad, the constant background sound of traffic and somewhere, at any given moment, a kid crying.
'Social visit?' asked Barney eventually.
'Funny,' said Frankenstein. 'Funny.'
Late That Night, Swindon, England
There were five of them spread over two benches. It had been a mild day, dry with little wind, and they had spent the bulk of it in the park. A day of cheap alcohol, urinating against trees and shouting. There'd been some sex when the sun had gone down, although Wayne and Shaz hadn't even bothered waiting for that. A couple of people had reported them to the police, but the police had had other things to do.
There had been fifteen of them mid-afternoon. The number had gradually dwindled as they'd started puking as a result of too much alcohol, or had gone off to have more private relations. One of them had been ordered home by his mum. Another had to leave to start his shift at the local police station.
There were five left. Shaz, Taz, Gaz, Baz and Virgil. Only Virgil wasn't completely drunk out of his face, but he had spent the previous hour howling at the non-existent moon. Wayne had wanted Shaz to go home with him, but she hadn't wanted to leave; he'd gone without her, calling her a fucking whore as he went. In his absence, Shaz had had sex with Gaz up against a tree. Taz had had relations with Baz and Virgil. Now they were all sitting back, staring at the stars, talking in the loud voices of a Scooby Doo episode, except that Fred never said, 'What the fuck, man, my balls ache.'
They were talking so loudly that they didn't notice the peculiar shuffling noise as it approached from across the park, until it was almost upon them. Suddenly a silence fell amongst them, as they realised as one that there was something coming their way in the dark.
They sat up, holding themselves stiff in the dim starlight. They could make out the strange collection of shapes heading towards them.
'What the fuck?' said Taz.
'Oi!' shouted Baz. He leapt to his feet. 'Fuck's going on?'
He advanced a step or two, and so sealed his fate.
Eve
ryone is familiar with the zombie in life, and yet no one, not even on a dark and creepy night in a park, really expects to see one, or is able to maintain their cool in the face of a zombie horde. Baz managed a final, 'Fuck!' before a member of the living dead lurched towards him, its mouth slavering and wasted and blackened and bloody, and bit massively into his head.
The next thirty seconds or so were a juddering, cacophonous bloodfest. Shaz and Taz and Gaz and Virgil were helpless. Even if they hadn't been drunk and shagged out they probably wouldn't have been able to get away. The horde were upon them, biting and chewing, grabbing and clutching, munching, crunching, chomping, tearing, snapping, ripping, slashing, a bloody, fucking gang rape of gore. The five chums never stood a chance. By the end only Virgil was in a fit state to join the horde of the living dead as it continued its march on Swindon. Shaz, Taz, Gaz and Baz had just been completely fucked out of all existence.
*
The zombie infestation that had begun at the top secret Ministry of Defence scientific facility in the west of Oxfordshire when the lone zombie bit massively into the face of a research scientist, following which the two of them had briefly run amok amongst other researchers, had been quickly contained and the zombie horde confined within a large hall. However, as any fool knows, zombie hordes are hard to contain on a long term basis, and within twenty-four hours they had broken free and were quickly munching their way across England in the direction of Swindon.
These zombies had been bred for fighting. They were a resilient zombie, hard to kill and vicious in attack. As yet no one had tried to shoot one, but when they did they would discover that they didn't drop so easily.
The army – unaware that the long term plan was for them to be completely disposed of and replaced by the zombie horde – were mobilised, Swindon surrounded and quarantined.
The entire operation was a bit of a stretch, as there were only about fourteen soldiers not already deployed in other theatres of war, but by the end of the night, as dawn broke over a grim scene of human desolation, the Army were in charge, and the horde of the living dead had been temporarily contained in one small city in the south west of England.
10 Downing Street, London, England
Barney Thomson, the closest thing to an X-Men style superhero alive today, was sitting idly in the Prime Minister's private office in Number 10 Downing Street. The PM had thought it unnecessary to have his hair seen to that morning, and so Barney had been given nothing to do. He had, however, been ordered to stay on hand in case of a haircutting emergency.
There was no one else in the office. Had he looked hard enough he might have been able to uncover the odd secret or two, but he wasn't looking. He was sitting still, his hands resting in his lap, staring at the walls.
Time passed. Somewhere a clock ticked. Barney did not blink. He heard a car pull up outside.
He wasn't thinking about anything, because if he had allowed himself to think, his thoughts would have been shit. Shit thoughts. Miserable, dark, shit.
Suddenly the door burst open, the Prime Minister in a foul mood, followed by the Defence Secretary.
'Let me make one thing absolutely clear...' said the PM.
He stopped suddenly when he saw that Barney was sitting in the room, his dead eyes not even looking at the two men who had just entered. The Defence Secretary closed the door.
'What are you doing here?' barked the PM.
'You told me to stay,' said Barney.
'Did I?' The PM looked around the room. 'There are Top Secret documents and shit in here. Are you cleared?'
Barney shrugged. If anyone had ever done an intimate background check on him he wouldn't have been this close to the Prime Minister.
'Balls,' said the PM. He ushered the Defence Secretary to sit down, then he himself took a seat behind his desk.
'Well, since you're here, you might as well give us the benefit of some of that sage type thing you do. Defence Secretary, update the barber.'
The Defence Secretary looked a little purple, but the PM waved dismissively at him.
'Get on with it.'
'Very well, Prime Minister.'
He took a deep breath, composed himself, made a small gesture with his right hand as if flicking away the concern, and then looked phlegmatically at Barney. Really, the barber didn't have to bother him. The more this looked like the PM's plan was fine, because he knew that the PM was unlikely to still be in office a week from now. 'I'll get straight to the point. We've used this incredibly exciting zombifying contagion to create a new fighting force. The 1st Royal Regiment of the Living Dead, we're calling them. Cracking bunch of lads. Going to revolutionise the way we invade small countries... I mean, obviously, the way we carry out peacekeeping etc., etc. Slight problem in that they've run amok in Swindon. Taken over the town.'
'Hasn't been in the news,' said Barney.
'Well, no one's actually noticed any difference yet. It's given us a bit of time.'
'Frankly, everyone's too caught up with paedophile celebrities,' said the PM. 'At least it keeps the zombies...
'Living dead!'
'...living dead out of the news for a while longer.'
'And what about the Junior Defence Minister who was murdered yesterday?' asked Barney. 'How come that hasn't made the papers?'
The PM and the Defence Secretary shared a quick furtive glance, then the PM tossed a dismissive hand to the side.
'Pays to have contacts in the media sometimes,' said the PM. 'Now, look, we need to sort out the living dead thing. Any ideas, Mr. Thomson?'
Barney stared at him. Why was it that every time he came to London he just wanted to go home? And that every time he was home, he just wanted to be someplace else?
'You really have an army of the living dead?'
'Yes,' said the two men together.
'Seriously?' asked Barney. Sure, it sounded unlikely, but it wasn't as though he hadn't encountered weirder shit than that.
'Yes,' they said jointly, this time with the PM displaying a touch of annoyance.
'Well, you could try and drum up some sympathy for them,' said Barney, 'so that when the news gets out about their existence they at least have the public on their side.'
'How are we going to do that?' asked the Defence Secretary.
'Say they've lost their disability benefit. Claim their phones have been hacked by News International. They're all about to lose their jobs to Romanian immigrants. That kind of thing.'
'Hmm,' said the PM, stroking his chin with a contemplative finger.
'They said you were sage,' said the Defence Secretary.
Later That Day, England
The world of men was in great peril, although the story had so far been kept under wraps, thanks to shadowy connections between the government, the army, the police and the media. The zombie contagion had been controlled for the time being, and plans were afoot to bring the horde back under complete control, as the scientists perfected the gene technology on the hoof.
The murder of the Junior Defence Minister was still a complete mystery to all those bar the one who had ordered the killing. The detective in charge of the investigation, DCI Frank Frankenstein, was pissed off and getting nowhere.
The plot to oust the Prime Minister was in full swing. A dark menace was rising in the east. There were so many bad things about to happen that it would soon be a summer blockbuster movie, directed by Michael Bay, with a large cast of Americans in uniform walking in slow motion to stirring music.
Barney Thomson, barber, the man on whom the very future of mankind depended, sat in his hotel room, eating lightly grilled fish and drinking a half bottle of a gooseberry-ish sauvignon blanc.
He knew what few others did, and there was nothing he could do about it. Everything in Britain was about to change, and it was likely to end up even shittier than it already was.
The Next Day, 10 Downing Street, London, England
The Prime Minister was sitting with his arms folded watching the rugby. Every now an
d again he would wince as a particularly brutal tackle went in. He had played rugby in his day, of course, but it seemed a much more gentlemanly game back then. Nowadays all the players seemed to be at least seven feet tall, built like girders and capable of the utmost vicious brutality.
On the other hand, they could take it as well as give it out, and weren't a bunch of pouting, whining nancy boys like professional footballers.
'I'm thinking of banning football and making everyone play rugger,' he said, casually throwing a policy suggestion into the air. It was his usual way of gauging interest.
'Go on, sir,' said Logan, although he could already tell that this one didn't have far to run.
'Rugby breeds men. I mean, look at them. They're hard, tough and brutal, and yet there's an honesty about them. None of that rolling around like a whinging girls' blouse like that other lot. I mean, look. Consider that nonsense when that Chelsea lad kicked the ball boy. There's outrage, the media are going on about it as though it's even of the slightest importance, the player was thuggish yet really didn't kick him very hard, the kid rolled around in agony because he's a trainee footballer, well-schooled in the art of artifice, cheating, sophistry and manipulation. Then the police get involved, then they say there's nothing to be done, then members of the public call up because they've seen it on TV, and the police have to re-open the investigation, to no end whatsoever. Have you ever known such a preposterous circus? Football is awash with money, and out of control. Get me some figures on banning it. How much money would be saved, if any, how much would be lost; would we be able to parlay it into an increased interest and revenue stream from proper sports like rugby and cricket?'
'Very good, Prime Minister,' said Logan. 'You may come out of it looking posh, however.'
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